what the fuck arent you trying to say

no i dont mind
this sort of thing
the silent
sewage treatment
anti-love machine
just meet me in
the hosptial
for drinks then onto bigger things
dressed up in all
that foil fadded
denim milky after taste
you never once
complained i thought
thats how you
got over these things

so fuck me up
destroy whats left
i dont need blood or skin or breath
i dont need sun or food or hope
just cut away
just cut away
so i dont
have to fucking think about you

tastes alot
like
i could scream
if not for all
the useless
words stuck in my mouth
staple my name across your chest
and kill your family and pets
keep tabs on things here
watch the show
were better off in stereo
we're wasting time
whats you is mine
whats i am always out of breath

so fuck me up
destroy whats left
i don't need blood or skin or breath
i dont need sun or food or hope
just cut away i'll follow suit
and dig me up when
you
can
feel
this
too

I see a red line on the horizon
I feel trouble rumbling the ground
there's a ghost on the road where we're riding
I can feel him running us down

There's a black line on the horizon
running straight through to the sacred ground
ramming into the feelings I'm hiding
with the sting of an organ sound

I saw a silver line on the horizon
you dropped the answers down on the ground
making sense of a life I was devising
and the failure to which I'm bound

There's a red line on the horizon
the water's rising and soon I'll drown
in the loss of the things I was finding
and the loss of the things that you found

I'm a Dumbass and I Just Can't Help It (Stop Me, Stop Me, Please!)

It's like every time

I walk away from something

and forget about it

or not forget about it

but ignore it

somehow

something

someone

brings itself back

and plants itself

firmly

with tree like roots

right in the middle of my life



I'm such a fucking pushover

Song I

we're only four days away

I'm not sure if you're counting

six years in the making
and I got my heart set on coming
to see a California sun
kiss your skin

six years in the making
and I'm still a believer
or just a fool

we're only four days away

I'm counting
I've been counting

we're only four days away
from six years
of a romance
that's been everywhere
and nowhere at all

You (again)

when I was young
I always thought
there were castles in the clouds

that you could jump
from one to
the other

I thought that
Heaven
was right there
just out of reach

I believed
that I could save myself
if falling from the sky
by aiming for
that fluffy
white mass

and thunder
was just angels bowling
lightning was
the re-rack

and someone was always
always
bowling a 300

now I realize
You
are heaven just out of reach

You
are bowling a perfect game

but I'm not sure
you will
save me
if I'm falling from the sky

September 1st

the uncertainty
of my next address
oddly excites me.

I was bitter, she was cold.

you blew cigarette smoke
into my eyes
as i colored pretty pictures.

it stung.

yet, you would always hold
my hand tightly in the supermarket
(i tried so hard to break free).


the mist on the window blurs
my view of you today
and i can't let you in from the cold.

though i am ill,
my shoes full of wind,
it is summer wind
and i am well

let's ask for more
than a little silver left
at the bottoms of our days

Razor

Guest poem by Kathy Polenberg

for anything sharper than sweetgrass

she's present corn he picks her planecrash tears moreover
he don't nezzle when she's dishoveled wintercold
lapis in a leap year

the lion and they both good at tailgate party
eat major serius minor canines kiss
at a nebula hung off hunters belt
loop in his lap under the summer
horizon is as fast as a rabbit
and she finally did become
that kind of a game where he leans italicized still
life a question
mark her ecliptic candy cane

at the customers request

just keep on believing that its gonna get better, its a wide wide world of wacky sports and i can't seem to find the fucking rule book theres fellers dancing and fellers kissing theres a feller in high heeled shoes wearin pantyhose and i feel comfortable knowing that i kinda found the kinda folks i can relate to, unfortunately they dont have the right kinda of equipment to keep my interest beyond parties and conversation, but they know how to dress and how to have fun so i guess its a good thing i stumbled into that bar at 11 oclock on a saturday. no worries, i;m still quite interested in the ways of explosive behavior and come to think of it, the mad ones always had a place in my heart, cause well, we can smell our own..i don't know what the hell you are but i like not knowing until we stumble into a bathroom stall and explore the idea that i may have found the perfect woman, who just so happens to have a penis...what the hell are you talking about

a worn robe of reassurances
days they tell me don't exist
days prior to, between this

and this
they are grave
they have gravity

they are days
they are days
they are days

we knit machines
make empty pages
a play of fake rains

and real ones

This Dream

the power of your mind
can make night into day
break down walls
move mountains

the will of your soul
can dry up oceans
turn the Sun to ice
fuel the world with love

become your own God
take control of this life
you don't know where
you'll end up in the next
take it all now
'cause you don't know when
you'll wake up

