Her eyes wide and crisp,
Brighten in the sunlight
And a hat, lilac-colored,
And bundled around her
The bulb shining with thought.
Look closely
And her head is dizzying
There is so much! To look at.
Look then to her father
How pride barrels
Itself around his chest,
Here, too, vim the heart
Sings.
And even more
Her tiny hand forms a fist,
And then like petals,
Her fingers unfurl, grasp
At the delicate things,
poppies, hibiscus, iris
And her eyes dart about,
Settle on the colors.
At the start, this is all we do,
There yellow there blue.
A shift happens
That is, things slightly
Askew, I ask you,
Whered you find
the time? In minutiae
it begins. Akin
to a thin shaft of bright;
light slipping through the
slats in the blinds or the
knock knock of the rain
when it comes with
its tiny silver feet shrouded
in sheets and then there is the slightest
Nod forward toward silence,
The warmth tunneling into
The pits of our stomachs;
Cold air.
We may be still
As solidly fragile as the frozen lake.
As the dog-whelk, the porkweed,
As the icicles stem.
The winters still beating.
But still we may try,
There is still laughter,
S
Eat it and well let you up.
No.
You have to or you cant come up.
Its just stupid water with leaves and pine needles.
Well thats the magic potion people have to drink in order to enter through the gates. If they die after they eat it, it means they werent strong enough.
Im not going to.
Suit yourself. Just dont ask if you can play in the tree-house again.
Whether we fess up to it or not, much of how we act relies on camaraderie, Neil boomed to the class of young soldiers.
Neil, down to the very grains from which he was comprised, grains as Germanic and calculating as science itself
There was no sun but the wind
Carried the morning on her back
And came in through the window.
I was lying
Smiling, and then I half-opened
A lazy-lidded eye to see you
Smiling, too.
It would have been too difficult
To explain why I was when you asked.
If Id said, for examples sake, go-carts,
Bruno the Brazilian, high-moused helium
Voices, said Birthday or Balloons,
To say I arrived at the smile through
Naming conventions, the first name,
then the last to say, while lying there,
I was smiling about the waspy flavor
of your last name. And then swelled
back into exoticism, hence Bruno.
Anything other
First let me tell you about the chiggers. That they are insect larvae invisible to the naked eye. That they feed on animal and human flesh, when they can find it. That they live in low-lying swampy areas, in woodlands and along streambeds. That the only way you know youve been bitten by a chigger, aside from avoiding damp areas all together, is when red bumps appear at the point of contact. That these bumps itch worse than a mosquito bite, worse even than poison ivy is a sure sign.
Now, let me tell you about Jake. Jake lived in the room next door at McKalney He had my old room from junior year with two big windows and a Chinese room
There she was. Sitting on the flotsam all the brush and tinder the mighty Pacific had taken in its throes and then retched up back along the shoreline in a bundle of thatch, plastic bags, soda cans and all slick as an oil-slicked branch, and smelling of salt. Seaweed pooled in bunches and tanned itself up, then crackled and blew away with the breezes. She didnt seem to mind the wreckage, but just sat there, looking at each wave crashing its energy against the sand, and then swallowing back pieces of the earth. Therese stared out beyond the breaking, and her eyes misted up, almost imperceptibly.
We didnt speak for what se
A Lesson in Stones
After the boys mother died, the man drove the boy to a place on the banks of the Wallkill River to skip stones. At this spot, the riverbank was low to the edge of the water and not steep. The boy turned nine three weeks before and the boys mother died two weeks before that. The man knew she was going to, and it is likely the boy also knew. They did not talk about it. Now it was just him and the boy. The man felt a deep welling up inside of him. He did not know what to call it, but it connected with the water. Fear, maybe.
Its important to look for stones that are flat and circular, Eli told the boy. This
She said
sometimes
it feels like
giant bags
of sand are tied
to my wrists
and ankles.
At the dinner,
We drew straws
To figure whod
Sit next to her,
Whod listen,
One ear glued
To the floor
For a sound
Of a train,
Its unbearable
Whistle plowing
Down the tracks.
Whod listen
To the gloom
Of the sloth,
Pitying itself.
The weight
Like sandbags.
No, like shovels
Digging, deeper,
Deeper, where
What wed used
In the past for
Ballast, became
Crutches,
And then
Soon, cross.
Sorbet, being made with more sugar, less cream
And fruits: oranges, mangos, bananas
(the parrot to the thrush)
containing qualities worthy of melt.
Scientists take core samples. The earth,
Is warming. There is no doubt.
There is talk that looses the tongue
From its taste buds. The way of eyesight.
(Once bitter is now lessened.
Sweetness mitigated as if offense.)
There are still orangutans
Throbbing in the forests.
They eat bananas and sugarcane,
And sometimes, the green rind of the mango
Appears bursting oblong
Out of the bush.
If we worry, we worry about disappearances.
About speech, the loss of the tongue
Your juice is a cacao pod
Strained through a sieve
Into that giddy soporific
Of childhood
Those multi-colored sugar
Stick that stain my tastebuds,
Seeping into its capillaries,
And turning my tongue
Into flower petals Ill use
To play, he loves me,
He love me not.
Your nectar is the elixir
For the honeybees swarm,
Dancing with their knees
Brimming with pollen,
And all sorts of other spells.
Which brings this topic to witches,
Which I did not care to bring up
But now that were talking
About boiled toads and frog princes,
Of poison apples and old wives tales.
Yes, and a superst
The world stopped once for me by pearlingrain, literature
Literature
The world stopped once for me
"When it rains, the world just stops." –Kaity Judson
The world stopped once for me and once for her. No.
