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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
ClockThe grandfather clock's face turned down, sad. There must have been a bad moon. Time is an unhappy business, abstract, misunderstood. The clock had stood in the same spot for 200 turns around the Sun. And it never became more fun, than it had ever been. Clock remembered the families, the parents, the children, and also the childless, the unmarried, the loveless singles. He was good at remembering; it's what he was for. Happy times and sad times. Times. Time. What a sad business.
Lancelot Price 2014 July 26
Old Thoughts from New PeopleThere's sunlight on the empty road, but he supposes there isn't much to it, really: photons generated in the explosion of nuclear fusion, suddenly flying, an accident of fate to land here, at this moment, where his eyes had evolved to pick it up as visible light. It isn't fake, exactly, but that didn't mean it was real. He didn't think it meant much of anything.
He walked along the solid yellow line on the highway, occasionally putting his arms out as if he were balancing on something precarious, embracing a childlike desire to pretend that the world around him was more than it appeared to be.
He wore a jacket despite the summer air, and his poorly cut, short black hair stuck up in an unmanicured parody of the magazines that stuck out of the bag that hung off his shoulders. He seemed at peace with things, with the silence, with the sun. The road stretched on ahead and it stretched back, but for him, it may as well have not been there. He could have been walking into the ocean. It didn'
To Bruges You know, my mother always told me that I should learn how to play their game, how to just fit in. Not one of my strong suits, I always preferred to stand out. But in this I desired isolation, of sorts; I wanted to exist on the top of a staggered rock formation looming from the seething sea, I wanted to stand there and watch the sky swirl and devour the sun, I wanted to exist in an eye of a storm. It didn’t matter what storm, just a storm, so that, if I am bothered enough, I could eject myself from my momentary haven and out into the insanity of life. I snapped my head back into focus, the stairs, right.
With heavy feet and uneven gate, I managed my way up the spiraling steps, the pulsing red hue of crisis lights swallowing my face in crimson. My hair matted against the pounding rain, lungs aching from the trek, finally I found myself face to face with my door, a little slit of darkness from the peep-hole, the fading 315 hung s
SmallHave you ever felt small? Have you ever looked up at the giants, and realized how much the word "bug " describes you so perfectly?
Maybe it was when you saw the girls in the bathroom gossiping about God knows what. They didn't pay a lick of attention to you. You went about your small business while the giants talked about giants.
Possibly, you felt small when your alleged teammate mate the game winning goal for the hundreth time, and that very night you go home and punt that ball clear through the net, knowing those are the only goals you've ever made. Celebration dinner for the giant, another sleepless night of practice for the small.
My favorite is the giant in the family. Their fifth boyfriend just broke up with them, and the sixth is ringing up her phone right now. Ten guys asked her out today. You don't even know what another human being's lips feel like. Mom comes home and laughs with the giant about some little thing at work. The small puts on their headphones and waits for dinn
The JourneyThose first moments as you open the door, and you feel the warmth of the sun beating on your face, are when you begin to realize the journey ahead of you. The birds chirp, not out of joy, but out of pain, as the blistering heat makes them simmer and cook. You wipe the sweat from your brow and adjust your collar.
Those first moments as the subway doors open before you, and you feel the smoke and the black air swarm your lungs, are when you realize it's too late to go back. Your fellow passengers cough and sneeze and infect the air around you, and it's all you can do to take the handkerchief from your coat pocket and shield your mouth from breathing in the filthy toxins of this place. A blind man savors the black air and dances with his saxophone by an overturned hat filled with cash. You convince yourself that his music is in commemoration of your voyage. The doors close behind the last passenger as he scurries to the closest seat.
Those first moments as the subway doors close behind yo
Time and ChoiceThe clock's tick-tock was circular, as was the clock. The notion of time passing, going in circles and repeating cycles, in anticipation of the event – which is bound to happen, has already happened, and is in the process of happening now.
Standing at the crossroads, there's a different nightmare at the end of every road. The nightmare is unavoidable. Even going nowhere invokes its own different kind of nightmare; an unchoice is a choice in its own right.
It was time to choose, and all the dreamer could hear was the tick-tocking of the cyclical clock – a reminder of the unrelenting, unforgiving flow of time; he could stand still forever, but time would not. This was therefore impossible.
Looking left and right, and then straight ahead – even back where he'd come from – which way would it be? He procrastinated, anticipated the unknowable, and finally while gazing up into the clouds, he came to a decision.
Life is not limited. There may well be paths ready made an
Genetic Ownership"James was more than a good husband and good father, he was a good man…" Jacqueline said as she stood in front of the small crowd all dressed in black. Her smile was serene and empty, as was the smile on everyone's faces. Everyone's, that is, except for the young woman's in the front row. The black veil she had one could not hide the pain, the fear, the fits of sobbing that made everyone nervous.
"Sara, shhh! You can't let them hear you!" said the boy next to her in a hoarse whisper.
"I know…" she whispered back. "I… can't help it!" She shrank back and leaned into the boy.
At the pulpit, Jacqueline continued. "I was so proud of my husband when he spearheaded the Epigenetic Futures initiative, which has changed our world, our way of life." She looked down at her children with that same serene smile, despite the fact that her daughter continued to sob.
In the back of the church, one of the large doors opened just eno
Her bad seeds.The gardener had dark circles under her eyes.
She told me seeds need to be tucked away.
"you acknowledge the bad seed and each word is a drop of water that nurtures the rotted thing.
From there it grows from the pit of your stomach.
It branches out until it's filling your insides with the crunch of dead leaves, but this isn't all.
It grows into your now shaking fingertips and roots your weak legs into place.
The stem gets stronger, pushing against your insides until you can feel everything twist and knot in all the wrong ways.
Eventually it'll impale your heart. This is when it's too late to go back .
From here it won't need your help to sustain itself. The seed is now a parasite.
It won't feed on your blood. It needs you alive. Rather it'll feed on your colour.
With every spasm of that weak organ in your ribcage more colour will drain from your gaunt face. Your cheeks lose their glow and your smile loses it's luster.
It's still not done growing yet.
It edges up your raw asophogus, and
FFM 28: Re-CycleIt is 728 BC, and I have achieved the rank of trierarchus in the Roman Navy. The magistrate has given me leave to sail west across the deepest waters, and I have never felt so free or powerful. Then I see the enormous tentacles groping from the depths. The ship folds around us.
It’s 33 AD, and everything is ready for my business to start. I have acquired a junk ship, a crew, and a stock of spices. The Chang Jiang calls to me, and I answer so eagerly that I never even see the rockets coming when I collide with Gongsun Shu’s water barricade.
The year is 802, in the snake month. I have never set foot on a boat, and father won’t stand for it. War scares me, but I will go i viking to protect my honor. Marching toward his ship, my footing slips by the village well. Weighed down in armor, I plummet and…
The year is 2000 CE, and I am done. There’s too much
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