He Thinks By FireCastles
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
the sea salty sweet withthe sea salty sweet with10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
birdcry (the sea salty sweet with)
the sea was his womb;
the salt the waves the sea
the boy, he counted waves:
and said: I'll live to be that--
-- old man drowning & crow-
birds cawing &
let's pretend he is deaf:
and the waves have number but not
the sound of rushing past quickly. the
old man doesn't stop drowning, though
a croak, silent & open-mouthed desperation,
carries him under.
asea, tonightasea, tonight10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I'm at your door; can hear the brass and bass,
the snare drum, through the glass. It's jazz, tonight.
You let me in and suddenly I'm in
a room of profound poets, who sing their verse
through shining horns, sweet saxophone riffs.
The solos drift so richly, dance among smoke rings—
tonight, when everyone's somebody's cool cat.
There's a girl whose trumpet weeps when she woos its keys,
those wailing notes like Miles would have played.
And the long-haired bassist pains his face as he plucks
away at the tired shape the body makes,
he sways. And when the guitar's clean strings do sing,
it's melody carries a twang so sweet—it's jazz,
tonight. Tonight!— We can be alive, tonight.
And I'm in the corner, no horn in hand, not even
a cigarette for now. I'm just a shadow this evening,
no harmony for me. Just silent taps
of thumbs on thighs; of a breath before sirens sing.
Tonight, blue tunes knew the way through a smoky
sea—found me… Last I heard they were still awaiting
The Expected Part 1 of 4—Preface—The Expected Part 1 of 411 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This is a walnut.
The walnut has no name. Its Latin appellation, however, is juglans, short for jovis glans. Jovis is what Zeus was called when the Romans saw him and decided they wanted one of those too; glans means nuts. Jupiter's nuts. It is highly probable that, back when this name was chosen, people meant to say walnuts were nuts fit for the gods. Funny, what the evolution of language can do to nuts.
This walnut is lying on the wooden floor of a monastery, a monastery beautifully situated in the middle of a seemingly endless forest.
This is Friar Mattheus. In a moment, Friar Mattheus will step on the walnut, slip, fall down the stairs, and break two ribs. Friar Mattheus really likes walnuts. A little earlier, he was going to crack this one open and enjoy it. At that exact moment, he had a doubtlessly divine inspiration for a chorale praising his saint of choice. The ingenuity of this chorale's words was that they would only make
BigAnd it all came together with a crashBig11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
an expanding singularity creating
Monumental foam rising in a desert sea
The monsters and the carnivores of the soon
and the twisting never
The cancers and the throbbing monads
The green megaliths and groping
The plush sentients
All at once.
Ascending mightily a broad expanse of unbounded
But all the same expelling passionately
the voidless form of before
to sum up into waves of sonic being all that
would pass for passing
all that would crash and scream and pass.
and indolent proportions
of waving wind spun across new fields
making bread, eating it
Coffee MugsCoffee Mugs11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It's a man's world,
you can tell
from the dirty coffee mugs,
huddled together on the table.
The lone water bottle stands above them,
imposing, clear and tall, as its owner,
Her pregnant belly precedes her like a shield:
a neon sign flashing "here I am".
In the elevator, two people dare a smile
while they talk of things they know
no-one else cares about.
They wear glasses and awkward clothes.
In this place time hangs like tepid air,
which no fresh wind can ever disperse.
SleepSleep12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a tsetse fly
drinks its next meal
the sun, newborn crying,
is sky ilk
a maze of feathery canopy;
the Bandundu forest,
gives birth to a
litter of bananas-
grass covered savannahs,
stubborn windblown maize
to the river, where
water walking fish farmer
casts a drowsy eye
on a school of tilapia
playing in his bamboo den;
a kihuta viper opens
its razor mouth
while decadent sockets,
hanging by swollen neck,
as he is carried to the garden.
like an old antelope
pulses, waiting to slip
into its last coma,
palm stem walls blanketing
the mind's catacombs
while your planted carcass watches
a tsetse fly
drink its next meal.
