June 2011
8 posts
8 tags
Crime is what you call it when poor people fuck someone over for money.
The American dream is what you call it when rich people fuck someone over for money.
5 tags
I’ve never heard silence. Not the near-silence of a still room, with the distant hum of an air conditioner or someone shuffling around in the room next door or rattling keys as they open the lock. Not the friendless nights with no conversation and no sound but the rain tapping on a roof or a dog barking across the street. Not the almost-silence of a shared heartbeat and sympathetic...
5 tags
You are the rosy glow of light as the sun pushes up against a black night sky. You are the velvety-soft flower petals that bloom on a May morning. You are dew-drops that form on blades of grass as the chill of night gives way to the powdered warmth of daybreak. You are the natural sweetness of a fresh piece of fruit. You are a smile coaxed from the edge of a stubborn, jaded face grown old and...
7 tags
I can only offer a short moment’s escape, an escape from the grief and anxieties you drag like an anchor around your neck, the trammel that keeps you girded against life’s tumult. For just a moment, you can forget and we can vanish from earthly consciousness and become vapor trails in the night, we can melt into one another and float off into a charcoal sky. We will encircle one...
10 tags
“So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon… I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever. With masks down, I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but merely accepts my being. And does not smite me down.”
- Sylvia Plath
That is...
6 tags
He is of the accident. He is of the great cosmic lie. He is of slow-moving ocean undercurrents and storms that broil and swell and sweep salty winds into little beach-front houses that have grown old with being battered by sun. He is a gale force enigma who is made of happenstance and bad luck and the spaces between, the non-things, the voids, that exist where reality never took root. He is of...
7 tags
From blue to smoky tangerine orange to inky, silver-scarred black, time moves forward and I am a solitary ghost-man wondering when my hollow shell will melt away into the ether I’m already standing in, albeit only halfway. I will struggle to pull myself through this awful transition, always struggling, always the way of our kind, to struggle and then fade. We are the finite, the...
7 tags
The faceless green-fingered mystery men with no voices or names dig their hands into my still-living corpse and drag my last breath out of me. I am watching and saying goodbye, goodbye to the almosts and the nevers and the could-nevers and wondering “what if?” because that is the only thing left to wonder. The finality and the ebb to black are clear and obvious, imprinted across my...