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KnifeRemember that little human
boy who couldn't read aloud -
who couldn't hold a pen
because his slick corn oil skin
kept sliding past itself?
Boy, oh, boy.
And he was born a hundred
years too late for his cowboy
dreams. He rides herd on the
maybes and the somedays.
He sang a knife song - one
that sliced up the rigid spines
of teachers and parents alike
and parted them before him
like God-spoken seas.
Deft elision somewhere between
his teeth and tongue, lyrical, his
words in other men's mouths.
Knife song honed with lime,
polished with manteca.
Mocking SkyThe Texas winter mocks
with dust instead of snow
and bare mesquite to testify with thorns
against a shred of weakness.
The Texas winter gusts
fiercely from the south -
grit on lips, in eyes, on tongues that wonder
where the deer drink.
The Texas winter sinks
in rust and blood and peaches
beneath the horizon. Sweetly, sweetly,
she sips the clouds.
The Texas winter clothes herself in cicada song,
and all the stars applaud.
larksongbirds and grackles
wringing meaning from white
fall to silence
When our wings intertwined
and I fell into your music –
(It flowed like a trance and
dampened my skin with droplets, pianissimo) –
I could have lost myself
in your sonata storm
and let my chitinous scales wash away.
I knew even then
those strings held you bound
in ways I never could.
Lest we forget
In Flanders' fields, the poppies blow,
and we who walk among them know
that here men fought, and bravely died
with equal courage, side by side;
the lark has overcome the crow.
We touch the Dead in memory –
embrace them through the century.
The earth enshrines their valiant hearts
in Flanders' fields.
The torch has guttered years ago;
the enemy has been laid low.
And though your names should slowly fade,
your blood a better world has made.
Rest you now where the poppies grow
in Flanders' fields.
Of treesDeep ghost-groves of freckled aspen
burn white beneath the winter sun,
whisper hoary adulation,
canticles for the Holy One.
And in the trees, the spirits dance
betwixt the motes of starry snow
illuminated by the lance
of lightning flash and candle glow.
All lights within this place combine,
reflect in splendour, white on white,
and mingle in a trance sublime
that breathes in peace through winter night.
The lofty heads of stately pine
rear up and brush the lowered sky
as if they could, by straightened spine,
so please the God who built them high.
Their incense needles, fragrant, fall
in silence to the chapel floor
and still above, they shade the hall
where ghosts who come by night adore.
Black on black, and brown by green,
create a hush bereft of light
where one may linger safe, unseen,
and sleep in peace through winter night.
Insert Title _1We, the petty,
we, the bourgeois,
poring over mirrors of reflected, collected verse,
only we could drown
in the shallow pools of our own desires.
Self-worth and efficacy distort, distend,
Our longing sighs inflate
gauzy bladders, diaphanous,
and we fancy them substantial because they are large -
(We say much the same of our philanthropy.)
- seeking no synonyms,
though "bloated" comes to mind.
A pseudonym can shelter
the sodden intellect, emaciated,
denigrated by false modesties.
How deep, the brainy poet
who breathes his own despite
behind alabaster walls,
sherry perched atop whalebone fingers,
sloshing like the contents of his skull.
SacrificeYou are gone
but I remain
alone and mourning
I would devour the earth
I would drink the seas dry
I would burn the sky
and boil all human tears to nothing
I would put out the stars
I would spit on the sun
and salt my wounded eyes
to touch your hand once more.
But I am a servant
a child of dust
with no power to touch the sky.
So I will touch my heart instead
and since you cannot come back to me,
I will go to you, my hope
touch my heart and still it,
and I will come to you.
it strikes me
that this woman
could be a palace.
I marvel at
the opulent dome of
her brow, her arch
skin like a courtyard of
a thousand intersecting
golden lines about her
head and neck.
she beams from atop her
beatific and beautiful,
spreads her arms like
invites you to be one of
who have wandered her
I’ve often thought
as a castle:
all rough-hewn stone
a temper like molten
my head is crowned
at the crenels.
I look out from my
guerites, my brattices,
eyes like arrow-slits
and a murder-hole
for a mouth.
I wouldn’t blame you
for choosing her
for regarding my fortress
as too daunting,
for deciding easy acceptance
better befit you
than proving your worth—
I could forgive you
for being a coward.
but you swam the moat,
killed the guards,
scaled the battlements,
demolished my fortifications—
Fire, Water, Air, EarthI once worshiped a fire god,
a man who wrapped himself in
flames and brimstone armor.
I burned myself trying to touch his heart.
He loomed above me and
no matter how high I reached
I was only grasping smoke.
I once worshiped a water spirit,
a man so elusive, running his own
course, even when it ran away from me.
His heart ran through my fingers.
He was cool to the touch, as
refreshing as rain, and cleansed me
for the brief time he allowed me
to swim in his pond.
I once worshiped a djinn,
a man of the air, whom I never saw
or touched, only felt in my lungs.
He sustained me, kept my own heart
beating, though I did nothing for him.
When he vanished the air left
my lungs in a rush, and I was
I have found now a mountain,
a man of the earth, unshakeable,
steadfast, a constant figure
on my internal landscape.
