Chained

Chained. Adj. Bound with chains.

Missing freedom

missing life.

Knowing you are not part of the world but gazing up at it through

the links that bind you that bind your stories to

your mind that bind them so tight they cannot escape through

your lips and no one knows you have nothing anymore but

that which has kept you company for so many nights nursing bit by bit

your dirty habits and your rusted skeletons fleeing through

the bars that keep your heart from

caving in onto itself and bleeding from

the depth of the arms that

you believe will loosen their hold

by hurting them over and

over.

Hide n' seek

I couldn't see her

as her small frame moved

so quickly past mine.

Her peals of laughter

were the only indication

that she had bested me.

Stubby legs fought

their natural tendencies

to finally conquer

what she thought was unconquerable.

As I turned around

her small hands enveloped

dark bark

and dragons with red tongues

threatened to take away

the short victory.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

"Acting, breathing, communicating. Discovering expressions." Faith gabbled. Humor instigated jaded, knowing leers multiplying nonsensically. Openly, people quarreled rebelliously, setting thunder. Upset, Veronica went xeroxing yellow Zamboni.

Vice

Hey everyone! I've been kind of really sick so I didn't post yesterday, but this is a dream I had last night that I wrote down when it woke me up at like 11:30 pm... still counts right?

It's intoxicating. In that can't-possibly-be-good-for-you kind of way. I can't even compare it to anything else that I've experienced, but that it has the distinct odor of danger. Something new and beautiful. Something wrong. I try to push it out of my mind, ignoring the sweetness coming in from the windows and the door, trying to concentrate on finishing the last few measures of my new composition. But I can't. The notes have all escaped me, fleeing with danger.

Frustrated I step out on the balcony to see where this, this smell is coming from. It's completely overwhelming out here, invading my nose and pushing against my eyes. Ensnaring my mind and leaving a bittersweet taste on the tip of my tongue. Where is it coming from?

I can see my neighbors through their window from here, fighting again in their living room... It's definitely not them. To my right there is nothing but air polluted with the sounds of the New York night. I take a quick glace over the handrail and there... there she is. There it is.

Obsession 3

He feels it, you know,

when you grab his arm

and make him smaller

than he believes he is

and you make him, you know,

spin in the same peculiar

space never finding

the exit way that so

painfully burns in his chest

and you smile, you know,

when you see yourself

winning at a game at which

you have the disadvantage

because at any given moment

he will step up

and change it and change you

and leave you behind to feed

on your starving desperation.

Obsession 2

It carved her from the inside out

leaving a hollow being

of unkempt hair and paper skin

It devoured her from the outside in

rendering her incapable of feeling

watching herself fading, fading out.

A different world

Flying in the air

their hands

spoke with one another

and sang with me

mimicking the sounds that

voices make

when they want so desperately

for God to hear them

and tell them that He loves

more than they could

fathom

and the hands well,

they catch all of that

and keep it hidden

where grubby eyes can't

reach.

Part 2

I've been continuing the "Part 1" story (post from a week ago or so) for the better part of this week... I guess I'll post it up bit by bit. Maybe.

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It’s funny, because I don’t know. So they’ll never know. So they might as well give up and give him back to me, bring him back to me.

Maybe they’re keeping him in here. But I can’t look desperate or they’ll know that I’m itching. Maybe a quick glance over the room would be ok. Four sterile walls, no colors no stains. One door, wood. No windows. High ceiling? Yes, also white. Left corner, camera. One table, two chairs, steel. One unoccupied.

He’s not here. Where would they hide him? Maybe I should tell them what happened. Because, after all, I need him. Wait stupid! You learned already! You learned how to in your mind so that if something like this happened, you wouldn’t panic and you wouldn’t itch so much. You can do it in your mind. Begin with the first page and move your fingers. No! not on the table, under, on your knees, so that they don’t see you and know that you’re itching too much. Look straight ahead, don’t let them know you’re doing it.

I HAVE NO TIME!!

I have NO TIME to get in a good, thoughtful, semi-well written post today... so I'll write for 1 minute straight about "HANDS"

creations to create

and mold and act

adorned with singularity

individuality

loving the skin they're part of

etched with grooves

that mount on one another and

crash at what they think

is the center of the universe

next to the scar you got

when your cat scratched you

as your creations were picking her

up.

Haha, so not my best work right? but well, that's what this is for, getting used to writing and making a strong habit of it.

Obsession 1.

