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Disregarding AppearancesWe are taking her to the dentist, again:
another chipped tooth.
Cherry pit the culprit, cut her lip to boot.
Eighty-three years old
and she's never chipped a tooth...
you count the four times
in the months since he died.
No matter how we frame it,
her focus has gone
from the willing meat
to the unyielding pit.
She refuses to eat them without pits,
demands her cherries daily, insisting,
even on the way to the dentist,
blood and dried spittle caked
in the corners of her tight smile,
insisting, she was living life
just as it told her to.
I sigh quietly.
They're her jaws, it's her choice.
I lean over in the back seat we share,
hold her gently and use my finger,
moistened with her tears
to clean the blood from her smile.
As I finish she pulls me closer,
whispers to me, dry lips tickling my ear.
"I filled my days hating that bastard
loving every minute of it;
and when I loved him,
I hated myself."
She giggled, then, and I couldn't help but laugh.
Again she whispered, even more soft
Sweet Molasses Riverboat
Pixies go boom.
Purebreds cross designs of blood
razorblown into your flesh,
leaving you with underflaps of skin to read.
Is it a mystery?
The needle gets stuck
in the groove
in your vein
in the webs of your toes
in your eye...
Your world is chosen by you and you alone.
Do pixies go boom,
or don't they?
Snow White in the Seventh Ward
I see you there, across the room,
arms crossed in a feeble attempt
to ward off memories of seeing,
Gray nights, quiet roads,
using the faint outline
of the yellow median stripes
to guide your steps.
Walking on the outsides of your feet,
trying so hard not to awaken the dead
lest they give chase
and make you join their party.
It was your own ankle joint talking
and still you had to stifle a scream,
to ward off memories of hearing,
Run full tilt, mouth a maw of sirens
arms akimbo and off kilter.
Let your sweat be magical
to ward away werewolves
and rapists and vampires,
all come to collect or leave
some sort of...essence.
All of them, taking your soul.
And you, helpless, dying, living,
I see you there, across the room,
arms across your chest,
hiding treasure, covering your heart,
hiding your heart. You remove yourself
from the arena of healing
because doctors carry lances, too,
and better a world you can what?
Gray nights, quiet roads,
using the faint o
Did I Mention the Sun...
Orpella will sit and carefully knit, while
blooms of white gather to make amends.
When calluses wore and painfully tore, infantile,
comfort was displayed within; it depends
on stolen Inverness cape.
Scents of lilacs do permeate well, float
and fall quite well, upon ready intake of air.
She followed her man to end of his days, till bloat
posies in hand, without any care,
poker-faced St. Peter awaits.
Inveigled by time, remaining by proxy,
Orpella cloaks so many, numbers fail mettle.
Her steadfast allegiance, staid orthodoxy,
crown her centerpiece amid glorious petals.
.....Bar the garden, Orpella!
Her chair emptied in time, holding out
invite to another, dedicated.
Should they deign to collar their doubt,
flowers involved, predicated.
.....Whence came caution, Orpella?
What devices we have that come morning,
dawn has lost its glory and seems
even upon wakening,
like the sunset of our hearts, mine-
looking for light.
Gone are days of pointing out those rays,
the arc of clouds run through,
with vertical greetings from Sol,
bursting through doors unannounced,
and spirits unattuned, I-
needing such tan.
Let me not sit by a stream and be immune,
to the breeze pulling your hair into a smile,
the trees into a bow,
forgetting how those atoms mix
and flow from inception, me-
part of it all.
What devices we have that come morning,
dawn gives us its hope: new day,
ever that dream unlived, ripping through such cords
as plug in our plugging out, finally-
in the real world.
Left Side Larry
Left Side Larry
Falling and tripping, same side
of the coin, if you ask Larry,
no matter if you fell from grace
or just stepped off the curb.
Larry you're waggish, you entrepreneur,
leading those ladies to safety...
no matter the ability to stride
nor the propensity to tarry.
Didn't you see the look on her face?
Your gentle touch, did only disturb.
Larry your boot was just found in the sewer,
yet you refuse knowledge of it so chastely!
Blame it upon Caterpillar's desire to hide,
and your couch potato, no legs to chase.
Larry what now, have you any account
of your dreams during the witching hour?
Did some cinnamon bun show up gnarly and hairy,
or were you a zot on a zit, a temporal blurb?
Larry my patience for pulchritude only abides,
doesn't temper my focus or zeal.
No envelope push nor empathy brace:
when confidence spits and only remits,
when the carapace breaks and falls to the hewer,
Ushers will appear rather hastily.
Larry your tales we will quickly surmount
though the coff
The Female SuicideTwenty years of nursing
emergency room wounds
and my grandmother
puts down her fork, rubs
her brow and tells me
the female suicide
is a more methodical,
A woman will close
the curtains, cleanse
their apartment of clutter
for the first time in months
and proceed to overdose
in the comfort of their
A woman will do this
because she is aware
someone will have to
discover her like this.
