Saturday, October 21, 2017

Was this who she was?

Why must the mountain loom, in the window of her room? Fore and aft in all her thoughts?

Sweet black tea and too much cream slid silken past pale, frowning lips and down her scratching throat. Smooth synthetic fabric tickled the tops of her pink knees.

Eventually Samantha realized how much she shook. The teenage girl sat heavily on the goldenrod folds of her unmade bed.

Cartoon bees traced elegant curlicues between daisies and daffodils on her rayon robe. Plastic vines and dim christmas lights hung in shallow waves, interconnecting the multitude of smiling photographs and sun faded posters.

Still there it stood, framed within her only window, that terrible cragged peak. Still there it lay, the odd poem in her tangerine glittering dream journal, written in crabbed script.

Colossus, north and west
Waiting beyond
patience, past, and rest.
Movement of fire,
slow. Breaking perception and scale.
Glacial, molten, motile, unchain’d.
Movement of fire,
ash and groaning stone.
Stone and glacial flame.

Sammie told Todd she was going out for some exercise. Short green cotton shorts and a faded gray sweatshirt quietly confirmed her lies.

“Call your mom if you’re gonna be late.” 

His words did not follow her out the door. Sammie’s phone was under an orange towel, dead on the bathroom counter anyway.

She did not remember how she came to be there as she started up a steep dirt road, far from home. Cold wind whipped across her long legs and stole the sweat from her brow. Soon enough the angry fire of her ascent soon washed the dry winds’ discomfort from Sammie’s surreal awareness.

The rest of the trek became little more than unpleasant flashes:

Taupe colored mud on her lips and gritty water in her mouth.
Sand colored stones slowly giving way to rust and black basalt.
Flora losing the green punctuation of juniper, turning to leafless gray scrub oak.
Branches scratching at her hands as she climbed ever higher.

Somehow it all intermingled with distant memories of Todd. Times he was drunk and they were alone.

He used to insist she sit on his lap:
Hot pressure in her neck when she relented.
The scared jittering in her ribs.
The terrible weight of his rough fingers lightly resting along her thighs.
And More:
A memory relived of Dan stealing a kiss Sammie did not wish to give.
The slap of Jenna’s fingers against her face in return.
The weeks of lonely lunches thereafter.

Sammie squatted with feral strength on the volcano’s naked southern face. Her skin was abraded and bleeding, blood becoming mud in the incessant scouring winds.

Deep with her aching bones, deep within the mountain’s ancient bowels, she felt slow crushing movement. She knew the insistent joy of glacial flames.

Sammie in futurity did see; the false town beneath her suffocated in caustic ash.

She smelled the brimstone caress of burning flesh. The dead-eyed smiles of cashiers choked away in sudden black skies. Church steeples burning unseen, dry distilled and rendered unto crumbling charcoal crosses. Fake laughter and undeserved apologies dying on ten thousand lips…

Sammie laughed through clenched teeth and tears. Stones jittered underneath her blistered feet.


Monday, September 18, 2017

sugar of lead, in my tea
realgar red, crystals pressed
in talisman against my chest.
plutonic bronze,
the blade with which I shave,
so carefully, so rarely.

still though, thin skin, was bled.
a cold, grey ghost
in a cold grey room

not else

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Your skin is formed from cells commiting suicide and in the process filling with keratin. The world would tear you apart if you weren't continously killing pieces of yourself.

Monday, July 24, 2017

imaginary lights

 I wanted to imagine, the lights flowing across these three faces in dark rooms held some significance.
Chet on sporting forums, bold blues and lost yellow draping languid against his skin. Ironic, this muddied against melanogenic responses to solar bombardment.
Cindy’s pale grey face lit with thin white text against black backgrounds. Distorted skeletons of poesy dance in teary eyes.
Across Carrol’s shining black eyebrows, green highlights flit. Rapid green text evolves against a black background.
But, I mean, really?

