Island Flatness and Proof of Contour

I don't see a major problem with the mincing manner in which I walk to the frozen pizza for a piece of it. This feeling is full of intensity, of thrust and the power of going. Across the street there is a cold abandoned church with the bird's nest and the wet flannel shirt. There is also the five hundred square foot bungalow I could not have noticed in its place, being where it was, not with these plastic eyes in their rabbit's head. I reach out to the hairy neck in front of me and I rub it.

Croc Window Snacks

This diva that has been defined by her failures and successes will diagnose a whirlwind of facts to get your transparent blood wrapped up with reality. This spoken word artist displays the passion of her box to stir up cognitive thoughts to describe society. She has successfully completed the feelings of a writer with a dose of words in her writing.

This woman continues to break barriers with the emerging of the heart and mind of a poet. The passion this writer shares with you continues to get your blood thirsting for your pain. There is no particular box big enough to fit the soul of a writer and author and mind of a poet and other poets and writers and now simplifies the feelings and gives you insight to make a mark in society. She has successfully completed the stroke of her pen.

Boots Full of Pitch

I cannot feel the moon on my skin here in this emptiness, in this field of crushed styrofoam cups. The afternoon's hazy freedoms and the sensibilities of the toddlers with their toys is a light quaintness in the pocket of my coat. Not the outer pocket, but the inside pocket, with the zipper, with the fabric care label, with the memories of how proud and envious I was as a boy, as a teenager, as a man.

I carry my water in a fist-sized bottle, once home to a traveller's portion of shampoo. I do not travel, and I have no need of cleanliness about my scalp. The water will do well for me, and the thought of its eventual weight on my tongue and the miracle of ingested liquid brings me a sort of resolve. The absent touch of this moon in this sky with its blackness and manifold retinas and the whispers of their fires, it remains. The absent touch of this moon is something I can abide.

Grandpa

Sand in this hat, twigs and pebbles in these shoes. Salt in this fist. Pepper in this fist. Bear trap in the linen closet. Just a deadly thing.

Brother To A Dry Tongue

There, against the rotting pillar, stands our uncle. Is he angered over the events of the last hour? A devastation seemed to settle on his face like a charred bird alighting on a sinking ship. Great fellowships he has known are dead and there is an emptiness in his coat now. Electricity. In several years, we will remember this moment as clearly as if we had taken snapshots: the brokenness of a man who held us as children, who fed us macaroni and cheese on weekends. His hunger is an ignored nuisance. Mouth cannot know loneliness, heart is only a thing pumping under ribs, ears are full of cold air.

That Is Not Chalk

Probable fictions are littered across the pavements of this city, so thick in places that the tread of our name-brand sneakers is thwarted, filled with the muck of it. The trajectories we walk are indistinguishable from each other. On restless days when the mundane complaints of walls and machines live like rashes on our skin, every surface suitable for human foot traffic is coated in a greasy film of benign lies, imaginery terrors, olfactory violences, and partially hydrated laugher. We carry our daughters and sons and leave anxious pets to the houses we've abandoned, where they soil the windows with the moisture of their noses.

 

I have seen men fight on these days, driven to a murky anger by the crowds of aimless pedestrians. They throw clumsy fists at each other. They lock their arms together, they grunt out misty exclamations of saliva, they clutch at coats and pants. They fall to the ground, to the tacky paste of our futures. They smear it on thair faces and execute the fiercest of blows with their knees, elbows and foreheads. Their blood flows to the ground and mingles with the pulverized fiction and it is a stench to be surrounded in. We watch and we cannot think of doing otherwise until the beaten figures exchange hoarse apologies. We remember the purposeless wandering we have forsaken, and we resume it. Until the machines come with the fall of night, we sweat in the mingled heat of our bodies.

Burning Pillow

I know the voices. Know the voices of the soil's darkness. The voices crammed together in the air around our ears. Voices unhearable in stone like stones in clasped hands. They tell stories of endless brutality, of the greed of jaws and the anger of bloodied feet. There is fire so sudden it does not exist. Before tenderness was a possibility, this fire was alive in our lidded eyes. I close my eyes and hear the guns screaming our names.