Painting NightsDear Emma,Painting Nights by brassteeth
The truth is I'm not a painter.
The truth is I followed you here from that flower shop on Whitmore Street, two and a half months ago. Please, keep reading.
You actually took my breath away when I glimpsed you holding a bunch of lilies in your slender hands at the flower shop counter. You stunned me. That's never happened to me before. I was watching you turning the bouquet left to right, you seemed in awe of the flowers' beauty. Your eyes, your perfect smile, the way you held yourself. It was not a conscious decision to follow you here. I think I was in a trance. I know how it looks; I know it sounds like a movie.
When Miss Vale said it was only the beginning of the painting course, lesson two, I signed up, paid my money on the spot, just to follow you into the room.
Just to keep seeing you. Just to be near you. I know it's crazy.
I stared at the back of your bobbed hair for that entire lesson. In my mind I was shouting for you to turn around
DadI turned out like my spot-skinned fatherDad by brassteeth
and I would twist and turn the dry tall-grass threads
that I found on the prairie into braids of hair
like he taught me,
and I would feed the horses blocks of salt
before they took flight in the bleak twilight of the plains.
I lived in a world of dry winds and cul-de-sacs
and reached the thinking end of things
before I knew I had no-where to go,
and I first fell in love with a girl
who’s handle is lost to that wind
but her brown eyes are sketched to my soul for eternity.
When I left home he stood on the old porch
while the wind chimes sprung chords
across the flat land like a funeral bell
as my mother walked me to the car,
and as I drove across the cattle grid for that final time
he was already inside the house and gone to me
as a shape and as an image.
He died of a stroke 6 months later
and she told me in her soft sweet voice
how much he had loved me and his pride of me
but it was always in her voice
and I had to use my imagination
Forgiveness EconomicsGenesisForgiveness Economics by brassteeth
But for the small purple stain on its border, the banknote was non-descript.
It had a value but men value things in different ways and by different means. It had a value, but its value is not it's story.
It landed on the church plate face up, coming to rest softly on the flat silver base amongst the loose change like it was tossed to the cloth of a gambling table, soundless but with a small sense of resignation. A man paying for luck, a man asking his God for a favor.
It came from the wallet of a small sad man, who feared the Good Lord daily. The banknote was the weekly price of his penance, the bill of sale for those half-remembered crimes of a misspent youth and other things unmentionable.
The small sad man's hands were fat and white and callouses sat on his thumb and forefingers, the scars of a bank teller, a money counter, a man who knew about value. The hair on his head was grey and his eyes were blue below his wrinkled forehead and tonight would be the last time he
Unclean HouseWhen I was diagnosedUnclean House by brassteeth
you were sending me off to work
saying its just a sniffle –
on odd days
to lace my skin in the dark
– or to puncture
my rich anaemic
with another dream.
I forget that I let you
makes you feel dangerous
like a shotgun
in your hand
or sulphur and blood
across a bible.
Smuggled night bourbon
and dog-eared porn
keep you away
then all the skinny whores can’t help you
and you come back
to your unclean house
and it hits you
tore your lungs.
I am here now;
like a painting
on a radiographer’s easel
-still life with protruding bone -
so go ahead - be the man I must heal for:
or better still - be the snake
that I first mistake
for something more benign.
PassingPassing by Jade-Pandora
Distant and out to sea, the loneliest sound I’ve ever heard - the call of gulls – drifts on the gray of early morning. As if in a dream, I walk the dunes, between foam-kissed shorelines and misted hillocks covered with swaying sea grass grown tall, that leans away as the breath of incoming waves approaches, and fades back as they exhale.
Dark hair in my eyes, I look up the wandering coast and make out the figure of a young woman who is also walking, barefoot and solo, while the onshore breezes push the straw hair from her brow, her pale eyes peering with interest as we draw near, her mouth softening with acceptance. Then, passing each other, we both keep turning every few steps to watch the other walking further away. The sand starts to swallow my feet as I slowly make my way toward the shallows.
bending at tide pool’s
edge, the crabs startle and freeze
as I peer into
the grave of her barnacle
slumbering, finding my own
Pumpkin WifePeter loved pumpkins. He reveled in the squash: the texture, the taste, the smell. Halloween was the time that they were revered, worshiped, receiving the attention he believed they deserved. It was the time when they were everywhere and he relished those moments. To him pumpkins were perfection come to existence.Pumpkin Wife by HugQueen
"Peter, do you love me?"
Her voice strained to overcome the chattering of other couples as they walked through the field.
"No, why would you ask that?" Peter bent down and picked up a pumpkin, his eyes fixated on it.
"It's just that we've--we've been together for a while now. And I-I thought that maybe you'd fallen in love with me?"
"It's been two months," he said setting the pumpkin down in its former place.
"But we're basically living together, you can't tell me that doesn't mean something."
"So what, it's easier for you to stay with me. Right?"
"Maybe, but--you really don't love me?"
Peter's gaze ventured from the pumpkins to her, he scrunched up his nose at the word 'love
aftermath of December darknesssuddenly todayaftermath of December darkness by alapip
as parents linger
with so much extra love
it's wonderful and warm
soon it will be Christmas
llp - dA - dec2012
MomentaryI dwell in impossibility,Momentary by dreamsinstatic
somewhere between the unattainable
and the lost.
Rational thought submits
to the chaos of the inexplicable
and I do not fair well with questions
in the absence of answers.
There is no clear path
and so I wander through the darkness
bereft of light and direction.
I swallow bits of truth
picked from the mass of fantasy,
choking on the reality
of a dream from which I am awakening.
A black and white world
has banished me to the gray region
between what was and what could be.
The willows are thinking again about thickness,|
slowness, lizard skin on hot rock,
and day by day this imagining transforms them
into what we see: dragons in leaf, draped scales
alongside the river of harried, spring-stirred silt.
Short Journey Upriver
Current Residence: Annahoriasticin
Favourite genre of music: Country or Western
Favourite style of art: Literature
Favourite cartoon character: God
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
last nightlast night, the smell of you seeped into me.
i caught it dripping from my pores
and unfurling from my hair like a sightless memory
then settling comfortably on the pillow beside me
and pooling in the creases of my sheets
like a contented water cat.
last night, the taste of you rubbed into me.
your unique spice grubbed beneath my unpainted nails,
flavoring the back of my tongue and the space between my scapula
with a sweat-salty sweet desire
that I licked from your shoulder while your stomach breathed into mine
and we balanced indelicately on coxae and cotae
like dancing bears on balls.
last night, the idea of you sailed into me.
it came silently, slowly flowing into small dark corners
so it wouldn't frighten me
and waiting for the sunrise,
waiting to be cautiously picked up and examined for solidity,
to be confirmed by the pleasure in your eyes
when i said you'd meet her at Christmas
and you didn't look away.
|"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery." |
— Cormac McCarthy