His tank was empty.
Harold sat up groggily in bed,
and slowly stumbled down the stairs,
kept alive only by the smell of something brewing downstairs.
It was only after he drank his ‘elixir of life’ that he noticed the carnage around him.
She fingered scars across her back,
Sitting bolt upright in the nest
That had become her home all those years ago.
That one fateful night she had thought she would die,
Should never have received kindness from the giant who plucked her out of her self-centred world and taught her the true meaning of solitude and loneliness,
All she would have to do is jump,
The mountain was high,
But she lacked the courage,
And so lorded over her kingdom of isolation.
Things in Henry’s life had been slightly askew as of late.
The floor in his apartment had always been tilted,
That was evident enough by his desk chair always becoming an end table during the night,
And so he built his bed accordingly,
But this was something different,
Henry was happy,
And hadn’t felt this way in a long time.
The water crashed upon the sea shore,
Letting gravity simulate the passion,
That was once felt by the man
Basking in the sun.
It took a lifetime to be captured,
Eluding his captor until there was no where left to run,
But a moment to escape,
Into the stratosphere,
Where his mind could be free,
As long as he let gravity finish what he could not.
He woke up
After a long sleep,
And found himself covered in a sheet,
Which was covered by a layer of dust,
the only thing in the great hall.
Parson sat up slowly, looking a the billboards that surrounded him,
I don’t want to write about being progressive.
About accepting everyone around me,
Regardless of race,
Who cheers for the Broncos,
All people who have faced discrimination.
This shouldn’t come to my mind when I hear the word.
But it does.
And I’m ashamed of that fact.
We all talk about taking the plunge…
Screw baby steps,
Let’s jump together.
I could see the knife,
Cutting into what I used to call my flesh,
But now bore no more attachment than a child who has lost a balloon
Watching it drift in to the air
So it was that I let my mind go free,
Under her knife,
My body was useless,
And I found solace in despair.
With words, their passion unbound itself,
as they became tangled up in their lust
a knot of dialogue
swarming each other
or moths to a flame
destructive and insignificant.
And when their conversation was over,
There was nothing left in either of them,
but empty dust
and each calmly walked away.
growing up is stress crying; crying to cry; crying from the panic of sudden existential crises; alone-at-4-am crying, using eye drops to flush out the blood; weeks of waking from meaningless nightmares, crying over lovers you’ve never met; remembering singular moments in time without any certainty—and crying.
Consider the silliness inherent in certain opposites. It seems almost day to day to hear that man (or a woman) has sold himself short, but is a whale of another color to learn to learn that someone has sold themselves tall. It seems criminal somehow to learn someone could get away with such a thing, as though a great con had taken place, that height should have somehow been taken into consideration but for some reason it was not. We come to understand things as being the way they are and when they try to reveal themselves in a different light, try to tell you something important about themselves, it is all we can do to plug our ears quickly as possible and say, “No, no, not to me; to me that simply isn’t true.”
One day television stopped. It was a failure of the satellites, the streams, the chords, the cables, cable itself, half a failing of attention and any other myriad of factors but the fact of matter was: television was over. Across America many families spent several hours slapping the remote control with their hands — as many families were known to do this then, smack electronics in the hope that a loose piece of electronic would be shaken back into place, which, logically, was very much insane, because what would happen in the event that the electronic piece wasn’t loose but because of the blunt force of the remote being struck against a hand was shaken loose, eliciting something similar to William Paley’s “watchmaker analogy” that we were in part playing the role in God, that in trying to create something we had destroyed it, or in trying to destroy something, created, evermore — and when this failed to produce any results the families wandered squint-eyed into the afternoon sun and placed their hands on their hips and then turned and shrugged at one another and smiled, some blaming the government and others blaming the failings of the cable companies but the truth was it was the failings of their own imagination, so determined by other men and women whose own imaginations had begun the perilous decent into the unimaginative, and so the families receded into their homes, embarrassed, unsure of what to do, and so returned to their couches and sat, and stared, and waited, until the their reflections slowly came into view, the picture of them staring back at themselves, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen, filled with this vacant hope that soon, someone would do something.
folded in half on a thursday night, breathing deep. remembering the feelings you’ve lost (even that feeling of loss). times when all goodness meant you hadn’t yet thought to make contingency plans. your lungs are bigger now.
childhood: the corner of the local library, painted to look like the sea, the lighthouse column a solitary rising giant. a warm afternoon spent writing apology letters in detention, on the side of a kindergarten class learning their “then” and “than”s. mother, on her knees before you, asking you not to be angry anymore. drawing pictures of little girls in little dresses at po po’s; she stuck them to the walls with the stickers from her fruit. the hallway you learned to run down, where you also learned to sink into dark. waiting to talk about your day until the sun set, until you couldn’t find the words anymore.
the misuse of memory; trying to convince myself i existed in someone’s heart, trying again and again to feel whole.
I always thought the song “Free Falling” was crazy, or, at the very least, suicidal.
Why would anyone want to jump without a safety net?
You’re probably not going to die,
But there’s that small chance you are,
And if you’re going to get hurt,
Then why would you ever risk that glorious euphoria of a fall,
That makes you feel alive,
The only time you feel alive.
Why risk… your life…
Her rabbit stew tasty like jello,
The bits of meat, rubber,
And the peppers were sandpaper.
Still Herbert happily munched away.
Or so his impression gave her.
Really he wanted nothing but to stand up and throw her stupid stew all over that stupid painting of Bono that she cherished above all else; to spray the walls with her foul incarnations that he was force to endure in silence day after day after day after–
“How is it?” She asked, her eyes beaming with sinister hope.
Herbert swallowed his bite,
And his tongue.
“Great!” He responded.
The revolution was going to begin.
But not quite yet.
I woke up,
Not with a start,
Sitting bolt upright in bed,
But with the embrace of your memory
Slowly bringing me back to the land of the living.
You were in my dreams last night.
And it couldn’t have been more perfect,
Our DNA existed together,
And our distance or differences could never have mattered less.
I’m thinking too much about what to write.
About how to create a story about my life
And about you
That will have the reader’s soul bursting through their veins
And fill them with passion.
But all I want to write about
The train slowly pulled out of the station,
The smoke trailing behind,
Leaving the rubbled town smoking in its wake.
He looked out the window,
Towards the horizon,
Hoping he could see the rise of a better tomorrow,
But he knew in his heart this train was on its way to hell.
He chose to stay on it anyway.
I’m perfectly sane.
AND I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY I’M IN HERE!
The walls keep creaking,
The floor keeps moving,
Is this some sort of experiment,
To convince me that I’m crazy?
I’m not crazy
I’m not crazy
I’m not crazy
I’m not crazy,
I just see reality in a different way.
Uniqueness is something we strive for.
This is garbage.
She walked into the room to see hundreds of men and women stuck on the walls. Some were hung by glue, some where nailed to the wall (through their clothes, don’t be so gruesome), and some had spent so much time being on display, that their skin now kept them there. Welcome to the show.