05.10.06
shocked young apprentice
shown old weaver's gnarled hands
re-thinks career choice
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Monday, May 01, 2006
Sunday, April 30, 2006
sands shadow
04.30.06
sun shines on sand slants,
brown, red, black grains blend, desert
mountain meets shadow
sun shines on sand slants,
brown, red, black grains blend, desert
mountain meets shadow
like a painting
04.27.06
color dabbed as leaves
each tree varies hue and shade
placed by paint brush strokes
color dabbed as leaves
each tree varies hue and shade
placed by paint brush strokes
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Saturday, April 15, 2006
grand palace
04.15.06
grand palace greets sun
withdrawn walls and windows' dark
drinks light of new day
grand palace greets sun
withdrawn walls and windows' dark
drinks light of new day
Friday, April 14, 2006
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
Sunday, April 09, 2006
many flames flicker
04.02.06
many flames flicker
melting wax which holds them safe
none brighter than next
many flames flicker
melting wax which holds them safe
none brighter than next
sanskrit scriptures
03.31.06
students of scrolls sit
scan sanskrit scriptures silently
searching for sanity
students of scrolls sit
scan sanskrit scriptures silently
searching for sanity
lone player hunches
03.29.06
lone player hunches
stance ready to block team's goal
yet ball never comes.
lone player hunches
stance ready to block team's goal
yet ball never comes.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
it's not titled.
author's note: this is just a ten minute free write. might do something with it, might not. who cares? not me, not now. it's not titled.
You told me to lay my head down in the blackest of rooms. I told you I didn't trust you to keep the monsters away. You switched on the nightlight and asked if that made it better. I shook my head and the tears running down my face flew off to the sides. You sighed, but there was nothing but concern in your eyes as your brain worked through all the possibilities to make me sleep. I saw it there, but I pretended I didn't because I was still scared and didn't want you to leave. And somehow you knew that, so you came and sat on the bed and gave me a smile. I couldn't smile back, but I wanted to. You would smile for me if you could is what you said and then you said you'd stay until I fell asleep. I told you I wouldn't be able to, that the shadows were stalking me. And you gave me a look, some mixture of pity and worry and told me that they couldn't stalk me. They were just shadows. And besides, the whole room is shadows when there is no light. I wouldn't know the difference. And I told you I would. You kicked off your shoes and laid down beside me. Your arms found their way around my frame and our bodies fit together, my head against your chest, cradled by you. And I sighed. Because it felt so safe. And I forgot the shadows were waiting outside your embrace. But you didn't. So you stayed until my breathing evened, and even after. You didn't want the monsters to get me either. But you knew they would eventually. You tried to hold them off that night, and many nights after. But they got me anyway. And now I wish you didn't have to know that. I wish you didn't know you failed.
You told me to lay my head down in the blackest of rooms. I told you I didn't trust you to keep the monsters away. You switched on the nightlight and asked if that made it better. I shook my head and the tears running down my face flew off to the sides. You sighed, but there was nothing but concern in your eyes as your brain worked through all the possibilities to make me sleep. I saw it there, but I pretended I didn't because I was still scared and didn't want you to leave. And somehow you knew that, so you came and sat on the bed and gave me a smile. I couldn't smile back, but I wanted to. You would smile for me if you could is what you said and then you said you'd stay until I fell asleep. I told you I wouldn't be able to, that the shadows were stalking me. And you gave me a look, some mixture of pity and worry and told me that they couldn't stalk me. They were just shadows. And besides, the whole room is shadows when there is no light. I wouldn't know the difference. And I told you I would. You kicked off your shoes and laid down beside me. Your arms found their way around my frame and our bodies fit together, my head against your chest, cradled by you. And I sighed. Because it felt so safe. And I forgot the shadows were waiting outside your embrace. But you didn't. So you stayed until my breathing evened, and even after. You didn't want the monsters to get me either. But you knew they would eventually. You tried to hold them off that night, and many nights after. But they got me anyway. And now I wish you didn't have to know that. I wish you didn't know you failed.
Monday, March 20, 2006
star bursts/man face down on ground
black outline of land
sky's blue deviates light/dark
star bursts white like cloud
man face down on ground
shares kisses and breath with rock
watch biding his time
sky's blue deviates light/dark
star bursts white like cloud
man face down on ground
shares kisses and breath with rock
watch biding his time
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Sunday, March 12, 2006
a little break from haiku
author's note: lots and lots of haiku around here and not much else. most of what i write i'm keeping private in hopes of future publishing opportunities, but i do have some work that won't be headed that way, or will look so dramatically different if they do that it doesn't matter if i posted them here first. without further ado, enjoy the break from haiku.
Teeth Marks
Teeth Marks
a something by mjk
Your words spoke of absolution, or some other long word you don’t know how to spell and don’t know what it means, but you like the way it sounds. And while you sat there tapping the pen against your bottom lip (it’s mine and don’t you dare stick it in your mouth even if you asked so sweetly for a bit of time with my ink) trying to come up with a rhyme, I told you maybe it didn’t have to, that the words could work magic on their own without a gimmick. Your eyes flickered upwards/downwards and fixed me with disdain, as if you are the poet and I am just the silly scrap of paper you’re scribbling on. Scraps of blank paper don’t talk back, neither do pens, so you act shocked when you see the mouth move and hear the sounds vibrate yet never stop to acknowledge the words I form. The thing of it is, you asked and I gave, then you took and you left and I’m just stuck here examining the teeth marks in the cap, wondering if they’re yours or mine, wishing I had brought another pen.
a something by mjk
Your words spoke of absolution, or some other long word you don’t know how to spell and don’t know what it means, but you like the way it sounds. And while you sat there tapping the pen against your bottom lip (it’s mine and don’t you dare stick it in your mouth even if you asked so sweetly for a bit of time with my ink) trying to come up with a rhyme, I told you maybe it didn’t have to, that the words could work magic on their own without a gimmick. Your eyes flickered upwards/downwards and fixed me with disdain, as if you are the poet and I am just the silly scrap of paper you’re scribbling on. Scraps of blank paper don’t talk back, neither do pens, so you act shocked when you see the mouth move and hear the sounds vibrate yet never stop to acknowledge the words I form. The thing of it is, you asked and I gave, then you took and you left and I’m just stuck here examining the teeth marks in the cap, wondering if they’re yours or mine, wishing I had brought another pen.
