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StrandThe moon pulls
stray denim threads
from the fraying
I watch the tide
go in and out
remembering how I used to
take a few of your hairs
between my fingers
when you weren't looking
and pinch as hard as I could
as if I were killing a spider
or fastening a snap
I would squeeze
To get the first straight line
they broke rock apart
to a strip of hide
or woven hair
& let it fall.
Sometimes it’s a damn
a 24 hour
But then something
in the algebra
of the universe
and you can say
your own name again.
It’s not perfect
but the weight
and the line
will not be
SEAFOAM. A girl looks across the sand
out at the water.
touches her pale hair
as if it were seafoam,
she curls it around a finger carefully
as if crowned with something
cold and aching,
She walks up the beach
and out of sight
as if the light between the trees
were something she might
hold in her hands,
something she could
open and close
like folded paper.
. The sun
makes a bright patch
on the water with the same
the same white noise
as my leg falling
Waves gutter and froth
and all my hours burn down.
The water spreads and recedes,
it pulls and offers.
Anything, the horizon says.
But my mind goes blank.
. Between one thought
and the next
I bite my tongue
and the face I make is the same
face I wear when licking
when dropping ice into
The waves are dark swells,
green and blue ink.
circles, I tell myself,
wanting badly to
DiggingA boy wanders
from his parents and finds me.
Having just learned to read, he decodes
the stone and finds his own name,
first and last,
same middle initial, R,
so much like a murmur in the bowels,
a hunger that turns all thought
He sits over me and digs with his fingers
into the sod--
partly because it's forbidden,
but mostly because he is old enough
to realize that good things
are rarer than he thought,
yet too young to be convinced
that they are not merely hidden.
He is already tired at the start
so he gives up his digging after
only a moment, though that moment
is like an eternity for both of us.
He gets up and leaves a small dark scar
over my grave.
He spits on his hands
and wipes them on the grass
to hide the dirt from his parents.
But nothing washes off
not off someone
unrequited cosmologyI sit all night,
trying to imagine
what is happening
on the other side of the universe
when I can’t even bear to think
about what my former lover is
just across town.
dreaming last wordsIn my childhood home
I stood at the bathroom mirror
with a pistol. Two pencil-
one beneath my right cheekbone
and one just above the tip of my nose
indicated where I had shot myself.
I entered the dream standing there
bloodless and frightened
when I should have been dead.
I felt as if I had just woken up
and immediately realized I wanted life.
My fingers went to the back of my head
and I panicked when there were no wounds,
when I realized the bullets were still inside.
If they had just passed through
I might have survived but like this,
there was death in me.
I shook and wept. The pistol turned to wood
in my hand. Somehow all my regrets fit in its changing.
Nothingness ate the universe
from the outside until it wrapped tightly
around the room.
The names of flowers
printed on the wallpaper blurred
and while I would have liked
all the dead animals of my childhood
to be there in the room with me,
I was alone.
Even all I’d done
Can't waitThe job crouches
like a gray toad
on the umbrella-edge of dawn
but it's still dark
means reaching all
the way down
to the buzzing of flies
in my soul
when the rest of the world
I reach for the bottle,
for the gods just outside my vision,
for the madness that says
the way beauty says
The difference between sick
waits for me,
the distinction between music
is ready to be found.
diminish to words
in a silent war
that means more to me
than my well being
and yet I am doing better than ever.
there can be no meaning.
of my own making,
I can't say what I mean.
The morning waits
but I will not.
When Stars CollapseThis is how you bespeckled my bones
with bewilderment: you kissed hushed heart
whispers and slumbering secrets
into my fingertips. You infused awe
into my joints, causing me
to ask how snowflakes got their
shape and how long would it take
to get from the Sun to Capella.
You taught me that energy is neither
created or destroyed; stars do not die.
Eyes washed with emerald sorrows you
told me that they evolve, they change
into something entirely different,
or not so different.
I now know we are made of the same
particles as someone or something else.
We began someplace together.
We're made of so much more than "star-stuff",
we are made of each other.
The Breaths Between Usi'm minutes away
from the collision site
the breaths between us
and the lost time
clock guts, sprung
our hallway uncoils
his walnut lean
i'm seconds away
from the before
of our near-miss
the beads of air
and the imperfections of
in a rumored heart
a stuttering mass
this broken belled
has lost hold
of the lives we live
its skullsong rings
the same vibration
In a world with no mercy
Day after day
Until the end
The day I die
And then maybe
I'll find some peace
I am me. Who are you?I am fragments
of every person
I've met; every
memory made; every
bond formed and tie broken.
I am an orchestra
of people's opinions;
each snide comment
each casual remark
each passing compliment
I am a library
of forgotten lies
and fake smiles
and empty promises.
I am a sky of hope;
filled with stars
which carry the wishes
of the people I have encountered
I am never alone
for their influence will forever
taint my soul and
remind me of their hopes,
dreams and pain.
This is who I am.
Who are you?
Love comes in so many forms,
growing and changing swiftly with the ages.
A mama recording her sons first walk to her husband over seas with a shaky camera.
"It's only a storm," the big brother says to his sister whiles he takes out the instant hot chocolate.
A teenager opening her slammed door, ready to admit to her parents she doesn't hate them.
On a worn blanket, a college kid handing his boyfriend a rose, hoping it will be enough.
Girls squealing as they throw their diplomas up into air and go out into the real world together.
A father proudly patting his wife's baby bump, a first miracle.
A women kissing her father goodbye as she turns off the machine that keeps him alive.
A middle aged chemistry teacher handing back a failing student a A+ paper.
An older couple holding hands, content with the knowledge of the mountains they've overcome together.
Love extends past the page, from my hand into others souls.
on remembering to breathe:i.
you can't hold it in for forever.
your lungs weren't
made to bear the weight
of this world, they weren't made
to left unexpanded
and unexplained -
it is not phenomenon that wakes you
when paralysis hits in the
night, it is physiology telling you that
not everything happens on automatic, okay?
(at least not for always)
you're born like a time bomb, with
only so many beats of
your heart in place to tick away day by day -
your words, they're the same.
there's a time limit
on your tongue, so say something that
means something - use words
that dig in and rip out hearts, use words that
curl around your fingers and worm their
way into your soul.
use words to make something
beautiful. something remembered.
never leave three things
left unsaid because they can be three
words that mean everything -
i'm not telling you to save your breath.
i'm begging you not to waste it.
sing. sing enough to take your breath
away because even though
it leaves you gasping, it fills up that
That rebuilding trust is difficult
Would be an understatement of the highest order.
It's a lot like relearning how to walk.
With each small step,
I keep thinking I'll fall--
And I may--
But I haven't yet.
My heart and left leg
Throb in protest,
But there's a certain joy in progress
That keeps me moving forward.
LightningboltsYou ease forward, prop your elbows on your knees.
The veins in your hands fascinate me,
like those aerial pictures I remember from school
of rivers worming through lush green areas of places I'd never been,
would never be. The curve of your back gave off heat,
the imaginary line where you ended and the room began
was too real, too sharp to be seen,
just felt. The look on your face seemed burnt
into the wood panel walls behind you.
You rose, pulling at your tie with one hand,
unbuckling your belt with the other, as ambidextrous
as a chef, as unsteady as water
spilled over dry ground. You tugged the belt out of its loops
and as your slacks sagged slightly around your waist,
you took both ends of the leather band in your fist
and swung it at my temple.
A blankness flashed up from somewhere
that I suddenly realized was always below me.
And in that vertigo
I came back to myself on the floor,
suddenly fascinated by the lightning-bolts forming
in the way the creases of your shirt
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More