then the other.
Foot in front of foot, trudging from the depths,
tripping over time,
dodging around invisible pockets of breath,
defying the gravity of form,
(more) and pretense,
aching from the momentary contact and
arching always against the anchor in the sea of asphalt.
by relentless inch,
sandbagging against the waves of then
until they are washed out by the tide of now.
Breathe in, two, three, four.
Breath out, two, three, four.
Step, two, three, four.
Step, two, three.
One, one, one, one, one, one, one, row, row, row.
Until the music stops,
and the oars drop.
And the floods come crashing in again. (less)
"It's all in the wavelength," she paraphrased, staring down at the book. "What our brain perceives as color depends completely on the condition of the phenomena that enters the eye." Her hand ran over the familiar spectral grid, pausing to scratch at a speck of mystery gunk that has(more) a tendency to dry on the interior pages of hand-me-down texts. "A simple shift can change the way you see."
"What do you see now?" her studio partner asked hesitantly. She intimidated him in every way imaginable. Her company was never comfortable, and yet he could hardly deny his curiosity the chance to satiate itself on the glut of her enigmatic tendencies.
"This." She nodded, and without looking down grasped two tubes of acrylic paint and squeezed them forcefully onto the table between them. Her gaze locked onto his widening eyes as she grabbed his right hand, pushing it into the cold, viscous puddle, sliding it vigorously over the wood grain.
He breathed in sharp shock at the sensation, and looked down to see that the black and red pigments had emulsified into a biologically alarming hue. It sloshed over his fingers, flooding into the valleys of his hand; the immediate aftermath of an invisible injury from which he tried instinctively to retract, but her grasp held firm.
"What do you see?" She mocked in a girlish tone of apparent self-amusement. She pressed his left hand to the table and slid his stiff fingers between and around each other, tittering subtly at the sucking noises of the slowly drying liquid. Suddenly, she lifted his palms toward her face, examining them for a moment.
"This is what I see," she announced seriously, turning his hands to slap them across his eyes and mouth. "Hold on, I need to get my camera." (less)
It only took an instant,
though I couldn't tell you which one. What it sounded
or smelled like,
maybe it was the threat of touch, or a promise,
a vibration that eased in undetected
(more) between the nerves.
But now, whatever it was feels like
it's not supposed to be here.
but in an instant, it is. (less)
At this exact moment, I’m watching a squat little man jog up the street. His steps are small, and his shoulders hunched like a stripe-clothed comic con-man shuffling quickly from his keystone stalker. The only threat to the security of his hiding place behind a light post would be his protruding(more) belly—the one that creates a strangely balanced distribution of the mass that has to battle gravity. Of course, that moment has died, and despite the tiptoe pace of my funny little jogger, he’s long gone as I finish this thought. But in my mind, and I would argue yours, dear reader, is birthed the potential of every character he could be, and the potential of every universe he could reside in. That is the beauty of the imagination. It takes a single instant in the sensory realm of the createur, like a grain of sand, to create a pearl, sometimes flat, sometimes lumpy, blobbed, and strangely balanced, but always dewy and infinitely luminescent. (less)
“Did you see this shit?!” Maggie broadcast her disgust to anyone within earshot as she ripped a screaming yellow poster off of the bulletin board in the breezeway. The newly loosened shingles in the cache of “roommate wanted”s flapped their disapproval as she stormed by.
“Seriously(more), look.” She grabbed my arm and thrust the cheap copy in my face. I grinned.
“If you put as much time into rehearsal as you do into practicing your model pout, we’d be on posh tour bus somewhere in France by now.”
“Do you ever get tired of being such a bitch?” The fake snarl barely covered her amusement. “Besides, that’s not what I’m talking about…… This.” She stabbed her finger emphatically at a blurry byline.
“And more,” I read out loud and immediately clamped my mouth shut. It would have been better to feign ignorance and duck into the nearest life drawing class. Naked people are always a good diversion. Instead I asked the dumbest question in the world: “So...?”
“SO!?” Her perfectly lined eyes and always-glossy mouth stayed fixed in the roundness of the vowel sound for what seemed like an interminable amount of time until her built-up store of contempt was exhausted.
When she finally snapped out of her plastic form, the stabby finger had found a new target on my shoulder.
“Come on, Elly, I thought you helped organize this whole festival thing. And yet somehow we get tucked into a teeny thumbnail in the bottom corner where the only attention we’re going to get is a staple through the face?”
“It’s a fundraiser, not a festival. We’re there just to look pretty and croon sweet, cash-jerking siren songs.”
I wonder what it’s like
to wish things were different,
to have turned so wrong
or be turned so wrong
(more) by something.
I wonder what it’s like
to stop pretending that life,
shouldn’t include regret,
because everything has gone
according to plan.
I wonder what it’s like
when everything has gone.
When you’ve spent too much
time wishing what could have been
instead of living what is. (less)
When a species' numbers begin to dwindle, we make lists. We form organizations and collect currency and throw it with causal abandon.
The organizations organize massive communication and coercion efforts involving lobbyists and multitudes of address labels that gum up household paper shredders nationwide.(more) All of it designed to make us feel something.
But is there any sympathy to be felt here? Any motion to equate a shrinking polar ice cap to our loss of vacation days and reduced profits? Or better, perhaps, our foreclosure lists and unemployment rates. Or not.
Where, then is the sympathy? Perhaps we should put it on a list. Perhaps we should form organizations and lobby for remembrance that we come from the same source, that we need each other, that we need to care for each other.
Save the sympathy! (less)
I think you owe me something.
It's a small thing, I mean, it's not a no
But not a big thing. At least not
compared to how long things can go
and it's not like the time you borrowed fifty bucks from your cousin Serena and she wrote it down in her green book of things she liked to keep record of to stay sharp so that she could brandish it in an argument five years later after she insisted that the favor need not be returned.
With compounded interest,
you owe her a high season trip to the Ice Hotel
and apparently a new cat.
A tabby one.
It is much smaller,
this deficit between us.
your coverage need not be repayed in currency
(though it should be known that I would not deny the former)
but a word is all,
just a word.
One word. (less)
Soulless? Voiceless? Loveless? Brainless? Not so much business in loss is Nameless. It's a burden as manageable as a bottle without a label or a product without a logo. The contents is still present and can, without extreme effort, be deduced by a modestly motivated consumer - motivation, o(more)f course, hinging on the degree to which said consumer is observant and industrious enough to read.....
......on second thought, I'd like to trade for the baggage marked "Brainless," please. (less)