"VeryShortStory: What I most wanted was you. What I settled for was your sister. in your hand-me-down clothes, viewed from the right angle in low light."
Monday, June 27, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Memory I
He removes my scarf and white silk blouse, dropping them to the sooty earth-packed floor. He holds my hands--both within one of his, directing me to spin. Using his lips he begins to unwind duct tape which he affixes to my flesh, beginning just beneath my armpit and binding my breasts tight. He may well have taped my mouth, because not a sound escapes these trembling lips.
There are predators here, were the words which took my skirt.
You will work now.
He throws a bright orange jumpsuit at me, releasing me, forcibly. My knees had given out long prior, the releasing of hands enabling my crouch in this cool, dim silence. I realize that I am in a basement as the light of a home streams in Dolby digital silhouette from his open door. The wind in the door presses a woman's slandering monologue in effervescent fits of laughter. Redemption... justice... and healing through the discipline of others... there are other terms. These strke hardest.
Beside the door sits a pair of steel-toe work boots and a long list on parchment, Perceptions Of Sentience scripted neatly up top--the remaining words scribbled in a language utterly foreign and indecipherable. I sit still for a long while, finally dressing in the drawing/waning light of a distant furnace. Approaching it, I crumble and toss his P.O.S. directives inside. They give a brief, bright flash as they proceed to penetrate the eternal movement of umber coal and flame. One thing, and one thing alone is mine for certain: I CANNOT COMPLAIN.
There are predators here, were the words which took my skirt.
You will work now.
He throws a bright orange jumpsuit at me, releasing me, forcibly. My knees had given out long prior, the releasing of hands enabling my crouch in this cool, dim silence. I realize that I am in a basement as the light of a home streams in Dolby digital silhouette from his open door. The wind in the door presses a woman's slandering monologue in effervescent fits of laughter. Redemption... justice... and healing through the discipline of others... there are other terms. These strke hardest.
Beside the door sits a pair of steel-toe work boots and a long list on parchment, Perceptions Of Sentience scripted neatly up top--the remaining words scribbled in a language utterly foreign and indecipherable. I sit still for a long while, finally dressing in the drawing/waning light of a distant furnace. Approaching it, I crumble and toss his P.O.S. directives inside. They give a brief, bright flash as they proceed to penetrate the eternal movement of umber coal and flame. One thing, and one thing alone is mine for certain: I CANNOT COMPLAIN.
Friday, January 16, 2009
her, french ivory cameo
some days... i fear... i have lost... all... my dirt... in streams... i can see virtue... in wearing plumes of vanilla... soaked chiffon, or soft cotton... tied 'round my ankles--waist--neck lined in hand stitched lace... eyelets cascade in trails... trace my silhouette... trace my arms... taper to hands like blades... i can see myself etched out in cameo... glass encased... facing my own reflection... starring out... obsidian eyed... at my past... undressed... and starved for attention... until i fell head over heels... for my future self... suckled and suckling... nectars of life... baptize my fired obsidian. sheathed. eyes... YOU ARE JUST... A MOTHER he said NOTHING MORE... and he cut me... but was not incorrect... and i saw how he loved me... and how it could be... so i turned... in to myself... with his light warming my back... pluck questions like grapes from the caves... of unpolished gems on mind... and wear them... charmed... through the seas of hard. fine. blowing sands. polishing me... for my future me's... and the one that will love... peeling this husk of my warm. maize. leaf. wrapped and tied self...
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Luna's Uprising.
Flying around a bend in the river of road made magmic, crimson and bright--around Mt. Baldy. I spy her. Whispering duskily subtly spotted: a diagonal yawning platinum dawn discus drawn like ink, from Blackhearts coal Glacier Peak--through quill of raven variegated black. Nightrider’s pressing her--rising faster as the Captain steers in arched deviation, vaporizing the mountainside’s space—time, continually revealing her prematurely across sheeted panoramic glass control panels. One perfect circle—completing herself: pot-bellied, full. Suckling this rivers Captains and riders breath away. The land behind idles in diaphanous dark.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)