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.

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."

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.

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)

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.

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.)***

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thing

Thing
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.

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.

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.

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.