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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member William Soule32/Male/United States Groups :iconbanwords: BanWords
 
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Core Member 'til Hell freezes over
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Literature
Hello
And now the word slips in, a hand
down the rough blue of your back pocket,
a gaze that dawdles for too long.
All that you want are the silent moments
between a bank deposit and
the sun-slapped leather of the driver's seat,
or during your stroll down city square.
It is the first word to the phone:
now you know the catcall, the snapping
flag in a hot wind, emblazoned
with that Southern cross—anything of offense;
it is the open door
you did not ask for, the courteous
nod that builds a society, joins
a hand to hand. The hand:
a wave that means you are a dog,
obedient and servile as the woman
in your newest phone, knowledge navigator
that can compass the earth—
its every mote and detail—
as some asteroid belt around the sun, 332.
Hi. An affront,
a coil that shrinks the difference
between us, the million miles
of distance: voice to heart,
reason to brain, to our collective consciousness.
Good day. A smear campaign
against your worthiness, two
bedeviled words
to greet, to gr
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Literature
Graves
Grandmother
       golden girl, graceful grasshopper, gastronomic guardian
Grandfather
       gentle giant, garden genius, gave great grimaces
grown grandchildren gathered
       grievous, guilty glances:
       gun, glorious gunpowder—
               good God!
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:iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 4 10
Literature
science in common core
a risen ocean—warm ice
carries a massive summer,
a coarse, wave-worn season.
rivers increase or narrow.
corrosive rain across enormous zones—
asia or wisconsin, mexico or missouri:
various areas in succession,
even on roman ruins or vesuvius.
we are worms in a new mesozoic
as a scoriaceous sun oozes
across some sierra. we can see more.
we can see now, our universe.
we can see reason, an answer in our veins.
an answer in some room in america—
a curious minor, six or seven, now insecure
as new axis sea ice or revenue sources—
a minor score: an iron crown worn as a cone
even as a man.
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Police Call by fllnthblnk
Mature content
Police Call :iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 4 3
Midnight Inspiration by fllnthblnk Midnight Inspiration :iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 151 27 Father by fllnthblnk Father :iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 5 5 Ultimate Escape by fllnthblnk Ultimate Escape :iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 12 3
Literature
I am the Everybody
Not the sun--have dawdled in the outside darkness,
discerning the Big Dipper and its bowl's guiding line
to Polaris. Everything else is foreign, an ebon map
with pinpoints of cities and near unpronounceable names:
Adhafera, Algieba, Denebola, Regulus--cultures uttered
in divination's two-toned newsprint dialect.
Then comes the thought of what if: life circulating them
as it does here, and if their soundless gap
can challenge the record between each human life:
the files of our moving lines on damaged roads, at work
and its day-to-day redundancy, the bits of information
we've become online: nothing but ones and zeroes. Even I
cannot find Leo and its heart of galaxies, the ruling sun
finally rising as I attempt sleep through its hindering light,
when it dawns on me as appropriate: unus multorum,
creativity's inhibition--an over-tasting, a dilution.
I am a lion among lions, a major and minor
against the unknowns of every other constellation,
the unknown of each smile in passing, th
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Literature
Frailty
I see it in her sinking eyes,
the silence of their gaze--a child
batting at the final thread
of life, nine for nine. Darker days
pass with worry tumbling deep
in its high-walled pit. I see it:
something that says this is the last,
when I touch the curve of her back,
the rise of spine, the uneven quiet
of her response while winter bulks
and burns with its oppression of frost.
I see it in my brother, the care
of each hand as it arches over bone.
There is hunger, but she does not eat--
only laps at a small drinking bowl--
and I tell him this is it, it is now:
but he insists as love does--wandering
dove in the dark cave that is death--
says all he needs to do is feed her.
But I see it at work flashing up
with his number that same day, his voice
quivering as tongue-tapped water;
and I knew he would rescind
our agreement: a leap into the dark
without the interference of barbiturates,
a vet's cold table, two gloved hands
that are more steel than hands. I see
it there, to give in like that: to
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:iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 108 70
Mature content
Ones and Twos :iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 3 10
Literature
My how I've grown
to hate the taste of it: the liquid snap
of another letter, a word pursing
through these tongue-wet lips. Here, a kiss
for a dying stanza that does not know
it is dying--I hate it, see? The thought
that language lives, breathes like people do,
because that's the way humanity works:
finding humanity in the non-human: you know that
word: anthropomorphizing
the household dog, furry child on four legs;
that language who seems to speak
for itself, autonomous as a new computer line--
can decipher the innerworkings of the soul,
can dig deep, twitter their own verse,
exhume a breathing spark inside the plastic canister
of existence--as a dirge. But, here,
all I see is dirt, a burial not for the dead,
but for the written word: in the distance, a bark
that says something in its non-human talk;
to think to write, to translate it
into something such as this. Something read:
epitaph on the hardened stone of my antipathy.
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Literature
Apologies to Lao
Each day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed
like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant
learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere
or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:
the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrification
to a microwave's impatient beeps,
the drive-thru's static, monotoned voice
by a man who has already learned
what I am learning: to cherish
the alarm's morning hymn over my mother's--
now I'm rarely late for work--can navigate
those can-lined aisles, the cold-grey
of the warehouse with deep strides
until I lose track of every step within
my eight hours--my mind
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Literature
Euthanasia
Beyond Tornado Alley, my youngest brother
sleeps with his new family, a speck
in the forefinger of Florida--the state,
I hear, where the elderly go, not to die,
but to finish the final few pages
of their lives. Is it no wonder our father
and his second wife sent his age-sick mother
to some retirement home in Tennessee?
Even now, my brother speaks in nonchalance's
flatlined tongue of their dozen cats,
the lucky few inside (outside, the living
green of the yard hides a doubled clowder),
and each of their names: Shadow, Baby, Tiger...
it goes on--and how easy they are to replace:
Sickly? The answer was quick, painless, and
easy, just as each evening while the light bled
into a new horizon, the memory of birth-home,
the snow-misted mountains, our blood-mother,
myself--the terrible novel of eyes closing
into a deeper darkness, never again to open.
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:iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 4 10
Literature
Loss
It is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in language--workhouse
of our tongue, long-suffering in our ineptitude.
I have long walked past that dreaded block:
can see it in the deep distance, in the dark.
Those others! Their arms stretch: their new
birthing, discovery of another light--glimmer
of each experience that seeps and sparks
as if tiny breaths. But, here, I turn--
hold my own breath. Discover the hard
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:iconfllnthblnk:fllnthblnk 204 91