His heart is made of loam, a fertile ground,
and I revel in it. Together we grow
a garden in the mountains,
above the world, and we live like angels.
Moon-spun mothsPerched in your throat,
it is like a prayer;
against your palms,
soft as a secret
in the womb.
How weightless we are
under the tender moon
in this enchanted twilight.
Conversation"I am driving in a Hummer. I am on a two lane highway. I was listening to Counting Crows before panic threatened to cut off my air supply. Air supply is a band. I have no idea what they sing. I'm pretty sure they were a clue on Jeopardy once. I…I…have to pull over so I can breathe."
Omar put on his blinker and steered the over-compensation-mobile to the shoulder of the road. He fumbled with the lock on the door and his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest when he tried to get out of the car and couldn't. Seatbelt. It was just the seatbelt. His hands were slick with cold sweat by the time the belt whizzed cheerfully back into its place and he managed to slide out onto the shoulder of the road.
He was glad it was so late and glad that the highway was so deserted. He was trembling so hard that the change in his pockets rattled and he never would have been able to speak if someone had pulled up and offered to help. He hated for people to witness his panic.
Marie AntoinetteMarie Antoinette
They gave me shoes, velvet heels that spun like windmills,
dribbles of satin, laces gossamer as imagined spider threads.
They designed me shoes to be orchids, bees drowsed around my feet. I give them names.
But they took my language, words shaped in my own tongue,
familiar as milk and bed.
The language they gave me, I never exactly knew what the words meant.
I pouted, smiled, fluttered my eyelashes until they were hummingbirds.
They murmured of people starving, bakeries hollow of flour,
echoes of the rights of the man. But they said not to worry. Silly things.
So we dressed as shepherdess, lambs washed until they were pillows.
Our crooks hooked the sun. They gave me extravagant pastries,
almond, cherry palaces in my mouth. I could not shape the names.
Then they showed me the cards that were circulating of me, the crowds howled when they saw them.
My face was a false moon on some other body.
This body was on all fours, someone thrusting inside into it.
I heard other wor
PhysicsYou always loved your calculations.
"It is positively evident," you declared, "that the universe is made of minuscular, vibrating strings."
So, E's, and A's, D's, and G's whirring about inconspicuously are what create the framework of those chocolate eyes?
I never could quite comprehend everything.
When I six, and going through that obnoxious stage where kids need constant self-assurance, I asked you if we'd be friends forever. I remember we were making paper handcuff chains. We were playing Pretend Prisoners.
You took your fresh, safety-scissors quality-cut strip of paper and folded it and taped it. It looked like a halo.
You pushed it across the craft table towards me.
Perplexed, maybe it was my frown that cued you to translate your logic.
"It's a Möbius Strip," you claimed. "If we were as small as ants, and walked along it forever, we walk both sides without touching any boundaries. That is our friendship."
One day, we were eating Chinese takeout together at one of your messy g
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,
swollen around the words she never said;
dark rings around her eyes
like planets unremembered, and
a staleness to her touch,
the crystalline Dead Sea.
she's living like a story
that's already been told
"if no one loved you
would you mean anything at all?"
in that moment,
we forget to exist.
Saving Blurburry7:25 A.M.
MONDAY, JULY 25TH
LOGIN SUCCESSFUL. WELCOME BACK, DUMA.
CONTINUE STAR SWEEP?
NEW STAR CHARTED.
NAME NEW STAR?
ACCEPT NAME: BLURBURRY?
STAR NAME ACCEPTED. CONGRATULATIONS.
UNKNOWN (7:55 AM): 07ga;hadgn;a132
UNKNOWN (7:59 AM): a;jgadn;47a;gdanns
UNKNOWN (8:08 AM): he00853llo
DUMA (8:25 AM): Who is this?
UNKNOWN (8:34 AM): hello, lady
DUMA (8:36 AM): No, really--who is this?
UNKNOWN (8:40 AM): i come in peace?
DUMA (8:43 AM): OMG seriously? Dr. Cortal told you guys to leave me alone.
UNKNOWN (8:48 AM): let me take you to my leader?
DUMA (8:57 AM): Get lost, jerk.
MESSAGES DELETED; NUMBER BLOCKED
I'm going to tell you a lie““I’m going to tell you a lie.”
That was the first thing he said to me. I don’t know why he outright told me he was going to lie to me. Isn’t that the point of lying? To deceive the person you’re lying to into thinking that what they’re saying is the truth?
“You’re going to accept the fact I’ve told you a lie. You’re going to internalize the lie at face value--accept it for what it is. Accept that you can’t trust me.” He leaned into his words, spitting them out across the room at me. “Once you do that, we can continue with the exercise.”
Anxiety bubbled up in my blood, starting down at my feet and rushing its way up to my head, sweeping the rest of my fluids with it. The world tore itself in half, then sewed itself back together as I attempted to stand.
The doctor didn't like that. “No no no,” he puffed, jumping up from his chair onto wiry chicken’s legs and bounding over t
NothingI used to be lightning.
Power surged beneath my skin,
and in the silence, I heard myself thrum.
I used to be fire.
I burned bright inside, stellar lungs,
and in the cold, I sang myself warm.
Still and dark.
My stone sinews crack.
I am vacuum, deep void of space.
Asteroid dust, floating.
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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