Smoke Viewed from Three Thousand Miles West

I'm thinkin' that if
I set this state on fire
I could write your name across the sky
and that'd be big enough
to show you just how much
I'd like to have you here

Good Night

reach out into the night
find something to hold on to
be a witness to your own miracle
breathe dreams
be damned
dance with the wicked

reach out into the night
find its heart and squeeze
become God
cast down your enemies
take fate by the throat
leave destiny in your wake

reach out into the night
don't fear the hand
reaching back
hold on to it tight

the same hands that birthed you
in your first moments
will hold you
in your final hour

good
night

Tonight...

tonight smells like fire
and somehow
I can feel you in the air here
and the sky is clear enough
to belive in heaven
and hell
and love

This Year is Ours

we can dance in graveyards
on mountaintops
run through lightning fields
tear fruit down from orchard trees
write our own history
make this year
and every other
belong to us

we could walk bridges
discover roads
towns cities
claim oceans
and patches of sky

lets put some miles on this life
before it runs out
and doesn't belong to us

ah ha!
so this is where it leads
where it bleeds
my wild dry eyes
can see nothing
but if i could fucking close them
if
cock
COCK
cock
if I was broken
would you put me in the dumpster?
I'd hate to be left on the curb
I'D HATE IT

your doorstep scoffs
the day halved
the wind in pieces

contemplation

I don't know which is worse-
living in a spacious, empty apartment
or riding in crowded elevators

windows
like cards on a table
artfully arranged,
a child's game i remember
and don't remember

ranting lamplight devours your dark,
pounds nails from your door

seasons speak of other seasons
tender earths
younger despair

a hand of supple sophistry
breaks and keeps

the time of indicative grass,
summer may illuminate,

but it is jaggedly ill,
lying and possessing,

an ominous artisan

a lover of havens,
i feign delight and welcome absurdity

a sovereign window,
a rapid residence of air

my beige rooms choke and perish
like indicative birds, i have breaths

here i am, a mighty girl in a bird
am i bashful?

ill am i who notice the remorse
worse than a summer

a convenient temple,
the house breathes in and out
blood resounds

a cavernous tower,
the throat offers and accepts
mass affection

earthly birds,
the arms cast mountainous shadow
impossible blue

Thought apotheosis would like this one......

"Finally, in the last year of her age,
Having attained a present blessedness,
She said poetry and apotheosis are one."

-from "A Pastoral Nun," Wallace Stevens

Standing On A New Earth

I'm feeling unwasteful

I don't want to babble on and on and on

I want to make a world outside of ego

Not gearing for fearing

Just alerting awareness

To becoming awake

To the idea of the existence of fears

In order for them to become amenable

To dissipation

Via vocal statements and

Change in Action

Living through each momentary breath

As if another might arrive

With the immediate urgency of time

Jack again in the Lower Haight

Jack,

you are here
in this dark bar
with me
while the Dead spin about us
in ghostly wisps of memory
and we are drinking wine
you and i
and the hardwood echoes
while four generations of hippies
tango tulips and daisy chains
and Jack you are here
whispering in my ear
about moving and shaking
and all the ways
everything makes poetry
always

you are here

Such is a day
where worry fades with the fog
and remembering you
doesn't hurt so much

living the dream

he watches porn while he smokes pot
he dances
a lot
to his own tune
in his living room
he goes big on the weekends
and smiles like he means it
he's ADD
and oh so sweet
and sporty
and horny
and careful with money
and drunk on loving
he's a coupon clipper
an under cover hippie
he can lose his temper
but always strives to be better
so true and intuitive
and rightly conservative
he deals with allergies
and clean packaging
he's a coconutter
and peanut butter
and the most passionate lover
i have ever...

he's the only one who knows whats on MY mind
he's the brightest star in my life

he shines

I'd like to take one moment
and stretch it out forever
like an event horizon

living on the edge of a black hole
within that moment

the curtains blowing in the wind
stuck flowing horizontally
in my bedroom
as we sleep entwined
within the glowing
of a summer lightning flash
one note playing continuously
static on my FM radio

no fear of an alarm clock
no fear of interruption
no fear of ever leaving my bed

I've been writing about the same woman for nearly six years...

