the world keeps spinning

there is an indian woman
walking down the side of the road
full flowing gown and head dress
but i can see her eyes,
that's how i know, and
she's talking on the phone,
animated, giving it to the other party
and i wonder what she will do
when she sees the dead dog
in the ditch, head turned
over his shoulder, looking back,
perhaps to see who hit him
but that unsuspecting woman is
home, embroiled in strife
for taking a life, already in distress
for putting her kids on the bus
this morning, but they will be okay,
their teacher is playing games
so they can learn each others names
when johnny stands up and asks
in his loud outside voice to go to
the bathroom, but he really just
wants to get out of class and sneak
a peek at whats for lunch
on the pink flier taped on the wall
by the door to the cafeteria
and maybe get a smile from Mrs Morris
the lunch lady, but she is outside
on the stoop sucking in the last
little bit of her cigarette,
before the rush and
laughing at the custodian trying
to get off the phone with his wife
an indian lady walking down the
side of the road, surprised to see
a dead dog and i am still stuck in
traffic, trying to get home,
when she turns, looks me right
in the eyes and smiles, for
no apparent reason, at all,
other than we are all human.

Written for Imperfect Prose and Theme Thursday.

taps

dj shock is in da house, yo!
whicky, whicky...

...the boom bop beat
went straight to our veins
from the turntable to our ears,
wild horses racing round
the chambers of our hearts,
boom bop de boom boom bop

we were gods,
immortal, immoral,
our solo cup fist raised
to Bacchus, and the rafters
of that basement
bah de bah boom bop
all fun and games
until someone dies
and they did---
boom ski de bop bop

slumped in the corner
drool dripping in
ooey gooey lines from
his lip to his shirt
boom bop de bop
party surrounding
him, unknowing
until the keg sighed
dry of dregs...
(record scratch---white noise)

shlup, shlup, shlup
flip flops stinking
on the floor from spills
they pealed those rigored lids
and saw no soul, sitting
in a puddle of piss and beer,
"the day the music died.
we'll be singin', bye bye...."

When I was in college, we used to have live music or a dj every Friday night. Our house would be packed. The year after I graduated, they threw a party and let someone through the door that was already too far gone. He found a corner and died, from alcohol poisoning, and they found him when they were cleaning up.

One Shot Wednesday, write a poem and come join us. Gates open at 5 pm.

cold mornings

there are mornings, when i wake, before the light crests the mountains to chase the shadows back into hiding, behind trees and such, behind us, that i am afraid to roll over and look for you in bed next to me.

somewhere in the night we separated and a chill crawled onto my back where your body once threatened to consume me in it s fire. shivering, i reach for memories to wrap round me like a woolly blanket, kindling to coax the fire back from the ashes.

nervous tears spilling the day you left the pregnancy test on the sink to let me know we were having a child...clinging to each other, whispering prayers in each others ears, when the bee stung you, waiting to see if we would have to give you the shot and rush to the hospital...sitting outside a cafe, sipping coffee, sun catching in your hair, like spun gold...i tear these pages out and ball them up in loose orbs, pushing them against dead coals, hoping for a spark.

the worse part are the dreams yet fulfilled, promises still unkept, sometimes these images are even more vivid, as we painted them together. watching our sons grow into men, seeing there first blush of love, standing on the banks of the seine as the stars twinkle on its surface in your arms. these are the breath i blow, sifting for one tiny bit of orange heat.

has all of this been a dream, from which i am now just awakening, never to happen? a joke that i am only now deciphering the punch line? this is when i hold my breathe and roll over, to find you sleeping peacefully and i am reassured that this is my reality. i pull near to you and in your warmth, slip back to sleep, resting once more, before i wake to my dreams.

160 - narcissus building sandcastles

like pharoahs,
we build monuments
to our life,
so we will be remembered,
after death,
by those
we made carry
the stones
on their backs.

though only briefly.