Lost Puppies
Lost Puppies
a bit of flash by mjk
Most were found like lost puppies, something stumbled over that can’t be neglected. Justin asked for an extra pen at the coffee shop which he eventually used to write down her number; Theodore needed a scrap of paper at the bookstore, intended for an author’s name but used for hers instead; Cody at the grocery store who came up three dollars short at the register and insisted on paying her back with dinner. And Paul, the boldest of the bunch, who spotted her in the corner of a bar and offered to buy her a drink if she allowed him to read what she was writing. She kept Paul and gave the others to the pound.
a bit of flash by mjk
Most were found like lost puppies, something stumbled over that can’t be neglected. Justin asked for an extra pen at the coffee shop which he eventually used to write down her number; Theodore needed a scrap of paper at the bookstore, intended for an author’s name but used for hers instead; Cody at the grocery store who came up three dollars short at the register and insisted on paying her back with dinner. And Paul, the boldest of the bunch, who spotted her in the corner of a bar and offered to buy her a drink if she allowed him to read what she was writing. She kept Paul and gave the others to the pound.
jokes told/taunting travelers
jokes told, laughter shared
children in colorful pants
holding up brick wall
haiku from yesterday (3.11.2006)
frigid water flows
under cracked ice glacier path
taunting travelers
children in colorful pants
holding up brick wall
haiku from yesterday (3.11.2006)
frigid water flows
under cracked ice glacier path
taunting travelers
Friday, March 10, 2006
dangerous crossing/balance burdens
dangerous crossing:
rapids roar, back packed heavy,
mind tries for balance
fingers grip doused log
passage over waterfall
must balance burdens
rapids roar, back packed heavy,
mind tries for balance
fingers grip doused log
passage over waterfall
must balance burdens
Thursday, March 09, 2006
straw flakes/hazardous air
flurry of straw flakes
clouding blue sky as four arms
shake dust into wind
swirling particles:
irritants to eyes closed tight
to hazardous air
clouding blue sky as four arms
shake dust into wind
swirling particles:
irritants to eyes closed tight
to hazardous air
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
stern face half shadowed
stern face half shadowed
features taut as lines in brow
drawn deep by distress
features taut as lines in brow
drawn deep by distress
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
young and younger/masculine faces
boys, young and younger,
share safe embrace for picture
yet eyes see through lens
and another...
masculine faces
of the eastern edge cast glow
smiling joy on world
share safe embrace for picture
yet eyes see through lens
and another...
masculine faces
of the eastern edge cast glow
smiling joy on world
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
canals of skin/skin weave
canals of skin carved
deeply in crisscrossed lines of
hands folded, resting
and another...
a moment of peace
resting at the end of life
skin weaving my tales
deeply in crisscrossed lines of
hands folded, resting
and another...
a moment of peace
resting at the end of life
skin weaving my tales
whoops...
forget to post my haikus from the 26th and 27th...
2-26-2006
drifts like clouds mask cliff
snow folds blanket sheer stone in
hues of whitely blues
2-27-2006
hungry mouth displayed
in sun's glare with eyes hidden
by baby's blanket
2-26-2006
drifts like clouds mask cliff
snow folds blanket sheer stone in
hues of whitely blues
2-27-2006
hungry mouth displayed
in sun's glare with eyes hidden
by baby's blanket
Eye Love Starf*ck's
(author's note: written with prompt of "cornea transplant, eyes recognize each other, people don't like each other, make them fall in love" i did what i could. hope it's funny at least.)
Eye Love Starf*ck's
It was his first day back on the job at Starf*ck's after receiving a cornea transplant and Jack was having a bitch of a time remembering which fridge they kept the 0%, 1%, 2% and 100% milk in and where which size actually was grande. His eyes, although they followed each command of his brain, didn't recognize anything even if his mind did.
But then, the door opened and in came the most beautiful woman Jack had ever seen, and what's more, he recognized her as she recognized him. She seemed to have a new haircut (never thought she would have spiked and dyed it like that), all sorts of holes filled with metal in her face (completely unexpected and frankly, quite disturbing), and a total overhaul of her wardrobe, dressed in a men's work shirt and khakis with big black combat boots on her feet. Jack didn't know anyone like her, but his eyes had seen her before.
Sally stopped in her tracks just inside the door and stared as if commanded at the guy working behind the counter. He had an unbelievable amount of gel crusted into his black swirling hair, a gold hoop and chain pierced into his ear and dainty, manicured hands. His shoulders were thrown back as if he wanted to display nonexistant breasts but his eyes were fixated on her brand spanking new ones, giving her an unreal sensation of familiarity, but also a kind of creepy vibe.
"Wow, hi." Jack said, his eyes not moving or blinking.
"Yeah, hi. Do I know you?"
"I guess not, but you seem familiar. It's like I know you well, or love you or something, but why would I? You're a woman."
"Yeah, I think I have met you, but I'm in a rush, and you're creeping me out so could you just take my order?"
"Uh, what do you want?"
"Something overly-complicated that vaguely resembles coffee, please." Sally requested, pulling out her wallet.
Jack grumbled and whined while he tried to find the 1% soy milk, pissed he could feel such an attraction to a woman, a scary one at that. When he handed her the drink, she waved a dollar bill in his face and offered up a thank you.
"Look, you do seem familiar, but I don't really like men, not even gay ones." Sally cleared her throat.
"Hey, I share the sentiments, except reversed."
"So, I guess I'll just see you around, then?"
"Works for me." Jack agreed and put the soy milk in the wrong fridge.
"And if I ever come in and want to stare at you for hours, is that alright?"
"Oh yes, please do. But let's not tell anybody, okay?" Jack begged, his eyes weeping with an odd mixture of joy and shame.
And so Sally came into Starf*ck's everyday and order the same complicated coffee concoction and Jack made it for her everyday and accepted the dollar bill she waved in his face and stole looks at her sitting in the corner for hours, staring at him.
Eventually they married out of boredom and lack of other options but never had sex really or tried for children. It was just something else to do and their eyes loved each other, so they figured it was good enough.
The End.
Eye Love Starf*ck's
It was his first day back on the job at Starf*ck's after receiving a cornea transplant and Jack was having a bitch of a time remembering which fridge they kept the 0%, 1%, 2% and 100% milk in and where which size actually was grande. His eyes, although they followed each command of his brain, didn't recognize anything even if his mind did.
But then, the door opened and in came the most beautiful woman Jack had ever seen, and what's more, he recognized her as she recognized him. She seemed to have a new haircut (never thought she would have spiked and dyed it like that), all sorts of holes filled with metal in her face (completely unexpected and frankly, quite disturbing), and a total overhaul of her wardrobe, dressed in a men's work shirt and khakis with big black combat boots on her feet. Jack didn't know anyone like her, but his eyes had seen her before.
Sally stopped in her tracks just inside the door and stared as if commanded at the guy working behind the counter. He had an unbelievable amount of gel crusted into his black swirling hair, a gold hoop and chain pierced into his ear and dainty, manicured hands. His shoulders were thrown back as if he wanted to display nonexistant breasts but his eyes were fixated on her brand spanking new ones, giving her an unreal sensation of familiarity, but also a kind of creepy vibe.
"Wow, hi." Jack said, his eyes not moving or blinking.
"Yeah, hi. Do I know you?"
"I guess not, but you seem familiar. It's like I know you well, or love you or something, but why would I? You're a woman."
"Yeah, I think I have met you, but I'm in a rush, and you're creeping me out so could you just take my order?"
"Uh, what do you want?"
"Something overly-complicated that vaguely resembles coffee, please." Sally requested, pulling out her wallet.
Jack grumbled and whined while he tried to find the 1% soy milk, pissed he could feel such an attraction to a woman, a scary one at that. When he handed her the drink, she waved a dollar bill in his face and offered up a thank you.
"Look, you do seem familiar, but I don't really like men, not even gay ones." Sally cleared her throat.
"Hey, I share the sentiments, except reversed."
"So, I guess I'll just see you around, then?"
"Works for me." Jack agreed and put the soy milk in the wrong fridge.
"And if I ever come in and want to stare at you for hours, is that alright?"
"Oh yes, please do. But let's not tell anybody, okay?" Jack begged, his eyes weeping with an odd mixture of joy and shame.
