• Hair pulled up into a high ponytail, Black Sabbath t-shirt stretched tightly over her chest; torn jeans ending just below her jutting hip bones; converse flopping with each step. She is the rocker girl; guitar pick necklaces strewn around her neck, hanging like icicles in her cool 80s breeze. Stereotypical; ears are filled with small diamond studs…[Read more]

  • In A Station of the Metro is one of my favorite poems ever. Faces likened to petals on a wet black bough is one of the most beautifully harmonic images I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading and consuming like a starved cow in a field of clover. *Ezra Pound*

  • He tilted his head lower to face her lips, out of which was coming a low, garbled sound. He hated it when she mumbled; all they ever did was argue, but she never stood straight up when they did. She screamed all of a sudden and bolted from his side, leaving a chill wind aching up and down his bare arms.

  • He trudged forward on his elbows; reminiscent of a snail squelching along, through the trench. Bombs whistled through his ears, but he knew nothing had touched ground yet; PTSD already had its clutches around him, and each and every second of movement brought forth yet another barrage of warfare, ringing in his ears.

  • Society conforms; wraps around a cylindrical station, that never stops. Each human body pressed up against the cone licks the bittersweet sugar of its cream and is enraptured by its draw; conforming themselves to its ever-winding body.

  • I read this as clams…but everything I claim is hidden inside me, a clam cracking from the strain on its jaws. Everything I claim tends to be silent shouts inside the neurons just beneath this crop of dirty blonde hair.

  • There is murder in these streets. Watch, as the crimson betrayal drips down our brick walls. The white-hot flash of weaponry steels out a rhythm, being dragged against the flagstones, slowly approaching the doorstop. Watch, as murder echoes, a bell in the ears of the not-so-innocent.

  • Think ahead.
    Charge ahead.
    Like a lightning bolt
    you must take flight
    across the sky
    a jagged high
    of euphoric proportions.

  • Applied. Arts. Sciences. Glue. To a job. So many meanings, eh? I could have applied myself too far into English; I could have applied my skills to better venues; I could have applied to applications with apples and apply to the apps….applications. Oh, abbreviations. Abb. Abbrv. I’m out.

  • Yes, I must write this. I must. If I want to be a writer, I must. Must; not only a command, but a foul stench. A musty dungeon in which I lock myself in and bury the key beneath the dirt. Dig up memories and former stories and bleed them across the page. Must. Must…keep…going.

  • Where this is, where that is. I’ve taken my fingertips, grasped them tight around the hilt, and placed the sword upon the gilt round table. Arthur gazes just past my left ear as the SWING! of arrows spit past the clear crystal windowpanes surrounding our silent battle.

  • Officially and royally pissed off is he as he stands at his post: a lookout of sorts for his mistress as she runs back through the apartment hallways to snatch up their pair of Broadway tickets. He runs a thick, gnarled, veined hand through his hair as two officers pace nearer and nearer the cement block he leans upon.

  • “I can do it!” Her thin hands fly through the dough, pressing it into awkward shapes as her hair flies wildly around her, soon flinging off and into the bread bowl sitting patiently at the table. “Lilli, you can’t just get angry like that. Now look what you did.”
    “I said I can cook, mother!” And with a final sweep of her hand into the bread bowl…[Read more]

  • Take this, it will satisfy.
    Do this, you shall be satisfied.
    Society does this, so you should too.
    Satisfaction is what we do.
    Work to get money to pleasure ourselves.
    Laze around the house to put junk on our shelves.
    We all know what they’ve told us to be.
    But sometimes this life doesn’t seem to be as satisfying.

  • It’s what he does…and yes, I should be thinking about all else, not him. But, he’s an artist. And, I may be falling for him…just hope he feels the same way. Aren’t the arts messed up? They look so beautiful on the outside, and then they screw us over up in our heads.

  • What are we? Who are they? When will we, all fade away? They look at themselves, and start to say, but then are silenced by the winds of a screaming fray. So come now and take my hand, and we will wander into this magic land, and I will never leave your side, for we are the “they,” themselves can never hide.

  • What is the solution? What shall I say? Do I go for it? Do I dive today?
    What is the solution? Is it simply “come what may?”
    I can’t deal with this, I know I’m not frayed.
    I don’t understand, why was this all of a sudden?
    But, you must understand, I’m not a flower that’s not budded.

  • It’s like the word “sewn” when someone can’t speak properly. “Shown.” What have we been shown? A world? A planet? Is it all an allusion? He was shown the glass, and it reflected the majesty of all the world?

  • The goblet, held as Simba with two hands pointing towards the gods was raised in utter anguish as the creatures below thirsted for her blood. Obligingly, those hands tipped her contents into the river flowing […]

  • Compromised of everything, collected throughout. Put together, holding the masses together. Overalls, the world is covered with overalls. Overall, America is one big pool of beautiful dreams and unaccomplished […]