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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
December 14, 2012
An uninhibited stream of consciousness allows the reader to seamlessly enter into the mindset of the narrator in Boylan Books by *anapests-and-ink also suggested by *UnspecifiedUnknown
Featured by Nichrysalis
Suggested by doughboycafe
Literature Text
I first see Neal across the open sparkle mall floor, paused in serious contemplation thought speaking solely to self, whispers not for ears or voices only thoughts, shining thoughts, open thoughts thinking marvelous wonders of books and dust and corporate-but-not bookstores. His hair is green not really but blue and green pirate green, red bandanna is he a pirate? asks the little girl with pigtails and chocolate snot embarrassed mother shoo be nice that's rude tugging hand with look of so sorry, she's five, not smart enough yet, please forgive and Neal with open half-grin smiling not really there but almost, not speaking but almost, not accepting or forgiving or out-loud speaking but just shelving, shelving, shelving.
And when I stretch across open sparkle-sparkle tile mall floor (checked with gum and scuffed tile and not-allowed skateboards) Neal looks up, somewhat barely, face open innocent quiet not-there. I ask applications? Are you hiring? because I need a job but not really, no, asking because Neal has green but really blue but really bleached-once-black, maybe brown hair and a red bandanna and a Buddha smile.
says our Buddha incarnate so I take action, take the application, sit on the twisted wire sliced cushion bench and take action. A man-boy on cobblestone bumping skateboard with stickers and snears skates by flash emptiness blankness and Neal shelving shelving now far in back invisible just splash of green not green but blue hair dancing bobbing over the sex books. I fill in the blanks, maybe lying a little, need to answer take action Are you hiring? Yes, please. Neal's hair waltzing bobs and I can't see the form, can't the paper the runny pen the smear Pollock blobs references? No references. Buddha incarnate and Keith's Dad he won't call, pirates don't call don't check references.
Neal glides never steps step softly, ghost is commandment number the first, takes the runny ink Pollock blob paper doesn't look says
"Yeah, we need holiday people still. Can't guarantee you a position after New Year's, but we haven't had too much interest so....Can you start Monday?"
And when I stretch across open sparkle-sparkle tile mall floor (checked with gum and scuffed tile and not-allowed skateboards) Neal looks up, somewhat barely, face open innocent quiet not-there. I ask applications? Are you hiring? because I need a job but not really, no, asking because Neal has green but really blue but really bleached-once-black, maybe brown hair and a red bandanna and a Buddha smile.
A happy society must be created by people themselves,
not through prayer alone, but by taking action.
says our Buddha incarnate so I take action, take the application, sit on the twisted wire sliced cushion bench and take action. A man-boy on cobblestone bumping skateboard with stickers and snears skates by flash emptiness blankness and Neal shelving shelving now far in back invisible just splash of green not green but blue hair dancing bobbing over the sex books. I fill in the blanks, maybe lying a little, need to answer take action Are you hiring? Yes, please. Neal's hair waltzing bobs and I can't see the form, can't the paper the runny pen the smear Pollock blobs references? No references. Buddha incarnate and Keith's Dad he won't call, pirates don't call don't check references.
Neal glides never steps step softly, ghost is commandment number the first, takes the runny ink Pollock blob paper doesn't look says
"Yeah, we need holiday people still. Can't guarantee you a position after New Year's, but we haven't had too much interest so....Can you start Monday?"
Literature
Plow
It's finally snowing again,
blankets of peace falling
with a freshness that lacks innocence.
Nearly forgotten, they're here as expected,
clearing the streets,
trying to push aside all the worry
that makes things unsafe, but
the steel mouth askew grates against my heart;
its thick bass scrape pushing more than piles of white aside,
it pushes my blood aside too,
piling it up in the corner of this pumping vessel that falters,
ice-caked and bitten, stiffened,
and keeps faltering,
again,
and again,
and again,
until the air is silent
and the street no longer shivers in torture.
The only evidence is the blanket of white
that keeps
Literature
windstorms and labwork
afflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.
[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your
Literature
All the Things You Never Knew
It was your favorite thing to say. “We know everything about each other. Not just the good things, but even the bad ones. We have no secrets.” And the way your eyes lit up when you said it, how your arm would curl around my shoulders and squeeze me against you… I couldn’t say anything. I promised myself that I would when we were alone, but the moment always seemed wrong and eventually the fact that I still had secrets became a secret itself.
It turns out I wasn’t the only one.
I never told you about the crying or the cutting or the nights I spent awake staring at the bottle of pills. I was terrified it would b
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Submitted before I panic and decide never to post anything ever again.
This is kinda the style I'm hoping to go with for my NaNoWriMo project; I figure stream-of-consciousness is the only way to get me to throw my inhibitions to the wind and just freaking write. This was inspired by Kerouac's Doctor Sax, and is therefore possibly as utterly incomprehensible as that novel is. That said…
Questions:
1. Is it too confusing to enjoy?
2. Did you get a sense of the characters?
3. Is Neal’s dialogue too abrupt?
This is kinda the style I'm hoping to go with for my NaNoWriMo project; I figure stream-of-consciousness is the only way to get me to throw my inhibitions to the wind and just freaking write. This was inspired by Kerouac's Doctor Sax, and is therefore possibly as utterly incomprehensible as that novel is. That said…
Questions:
1. Is it too confusing to enjoy?
2. Did you get a sense of the characters?
3. Is Neal’s dialogue too abrupt?
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