Comments Posted By amygdala
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So you go to the Twin Towers and on the way out you need something to give, something to show that you were there in NYC, sooo you bought that little 6″ statue, never even thinking that someday it would be more than just a trinket.
» Posted By amygdala On 10.23.2014 @ 1:09 pm
You’re free insofar as you can choose any cage you like. We’re all prisoners in this world. So say the servers of shit sandwiches. They’d really love it if you’d take a bite, too. It’s important to them. It makes them feel better about what they’ve eaten.
» Posted By amygdala On 09.09.2013 @ 3:57 pm
A burgundy blush, a bright red bloom. Right in the cleavage. Into the valley of death he flew. He hit the spot, I hit his spot, on at least two levels. *Ich bin der Welt um ihn*, so bad karma for me, but hey, it must be nice not to have to be a fucking mosquito anymore.
» Posted By amygdala On 09.02.2013 @ 5:43 am
Your hair-wilting aftershave. Your talent for making a sandwich from *anything*. Your oak-leaf tattooed neck. Your musky white shirts, your perpetually missing buttons, your soft waist, your hard shoulders, your shrapnel scars, your love for pickles and fried tomatoes and chili-dogs. It’s not those I miss. It’s loving them I miss.
» Posted By amygdala On 09.01.2013 @ 5:02 am
Orange traffic cones around the muddy hole they dug. They left their orange hats in the truck. They’re still wearing their orange vests. Sitting in my booth in section six. They want orange juice. And eggs. And bacon, burn it a little. They like it like that.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.31.2013 @ 5:28 am
That one makes you bigger, this one makes you smaller, but *this* one makes you both. This one you live in, and this one lives in *you*. This one makes you solid, this one makes you melt, drink too much of *this* one and you’ll blow away in the wind. Yeah, the labels are all the same. Don’t look at the labels. Look at what’s inside. Listen. Do you want to do this, or not?
» Posted By amygdala On 08.29.2013 @ 2:13 pm
The story goes like this: a man finds a murdered woman by a rushing stream. He makes her body into a fiddle of bone, strung with her golden hair. In some versions the fiddle names her murderer when played. In others the fiddle breaks and the woman reappears, alive and unharmed.
In the true version, the fiddle screamed.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.28.2013 @ 1:57 pm
isn’t so bad. It’s how many half-way points you cross, when you drive to work. It’s a train that never passes. It’s an afternoon that never ends. Are you there yet? Never.
God and freshman calculus can tell you everything you need to know about it.
Oh, but *finity*. Death, nothingness, ceasing to be. Wrap your head around those.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.18.2013 @ 3:00 pm
In the sandbox: he builds walls of sand around his men. They lie on their bellies in foxholes, their guns pointed towards an enemy who is also made of plastic.
In the cornfield, beyond: the barbed wire fence, around the missile silo.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.17.2013 @ 4:10 am
the trick is to wake up in your *body* and when you slide from beneath the sheets you put one foot on the floor and feel the weight of you on your toes. repeat with other foot. and now look in the mirror and see that you’re a candle carried by a blind woman. But listen, she knows where she’s going.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.18.2013 @ 11:01 am
Plump-cheeked young grandmothers in plastic aprons, carrying plates heaped with pancakes. They smile so beautifully over the steam. Their voices are so sweet, so kind, so when the evil spills from their lips, it hits you like a hammer.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.21.2013 @ 4:51 am
A pin in a butterfly. The scratchy and supercilious comfort of labels.
But it’s the butterfly that matters, not your fucking pin. It will always remain beyond your reach, this mystery, fluttering on the wild edges of a world invisible to the likes of you.
Mocking you? No. It doesn’t give a damn about you.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.22.2013 @ 8:11 am
An orgami swan, made of words. Fold and unfold words in real time. You can’t touch time, it’s beyond your reach, but your words can shape it, tie it to human beings and the places that they live and the things that they do.
Do it right. Be invisible. It’s the swan they want. Not you.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.24.2013 @ 6:50 am
The flash, the moment it became real, over and over and over. The cries of the people, looking up. The jumpers. The collapse. A woman’s shoe, lying in the dust.