And so Sally came into Starf*ck's everyday and order the same complicated coffee concoction and Jack made it for her everyday and accepted the dollar bill she waved in his face and stole looks at her sitting in the corner for hours, staring at him.
Eventually they married out of boredom and lack of other options but never had sex really or tried for children. It was just something else to do and their eyes loved each other, so they figured it was good enough.
The End.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
fluke fields like flag stones
fluke fields like flag stones
spontaneous and coalesced
distance made patterns
spontaneous and coalesced
distance made patterns
Friday, February 24, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
children filling space
children filling space
green girls, brown boys stare forward
shadows cast behind
green girls, brown boys stare forward
shadows cast behind
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
telling tales
"The mind produces a powerful illusion, that of existing in this body which we consider to be our own." -Kalu Rinpoche
telling tales (extended haiku)
a sunrise with clouds
catches light, casts shadow on
each hair of the beast
dimmer shades of dark
sun cares not where it shines light
even shadow fades
silhouette captured
blocky outline of angles
light tells tales of dark
curls of clouds float by
breaking monotony of blue
waves reflecting through
obscure grays hold view
boxed-in voids over pale shade
nowhere one finds late
sculpted many shapes
fleeting images give chase
finite mind fills blank
tales told to placate
sung sweet to halt bitter taste
when dark beast awakes
telling tales (extended haiku)
a sunrise with clouds
catches light, casts shadow on
each hair of the beast
dimmer shades of dark
sun cares not where it shines light
even shadow fades
silhouette captured
blocky outline of angles
light tells tales of dark
curls of clouds float by
breaking monotony of blue
waves reflecting through
obscure grays hold view
boxed-in voids over pale shade
nowhere one finds late
sculpted many shapes
fleeting images give chase
finite mind fills blank
tales told to placate
sung sweet to halt bitter taste
when dark beast awakes
Sunday, February 19, 2006
ballgame
ballgame played in fog
lost in mists, kids reach up blind
even the sky hides
(*i'll stop rhyming these soon, i'm just having too much fun with it for now.)
lost in mists, kids reach up blind
even the sky hides
(*i'll stop rhyming these soon, i'm just having too much fun with it for now.)
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Friday, February 17, 2006
boy with vibrant eyes
toothy grin covers
grimy skin, feral hair caps
boy with vibrant eyes
and another one...
sleep styled hairdo
molded by tosses and turns
immune to hair brush
grimy skin, feral hair caps
boy with vibrant eyes
and another one...
sleep styled hairdo
molded by tosses and turns
immune to hair brush
Thursday, February 16, 2006
A Blood Flower
author's note: this was written for a contest on WF with the prompt of "Worst Valentine's Day Ever"
A Blood Flower
I was praying for a blossom of red, not a flower, but a blood stain. I hadn’t returned his calls, so when he showed up at my house on Valentine’s Day with a bouquet asking me to dinner, I had no viable excuse handy.
Once seated, Ross ordered us a bottle of merlot and reached for my hand.
“We’ve been dating for almost a year.” He said.
“You’re kidding? It’s been that long?” I asked, wondering where the wine was.
He chuckled, “You know what they say about time.”
It crawls when you’re waiting to find out if you’re carrying some lawyer’s spawn? I thought.
The wine arrived and I gulped down my first glass.
“Getting drunk?” He asked.
“I was thirsty.” I said lamely, averting my eyes from the glass of water next to me.
I poured another glass and opened up my menu to use as a shield.
“I want to say something to you.” He said, pulling down at the top of the menu.
I let it drop.
“I love you. Will you marry me?” He asked with a confident smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet jewelry box. He opened it, revealing a diamond ring. It seemed to wink, as if taunting me.
At that moment, I felt the slightest of sensations. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I exclaimed.
Locked in the stall, I wept tears of joyful relief at the splash of bright red that greeted me like an old friend.
I walked back to the table with a grin on my face.
“So, you’ll say yes?”
I looked at him, perplexed before I remembered the ring. “Oh, Ross, I don’t want to marry you. I don’t really know why you thought I would.”
“But we’ve been dating for so long; I figured you loved me too.” He stammered.
“Hmm, well, sorry.” I said, trying for an expression of concern but still riding the high of getting my period.
“Sorry?!” He snapped, snatching the box closed. “You’ve been leading me on this whole time?”
“Leading you on? Oh, Ross... I do like you, and well, the sex is fantastic. But seriously... Me? Marry a lawyer?”
His mouth dropped open in shock.
“Are you upset?”
“Of course I am.” He grumbled, throwing back the rest of his wine and pouring another glass.
“Does this mean we can’t have sex anymore?”
A Blood Flower
I was praying for a blossom of red, not a flower, but a blood stain. I hadn’t returned his calls, so when he showed up at my house on Valentine’s Day with a bouquet asking me to dinner, I had no viable excuse handy.
Once seated, Ross ordered us a bottle of merlot and reached for my hand.
“We’ve been dating for almost a year.” He said.
“You’re kidding? It’s been that long?” I asked, wondering where the wine was.
He chuckled, “You know what they say about time.”
It crawls when you’re waiting to find out if you’re carrying some lawyer’s spawn? I thought.
The wine arrived and I gulped down my first glass.
“Getting drunk?” He asked.
“I was thirsty.” I said lamely, averting my eyes from the glass of water next to me.
I poured another glass and opened up my menu to use as a shield.
“I want to say something to you.” He said, pulling down at the top of the menu.
I let it drop.
“I love you. Will you marry me?” He asked with a confident smile. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet jewelry box. He opened it, revealing a diamond ring. It seemed to wink, as if taunting me.
At that moment, I felt the slightest of sensations. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I exclaimed.
Locked in the stall, I wept tears of joyful relief at the splash of bright red that greeted me like an old friend.
I walked back to the table with a grin on my face.
“So, you’ll say yes?”
I looked at him, perplexed before I remembered the ring. “Oh, Ross, I don’t want to marry you. I don’t really know why you thought I would.”
“But we’ve been dating for so long; I figured you loved me too.” He stammered.
“Hmm, well, sorry.” I said, trying for an expression of concern but still riding the high of getting my period.
“Sorry?!” He snapped, snatching the box closed. “You’ve been leading me on this whole time?”
“Leading you on? Oh, Ross... I do like you, and well, the sex is fantastic. But seriously... Me? Marry a lawyer?”
His mouth dropped open in shock.
“Are you upset?”
“Of course I am.” He grumbled, throwing back the rest of his wine and pouring another glass.
“Does this mean we can’t have sex anymore?”
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Monday, February 13, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
lone desert rider
lone desert rider
trods rocky trail hoping for
life beyond mountains
and... because i just can't resist...
lone desert writer
trods rocky trail hoping for
life beyond mountains
it was just too perfect to pass up. :)
trods rocky trail hoping for
life beyond mountains
and... because i just can't resist...
lone desert writer
trods rocky trail hoping for
life beyond mountains
it was just too perfect to pass up. :)
Dependable Public Transportation
Disclaimer: this story contains explicit language and sexual innuendo. if this offends you, do not read any further. if this excites you, sorry, but it's not what you're thinking. reader beware!
Dependable Public Transportation
So there I was, just sitting and waiting for the bus when this guy comes up and sits down near me. Unlike most other considerate people, he doesn't leave the obligatory comfort distance between us – no, he sits real close, so that his thigh is almost touching mine. I'm sitting on the end of the bench, so it's impossible for me to move further away, but I still manage to cram up against the cold metal arm rest.
