pyrite girlNote: Pretty please listen to the audio version for the full effect.you noticed thingslittle things that came sneaking slyly insmiling crooked like good childrenwith bad deeds freshly done.of course you loved her all the same,your little lighthouse among the tendrils of east coast fogshe tasted like mineral waterconcretenew penniesand you lived in soft, sweet depressionintertwinedgazing out at a broken world from a tenth-story windowand breathing in the cigarette smoke.your little pyrite girlbright eyed and dark moutheda tiny dirty moon, dragged through the gray city snowmeltand left to dry in the glare of rooftop suns"who would live here?"--musings from the tenth floorand you knew the answer.broken cities feed on broken soulsand even they need angels.
all that hasn't happenedPretty please listen to the audio. i want to rememberthe rumbling piano baritoneshigh notes like hailstones--your handsrunning soundless scales.i want the summer seasnovember tidesthe vineyard overlook, the olivetrees and sunwarmed coasts.rememberwe filled the empty pageswith whole notes and halftones,oceans and lovesongs.we lived, we liveinkstained and drowningthrough nights thick with wordsand days shot with sound.
SmokeYou smoked, and everyone hated that. The cigarette would hang loose between your knuckles, tendrils of smoke mimicking the tracery of veins and tendons that stood out along the back of your hand. You could do the most graceful French inhales, and sometimes you'd lean in close and grab me and kiss me, blowing warm smoke into my mouth. The scent would always cling to meI'd drag it back home with me and there would always be a fight over it.You were sparrowlike, all taut pale skin and prominent bones. Your hipbones jutted slightlysharp elbows, sharp knees, a sharp jaw softened by cornsilk hair. When I ran my fingers down your back I could always feel every vertebra in your spine, a steel column anchoring you down. More smoke. More fights at home. You never belonged here and never would.Lay back. Relax. Anythinganything you want. I'd close my eyes and forget to breathe because I knew you weren't mine. If anything, I was yours, a toy that trembled and kissed back.
ode to the summer i never hadit's june and with whiplash rapidity you rule the asphaltthe cars make way for your sunwarmed egothis town is yours and only the loudest of bars are fit retreats,habitats for racing hearts and wildly pulsing soulsyou wander through 3am streetlight glowuntil you are lost and found againand when the chill has finally seeped into overbaked concreteyou are spikedalcoholized by cicadas and heathazeon the fourth of july, lazy-eyed,you watch as well-meant flames expandsinging meat and misplaced self-worth beyond repairand when the fireworks begin you thinkthat's how I'll go.you will not crash and burnyou will expand and supernovayour glowing embers scattering among the awed applausebecause there is something beautiful in destructionand you will inject yourself into their collective consciousnessand reappear whenever their eyes closeaugust finds you soaringa supersonic stellar fireflysailing up while time rushes down and when the countdown stopsyou explodeandfor
let's start a fire“Can I get you anything?”She shifts, splaying herself along his couch that is quietly becoming hers.“Maybe.”He smiles,balancingthe empty glass on the back of his hand. “A drink?”“Yes, please.” A luxuriant stretch. She watches his pupils drag all the way down the curve of her hip before continuing.“I’d like a glass of Kafka—distilled, mixed withdark rum and a splash of Dostoyevsky—pouredso sweetly down my throat andchased with a lungful of smoky Fitzgerald.The works.”“I wasn’t aware this was a book club.” He pours a soda before joining her, takinga biting sip in the half light.“There are too many book clubs,” she says, hooking her legs over his.“Too many streetcorner ladies and their lace-veiledthreats over coffee and New York Times bestsellers.”She harbors a particular derision for New York Times bestsel
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood."Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-four. I counted."The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense of looming disdain. The rough oak had bitten her hands and it bit them now, when she pressed her palms against it. The doors eased open like wings outstretching, coming to rest against stone doorstops.Her boots clicked against the marble flooring as she advanced, each click reverberating through the silent room. A mute ghost of a man stood in
the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyesare still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,and there's a softer curve to your waistand freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,and I think,God.What have I missed?You tell me about the weddingsthe divorces. You tell meabout the babiesand the losses, and how last yearyour dog died--easy, in his sleep--and there is a hollow lack in you,a space reserved for things that won't come back.Long ago, was there a space like thatfor me?When did it collapse--when did itfold in on itselfunder the weight of things that matter more?I tell you about Cambodia. I paintthe jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heatof it into your lungs. I tell youabout the kids in Africaand how the heat is different there--belligerent and fierce.I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,and how much you would have hated Rome.And I remember all the things Ican't tell you--all the things I don't hav
A Love Story in Four Actsi. I loved a blacksmith once, back when the sand still clogged up my soul. It was only far after that I began to love the desert too.ii. Underneath the casual noise--glass on wood, heat-smothered conversation, worn cards slapped down in careful triumph--there was this low, thrumming quiet that wouldn't be broken. He spoke in sepia undertones. "We're getting out."iii. Hot iron smells like hot blood, like blood that's been poured out under the white Arizona sun. It's something you don't forget easy, like the taste of whiskey or the plasma patterns left on your eyelids after watching fire all night. It sticks.v. My childhood was fed on medical books, and I've got this pain right behind my eyes and I wonder if this is what it feels like being lobotomized. Of course the brain has no nerve endings, but the hurt has to manifest itself somewhere.