A kaleidoscope of vacillating colors vary across their faces and screens. Some come from the aesthetics of aquaintences, of strangers. Some are broadly constructed to sell objects and ideas. Some are simply the misbent accidents tired fingers.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

The void is not infinite.
Possibility expands at the fastest possible speed. Functionally infinite, the cosmos will never grow beyond, cannot be unaccounted.
Vast potential, most of which remains, and ever more and more, is nothing.
Stillness and iterative possibility dance at a distance: like in junior high, and exactly as telling.
The void automatic devoided of meaning. It is all and every thing: mostly nothing though.
It is the absurdity of our lives on a hurtling rock headed nowhere. Trapped not just by the gravity-well, but we bedrape ourselves in chains, and a cumulative weight of empty smiles.
It is everything and nothing because nothing inherent holds importance. The incomprehensible vastness of all: hold commiserate the smallness of our existence.

The absurdity || and remarkableness thereof.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Nervously he straightened his long yellow tie. Dim comfort flushed in silk across his fingertips.

It wasn’t fair. He hated these things. He hated his mistress.

Larry hated the very notion that he might lose her. He owed her everything.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!!

The word ranged across his mind; volume and mass oscillated, but the trend was upward.
It wouldn’t be long. He knew. All these loud men, that smorgasbord of grey and black suits, sooner or later they would do it.

“Well, WHIP ‘Em OUT! Come on boys!” yelled that soused shit-mouth, Greg Gibson.

Larry could not fucking stand Greg. He hated the loud fuck, no doubt. More than that though, Larry hated how beet red his face was getting.

Clarkson already had his monster out. The mass of the thing…

Soon, Larry was pressed on all sides. Tentacles and liquid shadows brushed against cold glowing chitinous exoskeletons, and so much more besides.

When the cages were torn wide open, when the slaves scattered across Mr. Callister’s garden, only then did Larry assume his immortal form.

Larry and his almost nice suit, his sagging skin, that ugly blob of a nose, immolated from within. In his place, floated a seahorse like creature built out of flame, shame, and self loathing.  

At least the slaughter was satisfying, sort of.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Rochelle and the Widow Mrs. Gardens

Another day, another dollar. Oh shit, overtime. Dollar and a half.

The rough bricks bite into my ass, but that hurts a lot less than my fucking feet. Smoke slips pointedly down my throat, relief.

I put the one-hitter away, and light an actual cigarette. Stupid fucking ruse has me smoking again. Oh well. It’s not forever. Fuck, I hope it’s not forever.

Try to remember, I try to remember… did I get to the peas or the green beans. Peas and it’s just two more shelves before I slide into the lazy half of the shift. Fucking green beans, 8 more shelves to stock and rotate.

Fuck I want this shift to be over.

Wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to walk. God I miss that car. Worth it, hard to remember, but it was worth it.

Oh no. Champaign fucking pink, goddamned auto-car. Mrs. Gardens! oh fuuuck. There goes my whole fucking day. There’s no fucking way she could get here alone without the fucking thing. I hate that fucking car. Haaaate.

God I miss mine. Riding dirty in the sunshine, careless and in between, safe and…

“Afternoon, Ralph,” she said shakily.

I bite back my tongue, and say, “No ma’am, Ralph’s not here anymore. I’m Rochelle. Remember?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. You look just like him, dear. That’s good. He was too pretty to be a boy.”

I die a little. My half cigarette falls amongst many others, plus that crushed purple bottle cap, and the dime some dick glued to the sidewalk.

Slowly, so slowly, we walk towards the sun washed automatic door. An air conditioned zephyr seems to revive her. She tells me, “It’s canned goods today.”

It usually is.

She has time to tell a cute story about her grandbabies. We walk. She has time to tell me a mildly racist story about her accountant at a cocktail party, again. 

This time, punctuated with a casual, “Oh, he died.”

Eventually, we make it to the canned goods aisle. And there it fucking sits:
my cart, stacked high with family sized cans of green beans
and my will to live pooling out onto the floor

“Oh no. Ralph, we forgot to get a basket!”