He snorts a little and scoots even closer. Now his thigh is in complete contact with me.
I look at him with that look that says, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" and he looks back at me with that look that says, "I'm a total nutcase and I want to make you feel dirty."
Needless to say, once I saw that look in his eye, I got up from the bench and stood only a few inches from the street. He gets up and stands near me.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" He asks in a raspy and perverted tone.
"Why, yes, you are."
He chuckles and runs a grimy nail down the length of my bare arm. All the hairs rise in full alert and I step further away.
He advances closer.
"You sure are purdy." He says, his eyes never once lifting from mine.
"Stop."
"What? I'm just paying a purdy girl a compliment? Don't you like being told you're purdy?"
"Not by men like you."
He laughs again although I can't really tell why. This guy is definitely a fucking sicko and I'm starting to get really scared he'll try something.
"I bet you got a purdy set of tits on you, don't you? Why don't you uncross your arms so I can see ‘em?"
"Why don't you fuck off?" I ask, taking several steps back, but he continues advancing. I wonder what I'm supposed to do. No one else is waiting at the stop and there are no stores around to run to. The bus should be here any minute but of course, it's dawdling. Count on the public transportation system to work just when you need it.
"Mmm, probably got a tight little ass too. Ever let a man stick his dick in you?"
I blush violently and turn around, unfortunately giving him a view of my butt, but fortunately walking briskly away.
"I can keep up with you, baby. Mmm, that is a nice ass. If I gave you a dollar would you let me touch it?"
"Listen, you sick fuck! Leave me the fuck alone, alright?"
"Ain't nobody here to stop me. And the way you act, it's like you want it."
I call back over my shoulder, "So when women are walking away from you, you consider that asking for it?"
He chuckles again, the sound catching up to my ears and I start to break into a run.
"Hey come back! I'm just having a little fun, is all. Stuck up bitch!" He calls after me and I can sense that he's no longer trying to catch up. Still, I run, hoping I can make it to the next stop before the bus comes, as I can't be late for school again.
Behind me, I hear the screech of brakes and a sickening thump. I look back and see the pervert trapped under the wheels of the bus, his head nothing but a mess of liquefied brain, hair and blood.
Yep, you can always count on the public transportation system.
Dependable Public Transportation
So there I was, just sitting and waiting for the bus when this guy comes up and sits down near me. Unlike most other considerate people, he doesn't leave the obligatory comfort distance between us – no, he sits real close, so that his thigh is almost touching mine. I'm sitting on the end of the bench, so it's impossible for me to move further away, but I still manage to cram up against the cold metal arm rest.
He snorts a little and scoots even closer. Now his thigh is in complete contact with me.
I look at him with that look that says, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" and he looks back at me with that look that says, "I'm a total nutcase and I want to make you feel dirty."
Needless to say, once I saw that look in his eye, I got up from the bench and stood only a few inches from the street. He gets up and stands near me.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" He asks in a raspy and perverted tone.
"Why, yes, you are."
He chuckles and runs a grimy nail down the length of my bare arm. All the hairs rise in full alert and I step further away.
He advances closer.
"You sure are purdy." He says, his eyes never once lifting from mine.
"Stop."
"What? I'm just paying a purdy girl a compliment? Don't you like being told you're purdy?"
"Not by men like you."
He laughs again although I can't really tell why. This guy is definitely a fucking sicko and I'm starting to get really scared he'll try something.
"I bet you got a purdy set of tits on you, don't you? Why don't you uncross your arms so I can see ‘em?"
"Why don't you fuck off?" I ask, taking several steps back, but he continues advancing. I wonder what I'm supposed to do. No one else is waiting at the stop and there are no stores around to run to. The bus should be here any minute but of course, it's dawdling. Count on the public transportation system to work just when you need it.
"Mmm, probably got a tight little ass too. Ever let a man stick his dick in you?"
I blush violently and turn around, unfortunately giving him a view of my butt, but fortunately walking briskly away.
"I can keep up with you, baby. Mmm, that is a nice ass. If I gave you a dollar would you let me touch it?"
"Listen, you sick fuck! Leave me the fuck alone, alright?"
"Ain't nobody here to stop me. And the way you act, it's like you want it."
I call back over my shoulder, "So when women are walking away from you, you consider that asking for it?"
He chuckles again, the sound catching up to my ears and I start to break into a run.
"Hey come back! I'm just having a little fun, is all. Stuck up bitch!" He calls after me and I can sense that he's no longer trying to catch up. Still, I run, hoping I can make it to the next stop before the bus comes, as I can't be late for school again.
Behind me, I hear the screech of brakes and a sickening thump. I look back and see the pervert trapped under the wheels of the bus, his head nothing but a mess of liquefied brain, hair and blood.
Yep, you can always count on the public transportation system.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Exercise- Star, Freeze, Gigantic, Stall, Purple
author's note: woohoo! i got em all in! and i even managed to title it. go me!
Purple in the City
Sometimes I think I must be an idiot for moving to the city. Back home, I could always look up into the night sky and see the stars, but here, there is nothing but darkness to see. It's hard to be in a new city without those familiar stars winking at me as if they know a secret and they'll let me in if I could ever reach them.
Every day, I get home from my job and pull something out of the freezer to thaw. Usually some vegetarian frozen dinner that tastes like raw sewage. I miss stopping by the farmer's market on the way home, picking up some fresh vegetables to steam and some rice to cook. Around here, there's only the corner store, and most of the food comes in a package. Nothing is fresh and nothing seems edible. I don't even know where the food came from, so how am I supposed to eat it?
At work, it's like I'm just filling out an empty space and if I wasn't there, management would just fill the space with some other brainless peon, scrambling for a paycheck by pushing pencils and papers around on their desk and clacking away at a computer terminal. I'm not even really sure what I do. I input data here, print out data there, attend meetings which I have no idea what they're about, go to lunch with some of the other workers at a restaurant down the street, punch back in and input some more data. It's not enough to fill a day, so I usually prowl around the internet, looking for something I know I won't find, mainly because I don't know what I'm looking for.
Yes, I look at my life and see this gigantic hole, sucking away all the life and energy that I used to think was me. My eyes have taken on a distant look, darkness shades them and my freckles are starting to fade. And every night when I look in the mirror, I tell myself, "This was your choice. This is what you wanted. You need to make the best of it." But aren't we allowed to make a mistake?
Mistakes, big or small, are hard to take back. Sure at work, I can ignore most of the mistakes I make (and man, do I make plenty of mistakes) or at least blame them on someone else (I learned that one fast, as other people always blame things on the person in the cubicle next to them). I've learned a lot of things from this job, but mostly that there's always a way to elude responsibility, and that nothing I do really matters.
And I guess that's the reason I'm turning so inward and eating disgusting slop I normally wouldn't touch if it were the last bit of sustenance on the earth. I feel like I'm stalling, although I don't know what. Stalling to fix my mistake and crawl back home like a failure? Or am I stalling life, pretending to fit where I obviously don't, playing an elaborate game of make believe, convincing myself that tomorrow will be better. That's when things will change.
