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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
February 24, 2015
Skies over San Angelo by a-la-douce-memoire is a striking love story that hasn't happened yet.
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Literature Text
There is something about you
I've never been able to capture in word or form;
an alluring resonance in the sadness
hidden behind your piercing blue eyes,
some immeasurable substance
caught in the dulcimer tune of your voice,
that tugs on my heartstrings
like a sea-eyed starlet pruning her melody from a harp:
A white velvet hurricane in a black satin dress
with hammers for hands and a stained glass smile,
the kind of beauty the moonlight clings to
and follows around at night;
Calypso's golden daughter-
a silver dagger in place of her tongue
and a smile pieced together from a leftover sunrise;
A sidewalk flower with the might of an oak
the tender heart of a lamb,
and all the bewildering mystery of Minerva..
The kind of Woman you see standing next to the ocean
and wonder which of them is more vast.
You once kissed me on my temple
and five years later I still swoon at the thought-
lost in the memory of silken tendrils of hair
tickling the skin of my cheek,
and the sweet smelling breeze you left behind
whenever you took your leave of a room.
I've been fumbling with these pens and pages ever since
trying to find a way to say what I am about to tell you.
You are my omega.
The end of my story.
Every step I have taken
every word I've written and page I've turned
every dingy gutter I've swam in
and every starstruck balcony I've climbed,
every loose woman, dive bar, and flickering streetlamp I have crossed
has been a chapter in the story
of my becoming the man
who will sweep you off your feet.
You take your time,
twirl your skirt and turn your eyes,
tell me you can't and tell me you won't,
but know this:
One day,
you will call me your own,
and when you do..
I will make you my sky.
I've never been able to capture in word or form;
an alluring resonance in the sadness
hidden behind your piercing blue eyes,
some immeasurable substance
caught in the dulcimer tune of your voice,
that tugs on my heartstrings
like a sea-eyed starlet pruning her melody from a harp:
A white velvet hurricane in a black satin dress
with hammers for hands and a stained glass smile,
the kind of beauty the moonlight clings to
and follows around at night;
Calypso's golden daughter-
a silver dagger in place of her tongue
and a smile pieced together from a leftover sunrise;
A sidewalk flower with the might of an oak
the tender heart of a lamb,
and all the bewildering mystery of Minerva..
The kind of Woman you see standing next to the ocean
and wonder which of them is more vast.
You once kissed me on my temple
and five years later I still swoon at the thought-
lost in the memory of silken tendrils of hair
tickling the skin of my cheek,
and the sweet smelling breeze you left behind
whenever you took your leave of a room.
I've been fumbling with these pens and pages ever since
trying to find a way to say what I am about to tell you.
You are my omega.
The end of my story.
Every step I have taken
every word I've written and page I've turned
every dingy gutter I've swam in
and every starstruck balcony I've climbed,
every loose woman, dive bar, and flickering streetlamp I have crossed
has been a chapter in the story
of my becoming the man
who will sweep you off your feet.
You take your time,
twirl your skirt and turn your eyes,
tell me you can't and tell me you won't,
but know this:
One day,
you will call me your own,
and when you do..
I will make you my sky.
Literature
Home
My parents bought the house on April Fools Day. It was something of a running joke: should have known, Dad would say, tightening yet another leaking faucet. It was a sign, Mom said, staring down a nest of carpenter wasps. In truth, they were never lucky with dates. Got married on D-Day, had a kid on Thanksgiving. JFK was assassinated on my Dad’s birthday; Brenda Ann Spencer went on her killing spree on my Mom’s. Holidays were always a touchy thing.
My second birthday was spent in the new house—a gorgeous, rambling affair in the heart of what had been a boom town during the years of the Erie Canal, and was now just a s
Literature
Stray
My father
alone in the white, white room.
This place, which is not empty
but emptied
which was my fig leaf, my raison
de fierté
seems small as a crab shell.
Enough for his back,
his hideous grief.
Little else. It is unforgivable
to leave him so little
to leave him, that dark body
in that blinding room.
Literature
to icarus
in the next life you were a phoenix
a fiery resurrection
songbird of ash & second chances
when you flew south for the winter,
you made it every time
see for you, the universe was an olympic mountain
jutting out of the ocean, a temple you would never set foot in
an elaborate maze you'd been lost in for too long;
the only love you'd ever known was from the coalfire
of your father's hands in the dark, they were the most angelic
monsters, they were beacons
his mind was the gears of a clock that never stopped spinning
but the light,
the light was a promise to be seen
the fire, a dancing enchanter that never leaves
the future was an echo on t
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trying to legalise rape on private property? what?