Second LanguageLately I'm always walking around in 3d glassesSecond Language7 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
because I keep hoping that the overlapping colours
will start making answers pop out of the flat background of the world moving around me,
this will show me the missing thread of logic
which continually evades my already amplified sensory system
because my present logic is something very intricately alien
always making an elaborately tangled sort of sense,
but how could I possibly explain myself
when my tongue connects to another world-
I've been feeling like human isn't my first language;
like everything I may speak is just a translation of thoughts
and it never really hits the mark
I think a compilation of colours and sounds
might be a more accurate way for me to explain things.
like the static on a radio resonating in the damp walls of a cave
while brilliantly grey smoke twists and dances from nicotine lips
or the rush of a train at 4:23 in the morning
while an orange moon suspends itself, looking impossible
and dares me
sea dogs and sea legsi.sea dogs and sea legs4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the park we swore
to religiously practice the
buddy system in
-- well, i walk through it alone now.
i chew my lips to shit
and my heart rams against my chest,
a shark against a diving cage
and my arthritis flares up
i never go around.
my house has been smelling
like yours used to, lately
i walk in the door
and my first inhale hits me
like a well-chilled riesling:
bitter at first
and thinner than the blood proxy
i normally have on my lips
but still more
and more dizzying with every gulp
it makes no sense--
your presence in my life is at
an all-time low
maybe that's exactly why it's happening.
i thought my love would die
if it ever stopped moving
First Week in Lincoln ParkIn the city of Chicago, it is extremely difficult to tell the difference between an insane homeless man, limping to a subway station in order to get his 8 hours, (with hourly interruptions to switch trains, and avoid being noticed at the end of the line) and a man, with a liberal concept of personal grooming, who sprained his ankle during his morning jog. They both have generally the same attire, mannerisms, and smell. They also have the same look in their eyes. They both look desperate, and exhausted. They both have a goal to achieve, but something insurmountable is standing in their way.First Week in Lincoln Park5 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
The look on both of their faces is nearly identical, but the very slight difference accounts for very different meanings. The limping jogger's face says, "Why does home have to be so far away, I'm beginning to feel like I'll never get there. I wish I could just lay down and rest my ankle for a minute. In fact, I wish I could just forgo the whole the indignity of hobbling around
By the HighwayThe trees were all dead. No leaves, bare fingers stretched towards the sky in a twisted sort of prayer. The houses below them had no prayer not even one coming from a tree that could save them. They were ramshackle, they were peeling paint and broken pipes. They were forgotten glass shards embedded in a crying toddler's foot, or cold wind blasting its way through a broken window. They were everything that a house should not be, hazardous and inhospitable and ugly.By the Highway5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
They spared the families embarrassment, though, the houses. They were all the same, the same despair, the same inescapable, cavernous appearance. They were nothing to be proud of, but at least they were no source of shame. Everyone had the same fraying twine clotheslines to hang their clothes on, and everyone had the same grimy underwear, full of holes but clipped to the line anyway, flapping in the wind.
The children were the only ones who felt the shame. The adults had long since resigned themselves to their l
Lock Picks and RocksWe broke into the old apartmentLock Picks and Rocks6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to look for things we'd lost when moving on
and moving out, across the street
and sixteen cities South. I tried to take
the poems from the windows but memories
are more permanent than marker. Mornings
seemed longer when sunrise wrote words
on bare walls and bare skin, or when
I traced end-rhymes and metaphors into the curve
of your hips.
These days we don't sleep.
and I couldn't find them; instead
we found furniture that spelled apathy
and wrong words on right angles, organized
and dead. They painted over
our names curled above the bedroom, they washed
the windows with writer's block and fixed the draft
that we'd called Dennis. They crafted locks
to keep out the mystery of movement.
and please, understand yourselves,
learn that white walls and black thoughts
are another portrait that ages
when you do not, and surely
there are other ways
to know peace than
quiet and clean.
When we drove home we trailed kite string
from the broken window, and signed our na
What Mental Illness Feels LikeIt feels like you're a prisonerWhat Mental Illness Feels Like7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In your own mind
Holding you hands up to your
Looking glass eyes
But not able to escape
It feels like being close to yourself
All the time
But not knowing who you are
Wanting to get close to others
But terrified of letting them in
It feels like wanting to kill all your emotions
So you don't hurt anymore
It feels like the physical pain you cause yourself
Just to kill all the pain
You hold buried inside
It feels like starving your body
Because you feel like a bad person
And like you need to be punished
For all the things you've done - past and present
That those around you say weren't your fault anyway
It feels like memories
Haunting and teasing you
Always there, and never going away
All the things they did to you
And the way they made you feel
It feels like fear
Fear that this is all you'll ever know
That all hope is lost for you
And people will give up
And label you something you're not
It feels like being free
Finally finding someone else
the rest of god's name"She misses you, you know, Jimmy."the rest of god's name7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Yeah. I know."
There's a pause. He cradles the side of his face with square fingers, adult pound hands.
