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4 50%
Of Coffe Grains and Sand on a Chalkboard
2 25%
Twenty Seconds
2 25%
Voters: 8.

My words are losing relevancy. I turn short stories into screenplays because the American public needs imagery. I lose interest, contrast, and comparisons. Painting pictures on canvas but only using different shades of gray. {Not truly that effective}. I didn’t paint, I wrote about me painting and hoped that would create a picture {It doesn’t} I’ve lost the people. People want pictures and I’ve never been able to draw. What does that make me a failure, or a loss of life? So I talk. I persuade people to change their views because of the loss of an education. You have an opinion and I change that to mine. Throwing oil companies, political terms, and ethnic backgrounds you have no opinion on. You lose, relevant or not. I’m not right, I’m wrong, but I prove your wrong so that makes me right. I shed guilt through pores of shame and money. Making you feel that tension until you break and lose your free speech cause you really don’t know what to say. I’m the anti-republic. I’m the lobbyist twelve year old who has an opinion on the way Mrs. DuPhree teaches her class. She’s losing enthusiasm and needs the flask {Burns all the way down}. I feed on indecision. Volume, more volume, bass. All you hear is those hundred year old doors moving. I record the conversation and you watch the reel roll, it’s the only thing you’re completely aware of. {I attack}. I watched discovery when I was eight and learned of predation and the will to survive, survival of the fittest. I incorporate that into every day life. I’m the legal murderer who gives you the new stack on life. Your life is a loss, and I just made them more evident. .

Of Coffe Grains and Sand on a Chalkboard

your words stood alone on the chalkboard
a sharp, biting taste in my mouth
a reminder of all that had gone wrong.
all that had slipped away from us
mocked me in loose, looping letters of white.
knees buckled, senses dulled, punch drunk.
the sickness rose in me.

it burned worse than i had ever imagined,
this acrid bile in my throat,
the ions rushed through membranes, and the only thought i had was of the irony of all this:
i would not scar.

the smell was of colombian toil
of juan valdez and a hint of his mule
flesh seared in the sun and man trampled underfoot
all blended in this oddly rich, warm, gently bitter darkness
i pondered this, the dichotomy of battery acid.

i was bolted upright.
a sound like a thousand out of tune violins playing their highest note penetrated my skull,
grating in pitchy vibrato, firing supersonic bullets through m brain
incapable to think, i collapsed in surrender.

i thought of you.
by holding too tightly you slipped between my fingers,
grainy and fine, at once warm and freezing,
at once smooth and rough.
duplicitous in nature, not earth yet not sea, the barrier that keeps one from the other.
deception is its functionality.

yet even as all this passes, a glow of infrared sensuality ignites around my body, accelerating interactions between blood and nerve, like a ball of fire passing over me. it is the breath of a thousand little angels on every inch of me, every time you say my name.

Twenty Seconds

Sitting - back against the door
palms on rosewood knees.
Testing -
the engravings ring.

Conducting the symphony -
Soft massaging from shifting sands -
I wonder if they'd notice if I wore no shoes -
vibrations -
wash over me


messages from trees


Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.