No Lights, No Cameras, No Action November 29, 2009
Posted by David in Fiction.add a comment
[This story is loosely based on the life of a friend of mine who decided she’d had enough. Even the abstract quality is fictional. Much of her depth was and remains partially concealed.]
Stained plastic containers with worn out snap on lids are fine for thumb tacks or extra change, but not the stuff of which your dreams are made. Your thoughts will lie listless in the bottom of that leaky vessel, afraid to look over the rail at the wettest of seas. The sea is everyone else, society, the recipe. You are a sponge, your absorbency tested every day.
Plans used to be made almost entirely from woven grasses, wood and animal hides. Animal hides. Now they are made from plastic and metal, perhaps burnished teak with gold hinges. Gold hinges. Plans are lists: underwear, socks, skirt and blouse; smiles, nods and waves. And waves.
God is in the sky. He used to live in the earth and the antelope, but he has been promoted. This is only right. God should not be made to languish at eye level. Every ten seconds his mind encompasses ours making sure we’re on the right track. If not, he withdraws his favor from us; our plans unravel. The sea is stormy. (more…)
In Response to Hearing that Barbara Cartland has a Cache of Unpublished Books: 090109 November 17, 2009
Posted by David in Fiction.add a comment
[Barbara Cartland was a wildly successful and prolific author of 20th century romance novels. In 2004, four years after her death, a cache of 160 unpublished novels by Cartland were found.]
Barbara took another, more appraising look at Bill. With the knowledge that he was an Internet tycoon, she saw an opportunity to extend her influence over the living. His long blond hair seemed to float over the rugged expanse of his back. Barbara leaned closer to the glass which separated them. Feeling a sudden chill, Bill looked up from his linguine Alfredo to peer without success through the window at the brooding darkness of the Olive Garden’s parking lot. Conveniently located just off the interstate, he often ate there. With a series of quick movements, all related to shoveling vast quantities of food into his gullet, he managed to break the heart of the recently risen Barbara. She was, of course, quite unaware of her own appearance. Straightening her head, she glided through the dark back to the Internet cafe’ to continue her research.
A Perfect Pause November 17, 2009
Posted by Flo in Poetry.add a comment
On one side, the stars still sparkle through that
heavy dark carpet of space.
On the other, the sky waits
for that tiny orange orb to surface.
In the middle, black meets smears of color.
This is why I get up in darkness, my weary body stretching
until my fingers touch that thin silver button
stopping that country song in the middle of a word.
As the orb jumps higher,
it changes from the deepest red to the palest yellow.
With each step I take, that blurry line between dark and light
moves further and further west, pushing those stars
into storage for the next.
This is why I climb quietly down the towering bed
with no light to guide me, quickly throwing clothes
on in the hope that they will somehow shield the biting wind.
Then the sky is wiped clean
of all color until only every shade of blue is left.
Every shade of blue, the clouds of my breath,
and that pale bowl of fire fill the top half of the world.
But just for now.
This is why I tangle that long web of laces to secure my feet
and lengthen my coiled muscles to prepare them for
what is to come.
Only steps, breaths, and gazes. That is all that is
important. My feet, my mouth, my eyes. That is
all I need in this moment. In this perfect pause of each day.
With only the sound of the sunrise to hear.
This is why I run.
The Tumor November 17, 2009
Posted by Lportz in Poetry.add a comment
I don’t know
If it’s literal basketball size.
Inflated in a year,
A circle ending his life cycle:
Baby being held
Father delivering milk bottles
Withered man in a chair
Too deep to get up from,
Where his basketball is punctured
Taking with it all the air
From underneath his skin
Vacuuming him out.
My grandpa will never trap me again
And say ‘I gotcha,’ ‘I gotcha’ until
I break free of his strength, his strength
Is broken with his body,
And when I shake his hand
I don’t shake it, it’s already shaking
Even when he eats his favorite cherry pie.
His hand is a plane fighting turbulence
On a sunny, cloudless day,
The cramped seats stifling
The room, uncomfortable,
Even when the shades are shut.
Worship November 10, 2009
Posted by David in Poetry.add a comment
Let my description wilt
familiar words appear
vague in your arms
let my definition remain
where it started
lips parting
goose bumps
rise in explanation
saddened by your charm
is this the gift?
the moon eclipsed
its evocation still
as dream’s residue
ars petalica November 10, 2009
Posted by David in Poetry.add a comment
I
the mule is loose in the garden again
while my uncle’s breath fogs window panes
his right hand creeps across the land
throttling poems in their earthen beds
II
uncle rubs his brow trying to recall
when fingers decided to count themselves
why tired tulips their stems turned around
release their petals sighing to the ground
III
his rumored left hand dreams of lost at sea
displacing desire the tide falls asleep
and the quarter deck of that mossy ship
where neighbors’ hearts wander darkened charts
sails vacant in the breeze
of no moment November 10, 2009
Posted by David in Poetry.add a comment
how can I explain
water is not base
though its limits
wear
at the edges of
all it touches
leaving fewer traces
than my desire
sleep
the thief takes
even the smallest
leaves
the trees
have no use
for their branches
Flo
David
Lportz
tide: break break break 