"It's in her sleep, too. She murmurs in the night. Sometimes it it rises to screams"
The hesitation rests on his lips. He licks it off, his tongue like a suspicious fish.
"Do you ever think"
"Go away, David."
"that maybe if you had stopped, she would still be oh - okay, and you wouldn't have to"
"I said go away."
"I mean this can't be living, not cowering, not like this"
The Great WallWhen papers ask me where I'm from, I write "Seattle," because they don't want to know the real answer. When people ask me where I'm from, I say "downtown," and they take a good look at me and take that to mean "Chinatown."The Great Wall4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My parents run one of the zillion dim sum restaurants here. They're what the white kids at school call "fresh off the boat." Most of the people here are. They don't speak English at home, and they try not to at work. They don't watch anything on American TV; they read the local Chinese paper and watch the one Asian channel, pausing to turn off the TV in disgust whenever one of the five daily Korean soap operas comes on. On Saturdays they go to the market and complain about the terrible selection. When they manage to find chicken's feet, they declare a feast day and eat it with reverence, like it fell from the heavens just for us.
I try to spend as much time away from them as I can. There are only a handful of kids my age here; of those who have children, most are eit
PallorI cried myself sane and thenPallor5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
moved on. How strange, that a man
can split open like a rotten peach and find,
at last, nothingness. How strange to realize:
only then can sunlight enter his veins.
Death dissolves us. Nothing has changed
but everything is different. I spend an hour
pressing my fingers against a wall, the skin
whitening as blood retreats.
There is no regret, no fear. Only a man
who whitens against his final four walls,
the empty chair, the selfish and wandering grief.
Only a man whose face slowly unravels and the way
I wash my face, make dinner, let myself forget.
in which there's newness.'we'll encrypt this, just to be sure,' she says, handlingin which there's newness.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my insides. 'no need to worry, i am a professional. i've
been doing this for millennia, my dear, i was born when the
she smells like all the starchiness of hospital rooms and
the cold distance between strangers spawned in a
western culture. her hands are deft but are shaking with
an emotion one never overcomes, and she says, 'you
might feel a pinch. tell me, have you been wandering
i tell her that he's been repeating words i've spewed
ages ago, and that i often don't recognize myself tumbling
from his lips. is this bad, this unfamiliarity with my past selves?
'oh, no, that's perfectly normal.' her fingers run along my
ribs, the hard-to-reach places behind my lungs, the chambers
in my chest cavity in which i store small trinkets i happen
to find lying battered and bruised next to curbs. 'this could
be due to the cold weather. your skin practically breathes its
need for warmth.'
i don't want to kill things,
daughterI find her in my kitchen, one ordinary morning with the harsh winter sun tipping full through the window. I haven't seen her for six months, and yet here she is, bruised knees pulled up under her chin, the light pouring through her hair like dull bronze. Despite the cold she is only wearing shorts and an old gray t-shirt, two sizes too big. Upon hearing my footsteps she looks up from picking at her nails, covered in chipped black polish, multicolored threads and silver rings slipping down her wrists. Her hair is tangled and long; longer than I can ever remember, and she tucks it behind an ear studded with piercings that glint in the dark strands. Her face is still in the shadows but a smile breaks through the silence and for the smallest moment I am stunned by the sheer momentum of life; the scent of baby powder, fireflies in the live oaks at night, the first time I felt her weight in my arms in a hospital bed, her tiny heart beating like a butterfly against my palm.daughter5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I have to sift
You bound our spines.It was summer.You bound our spines.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He braided daisy chains and called them flowers; she tangled words and
called them speech. I was the only one who knew
the truth; that the thin lines of cellulose that run beneath the tender skin of a leaf
are not so different from the veins of blood and sentiment
that pulse through syllables as they
smack against your teeth.
I was the weaver. To the art of his flower arranging,
I added in her words,
until it was no longer clear whose work was whose.
I taught her poetry,
and he taught me composition.
nothing in particular
--except how to laugh
at the arching of a word
or the stress of a phrase,
and we would stare at the ceiling and whistle
and cluck and hiss words up into the air,
giving them up as offerings to a deity
long since departed.
Things changed; he
turned to painting, the artist's true calling,
as if flowers were below him,
and she turned to that literary snobbery
that defied my wordspinning.
I had no words of my own.
dedicated to a ghost1.dedicated to a ghost5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
today i read some words that told me why i should
one day when you are three years old,
suddenly your brain will be able to remember trauma,
and i do not know anyone who doesn't know
that horrible sick feeling in their gut or that awful
anxiety like you are trying to swallow a rock.
three-year-olds are going to aa meetings.
my real grandmother is dead. i have caught
my reflection in store windows and my mind has asked
me, what on my face is hers. what of me once belonged
to her -- my mother says she found supreme joy in
mozart and bach and in orchestras, her best friend
has told me she had the ability to taste the texture
of words and that she sometimes sees her expression
in the gentle sloping of the skin around my eyes.
i think i understand through the brief glances of
myself in reflective surfaces as i pass by, i think i just
might understand what it must be like to have a deity
from which all of your attributes have been given. this
understanding makes me shiv
D-9 Christopher+WikusSui: Hello, and welcome to the weirdest/worst/retardedest District 9 fanfiction ever.D-9 Christopher+Wikus6 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Christopher: It's not that bad.