.:Sweet Everythings Two:.jumping at the light, consumed, by enigmaticsmileWonderful wordsfrom awonderful person.#723, by holyolyolyI read and adored this so long ago,and just found it again.The Gold Watch, by Ja-mesIt starts with a bang and a snapand pulls you alongfor a breakneck ride.sunshine streaming, by forestmeetwildfireSoft and sweetand sexy.fifty shades of blackout, by flawedfairytaleBeauty from the ashes, perhaps?Date a girl who draws, by Enn-ChanThere's so much heart here.Tips for the Messy Writer, by LiliWritesSomething different.Messy writers unite.A Portrait of Suburbia, by sydnerella"Deb has a big gaping hole in her f
Vulgar WordsShe is worried aboutsex and loveand qualities of the mindwhile he is busybeing him.We have seen this all before.Now listen here:Poems like thiswould be best ifthey were honestand committed.His children wouldrush to the door like puppieswhen he came home exhausted.Her husband wouldmake breakfastjust to surprise her.Orange juice and eggs arecheaper thandried-out kisses,and twice as delicious.But instead, they arealone.Even in each other, alone.Searching for meaningin a seedy motel roomthat smells like cum.Still, it is poetic,the way lower case letters are,the way vagueness can be, like oddpunctuation is sometimes poeticand using old Englishis poetic; hell,trying to be deepis poetictoo.
DormantWinter is a blank slate,but not like Rousseau'sit cleansessucking out warmth like poisonleaving only windburnt frosttacked to the window paneall we rememberis the numbnessthe shudderingskittish steps across the icesnowflakes pasted to our facessmoke rising from our lipsdragged across bleak cloudswinter has us capturedbound by fur and wallsdrifting in our eggshelled silencebone cold until we birth ourselves by warmthemerge from our shells wet and heavinguncurl our fingers one by onejoints crackling like fire at our backsuntil spring comesdrip by tender dripold wounds thawwe are found raw,graced again by feeling.
turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,lying halfway underwater;pouring your palladium hopesdown your handsinto bucketslooking full of shale and broken glass half lighting whiskey-paper on firewith that sun tossing in your chestand all of you rattlingin this thin-skinned pineapple percussion, the things you're so very sure of, sweltering undercallouses, under sea- a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera twisting into your human frame;but when i say something of protestsyou break in, with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,how lucky howlucky we areto be alive to beliving
Misery.Misery at its bestis a beauty laid at rest.
mothsthey tell me I'll never make a catch[a catch--whatever the hellthat means]with the tongue I've got and its tendencies andthe tastes it's partial tobut reallysince when have they ever known a thing about me?the drinking's just an excuseit's always beena way to let them down easy when they wonder aboutthe types of human moths my cigarette attractsand I just don't have the heart to level with themtell them that those human moths happen to be my preferred companyeven with all their imperfectionsand rough edges like knives gone too long without sharpeningnot sterile scalpels sorted in wolfish orderfor the display case.and I've always had a sailor's lexiconbut listenthere are some kinds of beautiful that can only be expressed in expletivesbecause they go down like whiskey and light you upfrom the inside outand damned if you can keep a polite tongue in the middle of that kind of onslaught.
Moon Eye Fire Eye Sithe says to me, and I sit and feel very small. Let me tell you,he says to me, how it happened. The creek dried up that summer and the crops gave their last shiver and bent down to the earth. And at night you could hear the leaves crawling down the creekbed like goddamn spiders along the rocks.His face is half winterpale and sparked with a milky eye like a moonand half raw summer, twisted and scorchedwith a flame eye that streams and shines in the firelight. The ghosts came that summer,he says to me, stirring the fire. The ghosts came and whispered to her that she was dying until she believed them.He is quiet. &
iPodYou can feelits metal heartbeat.