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William Soule
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Soundbites About Me:
-Previous literature gallery volunteer
-Graduate from Weber State University (B.S. in Nutrition Education and Health Promotion)
-Kinda sorta writes poems
-Plays the drums in the band Rival Hive
-Currently works as a tutor
-Cookies. Give me.
Interests

Post-Graduation Update

Journal Entry: Tue Jul 10, 2018, 3:17 PM
Hi, everyone. Thought I'd update this thing. Been a couple years almost.

So I've finally graduated from college a couple months ago. Did a double major and got a B.S. in Nutrition Education and Health Promotion. Graduated summa cum laude with a 4.0 GPA. I was one of the student graduate speakers at my commencement; had the honor of addressing my fellow graduates in my college and all their family members and friends--got to write a nifty speech and everything! People kept stopping me afterwards to tell me how much they liked my speech, even at the restaurant where I celebrated.

I also won the Outstanding Student Graduate Award for both of my degree programs. During my last year, I was the vice chair and chair for the Asian Student Involvement Association (ASIA), a new club I helped found at the university. My club got nominated for the Crystal Crest - Registered Organization of the Year Award, and so, as the club chair, I had the joy of being interviewed by a panel to see if we were worthy of the honor. At the actual ceremony, I was floored when my club was announced as the winner. Should've seen me--my hands were shaking as I held the award, giving a little thank-you speech in front of hundreds of people better-dressed for the occasion than I was, hahaha.

This summer has been a mad-dash of applications and job searching. Ugh. Not the funnest part of my days. I have so much free time on my hands, though. Now that I have a breather, I've been taking the time to work on myself instead of my academics; been working out again, eating better, doing regular walks. Lost 6 pounds within the last two weeks, which pleases me greatly! Had WAAAAY too many fast-food runs while going to college and working 4 student jobs, so I gained a little bit of college weight--ironic considering my majors.

Finally wrote a new poem but not for a reason I like. Unfortunately, I had to put my dear pit bull down last year in August. His health deteriorated rapidly and I had to make that god-awful drive to the emergency vet in the middle of the night. Miss you so much, buddy. Had to make it back to school first thing in the morning for a group project and put on a happy face. Here's the poem, although it might be a bit rough--just wrote it as quickly as I could cause I knew I wouldn't be able to write it if I didn't just power through.

AdmissionHere's a good one: I cry without catharsis
within the white spaces of my day--
the lone car rides home,
the intermittence between college classes
and the open garden where life grows
and grows seemingly from dirt, water, love.
How is it then that I lost you? I see you
in too many empty places: the rug
at the top of the stairs, the worn grass
beneath the apple tree, the phantom warmth
where you curled between my legs
for sleep. Oh, it gets better: some nights
I haul myself to the outside wounds
of starlight, demand an answer from God.
I won't lie: it's crossed my mind, smothering
away the sobs between the hearth-brown blanket
a shade away from yours. It no longer cradles
your smell--or you. Just this pathetic man
that steals away a moment to dwell
on his failure--embarrassing, right?
I picked you first. Held you. I let you go--gave up.
Watched your eyes slip into that hollowness,
that permanence, as you slumped on the vet's cold floor,
something growing inside of you that shouldn't--
th


Anyway, thanks for reading.
-William

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:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks so much for the watch. 

:iconspreadmoreloveplz:
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:iconsrsmith:
SRSmith Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2018   Writer
Thanks for the :+fav: on 'Disassociation'!
Happy Thursday!
:)
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:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, dearheart. :heart:
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(1 Reply)
:iconjasperinity:
Jasperinity Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2017
Happy birthday! :D
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:iconbirthdays:
birthdays Featured By Owner Jul 28, 2017
:woohoo: :party: :iconcakelickplz: !!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY !!! :iconcakelickplz: :party: :woohoo:

It's July 28th which means it's that time of the year again and your special day is here! We hope you have an awesome day with lots of birthday fun, gifts, happiness and most definitely, lots of cake! Here's to another year!

:iconchampagneplz: Many well wishes and love from your friendly birthdays team :love: :iconchampagneplz:

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