Saturday Morning Features - 1

i decided i am going to start running a weekly feature, showcasing ten phenomenal literary deviations x) just prose and poetry that has recently caught my eye. (from now on, this will actually go up in the morning; saturdays are so unproductive). if you have been featured, please the journal and check out the other pieces. onto the main event—

still,"i want grandchildren."
that car ride ruined some things
threw a wine bottle at the wall
15 years sitting
it was good enough or
it wasn't good enough
all the silence forced
my pride to jump out the window
if any rested in her
she showed it off like a speech bubble
tied it to her teeth
slammed it in the door
had it under her pillow for months
and years and years and years
there was no statement
there was no outstretched hand
just steering wheel clenching
knuckles white and jaw taut
(all because who i bed was not her mindful of
timeline perfection)
i still think i'm a tumor
--
she shows it off like a speeding ticket
i put a pin through it
i put it on her sweater
she never wears it
"if any rested in her
she showed it off like a speech bubble
tied it to her teeth"


Radioactive Snowflakes                                         Oh boy, boy, boy
For the last shall be,
and that arctic disposition will melt away in time
written on a hearth rug, read it and then
turn the dial back and tune into Goodbye FM
                                        "Oh boy, boy, boy
               Goldilocks should have been clad in HazMat,
               bear in mind the Gouda enacts the rat trap"
For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time
...and I
measured it all in half-life
                                          Oh boy, boy boy
That arct
"For the last shall be,
when fractals free fall from the sky
thickening icycle eyes, cementing prisms with time"


:thumb336077209:
"boy arsonist
red, violet, piss orange
whose father cut to pieces
and chucked out from a tin"


:thumb334624921:
"She wrote a cruel poem for him that day. She called it(marriage.) She whispered it into his ear, squeezing his hand, and curling up within him like a crescent moon. He felt her naked body transform into a fortress, barricaded with walls and guards. The two curved figures slept, frozen like this for the last time."


Five A.M. Last Thursday Morninghe's good at arranging my bones the way they should be
while i'm always putting them in all the wrong places
and wondering why i hurt when i sit up if i sit up at all
and when i woke up at five the other night
i didn't know it was because something extrasensory had happened
but in the aftermath and my own curiosity
i found that i am among the right kids, those kids
who wake up when i wake up
after something tumultuous grips the earth
the saddest part about indigo children is
the hole they have in the center of their being
but love, you make me feel like it's not there
especially when you're setting my bones straight
tsking at the way it's always my hips that break apart
and not my insides
"i found that i am among the right kids, those kids
who wake up when i wake up
after something tumultuous grips the earth"


October 23rd, 2012some mornings i wake to a different world than the one i fell asleep in. the sky is
bluer; the leaves are crisp. and there is a weight atop me, some vermin on my shoulder
and claws in my scalp.
some mornings i wake to a different world than the one i fell asleep in. the sky is
softer; the leaves glow green. and there is a weight atop me, the love of a cat, hungry,
her claws in my scalp.
some mornings i wake to a different world than the one i fell asleep in. the sky is
inconsequential; the leaves forgotten. the heat of your arm curls around me, ending in
your nails on my scalp.
"some mornings i wake to a different world than the one i fell asleep in. the sky is
inconsequential; the leaves forgotten."


golden afternooneverything is weighted
but not heavy,
down to the last glitter of dust
settled, it all belongs and
sits obvious, unmoving,
comfortable--still
but not frozen,
existing with no intent--
perfectly present, quiet
but for the hum of something,
a fan or a fridge or a
thought, constant
but not intrusive—
a certain slant of light
turns the floors to honey
and makes it seem like
measuring time is too busy--
this moment is eternal,
and sits heavy and warm
in your palm,
like a small gold ball.
"a certain slant of light
turns the floors to honey
and makes it seem like
measuring time is too busy--"


:thumb325327142:
"As I learned where to find truly large masses of peyote growing together, I could have cried for the beauty of their fragile pink flowers, and the beauty of their homeland. Plants as tall as me or taller, some covered with spines inches long, were more right than might, so to speak. The land felt like a welcome mat."


dizzythe asphalt is rocky under her bare feet, and sometimes she has to skip to keep from accidentally cutting her sole open. upstairs a sun reclines lazily as she tilts her face back to glimpse the endless blue sky. it's not closing in on her, not like the stifling rooms everyone seems to prefer.
          a grin cracks her face
as a green car roars past, spitting poison into the air, and the owner stares at her from behind the wheel before it passes. she bares her uneven teeth in response.
she's only walking at the edge of the road, curving around parked machines, and avoiding a broken bottle in the gutter –
but if she wants,
     she can do whatever she likes.
freedom perches on her shoulder, as heavy as the warm sunlight beating down, but it sends shockwaves along her collarbone, an endless supply of energy that keeps the Cheshire grin on her face and her steps as light as a feather.
and her lips are wide, w
"she's only walking at the edge of the road, curving around parked machines, and avoiding a broken bottle in the gutter –

but if she wants,
    she can do whatever she likes."


Only HumanNo one ever goes to the Tenderloin unless they have to. Most of us try to pretend it doesn't exist, even if it means we take the long route to work in order to avoid getting ourselves involved with that area. We do a damn good job, too. Days, weeks, months pass in-between the times when the Tenderloin shows its face in San Francisco, as if we have stuffed it in the basement of the city, hidden deep underground so no one will find it. Not that anyone would. It's full of washed-outs and has-beens and slick, seedy guys who want to watch the world crumble. Only crazies and shells of characters live in the Tenderloin.
The day I walk down the city's basement steps, the air is dense and thick. Fog blankets most of the city, making everything dangerously hushed. Invisible water droplets come to rest on my forehead and my hair is damp within minutes. I walk quickly, head down, for no one wants to stay in these parts for too long. Bad things happen to good people down here in the depths o
"With that, he turns around and marches off until he reaches the corner of the street. The rundown brick wall he is standing in front of is decorated with graffiti, pictures of psychedelic flowers and tragic eyes and outlines of people in pain.  He studies the mess of artwork for a moment, as if trying to comprehend what all of it means."