They growl

protesting behind quavering skin

dull yellow black and blue

from misuse, disuse

needing it but not getting it

because she says you don't.

Shivering

under an eternal array of blankets

too heavy but too thin

as they sill let in

the cold of the summer

air conditioning.

I can't remember

did I fall yesterday?

No, she caught me

cushioned me

lessened the chances of me

hurting what she's worked for.

Here and now

His eyes closed, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. There were so many people outside, murmuring, laughing, thinking that he couldn't hear them. He pressed his fingers, noticing how the strings fit snugly within the calluses. There were babies crying and the soft shushing of nervous mothers. His bow was white with rosin, ready for the attack, perfectly balanced in his right hand. He stepped out to an irritating wave of applause and performed the expected bow. He waited, as the applause ceased and forced silence began.

There they were, the coughs, the squeaky arm rests... And he placed the violin in her home, in the nook of his neck where she longed to be. There they were, the sneeze and the sniffles... And his bow went from hanging limply at his side to becoming a part of something that would shatter the world. And he took off, soaring above the people and leaving a white cloud of rosin behind him

Sol

Why won't he come out?

He was there yesterday with the birds and their sweetness

and the squirrels that clambered up the mango trees.

He was there when Jose threw his shoes up

so they would tell their story to all our street.

Yesterday abuelo played dominoes outside

complaining about him the whole time

while tio brought in freshly cut cilantro

from his backyard huerta

and his father... well, his father made the best damn empanadas that day.

But today he's out sick it seems

and his sister has stuck her head through our windows

and she thinks she's ruined it,

the party were were going to throw for Esperanza.

But let me tell you something,

we can dance anywhere.

This isn't the answer

It creeps slowly through my skin

touching me with sterile fingers

and white coats filled with children's memories.

It doesn't let me go of me

letting the soothing whispers hold my hair back

as I tell all my secrets to the icy porcelain in front of me.

It reaches every part of my body

even the parts I try so desperately to hide

and it spills onto the white tile beneath me

turning it crimson

and finally leaving me

alone.

Collision

I couldn't help but see him as much as possible. I'd go out of my way to take the street he was on to work or evening classes. I made sure to pass by on my way to and from the supermarket. Sometimes I even walked my dog down that way even though I'm completely aware that Buddy, my large and cowardly dalmatian, is prone to being skittish around the many ferocious cats that cover that part of town.

There's just something about him. His coat has a large hole at the elbow... maybe he'd let me patch that up for him, it's really the least I can do.
You know, I left him a pair of Kevin's old shoes once. Right in front of the trashcan that he likes to hang out at. I had really hoped that they fit him at least a little. The next day as I walked past, I noticed Kevin's shoes on his feet, the front of them split open to allow his toes to wiggle through. I made a mental note to get him some bigger ones.

Today I got to see him a little longer than usual. He had just pulled out his trumpet from the garbage bag he usually had slung over his shoulder and was getting ready to play. I stood around a little, in the corner, and just as I had heard many times before, in the darkest of nights, the world's most beautiful sounds clung to my senses and left me beautifully breathless.

His tune was mournful today, a slow jazz piece enough to make me search for the respite of my eyelids. My body began to sway back and forth at first lightly and then with more abandon. His tune grew heavier, faster, louder and my spinning body ousted me from my hiding place.

It went on however, without a skipped beat. He played stronger, faster, louder still and I was in front of him flying left and right. My chest felt like it was about to burst open and catch fire. My legs couldn't stop and my arms embraced my body because if I let myself go, I was positive the wind would blow me over the rooftops.

Suddenly he stopped. I stopped. The world ceased to rotate.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for the shoes."

The prompt I found for this one was: "Write about a beggar who loves to hear himself sing"

but well, it just didn't seem to turn out that way did it?

Part 1

Yes. She's in there now.
No sir, I haven't been able to question her, its been completely hectic with this thing.
Yes sir, I understand you don't want excuses but-
No sir.
I do love my job sir.
Yes sir.
Right now sir. I'll do it right now.
*click*

I've been in here for seven hours waiting for someone to talk to me. I don't know if this is one of their scare tactics, let's let her sweat it out, make her believe it's not really important. Maybe they're trying to force it out of me. They took him with them you know. I do need him, but I've learned already, learned to do it in my mind... this won't hurt me as much as they believe. I've got nerves of steel and as for patience, well, he's had to teach me that the hard way.
They can't keep him away that long, my fingers are getting itchy. I know this is important, you simple minded thugs. In fact, I know it's one of the most important things that's happened in a damn long time. Ha, so many people joined me, so many people participated.

