Oil as slick well performed
Perforate the pockets from it gave form
Now returned in new shape
Slick and wholly
Earth never come again
If ephemera from I should trace
Upon the eternal of this carved form
Lines of my life all-devouring
I leave behind nothing for this ruined place
Trees sprouting plastic
Boughs full before spring doesn’t come
Clock in a church tower ringing that green
Energetic greed
Hey painted eyebrows
And a hand reaching for what’s locked in my rear view
The sun is a salmon as it sets and
There is noise, so much noise
Send me shivers, stranger
Good kind far, far behind
Closer materiality, farther connection
If it grows in the separation
Do the clouds cover it, and me
Alphabet circus
Who’s this jerk? Is she
Really originality or
Reality at stake
O’clock o’ the morning
Won’t you give me some warning
Ahead of time
It’s coming
It’s coming
The flood better climb
You will be presented, as an even trade,
Childhood, for a free fall to the open grave
You will have the choice, when presented,
To be afraid
To be wary at your post
To be a-quiverin’ in yer boots.
Soldier.
It’s time, you’re a hospice nurse,
Angelica.
You’re a shining star, that’s what you’re worth.
“Goodbye, twenty-five!”
Said Monica Ryan, she aged 25.364 years. The infection started in her eyes.
May she rest; in piece.
And you would like to hear a story, ay?
A turn-o-tale for the tactless fancies
Of the fisherman’s glitter scales, be gay
and do crimes –
The types of stories that I’d bear
If you with only half a heart to care
And half a mind to listen, for the lost
And weary travelers of life’s ambitious way
Take a cold one for the road and stay home, love,
To Read Today
~ a paperless series of short stories, by lorraine the wrighter, beginning for you here, Monday.
I am asked to describe it. Not by someone, by a book I picked up to tell me what to do. Something needs to do that. Always. That’s what it feels like.
Someone has to tell me what to do with my face. Always. It will lead to that.
It will.
My eyes are watering and I can not see, there’s been this very persistent pounding in my heart, my hands. My head. I took some pills to fall asleep. Why isn’t anyone attracted to me? I’m drowsy and falling asleep in my bed, isn’t there someone who wants to hold my heart? I know that I’m a little ugly. But it’s coyote season baby, learn to take a joke. I would water your garden; I would hold your hand; we are what we hold between us, are the storm, the rack.
Wait a minute longer, I’ll be a simple songbird, I’ll sing a song of sixpence, you can bake me in your pie.
Wait a minute not too long, I’ll still be singing my sweet song when you peek inside the oven and I’ve yet to die.
Wait a minute longer, my song is growing stronger, you know the oven’s taken me and you just want your pie.
How’s that songbird singing with a voice made of pie filling? How’s that little bird gonna crow, gonna crow?
My body is a dead bird but my song will never die.
I’m an old speckled hen, two Irish mules, and a whole pint deep in oktober’s brassy music and I’m feeling not weepy like pathos, like writing in two notebooks and guessing at love languages. In other words, I’m drunk. Pretending to be a writer, that’s what I am. Reading about physics like I have any exposure. Rotating in a barstool like I won’t have to expel myself at some point. Throbbing. I’m alive, alive, a-looking at my reflection, I need to feed my dogs but I’m drunk. The fog clears, o am I drunk or stuck here, I’ll come back after I feed them, just let me sober up and I’ll be back with my bumper stickers and tattoos, you are a faceful of heartbeats and I make the pain go away only by looking at you. I yelled your name drunk from my floor like I haven’t done myself in for the addictions of the mind, you’re on mine, wander in, I swear you’ll look dashing, you’ll be mine, we’ll dance, hold hands, look into each other’s faces. I trust you, I do, I can’t tell why except that I trust you. I woke up faster I’d died and gave you a flower for the pain you feel without any pleasure, we have all in equal measure, it’s the tuning and the rhythm that make it all. The straw misses my face and I have to find a stall in this stream or I’m bound to burst. I’ll go home when I’m ready, come back for the first of all pleasures, the human in us. Mind over matter is an element of trust.
Lorraine The Wrighter