DFA Writes

Exactly. January 28, 2009

He leaned over the mirror, straw in hand.
“why you like that shit so much?”
he turns.
pause.
” ’cause men would rather embrace demons than be  shadows.” 
 snort.
cough.
“you see my freind,” he continued, “in a world where no means yes, mirrors hide monsters and everybody’s lookin for someone, everybody’s somebody’s someone that nobody knows of. You dig?”  
“i dunno…” 
smile.
“Exactly.”

I Die Alive. January 13, 2009

it is true,
that when the heart stops
the body goes into

r     g       r                     o       t        s
    i      o                  m        r        i  

 it is true,
that when the heat stops
the breath
                         F a d e s ……

you make my heart stop.
                                              

                                                                    but i’m warm
                                                           all
                                                                  over.
 
and somhow,

                                i’m still breathing.

the twins. January 12, 2009

     There was no reason for us to like eachother. We had been rasied to respect one another and be courteous. But the never said we had to like each other; and  boy, we didn’t. we couldn’t stand to be in the  same room. We wouldn’t be in classes together, wouldn’t dare be in the same clubs or honor societies. we hated each other. in the surest form of the word; couldn’t stand the sight of one another… it was a pity, ‘cuase we were so similar. the great things we could have done………

a liar’s asylum January 11, 2009

his shiny leather shoes
on the floor,
his fingers tracing
her pale, pale neck.

nothing between them
                                         but the truth.
tighter than clothing,
more strangling than rope –
the truth.

when he turned away,
she longed to trace his shoulder
with the stars against the
black, black night
just like she use to,
when she wasn’t a liar
and when he,
when  he still loved her.

she hated the sun,
her replacement in the austentatious, gaudy
daylight.
 how she hated the sun.

but the sun served a purpose,
and the beautiful pale, pale moon
knew this.

and still, she watched silently and waited
for the twilight to come and the
day to be done.
she wished so hard for the damn autumn sun to go down
down
and
of course,
it never did.

there can be no love without truth.
and love is a two way street.

one and the other – all the same. December 18, 2008

your rejections are
                                          his hands around my wrist
a crushing force
                                           to lead me to an early disowning

of the memories of something better
                                          
                                              of something that  was in the past

you never knew 
                                           a secret i kept tied to my tounge

a secret i couldn’t keep

because i was afraid
                                               afraid for the future that i knew he couldn’t
                                                                     share with me
afraid you would reject me
                                                 
                                                     but i finally accepted it

and so i stopped trying
                                                  
                                                     i embraced him as he was
and i let you go
                                 
                             because i had found somthing under the surface 
                                                                                      
                                                                      that made me love him.
                                         

fragility. December 13, 2008

His ring on her finger,
someone else’s name on that envelope.
God, i wanted to scribble out the truth with
all my heart.
I wanted to be the one to have my name on that card.
i wanted it to be my name on the alabaster stone
of his soul.
a two of diamonds, a three of hearts, a malicious looking
joker. – i had played all my cards.
i had used all my soul to make it better for them.
we waited in the storm tossed night to hold the dawn in our palms,
precious and fragile.
holding onto the stem of his soul, i blew.
puff,
nothing left but the green stalks that
held the fluff together. beautiful in simplicity.
something, something sinister this way comes.
with bated breath we watched as the infrastructure
collapsed.
we held a bondfire jamboree as it collapsed.
as we danced, naked, in the hot orange glow
i wondered if we should be mourning the loss of
simplicity.
we never knew….
never knew what we had done.
holding our hearts in our hands we greeted the dawn,
the precious fragile dawn.

the race. December 8, 2008

I ate ice until your teeth chattered and shattered.
we showed the world what we were made of
 when we wished on stars
that spiraled through the Milky Way.
with the small dog clutched to my chest i raced
a race against the steady thrum of the Tiber,
 against the crumbling of the Aztec ruins,
 against the blooms of the magnolia.