I don't even know why I'm writing all this down as it's not coming as a relief. But something struck me on my walk home today and it was a flower growing between the cracks in the pavement. It shone a vibrant purple. It was so defiant against all odds. It struggled to life amidst the harshest of environments, in a place where no one will look to appreciate its beauty. And when I saw it, I was reminded of that line in Alice Walker's The Color Purple, something to the effect of God wanting you to notice and appreciate the color purple if you pass it in a field. And even though I wasn't passing it in a field, there it was, the color purple, so bright and apparent in the middle of this city. And I just had to notice it.
I'm done writing for now. I'm going to pack my bags. I'm going home.
Purple in the City
Sometimes I think I must be an idiot for moving to the city. Back home, I could always look up into the night sky and see the stars, but here, there is nothing but darkness to see. It's hard to be in a new city without those familiar stars winking at me as if they know a secret and they'll let me in if I could ever reach them.
Every day, I get home from my job and pull something out of the freezer to thaw. Usually some vegetarian frozen dinner that tastes like raw sewage. I miss stopping by the farmer's market on the way home, picking up some fresh vegetables to steam and some rice to cook. Around here, there's only the corner store, and most of the food comes in a package. Nothing is fresh and nothing seems edible. I don't even know where the food came from, so how am I supposed to eat it?
At work, it's like I'm just filling out an empty space and if I wasn't there, management would just fill the space with some other brainless peon, scrambling for a paycheck by pushing pencils and papers around on their desk and clacking away at a computer terminal. I'm not even really sure what I do. I input data here, print out data there, attend meetings which I have no idea what they're about, go to lunch with some of the other workers at a restaurant down the street, punch back in and input some more data. It's not enough to fill a day, so I usually prowl around the internet, looking for something I know I won't find, mainly because I don't know what I'm looking for.
Yes, I look at my life and see this gigantic hole, sucking away all the life and energy that I used to think was me. My eyes have taken on a distant look, darkness shades them and my freckles are starting to fade. And every night when I look in the mirror, I tell myself, "This was your choice. This is what you wanted. You need to make the best of it." But aren't we allowed to make a mistake?
Mistakes, big or small, are hard to take back. Sure at work, I can ignore most of the mistakes I make (and man, do I make plenty of mistakes) or at least blame them on someone else (I learned that one fast, as other people always blame things on the person in the cubicle next to them). I've learned a lot of things from this job, but mostly that there's always a way to elude responsibility, and that nothing I do really matters.
And I guess that's the reason I'm turning so inward and eating disgusting slop I normally wouldn't touch if it were the last bit of sustenance on the earth. I feel like I'm stalling, although I don't know what. Stalling to fix my mistake and crawl back home like a failure? Or am I stalling life, pretending to fit where I obviously don't, playing an elaborate game of make believe, convincing myself that tomorrow will be better. That's when things will change.
I don't even know why I'm writing all this down as it's not coming as a relief. But something struck me on my walk home today and it was a flower growing between the cracks in the pavement. It shone a vibrant purple. It was so defiant against all odds. It struggled to life amidst the harshest of environments, in a place where no one will look to appreciate its beauty. And when I saw it, I was reminded of that line in Alice Walker's The Color Purple, something to the effect of God wanting you to notice and appreciate the color purple if you pass it in a field. And even though I wasn't passing it in a field, there it was, the color purple, so bright and apparent in the middle of this city. And I just had to notice it.
I'm done writing for now. I'm going to pack my bags. I'm going home.
Exercise- Marker, Run, Level, Laughter, Copper
author's note: managed to get all of them in there except copper. damn!
She comes home everyday with more marker on her arm. Apparently she thinks it’s pretty. I keep telling her she’ll clog her pores and she answers back with the cutest smile, “What’s a pore?” Sometimes, it’s just so hard to relate with her. She’s so young and simple after all and I’m old and complicated. I wonder if other mothers have such a hard time communicating with their kids.
The thing is, she never stops asking questions. Now I know how my own mother felt. On one hand, I’m just so thrilled she’s got that curious itch to her and on the other, I get so damn annoyed that I have to explain everything to her. And obviously my explanations just aren’t cutting it, as the questions never stop.
She’s only five but already I’ve bought her a dictionary. I found a full set of encyclopedias at a yard sale a couple of months ago and she’s working her way through them. I mean, she’s actually reading them all the way through. She’s such a bright kid. I’m proud. She’s definitely all mine.
At night, I run a bath for her and we tell stories back and forth. I leave off at a crucial part and she just picks it right up. Normally, her plot lines tend to lean towards the adventures of whatever letter encyclopedia she’s on that week, so the other night was full of B words. I started the story with a fish swimming in the darkest part of the ocean, wondering what it’s like to breathe air and we somehow ended up above sea level in Berlin with Josephine Baker as our protagonist, searching for her long lost bard. Like I said, the kid is bright.
Sometimes, I get scared she hates me because her father isn’t around. And I have no idea how I’ll explain to her that her father is more interested in methamphetamines than he is in watching his little girl flower and become a woman. I can only imagine how much it will hurt her to hear that. I don’t want to be the one to bring such a depressing message. I only want to make her laugh and smile at the world.
Her laughter is the elixir to my soul. She offers it up like she thinks it’ll never run out, and I hope that is true. I hope so much for her, but most of all, I never want her laughter to stop.
She comes home everyday with more marker on her arm. Apparently she thinks it’s pretty. I keep telling her she’ll clog her pores and she answers back with the cutest smile, “What’s a pore?” Sometimes, it’s just so hard to relate with her. She’s so young and simple after all and I’m old and complicated. I wonder if other mothers have such a hard time communicating with their kids.
The thing is, she never stops asking questions. Now I know how my own mother felt. On one hand, I’m just so thrilled she’s got that curious itch to her and on the other, I get so damn annoyed that I have to explain everything to her. And obviously my explanations just aren’t cutting it, as the questions never stop.
She’s only five but already I’ve bought her a dictionary. I found a full set of encyclopedias at a yard sale a couple of months ago and she’s working her way through them. I mean, she’s actually reading them all the way through. She’s such a bright kid. I’m proud. She’s definitely all mine.
At night, I run a bath for her and we tell stories back and forth. I leave off at a crucial part and she just picks it right up. Normally, her plot lines tend to lean towards the adventures of whatever letter encyclopedia she’s on that week, so the other night was full of B words. I started the story with a fish swimming in the darkest part of the ocean, wondering what it’s like to breathe air and we somehow ended up above sea level in Berlin with Josephine Baker as our protagonist, searching for her long lost bard. Like I said, the kid is bright.
Sometimes, I get scared she hates me because her father isn’t around. And I have no idea how I’ll explain to her that her father is more interested in methamphetamines than he is in watching his little girl flower and become a woman. I can only imagine how much it will hurt her to hear that. I don’t want to be the one to bring such a depressing message. I only want to make her laugh and smile at the world.
Her laughter is the elixir to my soul. She offers it up like she thinks it’ll never run out, and I hope that is true. I hope so much for her, but most of all, I never want her laughter to stop.
meh, might as well...
so my lovely writing mentor gave me a list of "word sets" to use for writing exercises. so far, they've proved mighty helpful. i even managed to write a whole short story based on one of them. here's the idea: five seemingly random words and you have to use them all in a story, paragraph, poem, etc. since i'm trying not to post my actual stories on here (for future publishing possibilities) i figured i'll post these. :)
Thursday, February 09, 2006
life demands deep thought
blunt eyes drawn taut
dark eyes narrowed and far off
life demands deep thought
dark eyes narrowed and far off
life demands deep thought
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Monday, February 06, 2006
charcoal pools deepen
charcoal pools deepen
of sights marveled while nose runs
fused and cut by smudge
of sights marveled while nose runs
fused and cut by smudge
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Friday, February 03, 2006
curved bent swathed in red
curved bent swathed in red
will intent on inky marks
heart hunting for peace
will intent on inky marks
heart hunting for peace
A Sestina for Sestinas to Drive Me Insane
(author's note: i apologize in advance for this. and yes, i am blaming a penguin for it.)
