Coming into this again XD Apparently I failed to record everything last year if I succeeded.
I really like how my BuddyUp buddy did an index so I'm taking the idea as well.
Spoiler! :
1. April Poem 2. Fistbump Poem 3. Computer Generation 4. Records in the Concrete 5. I Fed the Fish 6. Sanguine 7. Of Yams and Apricots 8. Forest 9. Blue Side of the Fence 10. Of Missing You 11. Overreaction 12. Cancer 13. Can you Hear Me 14. Lazy Thoughts 15. Welcome to the Sun 16. Fart Fishs 17. Wasteland 18. Exhaustion 19. Desperate 20. Blissful 21. Brooding 22. Together 23. Curiosity 24. Friend 25. Rooftop 26. bird 27. Performer 28. Teacher 29. Utopia 30. Garden 31. Oasis 32. Soul 33. Petrichor 34. Circadian 35. Balk 36. Ocean 37. Piano 38. Tome 39. Ecstatic 40. Apprehension 41. Window 42. Abandoned City 43. Stripes 44. Dictionary 45. Antagonistic
I am the sun. I am the sun, the moon, the world, the globe. I am all of it.
I am your worst nightmare, Your never ever after. Your dreams in the dark.
I am what you might call God but don't dare Because what if I'm not really god? But what if I am because no one can say what God looks like. So you'll debate with yourself for hours about whether I am or not.
Well I'm here to tell you I am.
I exist, and I am real, and I am here. I am that which goes bump in the night I am your disease, your freedom, your peace. I am you, and me, and them and her, and him, and the missing comma too. So Deal with Me, and I will Deal With You.
just because you eat leftovers doesn't mean munching on them is going to prove your immortality, unless you happen to actually be immortal and they're horridly old.
knowing how to keep track of expiration dates now is required by the State of Texas schools.
Spoiler! :
Computer Generation
I was born without a name, without a face, without life. Creation was like for me as it was for everyone else.
We whirred like a Ferris Wheel coming into our own from the hands of God and his tools of life. He molded us from steel and cages that we'd never see but they would sometimes show us pictures of our insides, and we'd realize our own mortality was fragile, like a fly in a microwave.
I am trapped in the box of my life, my body shell, ethereal whispers dancing across my skin and whispering in my ear, my horrid scar my point of infection and death, always open.
The creators leave it open like testing death's will and somehow I still live as they go to sleep.
Spoiler! :
Records in the Concrete
I couldn't see it until my face was planted deep within the concrete, and I began to worry about my chances of getting a refund on the broken eggs.
The eggs were smeared in my hair and down my back, but the thing which bothered me was the sticky feeling on my face like make up caked on for photos
The make up had such thick layering that it destroyed the natural swampland of my pores, and built up mounds of fresh colored dirt everywhere, growing green with grass.
The squirrels loved grass, and soft dirt because they could bury plots in it like winter stories to share around their nest before the trees crack and give way to snowy ground.
In the summer, they visit the forest across the street of my lips, and dive among the trees of hairs into the valley of my neck to collect tales from the deer who've seen it all, hunters bright as peacocks and themselves offering sacrifices to them for destroying their protective gear.
I found them there once, chasing my dog from the house as my black socks dangled from my mouth. My mother called after me for running off without my shoes and I had to scream at her in explanation that my socks were stolen because we all know that shoes without socks is like bagels without cream cheese, you do it when you absolutely have to, and this was not that time.
One time my sister asked me to make her a bagel and she said she wanted it with butter. She was officially crazy in my book after that. "You want me to do what?" "Butter my bagel for me." It was so hard to cope I nearly drowned. My mind was as dark as the sky in the city that day, after buttering a bagel. It felt like genocide. I had stolen the life of a perfectly good rolled and egged bread for the soul purpose of some measly butter on bread then the squirrels heard about it from the dog and buried it for winter.
I played chicken with them pretending to be as scared as them trying to get my socks back. My dog actually was a chicken so when the squirrels asked, he passed them off like he was just a tumbling stone in a river and they were trout.