We are only as firm as the words of our promises.

what i’m from. December 2, 2008

i was made in a place where a double-wide
is a luxury.
a place where wide-whiskered catfish are the closest thing
to wide-whiskered professors.
i was born in a place where plastic spoons served as
happy, yellow tonka trucks
and mere children, of no more thank twenty summers,
have children of thier own.
i was begot in a place of fathers who hadn’t learned to be
fathers, and mothers who couldn’t put down thier
black-labelled bottles.

but i was formed by words,
hard consanants and soft vowels
shaping the dimples in my cheek,
the shine in my eyes.
i was molded by the ink of her novels,
that stained my fingers in the early morning light,
by the smile of yellowing stories
imprinting on my soul,
along with the wafting scent of her sweet-butter rolls
and hand-crafted cassseroles
on drear, rainy days.
SHE was my creator, no hand in chromosomes,
she was the one who helped me build the walls.
the walls lined with rows upon rows of
words.
words to use for any purpose i saw fit.
so now i come,
with my past, her pride,
and our words.

just to let go. November 20, 2008

The way your chin curved so beautifully
in the yellow puddles of light,
that perfect reflection of a jealous sentiment
tinged with a lovely shade of passion.
God, how i wish i could hold you one last time.
wish i could scribble out all  all the words we didn’t mean. i
 wish I could blot out all
the minutes that slipped into hours, the hours that slipped into
days, the days into darker, darker weeks.

it’s been almost a month now.
almost every friday i go to that spot under the awning
of that nameless law firm , or reality broker,
or contractor’s office…
that building with the brown-brick awning.
our brown brick awning when there was still an “us”.
i sit exsactly where we sat,
remember exsactly the way you smiled
while we shivered,
i remember.

i remember the first, and only time,
you broke down the last defense,
and i handed you my keys. i remember
the first time i thought the worst,
as i listened to that voicemail
over
and
over
and
over again.

i remeber all the times you watched
the ventiliquist
all your bellylaughs that kissed my soul.

i remember the way you looked me in the
eye, the way you laughed
while i screamed, so close 
to the end.

your anger made me tremble.
God, what a temper.
waht terrible children we would have
concocted.

everytime we kissed in that room,
James Bond was kissing the woman in the
black sequine dress.
i can’t watch that scene anymore.
i can’t watch any movie with that woman
in the black sequine dress anymore.
or any movie that has any woman in
a black sequine dress, for that matter…

oh, how i wish i could hold you

                                          one

                                                  final

                                          time.

[ i try not to do alot of relationship pieces but i think there are some good images in this one. am i wrong? and i’d loke to get some possible feedback on it to develop it a bit… it’s rough right now]

the Privelege of a license and the perils of speeding… November 13, 2008

Waiting in line; my right foot had begun to twitch slightly out of relief, slightly of excitement. I had just passed a huge milestone in my life. I had cleared the last huge hurdle, besides graduating high school, which was keeping me from that ever-evasive “fun side of the island”. I had just passed my driver’s exam and was about to be handed my first license; my first pass to driving up until the mind blowing hour of eleven p.m. without my grandpa in the car. This was a sweet success; so sweet I tried not to do I victory dance when the little Hispanic woman behind the counter told me to stand behind the blue-taped line on the linoleum. I grinned ear-to-ear as the huge camera beside her captured my grinning face to be stamped upon said license. This was a major perk.

            Unknowingly when I accepted that license I signed the de-facto document that came with it. The one with the infinitesimally small print that read, “This license insures more responsibility that may be including, but may not be limited to, driving to rehearsals and practices to pick-up both smaller, younger siblings and also doing mom’s last minute grocery store runs to get everything she forgot while in Wal-Mart.” I accepted all these responsibilities with a smile. I was the sibling that made all the other performers in my siblings’ rehearsals jealous. I was the kid that had bought my own car, with my money. Everyone’s parents looked at their children scathingly when that fact was brought up at a party, as if to insinuate, “She can so why can’t YOU?” Getting my driver’s license made me very popular, very quickly; I loved it.

            One of the best perks I got with the license was embarking on my first road trip. My brother and I left home armed with two weeks worth of clothes each, a small cooler, a dozen maps, and lots of messages to be delivered. We left one early July morning from our house in South Augusta and traveled straight to Indianapolis, Indiana. We stayed for five weeks, leaving the day after my birthday. My mother would have come but was in the middle of her divorce with my father, making her unable to leave the state. Seeing that I had been a licensed driver for almost a full six months, she agreed to let my brother and I go on vacation. While on this vacation I also got the extended pleasure of doing out of state driving since my older brother does not currently have an automobile. I was the one who drove to meet all the aunts and uncles that our mother had set mandate visits for. I was the one who drove to Wal-Mart almost every week when we went grocery shopping. 

This was only one of the places that I no longer needed to have a “mommy ride”. I could drive to school, to my own rehearsals, and to youth group outings at church. