pencils and knivesOur getting together was a roll of the tongue, a curve in my nerves.pencils and knives8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We played clever and intelligent and poetry-slam line break, smiled at our own pretentious predigested words, coffee and donuts and hardly a table between us. Your eyes flashed white and my smile flashed red and I pretended to be without makeup, and you, without frowns.
We discussed Small Things, work and play, and we discussed Big Things, God and philosophy. We faked thoughts and I made petty arguing comments just to sound like a brain was in my head.
It was perfect.
You said you believed God was a woman, for people are so wonderfully flawed and couldnt only a girl create such emotions and make things so delicate? Our trivial emotions like jealousy and rage, curiosity and adrenaline, they all had such a feminine edge, you said.
You threw in a compliment about me somewhere in there and I nodded and bit my bottom lip because God suddenly seemed very, very real.
You asked me something vaguely romantic and it hit m
the antics of love.the antics of love8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
id like to think you broke my glasses to dull
the sharpness of these perpendicular horizons
i am sorry i stumbled through
(y)our disagreement into the wrong car
imagining the subway to ride upon
tibetan prayer wheels (yes my eyes
are that bad) i scrawled on
their tired skin and bumped
into several children on my way home
to apologize and say
union station is telling
god you still look beautiful
for to fall on your deaf earsYou glisten in my throat, baby,for to fall on your deaf ears7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and glow across my pores -
but for our love to be
effective, you've gotta start shimmering, too.
You, though, will remain dull and we will
be like either side of
a glazed vase - sparkling Side A
vs. cold, unfinished clay.
I had been content to play Dagny Taggart
to your Hank Reardon,
claycowardice runs deep, like a rich vein of redclay8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
through the bottom of a Colorado river.
so I gathered that clay, scooped it up in my hands
and packed it, carefully, over my face
until it covered every inch; and my lidded eyes
were merely dents in the thick tan façade.
this was cleaner
than the traditional, Oedipal method
of blinding oneself.
alone, the clay
was not enough. I stayed inside
the house, too, under cover of a sturdy blue roof
that cordoned the horizon
because out here there is too much sky
to hide from.
and I ignored the phantoms
still flitting in my ears,
because they spoke of the kind of roses
that wilt and melt in the rain, dropping their petals
to storms and in truth I sometimes think
they look even more beautiful
that way, spreading and curling and darkening
into decadence, like glorious pink-frosted cake.
but I dont want to be weak
sometimes, when we watched movies, Id scratch
tiny eyeholes in the clay, so I could see
just a litt
FramesMy bike is a vintage 1973 Raleigh handed down to me by my father. The steel frame I use to bike those forty miles to and from class every day is the same one he used on his campus, way back in the Bronze Age. Sure, I've replaced the brakes, the shifters, the chain, the pedals, the wheels, and about half the rider, but the core of the thing is unchanged.Frames7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
It's only natural, then, that I was replacing the brake cable when I discovered them. I'd been inserting a Dremel bit to cut some sheathe when I thought to wear eye protection, and what should I find when rifling through the mess called my father's garage but a pair of glasses that could have been older than the bike I was repairing. Safety wear, to be sure; the glasses were un-lensed, but the thick black frames were standard eye-wear right about the time NASA was sending Armstrong to the moon. Instantly recognizable. I used them to finish cutting the sheathe and pocketed
ClaustrophobicClaustrophobic8 years ago in Horror More Like This
My hands are unable to remain silent for long. Through tortured blinks, their control slackens, and they start to screech against the surrounding walls. My brain follows their example – crying aloud for help, shouting at my body to stop running away.
My legs are twisting and turning, my eyes melting until all I can see is blackness; all I can feel are the sickening revulsions and unshakeable impulses that my body is enduring. The air gets tighter with every second that passes, compacting as the walls close in upon me like some sick gang with no motive but to quench their throats with my fear. Always, my legs and arms flail; jumping into the walls, the ceiling, the bed below me – leaping into the darkness in the hope that they’ll escape it.
The room smells of decay – a shiver-inducing scent akin to that of burning sulphur. My brain is still howling, a wolf begging for its companions – longing to be somewhere, anywhere that is safe.
108801PLANESCAPE108801PLANESCAPE9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your shiver-smile is exultant.
i thought that
while i waited for the
suns to fall,
i would sing quietly
of the planescapes;
and how we, hand in hand
held the rising
jewels of the eternal apex
in that void, brimming with
life and interstellar
"your shiver-smile is exultant,"
i breathed in your ear
while you frosted over
and when again the suns
did climb to their zenith,
we were seen
as nothing less than
made of superstrings
OrangesOrangesOranges8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'clock he wonders what he is going to do
with the rest of his life knowing:
Words are not worth the time.
He will wake up one day with crushed petals
in his teeth from his mother's prized gardenias.
The gardenias tell the silent boy's mother
stories of noise and white noise. They slip
her nightmares like a
Aphelion, revisedMaybe it would be best to tell you nowAphelion, revised7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that there are squalls in your eyes.
In the black of your pupil,
I found a clipping of her hair. It wasn't mine
to find; I left it there. Hurried
to what I love most,
your herculean jaw.
I close my eyes to a burst of red,
and though it reminds me of your strength,
I see nothing but her jacket.