I remember you
the way you
cracked your back
first thing in the morning
sitting up
twisting around in the sheets
as I opened my eyes
and you would

squeak

and yawn

and stretch

than you'd curl up in my arms
and we'd begin
our last day again

Getting the Point

It was a night you were sure
you smelled something burning
every where you went
the sky still with no clouds
thick swampy heat
popping up off the asphalt
and we were in this jungle
sand poisoning our clothes
drinking
smoking
thinking about sex
he was dropping pills
he liked that kinda loose
I'm on a whiskey tequila excursion
with my favorite jeans
the ones I never wash
and every one worries
but us
not us
with a live bootleg record
coming through the car stereo
burping up beer suds
with menthol chaser
our only worry
is to live past thirty

He's out there
and I don't know where
and that's fucked
some one keeps shouting,"father"
in my head
some one keeps pretending
they believe I'll listen
but I'm probably drunk
like last time
when all the sense
all the sharp counter points
only bounced down the empty hallway
that used to be a young man's emotion

Chuck Drank Alone

All you people
wanna do
is sit around talkin'
'bout obscure music
or micro brews
or hole in the wall thrift shops

and while
I like my Dead Guy Ale best
when listening to the Afternoon Naps
wearing my favorite
little league t-shirt

I'm kind of tired
of being so cool
and I'm likin' it more
when I'm drinkin' alone

Route 37 Westbound 6:30pm July 9, 2008

the timing
of a bird in flight
is awe inspiring
as it torpedoes itself
through four lanes of traffic
and comes out on the othe side
untouched

Don't Try

there we were again
two old friends
I've known you
since I was fourteen

you were talking
about the rooming house
and your typewriters
and I could feel
all of your pride
and your love
for the machine

not just the typewriter
but for the collective machine
and then you showed me
some of your poems

I caught you falling in love with me
at the red light
right by our headquarters

you smiled and waved
while I played it straight
until I felt my face smile
and I was forced to laugh

Because I'm really not interested
but it helps my confidence
and I find that hilarious

I told her
she was beautiful
just the way she was
no boob jobs
no make overs
she was perfect
stranding there
drunk and smiling
'cause ya can't
cause problems
in your own house

and she told me
thank you
for such
kind words stranger

but I think
I was lieing through my teeth

and I hope
she finds someone
out there who really
really loves her

people
always define insanity as

repeating the same action and
expecting different results

they always define
it like that
every time

always to people
they are hoping to fix

and these people
never get fixed

any of the times

marks right sometimes

i want poetry to stop being honest
and start being a little beautiful
i need it to be
like my memory of women
forgetting love handles and bad manners
and remembering

perfect 6 am light
falling heavy and holy
on the parabolic curves
of a naked torso

i need it to be
like children
angelic when it cries

i need it to hold
every strong emotion and scent
with force
as sunrise
and prayer

thewse nights
i drive home
bathed in brakelights
and paralyzed
by thoughts of women
with their wispy hair
obscuring one eye

around the city
around the city
over these bridges
with howling metal
and forever shadows
under planes
massive
and wanting to be wished upon
all these people as pieces
moving and throbbing
and crying
in the traffic
of this earth
praying in some sort of moving
zazen

these nights
around this city
sparkling

she advises us
to listen to
tupac
about women
and theft
all the while
quoting him
in a rhythym
that
reminds
of ancestral
drums
and days
before
language

we live
days between bridges
with their span
and their steel
and the way they sit
on horizons ahead and behind

we live
days between bridges
thinkin of the waters they crossed
turbulent or rushing or stinging cold to the bone

we live
days between bridges
in their shadows
listenin to waters below
with our choices

it's an old one
may '06


amongst
blooming flowers and falling leaves
You,
once blended-in colors of a sunrise
becomes the light of my desire
and I,
your dark-haired infatuation
slowly fade into shadows of night

yr face caked in make up
and teeth glistening from
the house lights,
clenched over this
moment's cigarette, and
laughing at explosions
in the distance

I can see your eyes tear
from the wind
running down the coast
the edge
cutting at you
and the needle pinned

and in the end it all seemed
so tragic, you as poor doomed
Ophelia, drowning in grief
over an American dream
gone mad

remember when we drank our rooms black
leveled love into something we could swallow
lips to the faucet now,
i bathe

light glitches
the planet snags
earth gives and does not give

acid hands solemn upon
black scabs
promise, a chanting wind
a cool well of reds
barely stirred

"...speech is not dirty silence
Clarified. It is silence made still dirtier."