You learned that time stops at the edge of a black hole. Loop the footage, and the footage loops you, too.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.25.2013 @ 11:57 am
I left my purse in the car. The guy in line behind me paid for my donut and coffee. All business, and he paid for me before I had time to stop him. My thought was *what do you want from me* and I waited for the arrangement, the negotiation, the hook, the hook, there’s always a hook. But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at me. I watched the door close behind him.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.14.2013 @ 4:18 am
Look at the sea and feel the pull of the water on your body, is it any wonder that people spoke of sirens, and serpents? Krakens and leviathans? Mermaids and merrow, their soul cages full of salt-crusted bones.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.13.2013 @ 4:09 am
Damsels. Acid-washed blue jeans. Damsels in acid-washed blue jeans are doubly distressed. After a distressing day at work, they stand out on their balconies, triply distressed, and smoke a cigarette to destress. It works.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.12.2013 @ 5:44 am
This is a desire to have text align perfectly both left and right. Man loves a line, or a circle. Man knows exactly where to stop and start. Neat and tidy unless there are too few words to span a full line. Minimalism puts whitespace into a line. Make man fill it in for himself.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.11.2013 @ 5:12 am
When you die, you won’t go to heaven and see all the dead people you knew. You’ll start all over, in a new body, and you will remember nothing. You’ll surrender your memories, but you won’t lose what they’ve made of you. You’ll keep what made them worthwhile.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.08.2013 @ 4:35 am
Based on current forecasts, by 2100 Savannah Georgia will be an archipelago. Egrets will nest in the branches of dead live oaks. Tomochichi will taste the sea.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.07.2013 @ 6:14 am
Fasting is slowing. A willful cessation of desire, driven by desire. A desire for purity, a desire for beauty, a desire to atone for crimes that can’t be atoned for. All futile, all false. Fasting is the hunger of the righteous.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.06.2013 @ 8:51 am
His coffee spoon rings like a bell
it calls me away from where I’ve been delving
calls me back to the eggs and potatoes
cooling on my plate.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.05.2013 @ 6:30 am
In Nuevo Laredo there’s a boy who offers you loose chicklets from a cardboard box. His cheeks are dusky and dusty and sunwarm, his feet are cracked and brown. He’ll laugh if you buy a chicklet. He’ll cry if you don’t. You’re nothing to him. A resource. A walking money machine. And he is nothing to you.
» Posted By amygdala On 08.03.2013 @ 5:47 am
peppers are chili but seldom chilly, hot but never cold, both painful and painless, bell-shaped or appendix-shaped, they can punish or heal, they can be a trial, or an error, euphoria or agony. your choice
» Posted By amygdala On 08.01.2013 @ 1:24 pm
it isn’t a hunger so much as a yearning, a longing, a shard of seaglass that you turn over and over in your hand. how it sparkles in the sunlight. it tilts the world for you, it opens the sky, but break it and you’ll bleed
» Posted By amygdala On 08.01.2013 @ 5:31 am
O rally here, sweet brothers and sisters. After the last bullet shatters the last bone. so we can see who does breathe and who does not, so that we can weep into our hands together.
» Posted By amygdala On 07.31.2013 @ 6:10 am
Oh dear. The vapors. A lady doesn’t fart. She poots. She suffers the vapors. Most often a lady suffers the vapors of her companion.
» Posted By amygdala On 07.30.2013 @ 6:05 am
morning bloomed like madness behind the treeline and she thought of all the things that had to be done and all the things that should not be done and she was done.
» Posted By amygdala On 07.29.2013 @ 3:39 am
No. You can’t sign it, I have all the words from you I’ll ever need, now you want to own my broken arm?
» Posted By amygdala On 07.27.2013 @ 6:13 am
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executing jobs, this is what machines do, in executive manner they do their work but execution is also an end, not a means, a full stop at the end of an evil life
» Posted By amygdala On 03.30.2011 @ 8:33 am