Amber and her twin sister sat on the living room sofa. Lilac was on her tablet looking at articles. She wore her new IOS-8 I-Glasses, which glowed with instant messages from her friends. She sat straight on the cold gray leather sofa, and Ambe sat silent, slouched and looked out the home’s sole window at the tree in their front lawn. The tree was a steel skeleton with stainless ribs stretched upward to catch carbon dioxide, and convert it into pure air. On nights like these, Amber could hear the mechanic hum of the tree's computer doing work, calculating numbers, turning gears; making the air cleaner, healthier, and better. She thou
never reached.
look how the gravity armada
divides in stasis
or careful abandon.
look how sharply
shiva ends in simplicity,
and take a right
for cold.
one in the flux,
salvage the slivers of deities
from gut piping
in charybdis major.
take buildings' gait
and square; swallow
solar skin softly
and apply liberal frost.
slumberstep or
slumberstumble before
the freeze is perfect,
lest you see constellations
in myopia minor.
erratic static too plays
in minor key in endchill.
boy of brahma,
quake the world
to make ribs meet:
find yourself in the ataraxy
of disjoint and supreme
absolutes.
oh it is bitter
and the arid palms of eden
are slow to div
every sliver of screen i hold
flattens the dimensions to
nil. i am not still,
but quarks buzzing and blatantly
brilliant. i am mute death
and hair that never rests
right; i am sharp legs
and dumb pressures. i was
adrift in deserts that
mouthed dehydration in psalmic
tones, drowning in awful knowns
and reaching. core like
the heart of the earth, molten
and fueled by my own
facets. tooled fabrics
draped on slim collarbones,
stark white. lips stuck
to larks' flights, fluttering
on favorable winds
in the dim of dusk.
dawn near the inlet
of hems takes my breath
captive. freedom is
inactive and my teeth
grit your mass terminology
one drunk eros at
i'm sorry for only writing sad things, by 1nkl1ng, literature
Literature
i'm sorry for only writing sad things,
but saturday night i wanted to offend god
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only
in the slamming of my heart. an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i c
I named my first child after my favorite breakfast; Nichole, oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon and cashew pieces. Sensible, but sweet, she wore turtlenecks and flats all throughout high school. My second, James, was like the lunch I had every other day in college – provolone and turkey on sourdough. Sturdy, hardy, jack of all trades. James could build a new clock just as easily as fixing the old one.
People keep asking me to taste their names. Like names are ice cream cones, and I’m the only one that gets a lick. Strangers in the hallways know about the girl who eats names like potato chips and aren’t shy about asking how do