-Wallace Stevens

A Natural Orchestra for a Story Book Beauty

This is an older piece.

She sits in her room

listening to 45s

as she stares out her window

Watching raindrops touch down

against the canvas of this desolate town

And the lonliness

begins to eat away at her hoplessness

and the hoplessness

only leads to more lonliness

and the boredom...

the boredom spins 'round

with the records that she bobs her head to

This single room apartment

smoky and dimly lit

only by a single light bulb

that hangs in solitude

amongst the cloudy, grey, damp air

Even the dust begins to die

in agony with the sound of the rain

against the window

"Each false thing ends."

-Wallace Stevens

walls dissolve
bury ache in empty space
the makings of pearls,
sea and sun hurtle
toward our white names

Solved by Sam Flot

SOLVED

by Sam fLOT

Flashing out from inside the burning inner being

Self-Learning indulgently to take in the flow

And accept what comes towards me

To make the best of all the waves informing me

Ceaselessly, slowly building chaos

Into some kind of chatterbox order

Sane only when considered with static undertones

Overlaid with blissfull excavation extended

Coming out from the natural middle

Coming out from consciousness of bended emergence

Combining clarity of vision to the physical world

Permeating any false considerations

Rendering them useless

So that when all the ifs are added up

And all the maybes are subtracted

Then we can understand the beauty of the rift

We find inside ourselves

Inside so far it was outside almost any type of

Literal canvas or painted window

Any drumskin or stop sign

Searing into the middle center soul

Based inside but often displayed to humanity

Like newborn chicks try to cross the highway

Blasting out in all directions

Exploding asteroid parts

Sent through the universe in perfect syncopation

Over dimensions already uncovered to finish up

With all these cohesive parts

Making one giant puzzle

Ready to revolve

Evolve

And be solved

compressed tempo
compartments, havens, the weight of space
song,
the cadence of days

The End and After (Working Title) - Chapter 1

this is the first chapter of something I'm working on. It was originally meant to be a short story. It has kind of grown from there, but I will be working on a series of short stories dealing with the same character but before the series of events that bring us to this "book," The End and After. Let me know what you think so far...negatives appreciated just as much as positives.

I had been riding freights for days. Waking up screaming to a box car filled with empty pill bottles and various garbage, from dreams of the way life was before the shit hit the fan. I could feel the train slowing down now, so I packed up my bag quietly in the dark, pill bottles rattling and rolling all around me as the brakes hissed and squealed. The train still slowing. I grabbed my bag and slid the door open. The night wind rushed in and I could smell pine and smoke. I was somewhere in the Northwestern Territory. Below me, a nice grassy hill. "Thank You for the little things," I said looking up at the sky and leaped off. There's no such thing as a soft landing in train hopping, but this was as good as it could get.

The grass was wet and my feet gave out beneath me. I slid for a few feet on my ass before rolling to a full stop. I stood up and brushed off.
"Coulda' been worse, McDell."

After months of riding freights and hiking the territories alone, I was completely comfortable having conversations with myself.

"Just remember ol' Willy Burnaski. Son of bitch never looked where he was leapin' and ended up half stuck in a tree. 'Course the other half kept on fallin' to the ground!"

I had a good laugh at my own sick joke. Of course, Willy had been a good friend of mine, but you just gotta' laugh at life sometimes. Keeps you from going insane after you've seen a thing or three. And I had seen my share just over the last five or so years.

