Tigers and lions and bears, oh my!

Tigers and lions and bears, oh my!

Cholera and TB and flu, oh my!

Cancer and West Nile and AIDS, oh my!

Obesity and diabetes and fat, oh my!

Russia and China and Cuba, oh my!

Weapons of mass destruction, oh my!

Terrorists and bombs and war, oh my!

 

Hunger and suffering and thirst, oh my!

Job loss and poverty and stress, oh my!

Killing and raping and crime, oh my!

 

Heartache and sorrow and pain, oh my!

Hating and sadness and fear, oh my!

Dying and living and pain, oh my!

 

Happiness and warmth and love…oh my, oh my.

Habit

Hey kid, it’s time to stop. You heard me. It’s a disgusting habit and I won’t have it being done here. You think that’s funny? What do you think you’re gonna look like when you’re thirty, huh? You think you’re gonna be all young and pretty forever? No. You’re gonna look like shit. You’re insides are gonna be incinerated like the bacon fat in my frying pan this morning. Think that’s funny? Oh, I get it, you don’t believe me. Come over here, will ya? Yeah, take a good, long look down my throat.

Uh huh. That’s what I thought.

Naples

Some places are so alien, absurd and strange that there is no way to fathom what living in them might be like. They are dark and scary and gloomy and dangerous, but mainly, they are hopeless. When a place lacks hope, there exists no possibility to improve it and it must remain squalid and lethal until… until it always will. There is stagnation; new bodies fill new pits, peppered with new bullets and fueled with new drugs; but the place is the same and the lifestyle is the same and the deathstyle will be very much, and tragically, the same.

Goodnight

I am so tired my eyelids drag my forehead down like anchors, and my legs tingle after every movement, and the final notes of today’s orchestrations are reverberating, and my heart is slowing, and the frogs are croaking, and any natural thought patterns are dissolving into a contented mire, and every other living thing is far far away, and the day has staggered away like a grizzled amputee, and the universes are dancing around each other, and am having trouble remembering where to brush my teeth, and my eyes are closing, the sun has set until tomorrow, goodbye and goodnight!

About

 
How about this?
We discuss the snail-trails of illustrious nickels.
We contemplate the green spice of shiny windowpanes.
How about this?
The capricious photographs circle in towards us.
The memories of titan intricacies dance like the tides into our minds.
How about this?
Every atomic sheet of musical bars commands skeletal vibrations.
Every variety of plum changes.
How about this?
For asphalt moments the sugary captain speculates.
For spectral carpentry the scenery capitulates.
How about this?
A scant flint echoes the bony mirth of charged helicopters.
A newsprint kitten flicks the omnipotent caricatures off her nonexistent ideals.
How about that?

500 Words: Running Through

Getting started is always the hardest part, but you know that once you’re up and running, everything will ease into its rightful groove. Your joints are springy and fresh, quite up to the task at hand.

You’re off. 

“Wanna play?” says your kid brother, holding a water gun in the middle of the road.

“Not now, gotta run,” you reply, dodging him in one stride. His pouting is palpable for awhile, but the guilt soon subsides.

“Watch where you’re going or you’re going to trip on something, dearie!”

“Thanks grammy,” you say, waving back.

Your feet pump beneath you in a steady rhythm, faster and faster.

“Slow down, honey! These are the best times of your life!” your mother calls from the side of the road. You leave her an apologetic glance.

You’ve hit an arduous uphill streak and your muscles are screaming at you. You ignore them. You notice that sitting on the grassy slope is your best friend from high school, coked out of her mind and staring at the sky listlessly. Your rhythm falters slightly but this hill is far from the end, so you keep grinding on.

You take a deep breath at the peak.

“A college graduate. Wow, hun—hey, wait!” you father shouts from the top of the hill, but you’re going so fast down that hill, all the scenery’s a blur.

You’re flying, and it’s freedom and liberation and love, but all of a sudden someone’s arms clutch your sides and you’re wings are clipped.

“Let go!” you yell, and the hands recoil as if trod upon by your very feet.

Now it’s just white light and road. And you can barely make out the words being shouted at you now.

“I’m leaving,” you think you hear your husband, but you’re too gone to even be sure.

Your legs are getting tired, the bottoms of your feet are burning hot, but you know you can’t stop. You need to make it, and you need to make it fast.

“Where are you going?” your boss yells, perched on a tree, “we just promoted you!”

You can’t spare a second, not even for an acknowledging wave or thumbs up. No time. No time to answer. No time to celebrate. Gotta keep going, you tell yourself.

“Gotta keep going for what?” a bum asks, warming his hands by a trashcan fire. It’s dark, you notice. Nighttime, and the stars are plastered on the sky like your daughter’s glow-in-the-dark ones on her ceiling. But that was ages ago. You recall passing by a swing set before when it was still early, but it’s all a blur.