He always got the short end of the stick sometimes literally because I'd crawl my hand up like a spider until I could pull it free and throw it again.
But in the end, he could ask for nothing else there was nothing Fate wouldn't give him after all she really spoiled the world for that dog providing him with everything he wanted and making home perfect before he came to us. Now he knows what he's missing.
He was so estranged to the hard life when he came home that he almost called it horrid, but couldn't get it out because despite everything, he is a good dog, just a coward who doesn't know how to stand up to squirrels, however he does lick off my make up covered face and for that I'm appreciative.
I came to school with a dog-slobbered face, my hair sticking at odd angles and my Shakes teacher yelled at me that I was a "Lumpish beetle-headed bugbear" but I didn't know what that meant it just sounded like an insult so I smiled and agreed because lumpish I was
The day I smacked a penguin for crawling up my leg it tore away my skin on my leg with it's claws in revolt and I became lumpish forever more.
And I'm definitely beetle-headed because I ride a train every day to and from work when it would be less expensive to walk but I am as stubborn as a stag beetle and have to have it my way
but I don't know what a bugbear is. I assumed it fit with the others however, I think I might have met one once on a subway station that reeked of ammonia and violinists who sweated from their enthusiastic body-spasms as they played.
He sat in the corner, waiting for the breeze of the trains beneath a blanket as torn and ratty as a matted fur and he was covered in flies. Perhaps that is a bugbear.
He caught me staring at him, and I missed my train trying to explain that I really didn't mean to it was just a captivating site then he spoke in Dutch, I think, and I sat there staring "Well, this is awkward" because I couldn't explain in Dutch and he was getting angry by the hue of his cheeks and slant of his eyes.
I assume he thought I was some robot hailing him as my god as I clasped my hands and bowed and shuffled backwards to stand still as a statue and I think he imagined I was hailing the holy hands of my motherboards for them to come and save me from this degradation of my circuits because I didn't ever look at that corner again
Like a person never trusting white jelly beans because they all could be popcorn flavored. Dreaming about the beauty of the violin that abandoned the railway station as soon as the incident occurred.
The halfway dream to regress found me danced upon for years as my lord resented me and my shadows turned sour.
This must be what he thought of me and my shy excuses he never understood. As I went to board the next train he stood and came after me, arms raised, screaming, and running.
We were skyrocketing through the solar system when we discovered life together believing somehow that we could make this work it and me, among the darkness, among the stars and I whispered of the dreams we had together happy to have found our salvation upon this planet where life was nothing more than life and war was behind us, forever. Now, we can be happy like daffodils reaching for the sun, side by side and always holding hands.
But what can I know about any of it? I am just a couch, settled into your carpet floor supporting you from my lonely square dreaming of being more than a lumpy beetle-headed bugbear when I grow old and you throw me away, your old furniture who loved you for so long who thinks you need to go on a diet in the worst way who lost your socks.
I was face first in the cement that day when the eggs fell, tripping you and they crawled all over my back and into my hair.
What I saw there was a dream of a mesh iguana. It was a child's art project I guess, but the form was so real so life like, I could almost see it moving ready to reach out and squeeze me tight to be my friend for life because all it wanted was something to live with something warm, and fresh and fragile but it had been destroyed by being thrown into the cement like me, and we would be the backbone of thousands of feet if I couldn't get us free. together, me and the Meshugenah.
All I am is loneliness, hoping for a friend. Envy as brown as dirt, and black as night and smelly as a rose, and bright as a moon. All I am is dreams, wanting you to hold me.
But you won't. When I say dare, it's nothing fun, just dares to break myself to hurt my soul with pangs of self-loathing and deprecation for thinking I could be more than the loneliness I am.
The darkness closed upon her as she cried herself to sleep at night beneath the covers dreaming of the squirrels and dogs that consumed her livelihood. They heard her dreams and worried offering bunnies and baskets and Santa Clause, but nothing was as good as just offering a hug, and they didn't know to do that. They never imagined that a hug would be enough.
Material things, like eggs, like breakfast, like cereal were all that mattered now, beneath the red sky among the rabid dogs and giant snakes.
