We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
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The Man who walked backwardsFor thirty years, Praveen had only walked backwards.Through the city, he spent every day pacing the streets making scribbles in his notepads. He didn’t pay attention to the confused expressions of passers-by anymore.He didn’t care for the comments, the questions or even the accusations of madness. He heard all their theories to why and even their concerns to his ability to walk forwards.He continued to walk on, backwards.Sometimes people would join in and walk backwards alongside him. It wouldn’t take long before they’d give up, realising the art meant crossing roads and dodging lampposts. He’d glance at them pointing their smartphones at his face as they filmed him with fascination, sometimes breaking a smile to let them know he understood.Sometimes he would answer their questions. He walked away watching their confused expressions as they tried to understand his answers.He did explain to a journalist once. He told her he’d taken this vow thir
OverworkedWe set aside a time, one hour for a meeting;our search for a room hindered by our searchfor the solution.Can we set aside a dayfor creation and have a canvas we can all paint onat the same time in the same roomand order ice cream or chip-shop chipswhilst we make our master design?Then do you think we can turn our ideainto a real life innovation?Or do we continue to scavenge old buildingsfor neglected conference rooms oncebooked by occupants no longer present. Dowe panic about the problem and confirmwe are in shit before we've truly understoodthe colour, depth, and complexity of the shit?Do you think we could stick to our plans anddo what we say we will do when we do it? Wego home on time and drink gin-and-tonic ina local beer garden, enjoying the warm sun insteadof an overheated, over-exhausted office.
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
periphrasiswhen he asked me how i wanted him to build the house,i answered him truthfully.i said i wanted the pillars to be madeof pages from every book ever written,curled in on themselves untilthey could hold a roman arch.pour words, strong and weak, intothe earth instead of cement-let it be flexible to adaptto pressure.build the walls from the ground upthrough prose supporting the brickslayered by memories forgedalong the path we tookto arrive at eden.tilt poems into pyramids aboveour heads, ceilings just high enoughto be within earshot of everylaugh we'll ever make.empty emotions into a templateof a window and slide it intoplace without a way to get itback out.after i was done, we stood on thatvacant lot, ambiguous thoughtsflitting across his face and downinto my fingertips.he told me i was crazy.he told me i was beautiful.he told me he would build it.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing 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.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
senses poemsSenses Poems1) meet it halfwaywhen hope finds you it is yellow,and it is underfoot, leaves cracklinglike a spine,and the earth cries it out,spilling it from the green-smellingtree branches, and it ispacing around your room, handsquivering with prickly words and sweltering language,exploding stars inside its mouth,and you expect to see white and gold glitterfall through its lips, butthere is nothing; andwhen you open the door, metal in your mouth,it turns around and reachesfor you.2) that other organthe bluejay hits your window withhis wings spread out, eyes open,and you listen for the sickeningslap and the smell of your windowslipping up with feathers and blood,trying to hold onto the small bluemass,and the bird is the red-stomach curlson the tip of his head, and the bird isevery endearing little girl asking you tobe the other sack of tissues and nerveson her see(sea)saw, and the bird is everyold man who tugs at your ears with a sickc
How to Pocket a Man's HumanityFirst, convince him to adopta rescue cat, fat, days awayfrom slaughter. Find one mis-sing half his tail. The pairwill purr in tune; this stepis important. Next, rush him,him and his rescue, to theirhome, and then keep them dryand healthy. Move deliberate-ly, with articulation. Shapethe sound. Watch cat and mansup together, sleep together.Spring happens upon them, asit does, and the man and hisrescue walk along the bridge-less route to the forest andgrove without wind. Convincehim to let rescue race aloft,to the distant hill-top. Andhe will, and he does, and heis gone. The man screams out-ward into the meadow, screamafter scream weaving throughstalks of wheat, but nothing.No clicks or mews. A nothingagainst the rust of night onthe horizon. Help the man to-ward his doorstep. Help keephim apprised of the treelineand its shadows. Finally, he,rescue, appears, and the mangrabs your collar and shoutsand walks and runs and stops.Rescue has brought home lifefle
a moment of your time I am a writer because my mother says so. I am a writer because I am teaching myself to look for my pothole blue eyes, fat stomach smile, and popped-bubblegum cheeks in mirrors, television screens, and reflective surfaces. I am a writer because one time I had an innocuous crush on my second cousin and I still cherish all of his two-line emails. I am a writer because I am the stereotypical, spoiled, overloved only child. I am a writer because my grandfather, whose name is utter gibberish and the colors blue and red and green and radio talk shows and old black-and-white television sitcoms and whose beard is a medusa's pond of browned acid hair, tried to teach me to draw, croissants for eyes and big butterflies for chins. I am a writer because the entire time all I wanted to do was write poetry, turn a phrase,
y te grito:sequel to o balmy breath; continuation of passages from invitation to a beheading, by vladimir nabokov "Well, why not drink this mush of hope, this thick, sweet slop
my hopes are still alive
and I thought that at least now, at least here, where solitude is held in such high esteem, it might divide into two parts only, for you and for me, instead of multiplying as it didnoisy, manifold, absurd, so that I could not even come near you
this is why I am writingthis is my last attempt to explain to you what is happening, Marthe
make an exceptional effort and understand, if only through a fog, if only with a corner of your brain, but understand what is happening, Marthe, understand that they are going to kill mecan it be so difficult I do not ask lengthy widows lame
Graffiti Dreams in Black and White The strokes are dreamt permanent,the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out as so many do when they wake up.The poet paints them into existence with her words: “ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.” And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,put a price to labors and words and even to thoughtsbecause we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedomof saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.