A Letter to my FatherFather,Today, It has been nine months and nineteen days since I left. Three thousand kilometers of distance. This is the longest period of time that we have been apart. I miss you, I remember you all the time. Suddenly, I remember things I did not think about before, suddenly they all keep jumping in my face, so many memories, some warm, some cold, some tough, and some just beautiful.Do you know that I can remember the days you were teaching me the Arabic alphabet and the French Alphabet. Whenever we have a guest, I run to them and start shouting " A,B,C,D,E,F......." They smile and ask me who thaught you all this, I run to you, I hug you and I say " Dad taught me". You took me to the beach, you taught me how to love it, this is why now the beach is where I find my soul, where my heart feels at home, where I feel a very strong sense of belonging I dont quite understand. We went to
One Way TicketI have always known that I will die on a train.I used to wait for Death at the railroad tracks. Some days I would kick off my shoes and balance on the rails. Other days I would lie on the tracks and count the stars. He never came for me, but it's okay I understand.I saw him once through the window of a passenger train, scythe leaning against the glass. He was reading the newspaper. He glanced up long enough to see me waving and offered a nod in return. I watched him go as long as I could, until the last car was a dot on the sun, and I finally turned away to find summer was now autumn and my shoes were full of dust.I crunched my toes in the gravel and sat down on the cold railing to wait for his train to return.
Sorry This Raffle is cancelledSorry This Raffle was cancelled on Mar 22 due to lack of enteries you should have read the Founders UP DATE First Journal...........2000 POINT RAFFLEI WILL BE CLOSING ENTERING AT #5002000 POINT RAFFLE!FREE FOR ALL TO ENTER!ALL YOU HAVE TO DO TO ENTER IS OBEY THESE FOUR SIMPLE RULES:1. Watch Us.2. Favorite this journal.3. Spread the word in your journal and link back to this.4. Comment and link me to your journal and I'll assign you a number!5. Join our Group .......so sorry everyone I thought watching meant you becamea member thank you someone for pointing this out to me so Sorry everyone about thatThis is NO GIMMICK.Will Announce winner once we have 500 people #1 pokewarrior45#2 Metarex12#3 PumpkinSmile#4 midairdodge#5 Master-Of-Creations#6 palaeorigamipete#7
to Yellow Plumto Yellow Plum (in bluechina bowl): afternoon's slit of sun slips between thick curtains & woos you to ripeness. it chooses you not for flecks of honey-russet held low in your seam of shadows, nor your symmetry & swell; but because you slink in shade, sink behind green pear & clementine & cannot hide from each spear of light that ricochets through-- even now nested warm against these lips even now: a tea-stain stone hugging close the trashbin floor.
Wind RosesAlabaster was a city of the stars. A brass telescope on every balcony, every rooftop, constantly pointed to the sky. The city slept easy during the day, but breathed new life at night and the smell of chocolatl and spice wafted from several of the vendors.In the middle of the city, a compass rose was laid into the plaza, a magnificent marble thing with thirty-two points. The cardinal directions were lain in gold-flecked black marble and the ordinals in a solid, creamy white. The rest alternated between a dark emerald green and a soft red with veins of rust. The people lived their lives in accordance with the whims of the directions and stars.I have come to the conclusion that this preoccupation with directions springs from the city's history as a mapmaking town; in centuries past Alabaster was the finest purveyor of maps, atlases, and globes. Even today beautifully designed pieces of parchment are showcased under glass, accurate to the tiniest cove. A great printing press still exist
Drowning in Reversex. I still have your phone.ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.vi. I didn't see the crowd that gathered on the beach - I barely registered the flash of red and blue lights - I only saw you, skin pale as the stretcher they were loading you on to, blue shirt stained black like a death sigil.v. Someone was drowning. You cast an arm out pointing - there was someone out there in the dark water drifting further and further from shore.You
.your golden soulhas turned bronze
desperately,dusty memories of us cling together.
No Hidden AgendaOne day, we will meetAnd I will explain to you how it will all work outI'm going to force my social and political views on youAnd you're going to smile, nodAnd agreeI will tell you how you look hideous inWhatever it is you are wearing at any given timeAnd you won't take offense, it's just part ofMy nature and you will accept thatWe will quarrel in the mallBy the bakeryIn the streetAnd over the phone, but eventuallyYou will realize that I was right andYou'll call me back at midnight, just a little drunkAnd apologize for your behaviorWe'll count stars and mix cookie batterWatch bad movies and sit on park benchesLeering at the people passing us byWhile making snide comments about how we obviouslyDress far betterAnd then later I will tell my other friends that you lookedLikeShitTodayBut you won't find out about that until later when I call youJust a little bit drunk myselfAnd explain how I think you are less inclinedTo be inclinedTo