A Sestina for Sestinas to Drive Me Insane
A Sestina for Sestinas to Drive Me Insane
A challenge from which I’m too stubborn to refrain:
This funny game of words the French often play.
But no rhyme to sestina! It’s too hard to maintain!
In this complex system to draw words from the brain,
Committed to paper to halt the one who complains,
“A much needed break from haiku to keep sane!”
Who knew it was poetry needed to keep sane?
The naming of names I promise I’ll refrain,
Only a penguin would have the audacity to complain,
“Too few syllables with which I can play,
There’s not enough words to engage a bird’s brain,
Yet with form exact my attention you’ll maintain.”
With words which sound the same, the rhyme is maintained.
Although soon it must end, otherwise, I’ll go insane.
I’ve no wish for repetition (repeating repeats) in my brain,
So after this is done, from poetic verse I’ll refrain.
There’s too many other ways in which my pen plays,
But I suppose I know better than some who complain.
Next time I shall pay no heed a poet in complaint,
Of the lack of excitement it’s my job to maintain.
But as it unfolds, the sestina’s great fun to play,
Although not much helpful when it comes to staying sane.
When the next challenge appears, I know I’ll refrain
‘Cuz I’m going batty with rhymes on the brain.
O Sestina! How you already bore my brain!
Such strict limits I can’t help but complain!
These end words, these lines all sing the same refrain,
This order so diverse yet simplistic rhyme to maintain.
I’ve caught myself in a poem, methodically going insane.
Only nine lines remain. Then, that’s it, I won’t play!
Yet I yielded to the task, this game of verse to play
And the one to pay the consequence is my poor ravaged brain.
Oh well, too late, what good is the poet who remains sane?
Perhaps it’s just instinct for the poet to complain
I’ve got sentences to scribble, imagination to maintain
Next time, I’ll know, from silly poems I‘ll refrain.
This amusement I played, so you’d better not complain.
I’ve exercised my brain - for your entertainment - I maintain
And if you wish to stay sane, from rhyming sestinas, you’ll refrain.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
face unwashed of depth
(author's note: a dear friend on WF.com had the fabulous and inspired idea to write a haiku a day for the whole year. he is using the book Offerings: Buddhist Wisdom for Everyday by Danielle and Oliver Follmi to draw his inspiration from. i just had to get on that train, so i ordered the book, available at indigo.ca or amazon.com, and am writing my way to haiku nirvana. this one should have been posted yesterday...)
January 31, 2006
face unwashed of depth
green stone encircles her heart
eyes penetrating
January 31, 2006
face unwashed of depth
green stone encircles her heart
eyes penetrating
Monday, January 30, 2006
Hope (a dwarf)
Hope
Here is my greatest disease. Amidst all the evils Pandora unleashed in this world, the unparalleled is hope. This thing driving me forth, engaging me for a bit of attention, a feeling of commiseration, a sensation we agreed to call love: moments of redemption ephemeral, a funny trick of the eye. My thirst grows, my will tires, my mind continues. I am human, an absurd shape sculpted with solar winds, confined to these words my prison holds true. Yet, I’ll want more, always. And you’ll want something I can never be. So we’ll hope and be fools and be damned.
Here is my greatest disease. Amidst all the evils Pandora unleashed in this world, the unparalleled is hope. This thing driving me forth, engaging me for a bit of attention, a feeling of commiseration, a sensation we agreed to call love: moments of redemption ephemeral, a funny trick of the eye. My thirst grows, my will tires, my mind continues. I am human, an absurd shape sculpted with solar winds, confined to these words my prison holds true. Yet, I’ll want more, always. And you’ll want something I can never be. So we’ll hope and be fools and be damned.
two short bits of poetry
(Author's Note: these aren't turning into anything more than they are [at least, i don't think they will.] so i'm just posting them together. these are prime examples of the seizure of the poetry demon.)
"there is no bridge to gamble on,
no fortune’s path to seek,
the only baby she’ll be having,
is the one above the sink."
"I make circles.
Drawing concentric pleasure,
Manipulate puckered flesh
Feels like jazz."
"there is no bridge to gamble on,
no fortune’s path to seek,
the only baby she’ll be having,
is the one above the sink."
"I make circles.
Drawing concentric pleasure,
Manipulate puckered flesh
Feels like jazz."
Sunday, January 29, 2006
A Not Short Enough Exchange on Super Bowl Sunday
A Not Short Enough Exchange on Super Bowl Sunday
“Is the Super Bowl today?”
Against better judgment, I lift my head.
“Hmm, that look on your face tells me you don’t know.”
Or I’m trying to convey the “…” message.
“So I’ll take it you’re not a football fan?”
Is this really happening to me?
“I guess you’re probably thinking I’m in the wrong place.”
Uh-oh, I’ve captured the attention of a clever one.
“Are you deaf or mute or something?”
Hmm, I could play this to my advantage.
He chuckles at himself, charmed by his own wit and says, “Hell, it’s alright with me. Women should be seen and not heard, right?”
A jab with the sole purpose of inciting a reaction.
“So, you won’t talk no matter what I say, eh?”
Looks like he is a bit more astute than I gave him credit for.
“My name’s Greg.”
I hold back the sigh of exasperation threatening my throat.
“What’s that book you’re reading?”
Ah, yes. The world from which I’ve been ripped by this man’s banal attempt at conversation.
“Just a stuck up bitch, huh? Well excuse me for living.”
Now here’s something I can manage a reply to. “You’re excused.”
“Wanna join me for some bottles of Bud and some football?”
Nope, shouldn’t have said anything. That’ll teach me.
“Is the Super Bowl today?”
Against better judgment, I lift my head.
“Hmm, that look on your face tells me you don’t know.”
Or I’m trying to convey the “…” message.
“So I’ll take it you’re not a football fan?”
Is this really happening to me?
“I guess you’re probably thinking I’m in the wrong place.”
Uh-oh, I’ve captured the attention of a clever one.
“Are you deaf or mute or something?”
Hmm, I could play this to my advantage.
He chuckles at himself, charmed by his own wit and says, “Hell, it’s alright with me. Women should be seen and not heard, right?”
A jab with the sole purpose of inciting a reaction.
“So, you won’t talk no matter what I say, eh?”
Looks like he is a bit more astute than I gave him credit for.
“My name’s Greg.”
I hold back the sigh of exasperation threatening my throat.
“What’s that book you’re reading?”
Ah, yes. The world from which I’ve been ripped by this man’s banal attempt at conversation.
“Just a stuck up bitch, huh? Well excuse me for living.”
Now here’s something I can manage a reply to. “You’re excused.”
“Wanna join me for some bottles of Bud and some football?”
Nope, shouldn’t have said anything. That’ll teach me.
this is what it sounds like when my life passes by...
