timeturnedat some point in my lifesome time between the glasses and the haircutsin different lightings of shaded roomsduring walks alone in circlesafter someone gave a smile and after someone took an actionfrom chess to chill to chess againat some point I think I became pretty.
This Town Does Not ExistThe smile upon the little manContorted to a frown,Upon a step upon a stoopHe stared the traffic down.The lane alight in torrid heatThe tires won't deny,And smog upholds its claim uponThe noisy northern sky.Swift streets alive in paper routesSteal thunderous offenceWhile twinkling-torn pedestriansTrek shoulders forged and tense.The little man, a house, a block,Ten streets, a graying mist,And farther still, he can't forget,This town does not exist.
The ToolGiven the proper materialsI willcarve into each curve ofspontaneous thought,I'lldissect a two-word exchange,a bit lip,a held back smileI'llwonder why the pigeon-toed many aremore self-conscious ormore hesitant orready to wage war on a unique lower leg structure,maybe,they're reaching destinations quickerbut I'm only after whytimely's not desired.Givennoproper materials,my toes curve in at just the same angle like the neanderthal reliefof losing the tool.
AmputationIt's better just to amputate in times of indecision. Whether or not dilemma's a medicinal affair, I'll say "chop it off" with a flourish and reach for my machete. It's incredible the adversity played in shades of keeping useless limbs, but I guess the nicest hand to hold doesn't have to really hold back. It's perverse, but for what it's worth I like 'em better warm and moving. Stumps declare heroism, particularly in storytimes when stories depict deceptive terms of manhood. Paranoia not too good and could I hold that knife again? I'll say "chop it off" when the cat scratches out more than one drop or skin pulls back slightly. I'll say "make it worse" because I know pity's realm is visual. Hide the scar-flossed arm on another shoulder try the highway's and don't cry as blades pry off indecisive numb-lets. Thumbs get tired of misused writing and trying to hold
my ghostdappled in the shadowsdrenchedin blueon blackon gray.my ghost proclaimshis innocenceand criesand meltsaway.
we should go togethertake me to the stars little boy, and let me live on paper wings and penny whistles.take me where they twoo-twoo and sing the earth to sleep in shifting blue-greens.I just want to see it all out there and mistyone last time.
life in breezeWell, it goes like this:The trees speak first.(Ive learned the most imposing generally do.)Theyre all into wssshhh and hmmmff and leaveplotted enunciation to smaller woven knotted twigs.(Twigs know how to say it, though.)And winding up the walls a shock of ivy,tendrils under shadow,creep in dark phrases and sing low like bubbling.(Never imposing but impressionable.)Chimes twinkle soprano;lavender vibrato in harmony with arching, resolute columns.(They sing flat and nobody notices.)But the last to speak:high up flitting and falling,sharp turns through sharp bluewith light that deems dance in no way silly,two leaves twirl and say nothing at all but for the indescribabletupas they landside-by-side.(And nobody can marvel at the effort it takes to say even that.)
My ElevatorWent for a walkwith other intentions,hopeful glances in his directiontil you reached descendingelevator,closed doors flaw a fleeting possibilityimplausible, really,but it twittered as you twiddled down the halland it smothered softly between theclosingmetaldoors.And now, you have to go on a walk.Your jolting nausea's no way bredfrom the downward pull of the box,feet locked in gravity's grumblethen the rumble of the ground floor's approach.It's cold.It's self-reflection you despise but predictably ittries your stable steps,wondering what the walk might feel likemisted by another voice,crisply in the air darting through quiet groundsand muffled around corners,he chuckles and youfinallymake that eye contact,not the friendly onebut friendly in essencein substance it impresses on all nervesand vessels are beating the rhythm of hopelike you knowpotential exists.Potential doesn't always exist,by the muffled muttering tonesheadphones pumpand the solitary cla
3 short storiesWAITING AT THE BMUThere's nobody here - no not true: I count 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 people spaced throughout this room. There are more than I thought because silence confused me once again. 2 people just left. Another girl is putting on her hood and heading for the steps. Ok I counted wrong because there are still 8 people here. Well 9 including me. And it is still very quiet. The young guy on the couch keeps glancing up at me and I hope he can't tell I'm writing about him. If I was not me and impossible scenarios existed I would go sit next to him and speak with my voice instead of my pencil and it would not be so quiet anymore and I would not be pretending to be busy while counting people in a room.* * *I always seem to write poems about the living, complex me and I steer clear of my other fifty percent. She is likely more complex than the interesting, relatable me, but she is not admirab