So you start ot answer, but you realise you’re so far past the bum and his fire, and the euphoria of completion is imminent. Your feet can’t feel anymore, you don’t really remember the last time they did, but you jump anyway. You jump into the ground, solid upon solid, and you breathe in your triumph like flesh upon soil.

Manifesto

     I found an old bottle on the beach, and inside was this message:

 

    “We are the jellyfish!

     This is our manifesto!

     Please don’t bother yourselves wondering how we found out English, or kept this paper dry in the ocean, just pay attention to what we have to say.

    We have no enemies.

    We have existed for five hundred thousand years.

    We know what goes on in mountain ranges, in cities, in hospitals.

    Please learn from us: we float with the current and are happy!

    It is quite easy and natural.

    If you ignore us, we’ll be content.

                              June 18, 1824”

Story

Johnny Pop ate all the cherries he could
Till one day he could eat no more.
He looked to the left and he looked to the right
And saw pips on the floor.

Thousands of peach coloured pips lying there;
He sighed with deep relief.
For his Mum had just died and his Dad’d passed away,
And he’d finally drowned his grief.

Just out the door and over the hill
Was a land that he called home
So he left that slum on the vast cherry fields
And kicked down the garden gnome.

Upon his return he became incontinent. Fin.

500 Words: Terminal

Paul stared at the departures screen, fiddling with his keychain, the wildcat high school mascot now looked out of place amidst the other keys. 1530. CDG-Paris. On Time. No gate number yet. He looked at his watch. 12:00. Stupid business trips. He was so tired of airports, even if they were in Europe.

He found a little lounging area and lucky enough, an entire couch was free. He was about to take a nap when someone tapped him on the shoulder. There was a woman who looked about his age, dressed comfortably in black pants, and a slouchy grey sweater. He allowed this intruder one eye, blearily peering over the magazine page he had set as a make-shift eyemask.

“Hi, I’m so sorry but there aren’t any couches left and you look like the kinda guy who’d take mercy upon a kind soul?”

Paul let her have the other eye as he swung his feet off and motioned her on the to have a seat. Yeah, after all he was, in fact, that kind of guy. The nice kind. Damn, he thought.

“Thank you. I just have such a long layover. I wonder how much time people spend in airports? More or less than sitting on the can?”

Paul didn’t know what to make of that, so he just gave a standard two-beat chuckle.

“I’m Lucy, by the way.”

 “Paul.”

“Enchanté,” she said, blowing fake smoke from a pretend cigarette. “And where are you off to, Paul?”

“Paris, actually,” he winced.

“Oh come on! Paris? You sound like you are on your way to the guillotine—albeit a French sounding word, but c’mon. It’s Paris.”

“No, you’re right, it’s just not for fun,” Paul said nodding to his briefcase.

Lucy stuck out her tongue and made a face.

“Exactly.” He sighed.

 “So, where’s home?”

“Boston.”

“No way! I live in Back Bay!” she said, jumping a little closer to Paul.

“Really? I didn’t mark you down for a Bostonian. No accent and all,” Paul remarked, not complaining about the decreased space between them.

“Well, I grew up in San Francisco.”

“What? Wait—I did, too!”

Lucy’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Where’d you go to high school?”

“St. Ignatius, you?”

“Oh no,” Lucy said, in a mock grave tone, “I don’t think we can be friends.”

“No! Don’t tell me you went to Sacred Heart!”

“Mortal enemy. I’m sorry. You seemed like a nice guy,” Lucy said, shrugging.

“Hey, since we both have an unendurable amount of time before our flights, wanna grab coffee?” Paul ventured.

“Sure! I just gotta use the loo.”

Lucy left Paul—who was looking more refreshed than ever, but she didn’t go to the bathroom. She walked past it, down a couple of gates, and spied a lone gentleman sporting a Knicks baseball cap.

In her best New Yorker accent, she said, “Hey ‘scuse me, do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all. It’s nice to see another New Yorker.”

“Born and raised,” Lucy said with a smile.

 

 

Christmas Cheer

He sat on a wooden chair in the corner of the dusty bar, the mesh ball of the microphone buried in his woolen beard. Eyes closed, he wasn’t chanting, or singing, or talking, but some ancient blend of the three:
 
Oh I’m miserable
Ding dong ding dong
Hear the Christmas cheer
Baby don’t you fear
I’m still over here
 
Oh the horses
The fences and the fields
Captain Time
Came for me and mine
I’m still toein’ the line
 
No one listened to him, but they couldn’t ignore him either.
 
Oh I’m home
Oh I’m gone
Over here
Over where?

Makes Sense

“Roses are red—“

“—No, they can be yellow and pink and white and—“

“--I’m trying to read you a love poem.”