Wikus: It is too! I'm NOT gay, dammit!
Christopher & Sui: YES YOU ARE!
Sui: Now, this story contains~
Christopher: Very slight slash, mentionings of "i love you",
Wikus: And spoilers for District 9.
Sui: I don't own any characters...Now go away and read the story. xD
Christopher: Wait a second! Why isn't Christopher Jr. in this story?!
Sui: Hmm...I dunno...Uhh...He died.
Three years was way too long to wait.
Christopher was the only one I had been able to befriend, really. Other prawns just didnt seem as understanding. The didnt hate me, but I wasnt really accepted.
I had become a complete prawn now With no trace of humanity except for the fact that I could speak some English. I could also completely understand the others, and speak their language.
It was a new life for me
eleven letters without postageDear Cosmo or Seventeen Magazine or Whoever,eleven letters without postage6 years ago in Other More Like This
i can't relate to girls who wear high heels.
this is probably insignificant, but you never know...
Dear The Religious, Who Are Too Afraid To Take A Piss If God Doesn't Approve,
"there ain't no devil, there's just god when he's drunk."
Dear Tomorrow and The Day After,
you tell me to RSVP but
i hardly know if i'll make it.
don't worry if i don't show up,
i probably just hitched a ride
with The Weekend.
Dear Those Who Are Unhappy, Lonely or Having an Awful Evening,
but there is nothing i can do for you,
i love you and good luck.
Dear Tom Waits,
i know your married,
but i'm free every tuesday and saturday nights.
Dear Mapquest and Google,
thanks for keeping me on the right path,
and providing me with infinite amounts of porn.
you're like a good friend.
Dear Santa Clause,
i'm leaving out whiskey and artisan bread for you this year,
Dear My One True Love,
i've found someone else.
his name is josh. stop calling.
Dear The Front Porch, and
Of Science and FictionShe wore the Apocalypse and smirked.Of Science and Fiction5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Between Manly MenI was lifting weights with my penis, my manly enormous penis. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one-hundred reps completed. With a clatter I released the 50 pound weights and felt the burn.Between Manly Men5 years ago in Humor More Like This
The ladies saw me as I turned, sweat glistening on my monster python-piledriver, pecs, abs, thighs, calves, and large manly hands. With a pulse of rippling crotch muscles I waved at them. Two fainted dead away, the other three rushed me in a pack, barking and salivating as they always do.
With a twist of my well-formed manly hips, I deftly dodged their ravenous assault, grabbed a towel from the pile and mopped myself, tossing it over my shoulder. A fight broke out instantly for sniffing rights.
I entered the shower, lesser men scattering before me like ants. They could tell by the glint in my crystal-blue man-eyes that I was claiming this space; if that was insufficient warning, my jet of testosterone-packed urine surely made the point.
Dziura w podlodze_polskiBył rok 1926, a dokładniej typowa surowa zima tegoż roku. Byłem wtedy żołnierzem, razem ze swoimi szedłem przez pustkowie. Nie mam pojęcia, po co, tak prawdę mówiąc, ale co tam. Rozkaz to rozkaz. Byłem żołnierzem i jak każdy żołnierz miałem mundur, karabin i jedno marzenie – wyspać się i najeść. Po kilku tygodniach podjąłem decyzję. Mówiąc językiem pułkownika Griszy zdezerterowałem. Mówiąc językiem mojego kompana z szeregu Iwana, który podobno skończył szkołę, wybrałem najlepszą opcję w celu kontynuowania egzystencji. Czyli po prostu dałem nogę. Korzystając z poglądowej dość mapy kierowałem się do Komołki, wsi, w której kiedyś mieszkał mój wuj. Tak mi się przynajmniej wydawało. Przez pierwsze dwa dni nieustannie oglądałem sięDziura w podlodze_polski8 years ago in Historical More Like This
C.O.D. The tattoos, they caught on incredibly fast. I mean, it only took about half a year after the Death-caster came out. That's what the press called it, the Death-caster. Anyway, about 6 months after the first televised prediction, these tattoos starting showing up everywhere. It went from fad to craze to routine. Everybody did it. You would get some blood drawn. The machine would quiver a bit and hum. You'd get your paper and you'd go straight to the tattoo shop. Pretty much everyone has their cause of death, their C.O.D., tattooed these days. The accepted place to get it became the top of your left arm. Every time you go to check your watch, there it is in simple letters with a line underneath: Fire, Gunshot, Car Accident, Suicide.C.O.D.8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Walking down the street you can see it all. Plane Crash and Brain Tumor are holding hands, window shopping. Prison Riot pauses to let his dog urinate on the curbsi