Someone will have to
bury her like this.
My grandmother says this
because when my uncle speaks
paramedic about the male
he pronounced dead from
a house’s television antenna
he never mentions a burial.
A Ball Of CherriesImagine life
like a ball of cherries.
You can't eat many,
Don't rush to eat them!
Some are soft,
Don't go too slow, you'll lose the taste.
storiesi begin and end with stories
where hummingbird hearts play sonatas
against my ribs and i drown in
early morning light and
the girl in me sinks into the sea
like rusting anchors chained to
ships and i sway port and starboard
the lion in me rises like lazarus
from the savannah where dust swirls
and i begin and end with stories
where i swallow the world and all
the rain and girls and lions in it
where i hold it up like atlas,
where i support jupiter with just
an index finger and where i chase
comets and cup them like fireflies
to hang on my bedroom walls
Blooming Through CrevicesBlooming Through Crevices
People are characters;
their personalities are not to be cracked,
but to bloom.
Codes and signals
Setting our sights
On how to see
Through the cipher.
Optics opting for options
As opposed to conscious.
Ardor replaced by harder
To break through exteriors.
But mortality is only one facet
Of the entirety of humanity.
It is a compass of one being,
But merely a piece of the puzzle
That makes up human composition.
let us not break through empathy
with deductive methodology
but rather with the rhythm
of a honeybee whistling along the hymn
of the wind whispering in the leaves.
humanistic, holistic ideologies
is what the standard can be.
it is the notion of being a metaphor
rather than being something to decipher.
because there are more stars and galaxies
in poetry than there will ever be algebraic
expression curls up with ambiance
under the window pain of a picture frame
because we write more about
the cultivation of neophiliai.
give in to it:
the insatiable restlessness
that haunts, heavy
in a familiar corner
of your eyeline.
drive toward the night.
halt only when you
can no longer
trace paths of neon
from streetlight to fingertip;
never quite reach the
eventually, stop trying.
look over the paper city
resting fragile below;
tear it to shreds
with vicious intent
forget that you have
loved and hoped and
for a moment
there is only you,
the night, and the need
desire like you've
never wanted anything,
search for the novel,
for the fantastical
and the faintest hint
of something new
in the sky-glow.
stand so high atop
wonder how they do not
under the weight
of all this empty
broken bones and broken birdsdragonflies buzz between
your tangled fingers
seeking nectar under
your chewed nails,
but the bitter burn
of almond acid will
clip their mosaic wings.
you're centered at
nature's core, a
centrifugal force of gravity,
grasping and dragging
lives to your unforgiving
you strangled the wild
whistling hare underneath
the billowing willow, and
your tongue tripped into
compulsive lies and disbelief.
i mean c'mon, clearly,
it was an accident.
if that's the case
the blue-eyed raven
that crashed to earth
after striking a third
degree burn, should
have survived, but you
plucked feathers from its
wings and drowned it.
you have a way with
decaying everything you
touch, your soul, my
heart, a puppy in a
cardboard box, yet
we all keep coming
back to you.
i think we all know
that even though you
bend and break and
bully the world, you
are the most broken
of all, and i just want
to fix you.
San FranciscoGood lord, how long I've slept this time!
And from what undiluted dream
full of free space and meadows,
brickless and feral,
lost in terrible infant whims,
streaking from trees to the hazel in the dusk,
have I come creaking to this ancient face?
If I ever find le sens de la vie
writhing underleaf in a crooked line of ants
or rippling in a koan made of cigarettes butts
then I’ll go back to San Francisco
and look her beggars in their pupils
and talk to her gypsy witch doctors,
listen to uningestible trumpet masters,
commiserate with the legless street congress,
revisit the subterranean shrine to urine
that sifts through the walkers at 2nd and Market,
and make love to some lost pearl of the Orient.
I’ll interrupt her philosopher queens as they serenade their oracles,
crawl in wretched street machines, carousel coins in rusty slots
that screech down to the wharf of the seal paparazzi
communing with dead architects of gleaming concrete miracles
Brood-fall-leap! into this cauldron-my mind. (Minds!)
Bring your courage: not one drop light!
You'll have need. Better yet, be insane.
It will keep you from lifting trinkets
from happy shelves, making them your own
as the path unwinds, locking you
to my windowpane-my world-my worldview.
It's caught in its rut, comfortable with its place:
bottom of the sea, tip of the stars.
Neptune, on the sly ruler of Orion,
keeps watch over sand grains,
equating them with mortal hearts,
even the upstarts.
Even the meek travel here safely,
singing pink tunes of tulip.
If they are meek, I'm celery stalks
with supercolumniating growth.
You will hear the snappings
the cracks of destruction,
and you will taste the snappings
as copper fear warns you:
a storm approaches.
'Rendi' told you what to expect.
I kick out my mind, bring within the acceptable form:
the rancid plate of conformity.
Now, have your pockets grown heavier yes, full?
Are your fingers slippery with sweat, leaving their mark?
Did you just tr
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More