Back in 2012, everyone was talking about the Mayan calendar and the world ending. And on December 24, 2012 some of those people were dead on. Only, it wasn't Wormwood or Planet-X or anything alien. Just our own dog world shaking fleas off its back. A massive earthquake sent a piece of Africa plunging into the sea, which created a tidal wave that completely wiped out what was once the eastern seaboard of the United States. Mass panic erupted all over the world, starting huge riots and total Anarchy. Governments were overturned or just given up on. I guess everyone just figured they were already dead. Millions died and mass suicide became very popular for the following few weeks. Luckily, I had been living in what was California at the time. After everything happened, I got in my car and headed east to see if I could help survivors. But there were no survivors; You were driving down a road that was once sprawling farm land, far from water, and all of a sudden there was the ocean. It was very sobering.
No survivors.

this ones gonna hurt she thought
as she lay down lonely for him
this ones gonna take the cake
and run away with it

this one, she though
this ones not
this ones not like all the rest

all tears will be bitter sweet
if the fire burns and dies
hearts are never hopeless
she lies helpless by his side

this ones gonna hurt she thought
this ones gonna make her cry
this ones gonna steal her heart
this one will change her life

Wine Thieves

Learning the styles of wine thieves
and layabouts
with their bohemian in the night
and their magic squalor

With blankets and pillows
And blankets of smoke
With artifacts of daily life strewn about
And art of fancy littering the walls

We wait in front of the collective unconscious
for the new archetypes
to show themselves
to the philosophers native
to philosophers raw and new

For them to make myths out of
And sing them to women like lullabies
In the blankets and pillows
And blankets of smoke
And wine stolen

My ex had a Sigmund Freud figurine glued to the dashboard of his van.

He was a psychology major and obviously, a huge fan of Freud. And on drunken nights, when I would reveal my "repressed" feelings or said something that intrigued him, he would turn little Freud's adjustable head over towards me. Then he would try to psychoanalyze me.

It bugged me out.

I broke up with him.

I was never really into astrology. I came across a book on astrology one day shelving in the non- fiction area of the 130s at the library I work at. To kill some time, I started reading it. They say those with the astrological sign, Scorpio, make great shrinks. Scorpios like to pry into other's thoughts, analyzing every single detail. They usually can read people very well. Yet Scorpios are some of the most secretive, private people you will encounter. It usually takes them a while to open up to people and don't like it when others pry.

My ex and I were born just hours apart.

My ex and I are both Scorpios.

picking apart law
invitations, alarms
the physics of kingdoms

So this waitress,
her eyes heavy under
the weight of piped in soft rock,
bad lighting, and another night
with walls heavy and creaking
and rotating,

and time slowing down,
and her head
stretching away from her
feet, pulling apart

she doesn't really think about physics,
and if you ask her about it,
her eyes just sink deeper
and no light escapes

a river of grace
shimmering drops of grease
in the sun
shifting colors
before my eyes
molten and prism-like
breaking down words and
thoughts to their
own unique hue

"I use to think that the years would go by in order, that you get older one year at a time... but it's not like that. It happens overnight." Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

Are You Awake and Free?

Are You Awake and Free?
by Sam Flot
10.18.oh2



Are you Awake and Free?

When will you even commence to understand?
When will the confluence of our powers be reunited and brought to fruition?

Are you Awake?

When will our physical beings come together to communicate on a realm other than existential?

Are you free?

Do circumstances leave you available for a chance to get together?

Are you Awake and are you Free?

Do you have the imagination, fear, pride and appreciation for beauty to keep up with us?

Do you have a sense of humor?

Are you Awake and are you Free?

Do you have an ability to lose logic and suspend impending reality?
Do you know how to punch with the Rolls?
Do you go with it or resist the flow?

Are you Awake?
Are you Free?
Are you Awake?
Are you Free?

Are you Awake and are you Free?

blink

to touch your face gently
and run my fingers through your hair
was an image
tossed and played in my head
quick, and fleeting

and for a fleeting thought
to suddenly become real
is astounding, yet comforting
our arms wrapped up in each other
our fingers intertwined

each holding on to the moment

It is her alluding that reels,
The noiseless picking and tolling
A mind superfluous
Is no mind

love hums the blood
beats the surface,
insect wings striking fruit

within the clothes
the bones clank
the palms pull closed

you never looked that good in blue

slaughter the innocent with me...
i brought enough to go around
lets spill intestines and bile
baby
we'll paint the town explosive
and eat chicken parts from garbage cans

don't run when the sirens blare
thats how you know its fun
and don't get any embers on you
its evident theres more to come

oh, one more chapter and this book is far from over
i'll keep writing if you keep telling me what it says
i'm not intangible yet darling im just slurring my inhibitions
got a ticket to the out house ballroom

meet me in the room marked fuck

Buddha's Brain Game

Buddha's Brain Game
by Sam Flot

Teasing Buddha's Brain Game
Situated by his buddy the bodhi tree

Facilitating a game
Of words and philosophy
Slipping subsets into genres
Slipping anthems from aphorisms