His wife was wrapping her hands and unwrapping them the nervous tick of an impatient woman as they stared up at the their daughter's sleep place above them praying to the gods that she would not dream about this world
They heard a whining, crying, machine, like huge mechanical a saran wrapper and their attention detoured to the road where a little blue box offered salvation from the beasts of dreams.
And a man jumped free, offering his hand inside smiling like a fool and saying "Come meet my wife I wanted the other Twin, but when I got the address this was the one I married."
and a young woman stepped abroad in fascination grinning too, "How can you marry a city?" "Oh, it's simple, you just sign the paperwork!" and they popped down the street marry as a bird who'd already had his share of worms.
But they knew the truth, they knew this book and recognized the sequence as the end of days. If today could be saved, then it had been done and it hadn't. Today was the end of time.
And so they ran together, husband and wife, delivering their babe to her final stork of salvation and snuck upon the peppy man, the wife a sword in hand, holding it to the man's neck. "Don't move."
And the husband stole away the girl, dragging her back the way they came delivering her upon salvation hungering for her brains, but resisting his leg dragging from decay.
"I need to talk to a human," the man insisted "I need to talk to that human!" he proclaimed, not afraid of the sword, not fighting it's tip in his neck.
"I was human once," the wife complained, She took a shaky breath, staring at the man dreaming her husband was safe, and well and not a Zombie.
"Yeah? What's your name?" He was always so kind always written to be so polarized. Deadly and kind like a psychotic pit bull, who didn't know when to bite or when to pant and grin.
"I worked underground, in the steel mines." She remembered the hard rock against her pick the smell of sweat and chaos in her lungs and the blackness of her body from the soot. "It was better than working above ground."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
"Above ground there were monsters." She swallowed monsters like the one she married, monsters who killed monsters who were just figments of her imagination they couldn't be real, but her husband had one. "Humans."
"Honey, I got it done, I done it." Her husband dragged himself back to her, proud. He caught the wind and breathed deep his eyes glazing over with hysteria
The man pushed her sword away and grabbed her hand, "Run!" and so they did. They ran from the city he married from the world she knew to be true from the infection and the wind and the horrible smell of urine and flies on decomposing flesh.
And I ran too, among them, and with them and before them and between them I ran with their connected hands and devoured their life as my own my squirreled away story beneath the thick layers of snow.
I ran in their blood and among their cushions and when we entered the blue box, I ran across time and before and after time as well.
I was just a dream nothing more but while she slept I was among them all saturated in reality of this world made by their kinetic minds electrifying me to life. I just couldn't see it until my face was deep within the concrete.
I let the ocean rock me against it's coral reefs drown and dead, sunken for all my air was stolen by the sharks and the feeder fish swarming around me nibbling at my flesh.
It was my most useful moment yet!
Now I sink, skull without eyes chin without tongue finger-less so they'll never know me
I have a hard time believing that if my fingerprints were taken, I could be identified for real. No one has a record of them with the nicks and scars of life etching through my natural swirls.
No, they'd come up with someone else. Search me, and they'd see my successful self a writer, well loved, respected, alive. They wouldn't know my DNA my sister owns that.
If I die here, let go of my skeletal mass and evaporate like ink in the vast ocean I am not a murder victim, I am gone. Right now? I'm okay with that. And so I loosen my hold to the coral and with each crash of the waves my parts pull away tumbling to the ocean floor to chip into sand.
The birds chirp and chatter like women shopping for dresses fluttering around the canopy staring at the ground far enough away that dogs won't catch them and they can hide like fat leaves.
The dead ones crunch beneath my feet as I turn over mud and stones pill bugs scattering in my wake as I walk determined down the winding path trod by dog and deer and us
Today the breeze drifts up off the murky swampland cradled in the palm of the land's massive hand like a blemish upon the surface, puffing through the grass and catches deep in my lungs as I breathe deep and puff away the chill of fall receding.
Written with my buddy @WritingWolf XD We had a great time writing this together. We each wrote every other stanza.
The Blue Side of the Fence
If there was a heaven made just for writers what would it look like?