What can you say in 160 characters? (spaces included) Go see Monkey Man.

apples 2 apples

the silent darkness of the room is broken only by the orange pool created by a lamp on the nightstand. spread across the bed on her back, she lay vulnerable, arms akimbo by the halo of blond hair surrounding her head. she is wrapped in a crimson dress, slit riding high on her thigh, exposing a contrast of tender pale skin.

on the nightstand, Vanity Fair, left open, ready to be read, topped by an apple. one bite missing, the flesh of the fruit slightly browning around the teeth torn edges of the void. slight moisture still clings to her lips from their kiss.

he stands in the shadows, by the only window, cool air leaking around the drawn shade, tickling the hair on his neck. he admires her still form. her fingertips delicate, except one jagged nail, he smiles at the memory.

circling the bed, he takes her in, with his eyes, tongue dampening his lips. his fingers work the buttons of his shirt, which he folds neatly, placing it on the chest at the end of the bed. he takes his time removing all that he is wearing, until it forms a neat pile. this is important.

she has not moved, not that she can, lost in some dream at this point. this is where he will find her, when the time is right. standing over her, he grasps the apple, working his eyes around it's circumference, noticing the blemishes. bringing it to his mouth he feels its firmness against his teeth before it gives way, juices spilling over his lips.

he looks a her while reducing the apple to little more than a core, which makes a soft thump at the bottom of the plastic bag in the trashcan. he will take that out later, before the flies arrive.

closing the magazine, he turns the knob on the lamp, rewarded by a soft click and darkness. the darkness is his friend. leaning across her, he inhales the spiciness of her scent. he pauses, just to breathe her, then lets his weight slowly melt into her.

"mmm...," she dances at the edge of dream and reality, unsure which way to scramble. with a sharp inhalation of breath, she surfaces, realising where she is, what is about to happen.

"i was having the best dream," she sighs.

"me too."

silence lies broken in the apple scented air between them...

This is a 10DOM Magpie Tale.

55 - butterflies causing tornados

plip plip plop
we skip
rocks
plip plip plip plop
across the
smooth surface
plip plip plop
sending ripples
of our
kisses
plip plip plip plop
ever reaching
d
o
w
n
stream
plip plip plop
on the
gentle roll
plip plip plip plop
touching banks
plip plip plop
we may never
know
plip plip plip plip plop.



Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

the boy who couldn't

i am a mess. i am a mess waiting to happen, contained inside a box, waiting for some unsuspecting person to stumble upon me, so i can spring out and yell gotcha as i drip down the front of their bleach white shirt. i am that mess.

on thursday, i made monsters. little monsters, all running around , howling and screeching, with fingers gooey from finger paint and little multicolor construction paper bits stuck in their hair and ears. i do art with second graders, on thursdays, and we were monsters, creating monsters, because creating is vital to our very existence.

each one got a piece of the body to make, to shape, to create & then putting them all together we would have our glorious monster, complete even with sound effects, as terrence, one wild little monster, was pulling his cheeks and his lips making wet smacking noises, so i could not even look at him without laughing, afraid he would pull them back over his head, at one point.

jenny's arm was three sizes bigger than tommy's leg, and it seems we ended up with too many heads, so they put one on his butt in case he needed to see behind. there were tentacles and wings and long pointed fingers and one little boy created all kinda confetti to speckle him with, if only art had not been cut to 25 minutes due to budgetary constraints and potholes needing filling in the governor's gated private subdivision.

then there was one, the boy that couldn't, that sat all quiet, back straight upright, prim and proper, but nothing he made, just sat and so i asked and he said, "i am not allowed to make a mess." no finger paints, never smashed a mud pie between his fingers, i was astounded. he had to stay clean and neat, as a hospital cornered sheet. i could just see him sitting in the middle of a room, afraid to breathe.

i wanted to grab him right there and a big box of broken crayolas and draw on the walls of the school like 64 color art vigilantes. we would write in big block letters, "YOU WILL NOT HOLD US UMBER!," because that would get the attention, at least, of the poor custodian, who gets paid far too little to be scraping up that peppermint scented saw dust they put on vomit and doodles.

how sad to never be a mess, to never create, for when you steal that, you steal a little of divinity, because cleanliness is further from godliness than you would ever believe. instead, i helped him cut out a wing, so our monster could learn how to fly away from misguided ideologies masquerading as theology and, as they walked out the door, i gave him a wink and whispered...

"fly, monster, fly."

they really should have vetted me better, before they turned me loose on these wonderful monsters. oh yes, i am a mess.