“Oh, sorry. Go on then.”

“And violets are blue—“

“—wait, aren’t violets, well, violet?’ I mean, If they weren’t, they’d be called ‘blue.’”

“Arrrrgghhhhhhh It’s a goddamn love poem!”

“You haven’t rhymed yet.”

“You haven’t given me a chance to!”

“Oh. Well, go on then.”

“No! You suck!”

“Look, don’t get all bent out of shape. I just think your girlfriend would appreciate a poem that made sense.”

“It was for you, you moron.”

“Oh. Well, go on then.”

fml

Unable to sleep but able to cough. Pitiful petty puffs of smog spew out of his throat at irregular intervals, smothering his chances of decent rest. He’s not unhealthy, or sick in any dire way; he’s merely afflicted with the wimpiest of ailments, one that won’t garner him any respect or sympathy, one that’s impossible to live around, and one that threatens to infect others with ever coerced spurt. The throat, lungs, feel no different after the cough – unlike other healing bodily reflexes this one is entirely useless. So he takes drugs. And he stresses out. And he coughs.

Rainy Afternoon

            Today my being, as sometimes happens, is pushed towards some feat that I cannot formulate. It comes with slow longing, like a tide advancing upon my emotions. It is the rain coming from a sky that does not end, it is the earthworms poking their heads out of the earth. I need to create. Every sentence I have written, every poem I have unburied within myself, finished and unfinished, piles like fertilizer for the molding of something. But I cannot find a pathway anywhere, only a tiny, insistent movement of the air around me. Where would it have me go?

the stranger said to me

i don’t, like, children, see? And I don’t, like, dogs, neither. And when the two get together, on their little muffled paws, and feet, and scurry, I don’t, like, it. T’all. But even worse, is, when jack rabbit, the one who gone smoke them pipes, him, when he, goes, runnin, I pretty much fit to scare I am. I don’t, like, people. You can’t trust, people. And people, they’s animals. And so you can’t, trust, animals neither. Doris she don’t know it but she ain’t a person, she a warthog on a inside, and that’s why we get along fine.

We

“We” cannot be pinned down in a single concept. We, my dear, are a myriad of light particles, and these particles are swallowed almost immediately by the vast, seemingly impermeable emptiness of the cave, but the fact is that the illumination is relentless and perpetual, which suggests the never ending quest of understanding. Even against all odds! Even if they don’t want it, even if no one wants it, we can have it all—the palace, the junkyard, the pool house! WE, my dear, can be the heroes and the damsels in nights of white satin where ecstasy still drops.

Inspired by Hemingway

What are you drinking?

A virgin gin and tonic, she said.

So, just tonic water then?

Yep, she said.

Well, do you want the Bombay? I can go pick some up.  

Yeah, sure. Bombay is smooth, she said.

Where do you want to go for Christmas?

I don’t know, somewhere warm, she said.

I feel it, she said.

What’s that?

I feel it in my bones, she said.

It tastes like dried marigolds and mildew and rosemary, she said.

Don’t say that, it’s just a prick, a puff of air.

Right, she echoed, a pin prick, a tuft of air. 

What The Story Means

            I met an old man.
            “I’ll tell you a story,” he said. “A man in Chicago decided to undertake a daring journey, like Magellan. For eighteen years he prepared by confining himself to the local library. When he had read every piece of paper to be found in the building, he walked outside and did a somersault in the street. Only a lonely crow saw him do it.
            “Now let me tell you what this story means. Do you notice how your shirt is coming untucked on the side?”
            I nodded, tucking it in.
            “That is what the story means.”

Yummy Recipe!

Ingredients:
4 large Characters
2-3 Settings
Details
3 tablespoons Humor
4 cups Social Awareness
2 teaspoons Irony
1 tub of Surprise Sobering Ending
 
In large bowl, mix Characters, Setting, and a sprinkling of Details in no particular order. Add Conflict until the mixture is globby and force it into a deep tray. Add Humor, Social Awareness, Irony and stir into interesting patterns. Put it into an oven and let it bake for a while. When it is ready, pull it out and smear on a layer of Surprise Sobering Ending. Eat while hot, and enjoy your Subtle Literary Message!

Haircute

At precisely 2:36pm on Saturday afternoon, Tarah decided to chop off 10 inches of  her hair. She debated on whether to use the wavy-edged craft scissors just to be facetious, but decided on her mother’s cute but very sharp sewing scissors. Maybe she should’ve gotten it done properly at a salon, but it wouldn’t have been as cathartic. What remained was a severe line that came down just past her ears with a couple of untameable wisps  (as usual). No longer the long flowy locks, but the edgy, shiny mane. She looked at her handiwork in the mirror and growled. 

Truth

Music is emotion not thought.

Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass Bass.