Spreading the words
Amongst the People of Peace
Who respect moments of Dharma
Dropped on their
Non-coconut heads

Not becoming a mango
But becoming understanding
Of the inter-relational basis
Of vibrations
Between me and the mango

Between me and
What I perceive to be
My illusion of myself

My perceptional mind-state
Understanding
How fruit and energy and
Chaos theory and
Elephants folowing elephants following elephants
Attached to each other

Leaving no elephant behind
To be alone

and

If you ask
Is it always because
You don't know
Or are there occasions
Where maybe you either
Already know the answer
Or don't need to know
But wanted to relate
Or wanted to cause
An interaction?

On a sidewalk
Or on a dance floor
Or in a heartbeating moment

Which may have just
Come and gone
Or which may be right now
Or maybe not just yet
========================
poem copyright Sam Flot 2008

I smelt the sea today
and the moist, briny air
cooled, and left my face
crusted in salt

into our palms we take
june, earth, our daily name
we seep into the world

"I realize now that the reality of things is not something you convey to people but something you make. It is this that gives birth to meaning."
-Haruki Murakami, The Elephant Vanishes

apartments and cars with no air conditioning

sunburned skin
saturated in sweat
musky scent seeping out of pores
sultry summer days

eddie vedder
was a holy
seattle saint
soaked through
his flannel
and vocal chords
til all
the so human desperation
of north wood
and late nineties
leached
out
as sound
and halo

these new days
leave me
each one

as new men
each one

grasping
with fingers
so desperate
and hopeful
and clean

at meanings in
the sunrises

these skyline visions
lie and move
features of a great
sleeping beast

and we all creep as its parts
in the dark

suzanne
of the
long haired night
you
tremble in yr sleep
then turn over into
peace

i hate to see you
stumble in the storm
but
on occassion
the wind
and the light
and the multitude of dazzling
characters

will catch you
falling
just right

this mist
obscures
the peaks of
the Verazano
as these mornings
obscure myself

idol worship

Ernest Hemmingway drove an ambulance during the Great War

"the great interests of man: air and light, the joy of having a body, the voluptuousness of looking."

-Mario Rossi

525 Mountain

525 Mountain

I bought an umbrella on Wednesday. White, with a white handle. It’s the kind conscientious women buy when they’re getting married; I suppose it looks good in photos. I was thinking of using it to turn a poem into a sculpture.
This was just after the usual drive to work. I started the trip on the turnpike, in a gray haze that made the buildings and the sky seem like part of the same work in progress. The buildings looked untouchable, yet eerily close at the same time, as if hovering just above my dashboard, barely out of reach. From there, I exited onto Rt. 525, where, for at least 9 months, a crew of men has been either building a mountain or taking it down. Enormous vehicles circle endlessly up and down this giant mound of dirt, and the number of machines in use there increases daily, seemingly exponentially. On Wednesday, there was all of this, plus an airplane.
A good friend of my father’s used to have a plane that he would jump out of nearly every day, at least in the summer. I remember asking him once what it was like to fall through a cloud. He always looked at the uppermost edge of something, like a beach umbrella or a flagpole, in preparation for explaining something this important. All he could seem to come up with this time was that falling through a cloud is wet. He said that, the first time it happened to him, he thought it had started raining.
Yesterday, on the drive to work, it was raining and it was not raining. It felt like there was a sick student’s spittle suspended in the air all around me. Men in yellow hats had begun building a wall around the mountain, so I was thinking I would never be able to tell just what it was they were doing. For the first time, a red truck with a rainbow colored umbrella above it was parked at the site, selling breakfast sandwiches and hotdogs, so I figured that whatever was going on had to be something important.
When I got home, I watched something on TV about art and craters. Apparently lying in a crater keeps the horizon from seeming too hazy and the center of the sky from seeming too clear. So, if you’re lying on your back in a crater, the sky has the same degree of clarity no matter where you look. With the proper consciousness, said the astronomer who described all of this, this clarity makes you feel unimaginably close to the sky, as if you are in the atmosphere, and one with the universe. He spoke just like an artist, low and slow, only without the hesitation. He looked right at the camera.
This morning, I noticed that they had finally put a sign at the bottom of the 525 mountain, yellow and black, official. It’s tiny, and half hidden behind the wall. I was driving too fast to see it on my way to work.
I quit my job today. My students worked and didn’t work. Mostly, they made plans for the summer. I did everything I could to make sure they looked in the proper place as they painted, but nothing I did was successful.
On the drive home, I slowed down in front of the sign. A woman blared her horn, and the guy at the hotdog stand shook his head at me, wiping earth from his eyes. All I managed to read on the sign was something about a gravel company. So the only conclusion I can come to is that they are selling the mountain. I still don’t know whether they are putting it up or taking it down.

cool.

