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Literature Text
From a shore, you watch.
Eyes dripping, contributing to an ocean as wide as space
and as deep as time.
There must be another side, another edge of this vast bowl.
And there is.
Some days you think you can see it, a haze on the far horizon,
like heat on a sidewalk or the hood of a car. You tilt your head,
eyes slit, watching the wavering lines like dancing brush strokes.
Other days, hazy days, there’s nothing more than the clouds
seeping into the water. One long swoop of grey blue green.
And on those days, with salted air sweeping across your face,
hair tangling like serpents, you can breathe again. Lungs ticking
back to life like a furnace turning on. One long rumble.
You stand there, then, taking in cold air and pushing out all
toxicity. Just an exercise in existing.
From a shore, you watch.
Your feet sinking into sand and your fingers subtly moving, glancing
across seams like a gust of air.
There is a crunch of sand in your teeth, born from every swallowed
sound. You’re a silent pillar, salted like Sarah, staring unflinching into
eternity. Let the gales blow past you, carve you down to your bones.
The tide comes up with the moon. Bringing small things to cling and
clutch at your ankles. Adorning you with the brine and other offerings
of the sea. Small tickling appendages to keep you grounded.
So it passes. Your body turning brittle, and your teeth slowly sifting
from between your lips. And some days, you can see the far off
horizion. Like heat rising in waves off of a pan or the hood of a car.
And on other days you stand guardian of your own stuttering lungs
as the clouds boil above you.
Eyes dripping, contributing to an ocean as wide as space
and as deep as time.
There must be another side, another edge of this vast bowl.
And there is.
Some days you think you can see it, a haze on the far horizon,
like heat on a sidewalk or the hood of a car. You tilt your head,
eyes slit, watching the wavering lines like dancing brush strokes.
Other days, hazy days, there’s nothing more than the clouds
seeping into the water. One long swoop of grey blue green.
And on those days, with salted air sweeping across your face,
hair tangling like serpents, you can breathe again. Lungs ticking
back to life like a furnace turning on. One long rumble.
You stand there, then, taking in cold air and pushing out all
toxicity. Just an exercise in existing.
From a shore, you watch.
Your feet sinking into sand and your fingers subtly moving, glancing
across seams like a gust of air.
There is a crunch of sand in your teeth, born from every swallowed
sound. You’re a silent pillar, salted like Sarah, staring unflinching into
eternity. Let the gales blow past you, carve you down to your bones.
The tide comes up with the moon. Bringing small things to cling and
clutch at your ankles. Adorning you with the brine and other offerings
of the sea. Small tickling appendages to keep you grounded.
So it passes. Your body turning brittle, and your teeth slowly sifting
from between your lips. And some days, you can see the far off
horizion. Like heat rising in waves off of a pan or the hood of a car.
And on other days you stand guardian of your own stuttering lungs
as the clouds boil above you.
Literature
plumbum
she has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.
and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.
gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore
and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage
and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.
Literature
Butter
Breakfast was real oatmeal
Every morning in Taos,
Served at the kitchen table
By the window. Ravens
In the courtyard.
You always put a dab of butter
In my bowl, covered it
So it would melt completely.
for S.
Literature
How to Sleep and Never Wake Up
The year they discovered my best friend, twenty years old and silent under the heap of her wrecked car, I learned one can sleep forever and never wake up.
That year, her sister, only seventeen, ate magic mushrooms and lost her mind and her brother, fourteen, started running and stopped eating and I didn't eat magic mushrooms but lost my mind anyway as everyone watched my skin, too white to be real, disintegrate before their eyes.
That year I flew to Colorado to see an urn surrounded by pointe shoes. It reminded me more of a wastebasket than the last I would see of the girl who shared my soul. Her sister ran naked through the street a few da
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301 words. I don't usually write this much at one time.
© 2013 - 2024 mondays-emblem
Comments45
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wow. this is a brilliant description of when life makes you wonder why you still try, when life is an exercise in existing, when we are salted pillars being carved to the bone. beautiful.