Daily Poetry & Prose

I walk upon the street in sneakers which squeak and lead me to the lamppost where dim light shines and radiates its soft glow upon the black, flat and barren stretches on which looms out from underneath the shadows which creep like the dead rising from graves, their grey hands sprawled as they are crawling toward the light. Yet the light shines on, aloof to the calls of the darkness, deaf to the wild dogs and cats scurrying and lucky rats quickly escaping the fate of road kill pigeons  smashed to feathery dust under car tires creating odd, abstract art, next to road stripes and pieces of trash strewn next to the drain pipe. The light knows not these tragedies, but shines on, simply because it's time to shine.

The seeds you plant they tend to grow whether haphazard or in rows not caring where they've been thrown by hand or where the wind has blown shooting up their tiny leaves like hands reaching up to touch the air arriving clean, simple and bare but--it's not as if they dared or--as if they arrived scared it's just what they do! The lesson that they give is this, so I will make sure it is not missed, we can't control how tall it rises how many branches or leaves abound if the trunk is rough or round the only control we have, you see is where exactly it hits the ground

The hypotenuse of the many-headed hydra, as she stood at impossible heights. The muses are hypnotic. He filled my ears with constant radio static, about his past exploits and his changed nature. It was impossible to believe anything he said because my heart with breaking, with a thousand baby snakes rushing out. The sky scrapers, with their mirror-like windows, reflect the sky.

Breathtaking, what the night escapes from as the dawn runs down the street, rushing to the taxi and the stolen moments, before the lid of the jar is pried open and the butterflies escape.

The woods rush by the window of the train. The girl from Russia stopped me on the street. The coffee now has sugar but not cream. I need to stretch my tired aching feet. I'm taking a big trip to kill the dragon, a vacation to a deserted place, where wheels are still falling off the wagon, and scars from gravel sit upon my face. Where ticking clocks and melted remedies, are poured out in bottles on the table, where fate combines with jilted fantasy, and I burn the bridges if I'm able. My life is just a fable. And the murmers that I hear...just the people on the train, as they go through their own lives.  

Dear Dagger, I've held you long enough and need to let you go. You've been under my coat as I walk the street, on rainy nights when the train rushed by. I've gripped you tighter than I needed to, especially when I heard footsteps behind me, listening as I walked, to hear if they were drawing near.  I've placed you in the holster, muscle memory. I've kept you at my side even when I'm having tea, because I didn't completely trust my company. I've kept you when you're sharp, and kept you for years until you were dull. Yet I knew I would be able to use you effectively with extra muscle. Now, I want to drop you on the floor, hear it clatter and have nothing to defend myself with other than fists and feet. Moreso, to not live in constant battle mode. Farewell Dagger, thank you for being at my side.  Sincerely, Faith

Every memory mends itself into this hemline. Each thread of red silk pulled in the direction that best holds. Underneath the clean line there is a mess-- made of all the criss-crossing stitches of untold stories.

Flipping nets into the sea in the middle of a hurricane? over the sides of the boat, just off the coast--do it in a hurry! There she wobbles, her knees locking and eyes squinting to the spray She is the subconscious fisherwoman of your soul, eager to catch the day, join her! The raging winds and sea merge to make her vision blurry but she knows the ropes by heart she's been fishing here before every coarse thread, every move is memorized, and she will show you. Once memory is gone, then what? The winds die down and now you are in that raft, floating on the Trade Winds towards Cuba, with her, trying to remember why you pushed the boat from shore in the first place? Then a large colorful shadow moves under the boat and she jerks awake. You cry: Bait? Who needs it!  Let her use her hair as fishing twine. Rip open her chest and throw her heart on the line. There is no sense in missing the chance to make a big catch.

There is a little staircase at the head of my bed, it runs from here to Mars. I run up it when I am dreaming to go sit at the bar, which is on Mars. I sit on the stool and dream of school and all the things I have to learn, while the atmosphere steams and the surface of the planet burns. I am in a bubble made of glass, I watch the planets spin and the constellations pass. Tiny green men with hammers work on spaceships and tell me things I need to know. Then I fall slowly, like a fog or a dreary day back into myself as I silently lay. I proceed to wake up,  and generally make some black coffee. I start running down the staircase at great speed to meet the day.

How have you been? Has any of the madness stopped? I felt the world stop turning when I hit the bottom of the river, my feet almost sinking into the muck. It was so cold, almost ice cold. I dare not think of what would happen if I got stuck. I raced up toward the surface.

If it looks like a writer and smells like a writer, it's a piece of paper. After I get about two or three thousand of these entries done, then I can start to find the real dinosaur bones. Let he or she who is free from ink, throw the first stone to shatter the fourth wall of the glass house.

I have a long road ahead of me. I do not have boots on, that would be too ambitious. I think I will stay in bare feet. Now, it's not meant to be tough, exactly. It's not like the Christians walking through the woods, hitting themselves with willow whips--can you imagine? But it's still a trek for the sake of trekking.

The tap dancer's billowing arms are floating up and down quickly, like a large canvas mast struck by the wind. The weight of his torso leans forward, almost bringing him down to the ground, before he springs up. A grasshopper is no country animal, although he lives in the wheat and the green grass on the prairie. He seems simple, yet is resolute in his hopping, scary almost, the way he reaches top speed like an aerodynamic machine within a short time. He becomes a blur, a blink of the eye. The big auditorium is empty, except for the tap dancer. I hear his feet echo in my mind.

Like a rabbit escaping from the thicker psychological bramble of the Salem witch trails, Halloween is sugary these days, full of chocolate and fake blood, laughing kids and miniature Snickers bars. 

People are moving to L.A. in their Volkswagens  in their cargo pants dreaming of being an actor dreaming of being a writer dreaming of being a waiter until the lights turn on. I can see the exhaust of their cars filtering up off of the deserts  in Nevada. I can see their odd smiles reflecting in the rear view mirrors. I suppose we all have a little twinge of ambition. I suppose we all are like Turner  ready to be strapped to the bow of a ship and feel the waves to get the sense and the timing of our own nature.  

6 days and 99 channels, nothing is on, except fear and misery, bottled up in a fashionable trend and sprayed like wildfire and Mountain Dew shook up all over the-- Did you hear that silence is golden? Let me bite the coin and return again tomorrow.

The lemon of her lips is making this sour kiss sweet. The sugar king is cradling her broken back.  He's back out on the street, sifting through the cans and the Coke bottles trying to find her feet. Dance again? These shoes are old.  Like ballet slippers from when she was a little girl. Who cares? Life is short. He remembers yellow taxi cabs and lemonade stands. She tried to sell homemade wine until she was called in for supper. The street lights were coming on, but she had a crinkled dollar bill. The transistor radio was sinking in the ocean. How did he ever think he would find the author of that lullaby he used to listen to as a child, hiding the music underneath his pillow pretending to snore when footsteps came? It takes so. much. strength. to make lemonade, twisting the half fruit and then pouring portion after portion into the jug. It takes so. much. combing. to make the hair straight, then smooth it out like Chinese paper before dividing it into three's.