Brand "X" , and ACME, poems and stories. Surreal, sappy, funny, horrific, and human.
There was a man who loved his daughter. Not unusual, but this particular man was not very good at showing emotion, and thought that people would know, by his actions, how he felt. He knew that this made them needy at times, and he blamed himself for it, but still he could not open up.... Continue Reading →
A good way to feel. A good way to be. From Carol Hopkins.
Is God trying to reach me? I don’t know if there have been divine signs or if it’s my natural proclivity to be drawn to people in need, but I have been noticing more often than usual the stories of hardship, homelessness, poverty, and hunger – and not only the physical, but the spiritual as well. Yesterday I was one of many listening to a presentation from a local organization that is doing its best to face the twin challenges of homelessness and mental illness. Last night I chanced to watch a documentary on television called, “God knows where I am” about a homeless woman who starved to death due to mental illness that prevented her from reaching out for help.
I want to help people. But I have no idea how to do so. So, I write it out. To hold all the pain I perceive in others is…
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This paean of adulation and hope from The Feathered Sleep
Sun filigreed through high tree lines
Touching our chosen space with bright finger tips
We swing, irregular rhythm, sometimes your momentum, sometimes mine
I watch you point your toes and know
It is hard to remain calm, not to act upon
Desires bound by respect and difference
You are a forest nymph, a hummingbird
You are a nayad of the lake, your honey my want
I imagine holding your bottom lip lightly with my teeth
Graze your unapproachable grace with whispering touch
Green water is still and birds sound from high
I hear it all
And only the gentle deep of your voice
How you move your mouth
The tilt of your long elegant neck
Sunlight turning your skin into caramel
Picks out the rushing river of your eyes
Glances off the high wistfulness of your cheeks
Your thin tshirt a wrapper, I long to pull toward me
Your fingers…
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I skirt the singularity of sleep. In a wide ellipse, I ride alone on her stony moon. I reach I wave I cry My hands I wring These things, they move her not. Overtures from the great pretender.
Awakes, he does, in the foldable bed. Swims to the surface, breaks water. Beats the living daylights out of whatever it was they gave him. Geez, maybe it's been a long time, he thinks. The daylight smarts his eyes. There's a vague smell of stale urine. Pupils adjust, and he sees the sea-green serenity of... Continue Reading →
At the sudsy soapy sink I think, with hands that have a care. Wrinkled fingers, rosy pink, would rather be elsewhere. That eggy fork with yolky tines needs scrubbing carefully. I'm thinking more of valentines, and Christmases to be. The curvature of salad bowls, the roundness of a spoon. They summon back,... Continue Reading →
Funny....I knew this kid too. What a great piece from The Stories in Between.
I've been in this bed for too long. Please don't let me go like Charlie. My friend Charlie. He got bad cancer and was in a bed for months. I made the visits when I could, bringing his favorite contraband. His chewing tobacco and a couple cans of Molson's in a cold pack. Charlie started... Continue Reading →
There's a mirror on my dresser. The kind that folds. Each night, as I sit on sleep's edge, I cast a covert glance to a conscience that looks back at me. On any night, I might see what age and regret have done. Or, there may be the saving grace of a wistful smile. Remembrance... Continue Reading →
Had time for some selective reading tonight, but I’m glad to have come across this one from “The Used Life”
the day’s a stale word
the kind that’s afraid of
an honest mouth
(a thing so
strangely made)
a conversation like
a broken arrow, busted wind
and a tree of fire, death at
the roots of the all the palms,
and a half-flung syllable
that punches like an empty fist
i don’t know about you but
i’m tired of empty talk
the kind that slips
off your shoulders
like a saggy dress
or a squirt of
old perfume
jargon and
buzzwords and
attack words and
the kind that make the day
kick over like a bad news story
or a pundit with an ugly sweater
every Sunday’s a lazy quatrain
the clouds are meaty pink and
the air’s spilled milk and
all the tables are empty
and the porch sitters are
strumming bare guitars ‘cause
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AreMyFeetOffTheGround 