(author's disclaimer: i have absolutely no idea what this is. my sister offered, "seems like your muse is on crack." this is potentially the case, although i did not imbibe any crack rock nor any other controlled or illegal substance while writing this. [shocking, i know.] sometimes i write, and this is what is expressed. any thoughts, ideas, notions, complaints, questions [although there's a scarce chance i can actually answer said questions], confusions, feelings, or any thing else brought to mind by this "something" is greatly appreciated. most of all, any idea what the fuck this is?)
this is what it sounds like when my life passes by...
*333#%#$@^!^&@^$!(@)*#&#$^@&**#@|||@&@^ _
* sorry for the delay.
333 this is what prays on me.
#%# juxtaposed
$ capitalism
@ sensation contrived unending
^!^ yet more excites while less - no more! - sings sights before.
&@ creeping out the door, shaking up the concrete.
^$! yet another capitalist thrown in the stew to boil with radishes, cabbage, and art-it-CHOKES
(@) sensory data distributed
* sorry for the delay.
#&# circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and circles and...
$^@ capitalism and another mighty scene
& this wasn't supposed to be here.
* sorry for the delay.
* it's frustrating for me too.
# nothing is ever enough.
@|||@ gaps hold truth unseen.
&@ to the only thing that never made anysense
^ and another thing
_ (which screams off-set)
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
A Connected Trio
Witch
by mjk
I stayed near the edge, not willing to join the gathering around the pyre. They lobbed stones and hurled insults at the bound body of Hortenzia. Each blow that struck reverberated in my body, yet never once did she flinch. The priest stood close, holding a torch to the kindling in one hand and a book in the other. The flames grew higher with each taunt from the mob, filling the air with the scent of burning fibers and smoking flesh. When my heart couldn't bare the silence of her cries, I ran off into the fields, wailing for her.
Priest
by mjk
There’s a witch in every town I visit. She’s always easy to find, as all the locals beseech her for remedies. I accuse, flashing the word of the Almighty before their eyes, and they build the pyre. It’s a relatively painless task, convincing them their healer is in league with the devil, and I’m able to move on quickly with little to no dirt on my hands. I always start the fire and always leave before the screaming ends. Yet as Hortenzia burned, I lingered, for her eyes had caught mine and she uttered no cry from which to run.
Fire
by mjk
I knew when I first saw the priest walk into town that I was as good as dead. I had heard of these “men of God” who roamed the countryside, accusing women of demon orgies and condemning them to death by fire. I have never feared fire nor any element created by Mother Earth, yet my heart still cried upon receiving my death sentence. I look through this flickering furnace of my demise to see my neighbors concentrating their hate, the priest cowering behind his book, and my beloved running off into an empty blue sky. Mercy arrives soon after.
by mjk
I stayed near the edge, not willing to join the gathering around the pyre. They lobbed stones and hurled insults at the bound body of Hortenzia. Each blow that struck reverberated in my body, yet never once did she flinch. The priest stood close, holding a torch to the kindling in one hand and a book in the other. The flames grew higher with each taunt from the mob, filling the air with the scent of burning fibers and smoking flesh. When my heart couldn't bare the silence of her cries, I ran off into the fields, wailing for her.
Priest
by mjk
There’s a witch in every town I visit. She’s always easy to find, as all the locals beseech her for remedies. I accuse, flashing the word of the Almighty before their eyes, and they build the pyre. It’s a relatively painless task, convincing them their healer is in league with the devil, and I’m able to move on quickly with little to no dirt on my hands. I always start the fire and always leave before the screaming ends. Yet as Hortenzia burned, I lingered, for her eyes had caught mine and she uttered no cry from which to run.
Fire
by mjk
I knew when I first saw the priest walk into town that I was as good as dead. I had heard of these “men of God” who roamed the countryside, accusing women of demon orgies and condemning them to death by fire. I have never feared fire nor any element created by Mother Earth, yet my heart still cried upon receiving my death sentence. I look through this flickering furnace of my demise to see my neighbors concentrating their hate, the priest cowering behind his book, and my beloved running off into an empty blue sky. Mercy arrives soon after.
Friday, January 13, 2006
A Trilogy of Dwarves
***a dwarf is a form of flash fiction limited to 101 words, including title. they are excellent for plowing through writer's block. (and yes, i did manage to achieve the exact word count.)***
Fault
Destined for nowhere, these funny words you use. I guess I knew you wouldn’t come around again; I set it up that way. You see, the thing is, I try not to use words like “always” and “never.” Yet you kept asking for them. I am so weak about you. So I screwed up, again and again, using forbidden words I couldn’t make true, but I said them anyway. I warned you, I know I did, but you believed me anyway. I guess you’ll blame me and I’ll blame you and we won’t have to believe what we don’t want to.
***
Dumb
It shocked us all the way she entered a room, so unapologetic for her practiced swagger, snapping hearts with just a wiggle of her hips. She wore the kind of clothes that shouldn’t even be called clothes; they clung to her curves like a vise, somehow displaying more than her nude form would. We could only gawk, stare and drool over her, watching as words fell out of her mouth and diamonds highlighted her eyes. Rivulets of thought spewed forth from her vocal chords, yet all meaning was lost in translation. She would have been prettier if she didn’t speak.
***Fault
Destined for nowhere, these funny words you use. I guess I knew you wouldn’t come around again; I set it up that way. You see, the thing is, I try not to use words like “always” and “never.” Yet you kept asking for them. I am so weak about you. So I screwed up, again and again, using forbidden words I couldn’t make true, but I said them anyway. I warned you, I know I did, but you believed me anyway. I guess you’ll blame me and I’ll blame you and we won’t have to believe what we don’t want to.
***
Note
Hi. I wanted to apologize for the mess. If there was any other way, I wouldn’t have left it for you to clean up. I won’t kid you and me both, I never could clean up a mess, which is why I’m typing this out for you to read. I’ll leave it here, won’t even waste the paper. This way, you can delete it after you’ve read it. Maybe you’ll write something new in its place. I hope you write something new. I hope this doesn’t hurt you the way it hurts me. It’ll be over soon, I promise. Bye.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Insomnia
Insomnia
a rather short story by mj
The span of time is but a mere instant. So passes days which merge into nights; hours which divide into minutes; moments which break into seconds. Everywhere the ticking of clocks, a steady rhythm denoting each second that passes, marking them off as if on a list. And the checks don't add up to infinity. Time is running out.
This is what I tell myself. When the world outside is no longer shouting, when the silence grows so forceful it afflicts, when the roof above lets out its final groan, when the bedclothes refuse to offer comfort, when the eyes no longer sense a distinction between open and shut, when the body won’t cease its buzzing, nor will the brain stop its musing. This is what I tell myself.
a rather short story by mj
The span of time is but a mere instant. So passes days which merge into nights; hours which divide into minutes; moments which break into seconds. Everywhere the ticking of clocks, a steady rhythm denoting each second that passes, marking them off as if on a list. And the checks don't add up to infinity. Time is running out.
This is what I tell myself. When the world outside is no longer shouting, when the silence grows so forceful it afflicts, when the roof above lets out its final groan, when the bedclothes refuse to offer comfort, when the eyes no longer sense a distinction between open and shut, when the body won’t cease its buzzing, nor will the brain stop its musing. This is what I tell myself.
Either everything means everything or nothing means anything.
Lying here, faced with myself and my box of potential, the world seems absurd. More time slips through my fingers and I watch it dissipate into glowing green lines, flickering what might be my last warning.
