The SirenThere was a dead body on Sandie's back porch, and it was trying to get in.She wrung the coffee out of the front of her shirt, made damn sure that all of her doors and windows were locked, and called Mike."Mike.""Yeah? Sandie? That you?""You don't know anything about this, do you?""About what?""The zombie.""Come again?""Mike, there's a zombie on my back porch. It's leaving smears on the glass door. Is it yours?""I... Could you repeat that?""Zombie, Mike. It's a dead body in a puddle of nasty, and it's leaving more nasty on my door. God, I can even smell it. This is one thorough job, man."She edged away from the door, keep
If you want a new beginning...If you want a new beginning, consider investing in a mechanized suit of armorStreets shattered as giant robotsstrode in the city's center to duel.They aimed pulse guns,hit everything but each other.That was the day I knew I had to move.A limb of steel and wirefell and smashed the garage.Salvaged my old journal,plans for a new design.Papers flying out of skyscrapersreminded of drawings you sent.I stopped by your house;in your absence left a letter.Finally, about to evacuate,an eyelaser wrecked the highway.Border of concrete and fire for miles.Sorry, right now I'm trapped in my fears.One day I'll sneak into a
Fallterminal—my grandmother, crumblingleaves
Who gives this woman?No one can, for she was free and wild before she left my womb,Said her mama.No one can, for she was free and wild before she let go my hand,Said her daddy.No one can bind the wind that is her breath trap the water that is her blood cage the earth that is her bones capture the fire that is her heartSaid her granny.No one may give wha
On The PodiumThe art of conductivityas the maestro explained,is that the man with the batonserves as a lightning rod,earthing intuitions from god.
Let the Sparrows InI.Blackbirds are resting on the power lines,Their silhouettes form the notation toA dawn song set on the sheet music ofTelephone poles contrasted by the sun.Curled leaves are land mines litteredOn the lawn where imprints of twigsAnd a nurturing robin's tracks collect.Branchlets and leaflets stem fromPorch step railings and mailboxes;The numbers read even on theEast side of the asphalt:Seven-seven-thirty-six.The engraved letters onThe siding reads, "Davis."This house is home to familySo let the sparrows in.The house,With its branching hallwaysAndOverhanging décorAndFurniture rooted to the floor
SmilesNot even polite, meaningless words.On these bright, clear daysshe's outside.Moving as if at a playground.No wave, no "hi,"certainly no "how are you."Only a forced, slight smilewhen I wave and ask how she is.Attention might be a game.It might always be "I'm interested."But sometimes my grandfather comes to mind.Sitting alone indoors with bad breathand books about the apocalypse.When after eight years I visited,a bright smile,eager to be delighted.Maybe family are the friends you havebecause few know how to be friends.
Horses on the TelephoneOnce upon a time there lived a seven year old girl called Tilly. Tilly lived in a small house with her mummy and her daddy. She had her own bedroom with horses on the walls and horses on the bed.Tilly really liked horses. She had lots of cuddly horses and lots of statues of horses all over her room and house. Every Saturday Tilly and her mummy would go to the stables and Tilly would have a riding lesson.Tilly was always asking her mummy and daddy if she could have her own horse. She promised to look after it and ride it every day. Tilly's daddy said that they did not have the space for a horse, though, and this made Tilly sad.When Tilly
Rejection perceivedThe feeling that I was rejected did not come from any particular words. It was her body language, her visible discomfort - despite the beautiful sunny day it was, despite our conversation earlier, despite my caring for her - that made my heart collapse upon itself.I thought we were getting somewhere. Apparently I am the only one with feelings when we communicate.When I sigh now, it is not a sigh that comes from mental exhaustion, or from the knowledge of tedium. It ultimately comes from that physical feeling, that one where the walls of the heart are thinning and the blood right there is aching and the organ itself is rolling into a ball
moth wingswith no alarmshe dances through the bony air,eyes like a hungry childslobbering at the first scent of knowledge.glistening off of those eyes – the very sight of it –the taste that all greedy minds crave.she flutters towards it,light peaks through her delicate wingslike how it flickers under the water's surface,an angel ascending into heaveneasily and swiftly crushedby the capital handthat shadowed behind such heavenly light – with all intention of crushing the wings of innocence –and with a clear conscience,as a moth is to a hand as what a person is to the universe.isn't it painless for a hand to swa
Fragments1. Your clockwork appendages were cold to the touch, the industrial complex you called your mind was grating gear against gear where the unoiled works kept clacking away; your heart was a tick-tocking machine that counted the hours while the corrosion settled in.2. "You know what you need?"No.""You need an adventure. Let's go have one."3. I wanted to hold the thunder in glass jars and write long letters on faded parchment; instead I applied to retail stores to fuel my obsessions for the easily consumed and quickly forgotten.4. He turned at the sound of my camera snapping, just in time for me to capture the expression on his face
In the Chill of the DayMolly, what are you doing under a draped green tarp over frozen white ice with such black water flowing fierce beneath it?Why did you cut a hole in the ice and shiver under layers of thermal clothes covering your probably beautiful freckled skin?Why do you have a fishing line dropped with a dead-weight sinker down in that hole you stand by; why are you so hungry?My ears are warm in a knit cap that covers my head and gets me out of the house so I can carefully slide up toward Molly.I see her mouth smile wide in a silent "hi" and the wind just howls over this black-and-green and frozen slick white ice lake.I shrug small shoulders in m
AdamI, first feeling this sunken heat, firstscraping this grain desert, firstsitting under verdant walls, Ifirst touching these rooted crags, firsttripping in the mountain's gloam, firstreaching this brackish fountain, Ifirst holding the ocean, firstdrinking its salt poison, firstsinking to my knees, Ifirst trying to understand, Ifirst trying to speakI
Church of ThoughtI want to build a libraryAnd shelve it with every book ever burned.I want to build a libraryAnd invite in all the pastors and preachers and woebegone popes-Send them wandering through the breathing books,Willingly lost in the dust motes and the cinnamon paper and the quiet conversation of Dry Twain- Dark Poe-Wilde and Shakespeare and Darwin and Plato.I want to build a libraryFor all the puppets and their strings.And there, in that long-awaited Church of ThoughtLet them decideWho the real gods are.
waiting.he has been there for so long that the girl sometimes wonders if he is part of the beach, if the seaweed and shells fuse themselves to his ankles at night and grow over his browned legs like ivy. he is always still, so still, eyes focused on something distant in the waves that the girl can't quite see, though she tries. the man has a face like a creased paper bag and she finds herself wishing that she could see inside his head.she watches him all day from the corner of her eye but no one ever joins him in his vigil. he is alone in casting shadows that grow longer and longer as the sun sets. the girl wonders what it is like to be so alone an
stop ruining autumn.listen:fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider. but i liked the idea of it.listen:two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves, who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."listen:on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape. lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged
Sta.sh
