We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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Machine WindWind tip-tapping againststeel pipesdesperate to attract attention, off desolate rooftops where there's no blue skiesbut the lingering pollution of yesterday's work. The wind infers longing, where they once worked, sweeping each corner in search of their presenceor past existence, a distance too farof just what happened and why now absent.Still tipping and raising the alarm, there must be someone there-a twisted gust takes one more lap of hope. no more than hope.
Walking with a ToddlerSlow he may be, plodding gentle histiny legs. Each stick is a newexploration three steps toanother. “come on” you shout as he trots overgravel laughing delighted at the crunch-crunchbeneath his feetand thereand back again. A dog bounds by, so much energy thatit sparks fear in the little trekker ashe clings to your leg, begging to be lifted.Arms wrapped around his world,he points at the sky, tells you its blue.
The Execution of Judy MonroeIn glamour, in glitter-infested Hollywoodthe movie star Judy Monroe’s almond eyes; coaled melodramatic,tilt towards the camera.She weeps.The executioner motions forward; a tall man, no guardian angel.She watches his movement; spiteful, hated as he proudly glidesto prep for the grand finale.She prays.A prayer to God with no love, each lens focused on her.Black and white replaced by orange overalls.She was found,She was judged,And Judy Monroe will be judgedUntil opulence is extinguished and her dimpled cheeks sallowand her pretty head drops. She dies.When the tall man grazes her last touch,leather grasps her wrists tight.the poison plunges and she falls before them all:behold her final bow.intense silence, release and exhale. applause.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our mornings'til we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an app for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsshuffle down the high street between clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase. They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers, leftward stepping the rushed businessmen-- a pinballmachine shopping centre.A green-robed man, tall with wand and hoodmust be a wizard. He’s happilyprocuring sushi and sparkling waterwhilst his companion; short with her piercings and jeans treats himas if he wore the same.Down the high street, two track-suited parentszoom past on their children’s scooters—half-smoked fags between fingers yellhow fucking amazing this is.and aspotted teen raps his love for Jesus on a muffledmicrophone. He raps for the Father,He raps for the Son and Holy Spirit. He raps for peace, for hope, for you.In a corner, Brown eyes, hefty tears,a snot-ridden face--four years old. A train runs through the mall toot-tootingas grumpy shoppers move out of the way.A
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
LessNo matter the madness that stranglesthe news of this worldnow it comes down to a friendsomeone I've known for yearshere, with every organ big enoughto hold more than many of us coulduntil, after a long struggle,something gave, and yetthis wonderful man kept onuntil there was no more road leftto walk on life's journey.He still walks the journeyit's just not on this levelwhere the rest of us must waitwhile the madness of this worlddoesn't matter as I achebecause I feel there's less now.
five things they don't teach you in highschool1.it's okay to fall in love.i mean, they tell you you're never goingto marry your high school sweetheart and i'm not goingto tell you it's a liebecause it's not. you guys will probablybreak up and is gonna hurt like hellbut you'll be okay. remember, you are not the only onewho has felt loneliness like a knife,the only one to know the pain of lungs collapsingbecause they were your air,and you will never be the only one who whispered"i love you" two lives too soon.you will not be the last one to have tuckedhair behind their ear and leaned in for a kissor the last one to wake up reaching for a hand that's no longer there.but it's okay.2.your favorite book will not always be your favorite.like you, it will change over timeto something unrecognizablethat gives you only a vague nostalgia in the tips of your fingers.flipping through the pages will neverfeel the same again.you will learn to love something new;your next favorite will teach you something about you
storiesi begin and end with storieswhere hummingbird hearts play sonatasagainst my ribs and i drown inearly morning light andthe girl in me sinks into the sealike rusting anchors chained toships and i sway port and starboardthe lion in me rises like lazarusfrom the savannah where dust swirlslike stormsand i begin and end with storieswhere i swallow the world and allthe rain and girls and lions in itwhere i hold it up like atlas,where i support jupiter with justan index finger and where i chasecomets and cup them like firefliesto hang on my bedroom walls
Ghost in the MachineThere were daysMelissa measuredher happiness in brightness,when she would holdher hands over her eyesand the cracks of sunlight,like old paint on drywall,would shine throughto let her know exactlywho it was that held her.Who is it?And at that moment of recognitionMelissa felt…...she felt okay.More than photonsreflecting off of totem shells,humanity is conch-cradledin her dusk where light perceptionis limited to the moon, where blindis a swear word and an oathdependent on a circadianarcade: she is blindand going blinder.Lingering,she allows herself a curfewto blow out the lanternand sing without colorfor the first time.Melissa,you rely on a perfect balance—trusting the sunshine to smileon your bare arms at eight a.m.,two p.m., half-past six and ticking on,letting the moon comfort youas patchwork clouds shawl overmidnight's studded shoulders,leaving behind aspects of life:natural, mundane, mechanical,and self-made doubts.Don't fo
Insanity needs companyand now I’m stuck here,pondering,how the walls becamea veiny sight-(could the cause be me calling outyour namein the middle of the night?)and alone I stand here,wondering,how my feet gotnailed upon this floor-(do you hold my ankleslike an anchordoes the shore?)and I know it’s been thirteen yearssince you were here at all,according to the hash markssketched in chalkacross the wall,but I can’tlet goof our memories,that hauntme everydayso for now,I’ll let the doc declare: Insanity needs company.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.