This is what I want to shape, yet the hands undo the other’s action. I find myself wanting for something that has no word by which to identify it, some silly concept, a misleading notion that leads me to no place, no time, no mind. I struggle with a paradox I cannot define while more seconds, more checks waste and go by.
It takes solitude to sustain me, giving solace that’s oddly empty. I only know of peace that’s uneasy, of sorrow that fills and sates a wearied soul. There is a passion to my madness that drips away at faltering intensity with each moment lost. I must make a move.
This is what I tell myself.
This is what has no shape.
This is another instant spent.
Time is running out.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Reprieve
Reprieve
a dwarf* by mj
I slip out for a smoke, a sip of poetry and much needed silence. My tree awaits faithful even after I've gone. I snuggle between the exposed roots, an embrace molded perfectly along my spine and hips. Ah, sanctuary at last. I let the pages fall open and jump in. The words I savor; the rhythm I pursue; the meaning I ponder. Lines beat into my brain; images wrought violently. The smoke smooth in my lungs, exhalations drift to mingle with the dying leaves. Smoke is done; poem is read; reprieve is over. I sigh, switch my brain to mute, and walk back inside.
*a little kitty kat inspired me to compose this "dwarf," a form of flash fiction limited to 101 words, including the title.
*i cheated. it's 105 words.
a dwarf* by mj
I slip out for a smoke, a sip of poetry and much needed silence. My tree awaits faithful even after I've gone. I snuggle between the exposed roots, an embrace molded perfectly along my spine and hips. Ah, sanctuary at last. I let the pages fall open and jump in. The words I savor; the rhythm I pursue; the meaning I ponder. Lines beat into my brain; images wrought violently. The smoke smooth in my lungs, exhalations drift to mingle with the dying leaves. Smoke is done; poem is read; reprieve is over. I sigh, switch my brain to mute, and walk back inside.
*a little kitty kat inspired me to compose this "dwarf," a form of flash fiction limited to 101 words, including the title.
*i cheated. it's 105 words.
Thing
Thing
a poem by mj
a poem by mj
"You are
a funny, pretty thing."
he say
with eye that is dancing.
He touch
with hand that is needing.
He take
with sense lost in wanting.
"I am
not your snug cavity."
she say
with mouth that is moving.
She hide
with body that is curving.
She run
with cunt that is bleeding.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Coward
Coward
a poem by mj
Truth once going dull,
but the need to rip remains.
She's hmm-ing in a bluesy throat,
and he's coming back again.
For passion brushes weakly,
a map that's made in skin.
She's playing patterns happy,
and he's letting someone in.
Sky retains a darkness,
It presses, fills, and jades.
She's gnawing heated silence,
and he's sighing out their fate.
Always gasped in stolen air,
Some filthy, empty pleasure.
She's staying with her ending,
and he's not sure it's over.
a poem by mj
Truth once going dull,
but the need to rip remains.
She's hmm-ing in a bluesy throat,
and he's coming back again.
For passion brushes weakly,
a map that's made in skin.
She's playing patterns happy,
and he's letting someone in.
Sky retains a darkness,
It presses, fills, and jades.
She's gnawing heated silence,
and he's sighing out their fate.
Always gasped in stolen air,
Some filthy, empty pleasure.
She's staying with her ending,
and he's not sure it's over.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Sick on Your Shoes
Sick on Your Shoes
a poem by mj
I got
Sick on you
"Oh god, sorry
I try not to puke on shoes."
Somehow
It lacks
And I find
Myself
Making up your skin
Your voice
Spitting out
Whatever it is
You wanted me
To swallow.
a poem by mj
I got
Sick on you
"Oh god, sorry
I try not to puke on shoes."
Somehow
It lacks
And I find
Myself
Making up your skin
Your voice
Spitting out
Whatever it is
You wanted me
To swallow.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Scuffmarks
Scuffmarks
a story by mjk
I’m not that far gone. I judge this by my apparent ability to string together words into coherent thoughts. At times, I am startled to see my apartment as through the eyes of a stranger, awed at the pathetic squalor of it all. Other times, I sit and stare at the scuffmarks on the floor.
I don’t take comfort in them; rather, I find them a nuisance. Black, sooty stains pock marking the cheap plastic tile that infests the whole apartment. When we moved in, I had marveled at how easy it would be keep clean. Cleanliness used to matter to me. Now those scuffmarks just grow in number.
I know there’s a mop somewhere; I brought it with me from the last place, but it has yet to make an appearance since the move. I can’t remember how long ago that was. It happened while I was still writing in the notebook before this one, so it must have been somewhat recent. No matter where Jo and I move, there are always boxes left unpacked, so it’s useless to measure time that way. Jo doesn’t like calendars.
I suppose I don’t really care, although some part of me obviously does otherwise I wouldn’t be obsessing about it in my journal. Maybe it’s my sanity, trying to nail me down to a reassuring routine, a cycle of actions repeated in an orderly fashion. Sometimes I think Jo has brainwashed me, his thoughts and my thoughts jumble together until I don’t know if there’s such a definite distinction between our lives. I doubt he feels the same. It seems a romantic notion, to meld into another person in such a way, ‘Oh, I don’t know where he ends and I begin,’ but to me it’s warped and ominous. It sounds like a death sentence.
I try it out under my breath; no one will hear me. Hearing it aloud doesn’t lighten the threat. I look at him; he catches my eye and winks. I shudder. Winking men always evoke a feeling of dread. Can a wink be well intentioned? Or is it merely a distraction while they steal away your precious things?
His friends are here. I don’t know if I can remember a time when Jo’s friends weren’t here. They laze about the floor, doing whatever drug they could come up with that day and spacing out in front of the TV. If I’m at work, they blare the stereo too. Jo lets all this happen, encourages it even. He doesn’t wash the dishes; when they run out, they just eat with their fingers and drink from the containers.
Am I just left to play the martyr in this situation? Left to clean up after an unemployed boyfriend that more resembles an obnoxious child?
I disgust myself. How can I think such admonishments against this man I claim to love? Why don’t I get off my ass and find that fucking mop?
He hands me a joint, asks me to spark it. He thinks this passes as affection. I like it much better than kissing and groping since I won’t be stared at the same way while lighting a joint as I would be if Jo were pinching my nipples.
I hate his friends. I hate their shoes.
Indifference sets in, as it usually does, and I let Jo and his friends do whatever they want. Who am I to keep Jo from feeling like a big man in his own home? Whatever Jo thinks of me or whatever he claims of me, I have space to call my own: this journal, these words. I always have my words.
When I do speak up, Jo hears every time. His ears are keen for my mumble. This is also, at times, to my advantage. He’s getting me a glass of water as I write.
He requires payment for the amazing feat he has accomplished in quenching my thirst. Perhaps he fancies he has ensured my survival for another day by replenishing my fluids. If I said that sentence to him, he would think I was being naughty. As a token of my eternal gratitude I am to kiss him, with passion as well as prudence, and then smile pretty when he opens his eyes. Then he leaves me alone.
This apathy bothers me, which is surely one of the most contradictory feelings I’ve ever had. I could have sworn I am the kind of person who takes care of her environment and asserts responsibility for herself. When did my idea of self stop coinciding with my actual self? I guess I’ll never know since there’s no fucking calendar anywhere. Maybe I can start measuring time by counting the scuffmarks.
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