Wait, it stopped twice for the both of us.
I was born from the first little death.
It hadn't rained for days, but the way
they tell it, it was like someone had stopped up
the heavens' washbasin and all that water
pearled through the air aching to drown you.
That was the first time my father had seen my mother cry.
She said the air was so heavy even the birdsongs stopped.
They had danced in the nighttime.
Someone mentioned something about how it was hard to breathe.
They told me she used to smile more back then.
That w
A male friend charted a map when we were younger and being a Christian
Mt. Jesus was the highest peak on the colored paper. But, being a male and crushing
at the time, he placed me right below Mt. Jesus, at elevation 37,321 naming this peak, Mt. Jesslyn
my given name
given by my father.
The notion of him placing me / claiming me
Leaves
Rotten worms in my mouth, it
Leaves curdled milk in my breasts
Leaves rancid honey between my legs.
When the first explorers came to the rivers they charted them / claimed them
Hudson, Lehigh, Wallkill and there
The birdsongs slowly fade.
The rivers turn to sludge pits.
The black walnut tree
My kitten used to be mean,
but now when I pet her
she purrs. I think
she's pretty nice,
a nice kitten, tortise-shell. I mean,
she's nicer after
petting her. I think
I'll take her for a walk.
I saw a rosebush.
The buds were light pink, almost white!
Pink is my favorite color.
I touched it. It pricked me.
I like the rosebushes,
But not the thorns!
Thorns hurt!
There was a snake hiding
In the stone wall.
The sun was out when I saw the snake.
He was thickly coiled
bathing on one of the flat rocks – glistening.
But my kitten and I stepped too close to him! He slithered into
His rock home by the rosebush.
It was a prett
Through bedroom windows by pearlingrain, literature
Literature
Through bedroom windows
It rains.
Études stem from the lilac bulbs, incandescent
in the dark – flash bulbs outside of
half-drawn, lazy windows.
Untethered fireflies.
Purple fireworks
shatter the green mist that hovers;
that kisses leaves and other greens with silver lips;
a nocturned lover composing the earth.
Grafitti artist.
I climb
through bedroom windows
like a bee from the hive who flirts to pollinate –drunk from
sweet burdens that couple the making of that sticky love/mix.
In response to your questions by pearlingrain, literature
Literature
In response to your questions
an intellectual love, a sensual love, a moment when you want to just scream at the intensity of an awkward silence love, unconsummated. the best kind.
you were not informed because i keep my loves in jars, separated. works best that way. no offense to yours dahling.
enjoy the sox game. sleep naked. you'll get over being alone more quickly that way. realize also that now you can stretch out diagonally or perpendicularly to the normal mode of sleeping and achieve bliss. plus you can switch sides to get the cooler sides of the sheets. many benefits to sleeping alone.
perhaps to philadephia for my 21st, i'm getting a tattoo, my parents are f
The Town that Knew Too Much by pearlingrain, literature
Literature
The Town that Knew Too Much
The Town that Knew Too Much and Nothing at All
August Winterson hated Sunday mornings so it came as no surprise to the citizens of Morrisville, who claimed with their infinite aptitude for gossip to know everything about everyone, when he shot himself on the Sunday two weeks before Easter. Of course each had his own reason why. The fact that the article sprawled itself out on pages one through three of the Morrisville Daily Journal was the most shocking part of all.
The obituary read as follows:
August Winterson, beloved husband, father and son passed away this past Sunday. He is survived by his wife and two sons. He was 47.
An isolated, winding gimbal floats along
The medium between my lips and your ears—
A tidy pouch
That clutches every thingness in a beaker
And distills it to comprehension—bare minimum,
Square root of Singularity,
Strong like a newborn's headbutt,
As typical as José or Steve, Haruko or Kristin(a).
Ripe, merciless overcoats of crushed purple velvet
Find their way to me
In a bargain-priced thrift store.
They carry faces, names.
Intricate carvings—stones, shells—set in relief on
Technology as old as pants—buttons, Cameos.
Style à la mode.
Cameo is a nice name for a girl.
Annelise Tomoē is what I'll name my daughter,
If I
Stephanie: great email. i love everything about it
me: haha. it's not supposed to be loved
Stephanie: i think everything is supposed to be loved ;)
me: oh wow. i see you've started on the pot
Stephanie: hahahah....actually it's more of a Molly statement. She was in love with so many people and things...that I was trying to see if I felt that way...and sometimes…as in the email...i do and have learned you can love a lot more than you thought…and it doesn't have to be only specific people...I can "love" Andy for example, but not like we normally think...instead I could love him for his conversation, but not necessarily be in lo
When the sun descends deeper into the horizon, shading the fields and lakes with a certain richness reserved only for an hour out of the day, we call it twilight. It was not twilight when James stood in the middle of the frozen lake. He stood there quietly and without thinking. The sky was peppered with multi-hued skeins of gray, and whatever light shown through appeared already tired. James pulled his skullcap down over his ears. Then, his hands found their way into his jacket pockets. He kicked a tuft of snow into the air in from of him and watched it disappear back to the ground. James glanced out across the barren lake and over to a
The passing of a friend from a segment of one's life and onto the next segment of life contains a period following this passing very much akin to the grieving period after the finite loss of a loved one. While one may see this friend again in the future, the experiences one has shared with this friend during a particular segment of life can never be revisited no matter how much one yearns to revisit them. This is what engenders the mourning period, and as such, it is not so far-fetched to understand how the passing of a friend out of one's life experiences contains emotions similar to the physical death of that friend. Indeed, the friend n