Cliff NotesCliff Notes11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cricket leg serenades
To this Asbach taste that veneers late Tuesday -
Companions to a cork parade
Of characters strolling through the vines;
Residential escape in charmed, young prime
Staving off charge of rolling night.
Fetch your pink,
From recessed cupboards, bottled up
To pour on ice.
Lay the tumbler to the coaster;
Watch condensation droplets
Pool into a question
The modern art above your bed
Grasping for tradition, well-kept
And bred in sound conditions;
A sieve that bled until she cried
From underneath those lines,
And you found heaven
Through that answer in her eyes
Shattering shock of matter melting,
Diluting tonight's pride and worth
As the minutes go by;
Leave rocks behind
To remind of true meaning -
Everything at home is everything that's right.
OutmodedOutmoded10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a pick-pocket cigarette, first of the day, meets my lips
with the shock of the afternoon-daybreak sun.
a single chance of impression, careless as the blurs
passing by, lands amongst the first to jump at it
and when one's clever enough to see above the rest,
the maddening roar of everyone else
is just enough to drown any incidental gleam,
dreams of what they should have been.
now I sink in unseen corners, shroud myself
behind imaginary one-way mirrors, scribbling
as fast as possible, capturing it all, save for
when I am far too lost in it; myself a victim.
are these to be encyclopedic rolls of the tongue
like soft-blip, rhetorical representations with just
enough candor to be passed off as an epic catalog
or am I dribbling a false self-titled endowment?
No Train For YesterdayI spend two & a half smiles on strangers,No Train For Yesterday11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on. Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
Opportunity-8.FebruaryOpportunity-8.February10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the texture of my missed sunrise
wrapped in amber arms and a smirk
fluxing in the newborn light:
I'd've flung myself in arms that begged to hold me
if I'd known they were there
I'm staring into your distance, someone
singing in my buttoned ears
—chops for my cubical existence
there's cement beneath us in springtime, still cold
to the touch of jean-clad cheeks,
this tank top rag doll
folded into your lanky figure,
patient for day
I'm trapped, sometimes,
in fleeting shadows—moments that shouldn't feel
like midwinter sun taunting,
tangling the air, hair
falling in your solstice eyes,
but they do
Awake Under the BlanketsAwake Under the Blankets10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Closer to darkness than anticipated,
the shadows breach the wall and slip
across the carpet.
With childish certainty the danger slides
and toils and bristles with thorns and eyes,
and eyes peer out from under sheets.
Magic never stood the test of time,
but clutching teddy close
prevents a mind spilling into tears.
Evil stalks on spindle legs
grown knobby and buckled through age,
the weight of slushy ooze a challenge.
Ears pick out the smacking of lips,
a meal made of child on the menu,
the slither of entrails never tucked in.
Move and be found, the little boy lost
inside the mind of an adult left to think,
quake with unease, but barely breath in truth.
While eager tentacles fumble with claws
made scratchy through crushing babies bones,
a pulse throbs under the blankets.
Catch the glow beneath sleeping cloth,
the torch bulb switched to combat fear,
and see the throwing off of covers.
The monster reels, flailing parts unknown,
descending the stair that waits in silence
at the back of the
Mocha RushThe glitter falls down fromMocha Rush3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I turn my face up to the setting sun.
I almost forgot what winter
meant, tracing maps in her malachite eyes.
I lose myself in giggles as I take
another sip of the mocha,
and wink over the brim.
I am an actress.
I stand outside too long,
because my eyes look best
against the blue sky,
slip my feet into impractical shoes,
and turn up "Edge of Seventeen."