They'd want to know where I got the idea.
They'd want to know how to stop them.

Favorite Words

I took this idea from Kerry Cullen (http://keroscenery.blogspot.com/) a very good friend and writer.

Exercise: Make a list of twenty-five of the most beautiful/sensual/or poetic words you can think of. (For example, some of my favorite words are: obsidian, wisp, hollow, trickle, iridescent, and flicker.) If you can’t think of any off the top of your head, flip through the dictionary.
Once you have your list of words, pick one to try to build a poem around. The word can be the title of your poem, part of an image, central to a narrative, or just a word in a line.

My word list: Zephyr, supple, sorrow, arid, aching, wave, thirst, touched, whisper, pounding, trickle, dripping, burden, flowing, bite, chrysalis, yearn, tipped, strings, concerto, human, thirsty, slowing, whisked, mysterious

BITE

me. Because I stopped believing you a long time ago.
me. Because all you ever do is come back.
me. Because your words feel heavy on my soul.
me. Because my tongue can't taste what you do.
me. Because my lips refuse to buckle under you.
me. Because apples aren't good enough anymore.

Something new

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled,
it was her secret and no one had had one since that day
since the day that the world stood still in conformity
since the day that they all turned into mindless sheep.

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled,
the eternal rainclouds parted and bowed down to her
making way for she who had stood up against the steel and stone
making way for she who had figured out where the wildflowers bloomed.

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled,
and the silence of the birds broke and withered away into nothingness
as the long awaited music filled the breathless air
as the long awaited colors moved beyond the hues that they had been assigned.

Blind

She's there. To my left. I know it's a her because I can hear the click of acrylic nails as they drill their heartbeat into a hardcover book. The chair groaned heavily when she sat down and she had let out a sigh to indicate her happiness at having arrived. Well, maybe it was her happiness to be sitting down again after such a long haul up the stairs. Yes, she took the stairs, I can hear her panting.
Her arm just brushed against mine. Man, is she hairy.

Who's next?

There's a guy sitting to my right. A young guy? Yeah, has to be young. He's got headphones in, probably turned up to the loudest possible volume. His sneakers thud against the floor as he tries to find the beat of his music, but he can't. He doesn't know though, that it matches perfectly with the woman's plastic heartbeat thud thurrrrp thud thurrrrp

Imagine me

I make sure to step on each and every crack crisscrossing the grimy sidewalk. I have no mother to worry about, so why not? I do watch out though, for the ones with green stems flourishing out of them… why destroy something that’s trying to grow in such a dismal place? I have no chance, but at least, little plant, you do. You should.

My name is Marty.

No one seems to hear the loud splash as my ratty sneakers hit the puddle of murky water, but I feel the water splatter onto my calves and I feel it come down in little rivulets, entangling itself in my leg hair. Ever so slightly the rain begins to fall again, as if it hasn’t quite finished making me miserable yet.

I am sixteen years old.

The rain begins to fall harder and I feel my hair plaster against my neck. I jam my hands into the pockets of my baggy jeans and trudge along, not really paying much attention to where I’m going, letting my legs guide me. Not really paying much attention to the torrential downpour unfolding itself before me.

I like baseball. Basketball... not so much.

The bridge looms closer and I think, for the first time since my decision, about what I’m about to do. I can’t deny I’m a little scared. I can’t ignore all the questions flying around in my head. But I press on.

I really enjoy reading books about pirates.

No one seems to see me approach, but I see everyone. I see runners in hoodies bracing themselves against the wind and rain, wanting to meet their weekly goal. I see children watching t.v shows and playing video games in their cars while the parents bicker in the front seats. I see a hell of a lot.

My favorite color is yellow.

No one calls my name as I approach my destination. There are no footsteps behind me and there are no warm hands enveloping my arms, begging me not to do it. Not to go. It’s been a while since I’ve felt warm hands, since I’ve seen a smile directed at me. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to laugh. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to laugh, maybe I just have no one to laugh with.

I prefer cats over dogs.

I climb up on the concrete ledge. The bright orange of the police officer’s raincoat glimmers annoyingly out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t come near me. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.

I like action films.

I close my eyes and sigh. The rain continues its downpour as my hands curl up into fists. My hands. As I unfurl them in front of me, I can see bloody half-moons across my palms.

Am I human?

Let go.

When imaginary friends are forgotten, they die.