Will-o'-the-WispWhat brought you here to my window?
Go away. My father is home.
I'll place my lips here, here on the glass
And you can kiss the cold night air over it, just
(Can you hear me? The glass is closed. I cannot speak over the wind. Read my lips, please.)
Yesterday, I was walking through the woods
And in the depths I found a house made of living trees.
It glowed warm through its twisted window eyes
And I thought it was a flame, someone there;
I entered the door. The house was empty,
Loud with life but only in the walls.
The flame was a faerie flame. I reached my hands out
To touch it, but it was not warm enough; my fingers curled,
And I pulled it from the hearth whole.
The house died. The leaves fell like soft black snow.
Beneath my feet, roots wept, and then went still.
I held the faerie flame to my chest in fear,
And into my heart the flame went.
(It beats like a drum, and flutters whenever you are near. What can I do? Let me spit it out.)
What brings you here, like
angel dusttiny bird bones
are his ribs, delicate flower arrangement, hands splayed, or
two beautiful white wings behind a stranger’s grave
-- we can see lines of purple river coiling his fingers,
tap his knuckles, and hear faint guitar picks strum pasty flesh
like an anthem to stupidity -- his bones are hollow.
his ribs are my favorite thing about him, i used to think, said
“your ribs, they are angels meant to fly” -- “you don’t make sense”
he replied, but nothing made sense back then
or makes sense now, everyone is standing face to the mud
and we close our eyes and hold hands and jump when the next person jumps, down
means nothing, neither does ground
or angels, for that matter. he counts his white hairs
stranded in clouds, plucks feathers from doves and makes a nest with them
calls it home -- wondering, all the while, what wind might feel like
singing around his spine if he jumps, and whether i would bury
his bones behind a white grave when he does?
As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes Jack says I’ve always got to carry around this machine, big as a TV, with loopy wires coming out of it and wriggling around in my stomach. Sometimes if I’m tired he carries it, or sets it on some wheeler, but most days I’ve got it settled in the crook of my arm or against my hip. It’s hard to play football with the other kids when I’ve got to hold it, and can’t drop it neither. Jack says I oughta be grateful I can run around at all.
It’s not too heavy, the machine, it’s just a box with some gooey slush in it and a place on top that flashes numbers in red. Jack checks the numbers every sixty minutes, on the dot, even at night when I’m asleep. He’s awful smart. He says the numbers are my blood pressure and glucose and oxygen and stuff, and there’s one number that’s the estimation numeration of months I’m still functional, and I don’t understand any of it. I
Tsunami There was a tsunami on the northern shores of Israel. It was a tsunami made of a million grievances accumulated in the earth for a million years, and with the power of a million sharks it let loose its impersonal fury upon the beach. There was a terrific storm of wind and rain that day, and the earth shook at the force of its enormity.
But this is not the story of a tsunami.
This is the story of a raindrop. A single droplet of clear dew, shimmering in the sky. In the clouds, the air became pregnant with the weight of the water in its belly, and the raindrop escaped from the atmosphere's tight embrace and let itself fall. Down the raindrop went, down through ice, down through sunrays, down through thunder, down through dust, gathering speed until it was as sleek and thin and sharp as the sharpest needle. And then at last it struck its point against the eye of a man, where like a needle of glass it shattered into a million pieces and sent its fin
Yes, They Can Drown Lucila stared at the twenty thousand leagues of sea water on top of her. It didn't feel nice. It felt like twenty thousand elephants were sitting on top of her chest and trying to squeeze out her brains. It also felt like their tusks - all forty thousand of them - were trying to stab her.
Deep sea fish swam leisurely over her, a few of them giving her hair some experimental nibbles. Lucila summoned up the strength to hiss at them. They darted away, all long tails and grotesque jaws. Aesthetics weren't very important at the bottom of the sea. Up on the surface, of course, it had been crucially important to look good, what with the bright sun bleeding golden light everywhere, and her husband - the sweet little fool - always taking her to every important occasion. Apparently the life's work of a human queen was to show her face around a lot and act pretty. It was very tiring work. Lucila only put up with it because her husband was a sweet little fool, and also
A SparkSometimes you forget who you are. It’s not quite an identity crisis; you do not panic within your skin, ready to separate into meaningless fragments. You remember your name just fine. In fact, just to be sure, you wrote it in the palm of your hand that morning with a faded pen often used to scribble out last-minute grocery lists. Then you whispered it under your breath as you made breakfast until you became breathless.
No, it’s more like an identity misplacement.
Consider the day you lost your glasses. You could see the world just fine, at least on the surface, but the distance tantalized you--the neighbor’s house warped into a blur of drowsy attic light, the calendar on the fridge an amorphous measure of time characterized by a June bug lounging on a wet flower. Still, you could read faces when people approached you. A smile looked like a smile, a grimace like a grimace. When you at last found your glasses that afternoon, you put them on and realized that all day you
AnythingI am an overwhelming urge to flow into something. To become something bigger, something more, something exalted, something eternal. I need to flow into something. Unspoken truths burning my throat I am flowing into my own abyss. My abyss is flowing into me. All the walls have been broken. I have broken all the walls. I don't know where to land my fist.
Still, I will not battle against my abyss. I shall let it in. Like an immense wave in a raging sea my void is, again, coming out of my depths to crush me against the rocks I've raised behind me. There's no turning back, there's no avoidance. The choice was made long ago. I now stand tall and face the familiar waters.
