nearly

this is 

organic 

organ's seismic wave

repercussions 

are heavy lidded

clouds of thin remorse cast

shifting shade 

creeps in accomplice 

to

lips bite in acute 

after shock 

earthquakes devour

ed in haste 

vivid visions

mimick memory 

then 

fade 

a numb husk 

desire a destined 

empty nest 

nesting muse 

pushed out 

forays of glory 

that teeter 

at the top 

but     never 

tempest din

music notes floated out as smoke 

into the cold sharp air 

hands wove around waists in and out of grasp 

knees and hips jumped onto the swell of sound

ravaging pulse, greedy fingertips gnawed

so many bodies drowned under the foaming beat 

dizzy-headed stalks swirling in wind tunnels 

clodding feet gave in to the heavy sway of wine laden lids

turning mouths curled into themselves in rapture

and memory drifted out of minds until 

slowly elbows fell over wooden shoulders 

and instruments came down like 

tired leaves

missing parts

It's true, i'll make a mess of things

that's my specialty

baking arsenic into apple pies

things are messy and i get distant 

things are broken parts are missing from both ends

the clock on the wall is ticking the seconds 

until i can get straightened out  

until i can get clean and dry and soft and still

any day now i'll clear the air  

absolve

my history in the book stacks

thick with dust 

 I'm not expecting to make sense of this

because my senses mix and blend the colors muddy 

maybe i've only learned how to stain the surfaces i touch 

but i know i've learned to love

i'm full of it 

sometimes swollen shut like a black eye i failed to ice

i'm my own silly victim of clumsy trying

trying to catch clouds of thought in jars 

to spill out on the page

trying to make my dark places

feel nice

with flimsy blinking strings of light 

and temporary tattoos 

and by crowding comfort 

into bottles of booze

the train lurches on through the night and into early morning

eventually i'll get off 

when i find out how and where to stop

or,

stop trying to find out 

things are messy and i get distant 

things are broken parts are missing

 from both ends

longevity of cash

He didn't look homeless. His pants and jacket were clean if worn and loose. He looked like someone you might see on your way to work stiffly bending on his front step picking up the paper with a tired groan. I couldn't read emotion on his face as he stepped and shuddered slowly past. I noticed his mouth. The deep creases hugging as he chewed out words to the ground. I had the urge to roll down the window to catch what he was saying. Then I saw what he was holding and understood. He was selling socks. At this causal fact I broke in half, my blood spilling invisible. If only I had some cash I would jump out quick. The bank was ten paces away, I could run in again, take out a bit of the check I had just deposited. He wouldn't make it far I'd easily catch up. I would give it to him and then-


then what?

The question punctured an artery, in an instant my chest drained.
My fingers fell from the door handle.
The idea was flopping in my belly like a dying fish. I could buy a pair of socks. Do something small.

 I didn't act.

 
Grasping to empty my pockets that night at home a twenty dollar bill fell onto the table folded into a shrugging rectangle.

 It stared up at me crisp, dead.

the waiting is over

He stands up, opening his mouth, but it just hangs like some half-deflated balloon.

Her hands are clenched, arms straight and shaking slightly.

They both feel the sickness creeping in, into the stark blue room with the cold plastic chairs.

The obviousness of the box of tissues pisses her off. She slept here the past two nights and that little box had taunted her

soft white sheet peeking out its neck

waiting to be wrung


now it was over 
but she wasn't looking at the little box
the sky instead now mocked her 
blue and open 
despite the cramped darkness all around her
the sickness climbing up into her throat


they didn't speak
couldn't


just walked out of the cold room down the sterile linoleum halls and out 
into to the parking lot past the car
down streets past houses and kids on bikes and people eating 


to the pier where they sat and watched the water 
sway 
it slowly lulled their trembling and soothed their tired eyes 


numbness was a solid wall 
they would have to wait to climb 


for now their two hearts thumped
in answer to each other
close and somehow 

alive 

Flash Fiction

These are two pieces I wrote for a flash fiction class. The assignment was to write 250 word micro-stories.

#1

The train rattled and pulled, suddenly feeling like a flimsy metal sardine box. It was hot and beads of sweat dripped down my neck and clung to the hair on my chest. Of course there wouldn't be working AC in August. Fucking Perfect. The shit-for-brains transit employee had asked me to "please sit down sir, we are sorry the inconvenience, but there is nothing we can do at this time." God knows why I agreed to do this. I hadn't seen Tommy in more than a decade, since the house was sold and I helped him move in with that crazy bitch he was seeing. The day after the funeral, while loading boxes with what looked like dirty clothes, she had asked me if I'd dreamt of my father yet. She said it casually, leaning again the truck smoking a joint. I swear if she hadn't been a female I woulda decked her. I'd done my best to forget that town, and everyone in it. But when I got a phone call at five thirty am yesterday and Tommy was on the other line crying and begging me to come I just agreed. His trial is first thing in the morning and I'm wearing dad's watch. Possibly out of spite. I don't know what he expects me to do for him. They arrested him fucked up and making a scene in a laundry mat downtown, with ten grams of cocaine on him. Fucking Perfect.

#2

Drops of rain slid down the windowpane in a kamikaze plummet. There wouldn't be any visitors until the hurricane subsided. The car had finally died, and at 83, Isabel wasn't anxious about the ordeal of getting a new one. Her son had asked on the phone "How will you get groceries?" Not - however, "What will you do all day in that rotting house?" She didn't much care for Jenny, her daughter's old high school friend who came by twice a week to check on her. To see if I'm still alive, thought Isabel. Jenny had such a big mouth always tastelessly gossiping about the parents of her bratty ten-year-old's friends. With the kids in Seattle and Florida and Joe dead three years in November, Isabel had no interest in socializing with the people who came to visit. They always feigned concern for her obvious reclusive behavior and then asked for updates on her kids and grandkids lives, which she could not give.

The last time her daughter Missy had come, alone, and tried to convince her it was time to sell the house and move into a "community." Isabel threw her glass of gin at the wall, prompting Missy to make up an excuse about an early meeting and quickly drive back to Washington.

Rubbing "Cherry Candy Red" lipstick over her crackled lips, a delightfully wretched thought entered Isabel's mind. I wish I could see Jenny's face when she finds me in my pretty white wedding dress.

AM

Mornings after

fever dreams

Sunrise steals night's eager air

Reality an opaque tapestry

Memory a lost affair

Dawn's light lifts

the sea-grean veil

and i am left feeling greedy

for gambles won,

roads abandoned