Cry w/ meI am becoming.The woods are hungry& it echoes intomy stomach—urges to find theexact coordinatesof where my darknesswas born amongthe aspen leavesflirting w/ each other.The cricket in mybacksquawks at themoon& I can rememberthe taste of shakendirt—it tastes the sameas June tree’s trippingdanceon my tongue.My nails grow,clawing at therain& no matter whatslick cageI find myselfbiting down onfrom here on—licking in my grave—my wildernesswill be holdingfree.The thunder& its rowdy sirensdoesn’t scare meanymore.
BlindedI spin into the dark shiftsin the moon& the reflectionof artificial sunshows me blurredas her dull grey twinI can softarm into phasingwith a lost eyelash.There is somethingdisembodied in me—terrible is a wordencased in amber action& sometimes homeis just where evileyes you like food& devours your own.Maybe we are allhome-struck mothsrushing after thefirst light we see& neverminding oursubstance’s combustionas our wings singedarker than cratersseen from earth.
PrearrangedI carry a dead woman’slate unwanted possessionin my pocket—rolling it aroundin my handas I walk the too openexpanses of the grocery store.Something between theaisles wide as hospital woolstretched across the linesof planes cannot connectuntil the panic alarmin my mind is trippedby an unrelated burglartearing through thewater-wept boxes& dust stained cornerswhere the bad chaptersof my memoirs are stored.I don’t know how to unlockthis osmosis of aging—holding the white bandlike a life preserverwith the unidentified orange marksetching millstone albatrossesinto the wrist.It whispers to the womenwho tried dying beforeyou & me—all of you in a weathered houseoff the coast of acaustic ocean where onlywilting self-preservation& resigned flowers can grow.& me in the grocery store—trying to find a reasonto eat larger than justsustainment,aspirating on imagined heavens.
Paredthe invisible jackhammerthat rarely dares to travelbeyond the five points of poverty government street-mall cash-register-skyscraper highway loops downtown& your face—the loss of the half,a profile the FBI wouldn’t touchlike I would with
now here's to you, tomorrowDear you,this is just to say that you are beautiful;that the earth you stand upon is as old as timeand you are not, for you are simply a momenta star shining sand speckled pillar of brilliancefor which we make up stories to tell our children.I, too, began the journey of scholarhood ripe withopportunity, perhaps too manygood intentions, a loaded spark rather than abreathing ember, looking up & out for the scorchingradiance that lay just below the skin;This is not to say that yours will bear any likeness tomine or that you are governed by any relevant principles,only that we share more than you might think—the present is a gift to us from the invariable past,from us to the inevitable future,to be held without expectation except to live vicariouslythrough the blissful momentum of experienc
lessons I wasn't taught at school1.I've gotten really good at walking out on people.2.He was only collateral damage.3.There is an infinity carved on the tree where your head once used to rest.4. You smell of apple cyder, musk and her. 5. She created drama when there was none because that is how she liked to be; weak. 6. I've never seen snow.7. They always misinterpreted your emotions, didn't they? 8. He never got why she preferred sitting cross-legged on the floor.9. She knew by memory to the last detail every crease that strained his face.10. He never really understood her.11. You're selfish and self-absorbed but that is partially my fault because I gave you even more than I ever thought I had.12. I wish I knew who I was.13. Lets try to be optimistic for a change.14. I can't get your pain and suffering out of my system and God knows how many times I've tried.15.'Don't you ever leave the house?' The short 82 year old man says.He has more life at this moment in him than my entire 1
The Saturday Spotlight for June 22nd, 2013Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff Openings Saturday Spotlight for June 22nd, 2013Daily Literature Deviations is proud to feature this special recognition article!You can show your support by ing this News Article. We hope this gives you some insight intothe person behind the art.Please comment and the features and congratulate the artist! Artists will be featured in a spe
things you don't learn in schoolI found a cricketon the roadside, put itin a mason jar to show the worldand called it by a first name.He died of loneliness shortlythereafter and i learned how wretchedit is to be forsaken.When I was twelve, I watched a boyslit his wrists with a plastic sporkat lunch, and though Ilaughed at the irony, all i kept thinking was"I really hope he washed his hands."He bled tearsof scarlet red that lookedjust like tomato sauce, but I just stoodthere because it was the coolest thingI'd ever seen.The boy, he smelled of dirtylaundry and cigarettes and sorrowand used to sit by the windowuntil the bell, where he'd wait until everyonehad gone outside to make sure it was safe.His eyes were the hollowed ringsof Saturn, with freckleslike stars & cosmic bruisesup and down his arms.If he spoke, it was of distant shores and escape,and we believed itwhen he talked of things like freedom,hearing the scratch of gravelroads from within his throat.I realized one day that I'd nev
a series of letters to destructive thingsto the Rev. Fred Phelps:it's been a long time coming— I guess youcould say that even the reaper had to take histime with youknow that you did not die a martyr, just a dirtyold bastard with a toxic heart, organic matterdecaying in the forgotten soil of yesterday.to fire:dance, you do, to the beautiful anarchy of destruction,the most unforgiving of temptationsI know you've burned down cities, souls & all, indivine judgement;I know you've burned up people, life & all, for muchlesser reason.to the imperialists of history:you raped the virgin world, stole the birthrightfrom the bosom of mankindmanifest destiny is a plague to brotherhoodcolonization is a serpent with venom enough to killa thousand years of progressyou are the reason there was ever a distinctionbetween us & them.to George W. Bush:perhaps it may be late to harp on the points ofyour destruction, but that is certainly not to deny yourrightful place in this seriesplease write back if you'd like