Through the ocean I shall swim, through the rocks I shall break.
Anything. I can handle.
We all will perish. I long to perish. What is worth being perished by?
I see the waves.
I can handle this. I can handle this. I can handle this. I can handle this. I can handle this. I can handle thi
Birds And Wolves, My DearI know, I know, my dear.
And I will howl for it. Because the
moon might listen. I'll ask it why.
Why? Why I cannot decide my
faith and fortune.
And it will tell me, that I can. That
I am deciding it. But it is
impossible to know which actions
cause which reactions.
And which words will break which
So I will howl. And I will sing my
song only the birds can hear. The
only song I can sing with tears
running down my face. The only
song I do not need words for.
I will howl for it, my dear. I will cry
for us. Because we might never be
more than we are now.
Yes, there is that chance we will
be. But it is a chance I cannot
take. Just for this selfish reason,
I do not want my heart
broken by you.
I know. I know, my dear.
I will howl. I will sing, my dear.
But it will not change a thing.
Todos los Santos :Despojo:Lo miraba con curiosidad; había leído su historial, cada pequeño detalle había sido revisado con cuidado y ahora le desconcertaba encontrarlo así.
Un callejón, un destino digno –pensó con ironía- para una persona como él. No llevaba mucho tiempo haciendo esto, pero lo que aprendía era que tendría que encariñarse con la trágica ironía de la muerte. El cabello, otrora dorado, ahora lucía sucio al igual que la ropa de suave tela que cubría su cuerpo.
Con cuidado se había acercado a él, no sentía lástima tampoco, pero era interesante verlo. ¿Cómo alguien cae de la riqueza y el poder al fango de una callejuela olvidada de la sociedad? Era demasiado curioso a sus ojos, el opuesto perfecto.
Sin embargo, él sabía de ambas cosas. Sólo que en su caso había conocido primero el fango.
Mientras observaba los ojos azules sin brillo se preguntaba si de haber vivido m
DepartureA cold wind was blowing in the city, restlessly tossing dried leaves on the narrow streets between the buildings. The windows reflected a lone figure wandering the streets aimlessly.
She had let the hard concrete change the soft contours of her eyes and the power lines leave shadows on her face. But the strong women walking by the railway station still ignored her.
Even the pigeons sitting upon the streetlights did not notice she was there. They shook dust from their wings that spun around her melancholy.
In front of the white-painted church, she tore off the pages of her poetry book. Tourists took photos of her with their digital cameras.
The colorless clouds at the pale wake of day were too weak to cry. The name of the capital printed on the cover of the newspaper dispersed into sounds.
She could not drink again that first steaming cup of hope. She painted the streetsigns white to mourn the blocks of flats she was to leave behind.
People on TV kept calling the city by its name, perha
I think, therefore I am.The truth is, I'm a bit introverted. In fact, if it were up to me I'd just be a hermit. Well not completely.
I love seeing people, I love being with people, I love people.
But not too close.
Just a stroll down a city street, watching the couples walk by, peeking into the dark windows of cars waiting in traffic, watching girls try to manage their shopping bags.
I love this, watching the world from the comfort of my own mind. It's like I am my own world, watching a different world. My world is much bigger and more expansive. The world around me is small, like a pretty picture in a a glass globe.
that's because the world around you is only the vision in your eyes. The world only exists in your mind.
The only thing that really truly exists is you.
I think, therefore I am.
The real reality is the reality behind these eyes.
The imaginary world is the one in front of them. It only exists from a couple of nerves in my cornea. My brain shambles them together to paint a picture. It wouldn't exis
BelieveIf you believe in yourself, anything is possible. You can do anything you desire. Forget what other people say; it will only hold you back. Keep your head held high and trust your instincts. You are better than they say. Just because you are an outcast, doesn't mean you are different. It means you are special. Be yourself and not who other people want you to be. Simply believe and you can do anything.
Beauty From WithinBeauty is in the eye of the beholder. Everyone says it, and most believe it. But who dares look at an outcast to see her inner beauty? Do people always assume that what is on the outside is also on the inside? Everything in life is not based on how we look to others, but how we look to ourselves. Only we can truly see what is inside us. We must be the best we can be. For if we do not believe in ourselves, who will truly believe in us?
Todos los Santos :Sinfonia:Respiró profundamente, tratando de calmarse, no funcionaba; estaba demasiado nerviosa: el auditorio estaba lleno, las luces listas, la audiencia esperando.
Respiró de nuevo.
No podía, no quería, sentía un hueco en el estómago, necesitaba a alguien que la reconfortara en ése momento, ¿por qué su hermano no estaba ahí con ella? Lo necesitaba ahí, él siempre sabía que decir…
Pero no estaba. Albergaba aún la esperanza de verlo sentado en medio de la audiencia, pero mientras descubría si su esperanza se volvería real, moría de nervios. Las manos le temblaban y de repente sentía escalofríos ¿y si lo arruinaba todo? No quería hacerlo, no se sentía capaz y pese a ello al momento en que le dieron la entrada caminó firmemente hacia el teatro.
No, su hermano no estaba ahí. Sintió una punzada de dolor en el pecho, se sentía al borde de las lágrimas, pero no i