Tried to leave this as a comment but my internet service is being selective as to what windows it will open. Arg..

I think writing short stories is a great idea, not only because it can help with publications, but because it can help us address subject matter we may struggle to address in our poetry. I think it's often liberating to work outside of our usual medium.

PLUS it will kill more time at work.

"They say if you get far enough away, you'll be on your way back home."
~Tom Waits "Blind Love"

In an attempt to create a complete body of work, as writers, I thought it would be "cool" if we all tried our hands (quite literally) at writing a short story.

The idea here is to have it all published in The Idiom (I hope), our "sister magazine," if you will. And further more, to start shopping a more complete body of work around to be published by a larger publishing house (no offense mark, I love you).

After speaking with a few of you, I thought this would be a great idea since alot of authors write poetry and short stories and novels etc etc etc. Also, I just thought it would be nice to see some more stuff come from Walking English and end up in the Idiom as well.

The target being to have a final draft/post up on the website in July that would accumulate to anywhere from 2-6 pages, I'd say...but you tell me.

If putting it on Walking English worries anyone about plagarism, we could always mail it directly to the idiom or pass it amongst ourselves for constructive criticisms, cheers, sneers and Pam Griers.

Comments, Questions and Criticism are all greatly appreciated.

before pulling taut our answers

we slept

a slack hammock of questions

"To hell with the universe. Think of something."

-from Endgame, Samuel Beckett

I don't really know anymore
what's real
maybe someday
you can move back here
and we can be who we are
in all those dreams that we dream
or maybe
you're just my muse
something to fall in love with
on weekdays
when it's quiet enough
to think back and feel
the echo of memories
sting me in the gut

I remember why
I'm the ugly casanova
'cause you make me feel
like I've got it all

even with your
flirtatious criticisms
as we go back and forth
inflating
deflating
eachother's egos
just to see
who will lean in first

When I think of you
I think in poetry
and it all makes sense
every line sounds rehearsed
every smile seems faked

when I talk to you
I talk in poetry
it's gritty and real
but it just sounds so pretty
'cause I'm talking to you

You took the wheel again
and we began sliding back
down dark city streets
bellie's full of beer
and our hearts filled with youth
once again

here we are
rainy city streets
will always remind me of you
smiling back at me
from the driver seat
as I grip the dash
'cause you're way too close
on my side of the road
'cause you're way too close
for me not to fall in love again

every exit is an entrance somewhere else

-hamlet or rosencrantz and gildenstern are dead

to begin
as a movie
somewhere in the middle
with backstory

but to begin all the same
and wonder
if the phonix
perching with new eyes
still possesses memories

of what the old ones saw

the girl who likes rain
digs her nails in
the small of my back
like suggestion

all we are is eyes in the night
adjusting

when i said she looked great in the wind
i meant

the world was frozen breathless
it and the bustling just ceased all the spinning
an axis undescernable
only her hair filled up with dancing momentum
in all the punctuated static

i was telling her everything

and when she shifted one converse over the other
said thank you, tilted her head to the south

she was honest and subtle

her brown curles settled
and the rest began to unwind again

the color of absolute nude
late afternoon light
the buildings out of their skin

for your faces

she still waits

...and one by one,
they filter in
each on their own journey

...and to see them bright
back in her life
the simple beauty of moments only

...and as they come
on their own time
she smiles wide to greet them

for each one holds
a piece of her heart
those travelers
both brave and bold
that have come so far
to glimpse her shore
to share their lives
and smiles alike
to keep the wander
and lust alive

come filter in
you're all welcome
...so still she waits

a night not so enormous
narrow as a voice
with little intent
light enough
for the right wind to handle

We are seldom a distance,
though for days we have swallowed spaces
reached lengths with our breast and
seen our heaven persevere

We touch our caution like a brittle saint
breathe slow
adore the raiment
about our slender bones