Original
-
In this house of flies I sit with my mouth agape, two-jaw encore to a wake. Eyes wide and white as saucers. Face masked in a glossy sheen. All insects die; yet here I am, still thriving like a beehive. Someone’s fucking shouting again. The queen smacks the back of my head and again, someone’s
-
If I could, I would give myself to some unknowing God, tribal chief, prostrate bone against blood – if it meant that all of you were safe forever. To be kind, this crushing sense of love – it permeates the skin, a henna tattoo. I feel its breath, pressing down on my back, a cape
-
Reminded myself not to talk to you. Not even to look. I’m always reminded that I am not Swayze – and you are not a ghost. That this is happening now. That we are not some formless clay spinning on a wheel waiting to be touched. When & how did we end up this way?
-
My writing adorns the walls of this ridiculous, worn-down circus tent. Fitting, that I’ve mastered both walking the tightrope and cracking the whip. I jump, through flaming hoops I set alight. I am the elephant, the seventh clown stuffed into a clown-car. A churlish charade. Watch. This is the part where I shoot down all the tin-cans and pick the giant
-
“Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if possible, sincerely.” ― Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance Gentle, now. Unfold these shoulders: feel the creases, smooth them out, slowly. Skin meets skin: a tender joining of fragile things. Careful folds,
-
where was the world…
-
Last night, I dreamt of an old friend picking up smoking, cigarettes with the look of pencils (because she wanted to be a teacher, you see). I dreamt of people I did not know. Last night, I dreamt, aside from her smoking lead, of a table mired in the middle of nowhere, all of us seated:
-
Observe. Spit in his face, and he turns the other cheek. This man who is not even a doormat. A doormat is welcoming, even when stepped on. He is but the puddle you step over: shallow, dirty, unwanted, cold. Once, a part of something greater.
-
Somewhere, a room falls into sterility. We sit there, blank faces surgical tools minus scrub and garb. Who will make the first cut? Who can? Here no-one is the most qualified. And so, we wander without walking. I catch the butterfly, wing-eyes fluttering open and shut cases. You check your chapbook for ever-creasing lines. We
-
words that I don’t swallow come out as warbled waves that leave nary a ripple on conscience or memory. words, that leave no mark on the banks, far-flung islands. but here in my clenched-fist prayer I know that someone has seen it regardless. perhaps a fisherman? a kid skipping stones across the surface or the
ugly stage 