The compound had to be huge thousands of acres spread like the long arms of a polar bear with a thick furry belly to keep it warm
Would we each have a team of researchers at our beck and call? Or would we still have to enjoy the process of finding things ourselves?
We might have an endless buffet of anything we could ever imagine to eat cooked up by a lab of literary geniuses. Their one job, make our dreams a reality.
We'd have no need for money or material things. Simplicity to focus our ever wandering interest.
Or, perhaps, would we be quartered off stashed away in holes of heaven tucked into our own personal dreams of the best place to write?
We'd still each need a companion. Someone to inspire us and maybe even write with us.
But they'd need to leave us alone when we got overwhelmed by our creativity, drilling us into our "zone."
And everyone would read each other's works to guarantee an audience for each and every writer.
Oh wait, we have a heaven already, YWS does that doesn't it? We read and eat our fellow writers' work devouring their content greedily like hungry munchkins
So I guess a writer heaven would be blue and white online, full of helpful friends, and inside jokes.
And miles of articles written just for us, by us, about us, exploring our craft and tools.
Here's to you, YWS. Thanks for always being there for us.
We were, in simple term, complete, A soul, a heart, a head, and the ability to create. We were everything.
But everything misses certain aspects of nuance, a breath here or there time, slipping away like a rebellious teenager, child, pet.
We were complete, and yet I long for the touch of skin hands, lingering together abdomens wrapped in arms
because as complete as I am, I have found a way to miss like the songbirds miss one another like the sparrows miss the safety
I long for more, and my creation is less complete with creating and more complete with creating too like I must rip some of my everything away to smear it on a canvas.
I wish to share what everything is to me, give you a glimpse of me but I am only standing here flesh and blood, empty to a world of everything
having my chest evacuated upon the floor like a starburst which has shown it's last ray and you are reading the results.
We danced like the willows our long arms waving down accepting the motion of the wind as it caressed our hair and leaves.
We caught it, exchanged it like a plate of food drifting among us as it changed from twelve stuffed peppers, to none.
Each of us collecting our due of indigestion, and winter blues as we rolled in the tumult of a storm and creaked among the frostbitten mornings.
It wrecked us like a hurricane whipping about trees and cars and signs and move theaters abandoning wheat in trees killing things with innocent twigs
and we bore it all as we grew stretching up to the sky with our core and fell back to the ground from our weakness obeying gravity in our weeping.
Please, provide me flesh so I may feel the sun upon my skin again and dance another year. I fear I will fall as my peers have to the parasites.
I fear I will fall to the treatments and the trimming of my hair by the earth and the cows who use my branches as shade and the tornadoes that rip at my roots.
My body squeezes for another ring and I am weak, and withering like the sun burning myself up to live fighting off this illness of the skin.
we lay together lovers segregated by our bodies deprived of the lover's touch just asymptotically aligned
stay and whisper to my hands with yours like i am within a bubble, and you are my wind sleep with me among the stars so far away we can focus upon their bright light and imagine we are close together
the clouds drift over us white streaks of near reverberations of our lives laying so far apart, as their stratospheres dissolve their being up
up up into the atmosphere away from us all lost lambs slaughtered to the gods crying with the last of their grasp to hold into the ozone fingers slipping from that they once called home and their tears are the rain we lay beneath
this summer rain which blocks away the stars and draws us back to our distance reminding us we can never touch and yet here we lay
i turn to face you and you smile that sorry grin of a man who once destroyed the world in verse and i smile back a loving hope that some day i can be so lucky to destroy it after you
I think as you scroll you can feel the sense of texture that poems have flashing across the feelers of your eyes delving deeper into your subconscious their words, their lines, and rhymes
or maybe I'm crazy, my brain processing things, weirdly, like an elephant dreaming in coconut flavored yellow and vanilla brown.
When I say this, do you understand or do you only think in lemon yellow and chocolate brown?
Teach a man to fish, he eats for a day. Don't teach a man to fish, you eat for a day. He's a grown man. Fishing's not that hard. — Ron Swanson (Parks and Rec)
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