It was lying about in your sclera. Your lips, pressed
hard together, thin houdini lips,
Your mouth parts, to breathe
and allow me passage into the wintry fjord,
nicotine yellow mountain tops.
Theres this wrinkle beneath your eye
from whiskey, or from years of fearing your father.
I can see her, the hesitant smile,
slant of her eye, the pitch
of her hair.
The crow's foot was the full curve
of her breast. The apple chunk
lodged deep in your throat
was her pug nose,
a half-chewed ball of sweetmeats.
Two fingers, mine,
slide down your neck,
just beneath the jaw.
I feel the pulse of a man
who doesn't love me.
Happiness' AllureClose your eyes, turtledove.Happiness' Allure7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Skip into your deepest memories
as swirling hues strip
the baby blue from the sky.
Trust my weathered hands
like when I pushed your swing
in your rosy-red dress and
usual cherub smile.
Cover your ears and rest easy
in my arms as the house yawns;
stretching and cracking floorboards
in attempt to remove
the glassy-crust from its eyes.
Tears plop along my ragged shirt,
and I drift to when we danced
with the melody of raindrops
on pots and pans during storms.
Screams and uprooted trees
blend like the moist soil
on our fingertips when
we prepared our garden
with just enough to survive.
My ears pop into deafness.
I kiss your forehead and with
trembling hands, shield your
dreaming form as the blast
steals us into eternal night.
Vagrant HeartsAh... the reflection in your eyesVagrant Hearts7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Play across your skin
As your shivering hand reaches out...
Love fades into the sky
Another broken window
Another strip of film
But every night I still see you there
Lying in the tide
Foam rolling silently up legs bare
Are you wishing it pulls you away...?
Now you become the silken sand
Now you are the waves tenderly drowning
Under my stars, forever
Bated breaths into our fire we feed
Singeing flesh, sinking deep
Wandering through ashen night
Sweat glistened memories
Or desires that one day might...
Possessed of us, behind closed doors
I'll be under your thoughts, forever
There is a home for me
Only in your eyes
Behind your ribs
Between your thighs
Against your lips
We'll freeze the moon
And burn the sun
Cause you're the death of me
My vagrant one~
wirelessI.wireless9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we weren't looking for Kevin Bacon,
weren't trying to find a way--
it was just ten steps
to no one in particular.
looking for damn connections,
screw chaos theory.
I'm gonna find me some sense.
less than three percent of potential
rapists are willing to commit murder
if you are in a situation where you feel that such a person
committing such a crime on you is possible
"life support""life support"11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This is shutting down. No one else sees it, because the foam pets are selling nicely. The goldfish are being won. They are playing "Stairway to Heaven" yet again on the Fire Loop. Appealing to the masses.
When she says to me, "the sun is setting," I already know. I close one eye, aim and shoot. Its yellow, dead body loosens its grip on the sky and starts to drop.
"Probably," she says, "no one else is even watching."
I really, truly know what she means, but making words out of a feeling is impossible.
"What... the hell... are people doing?" I ask finally.
The people below us are moving from ride to ride like obnoxious trick-or-treaters. Getting what they want and moving on brainlessly. It's hard to look at something as beautiful as a sunset and not think about all the idiots missing out.
"I couldn't say. Digging their own graves, perhaps? Or throwing up? Or taking pictures in the photobooth?"
"There's a photobooth here?"
My weak spot, but I won't say anything.
Six WordsMy walls are ice; yours, steam.Six Words8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
2669-B2669-B9 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
In the early hours, when he is still asleep, she begins counting the tiny black and white tiles plastered to the ceiling of their flat. Some are chipped, some are covered by a layer of dust, and some are not tiles at all, but cockroaches in disguise. By 143 he has stretched his arms and kissed her neck, by 206 he has tied his shoes and lit a cigarette, and by 262 he's always gone. She knows that the smell of coffee will dissipate by 329 and that if she can bother getting out of bed to call her worried mom for once, or even just go to the damn bathroom, he will be back by 2338.
If she counts slowly.
Sometimes, late at night, when she has named all of the constellations she knows without the familiar sound of his second-hand car pulling into their garage, she likes to sit and ponder, with a bottle of Jack Daniels, where she went wrong. She wonders if by living here with him she's wasting away the best years of her life, years she could have spent at college in order to get a job and b
Goldiwhat?So, me and my crew be out walkin, aight homey? Nice day and all. So we be out pimpin the streets, walkin around, doin our thang. You know how it is, right brutha? We be out, enjoyin the sun, hangin with the bruthas. Chillin. But it be gettin to dinner time, and we left us some porridge out to cool, cause we old school like that. Picked up some suga to go with that too, mmhmm.Goldiwhat?8 years ago in Humor More Like This
So, me, my man Poppa Smallz, and my new Suga Momma head back to my crib, bein hungry and all. But we be gettin there and the doors all unlocked. Now, when a brutha bear be doin what I do for a livin, you dont just walk in the door in this situation. So we be listenin, but nothin. Smallz pushed the door open. Feel like he a big man, cause hes the one with the connections, if you know what I mean. That be why we call him Poppa. Cause if we was a family, hed be the head, he think. He got