I check my makeup in the mirror
over and over before I step outside,
I have to make sure everyone else
thinks I'm beautiful,
while my hands drifted.//telegramawhile my hands drifted.11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
escrevo para te dizer que
nasci torto no crescendo do céu
pútrido como a manga do teu espaço
escrevo para te dizer que sei de mim
que sou dos dias e dos matagais
das sombras frescas e dos sismos
escrevo para te dizer que soçobro da cafeína
para te dizer que te escolho
dos rios, da calçada
dos gritos dos taipais
da sombra dos edifícios.
i write to tell you that
i was born crooked in the crescendo of the sky
putrid as the sleeve of your space
i write to tell you that i know from me
that i am from the days and woods
unsullied precincts and typhoons
i write to tell you that i am
the rest of caffeine
to tell that i choose you
from the rivers, the pavement
from the screams of blind venetians
from the silhouette of the buildings.
SEEKING SPRING 2SEEKING SPRING 210 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am the tree-in-winter man
bough bent with wintry woes
Inside, below the gnarled and ravelled rind,
inscribed by glacial ink in cruel seasons,
exigencies and crises lie curled
concentrically in seized circles
from heartwood to the bark.
Inside, again, sap congealed and gelid
trapped static in harsh-hardened tracheids,
sits still pooled and sorrow chilled
in serried cellular ranks
from yesterday's roots to tomorrow's twig.
Yes, I am the tree-in-winter man
waiting for spring's demulcent peach-pink
breath to melt and liquefy
from frigid core to icebound bole
and tempt the sap to surge and rise.
And then these soft green buds
I harboured in the long dark days
will plump and swell;
and blossoms white as snow
will ecstatically burst the knotted bark
to be strewn and scattered on the ground
A is for AlgebraD disliked starting each day. She'd ratherA is for Algebra10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
squander her time writing of dusty dreams
late at night by candlelight. This bothered
F who loathed the part where father must wake
unwilling daughter firmly from slumber.
Her eyes remain sleep-stained until M rakes
a warm washrag across her face. Brother
e, now a teenager who refuses
to capitalize his name, walks sister
to the bus-stop where B drives them to school
with a frown on his face. J, K, and L
form her usual clique. They chat until rules
force them to part ways when they'd rather stay
and gossip about H--though, i don't know
what they see in him. G drones on today
about grammar (they still teach that?) until
even the bell is exasperated
and offers to sound in pity and fill
the halls with familiar hullabaloo.
On the way to her next class, D spots O,
her friend whose affinity for junk food
has left her with contours that even eggs
must envy. They walk to Mr. A
Going UpGoing Up12 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Going Up (Draft 3)
An original story by Ben Rausch
This is the script to an eleven minute long animated film.
Int. small flat
Fade in to choker close up of a man (MAX) with his eyes closed. After a few moments the camera slowly dollies out to a long shot, while tilting up 90 degrees to reveal Max is sleeping. An alarm clock wakes him. Max gets up, puts on a black suit, grabs a black briefcase and leaves the flat.
Int. Bus Day
Time lapse shot of Max looking bored, standing on a bus.
Ext. Street day
Max gets off the bus and enters a large building
Max enters and then goes into a lift.
Max pushes the button to go to the second floor. Stands waiting for the lift to reach it's destination.
Int. Second Floor offices
The doors of the lift slide open with a little ring. Max exits them and enters a very long corridor, with doors all alo
This is MineThis is my GodThis is Mine3 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
This is my Savior
This is my Friend
This is my Dad
This is my Demon
This is my Dividend
This is my Song
This is my Dream
This is my Everything
Who do you think
What do you know
That could stop me
I Play Pianissimo For HerI Play Pianissimo For Her11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I play pianissimo for her.
I play pianissimo for her, who was quiet all her short life. The dark, rapid tones of the grand requiem I play for her whisper across the brooding room. The ivories dance beneath my fingers, not laughing though I tickle them solemnly. This is her tribute, and she smiles at it from her seat, a sad smile that sees nothing but herself.
She is my only audience, besides the mantel clock and the faded lambrequin. The lambrequin has itself to worry about, and the clock just ticks along merrily with the music severely out of tempo. The golden-faced watch gracing her wrist, however, is silent. Like her.
The grand piano, its black skin reflecting the thousand candles that perch on its top, is mutinous. It prefers to disbelieve my story, mutilating my pure emotions into something darker as they pass through its mouth. I do not like the story it tells (