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5 Feb

the dishwasher’s daydream

 

 

The sink-washed dishes clap thunderously as you dry them

against one another, as if attempting to ignite a fire between

two friendly sticks. The result: a broken dish

or another proclamation that “This cup…plate…bowl is cracking.”

 

The washed skin on my hand is growing apart, like the leather on

a cow’s back, and it goes down the drain, and gets cozy with the debris

along with the blood that came from cleaning knives too quickly.

 

You scurry around the kitchen, telling me about your day

as you shove the dishes into their proper places. The plates go

above the larger plates, and ceramic cups go into a different cupboard

next to the other things that aren’t identical in size and shape.

 

And if I were a bowl, I would be put in my own cupboard…

or I would be with the forks, beside the spoons, next to the drain,

so that I could be close to all of the things that left me. Then again,

I don’t like drawers. It’s difficult to be open-minded in closed spaces.

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5 Feb

The Neighbors, When the Train Arrives

The water weights away from the faucet, moistening the sink;

and I rise, for perhaps the fourth time, to retrieve a drink

of water.

My head doesn’t know the time that the clock keeps, and my bed

is cold in the distance. My couch

knows my presence. My indentation

is like a well taught lesson

to the gingham fabric and its internal connection

of metallic spring, stuffing… or whatever else might be between

the walls of the resale couch that we bought for twenty dollars.

 

The ceiling speaks with the neighbor’s squeaks

because they are not asleep either.

They talk loud enough to think that no one is listening, they

have sex as much because they believe that everyone else is sleeping.

Their exhausted box spring gives a grieving roar.

On the track, the last Metro Link train rolls by, announcing its arrival

at the Forest Park stop. It’s nearly one o’clock.

Then, the lovemaking slows down…stops, and then *slump*.

It feels too early to miss sleep, but insomnia has to start sometime.

 

The furnace is contagious in its wheezes and sneezes.

The clock gives a mouse-length cough every time the hand

moves a distance on the analog time keeper, on the wall,

which clicks louder than Buzz Aldrin’s heels on the areola-like moon.


 

no attention span: brevity

12 Jun

idea taken from the fabulous webook.com, the six word story is something that I have grown terribly fond of. It’s short, concise and absolutely to the point. I admire these stories not only because it doesn’t take terribly long to write them but because they are devilishly contrived with secret messages, brilliant agenda and amazing purpose. –some of the ones that will be shown here are published on webook.

broken home.

dispair dances, when lights are out.

transplanted.

we move like cold fronts, nowhere.

lover.

a quiet storm. legs and redhead.

crowded room.

the varient noises that strangers make.

coffee stains.

two a.m. papers in a rush.

love.

hearts beat together beneath our breasts.

forgotten

shadows left in corners like bottles.

vivid (vinyl) pockets.

swallowed cherry pitts; paper machete hearts.

shakespearean proverb.

no pain like that of love.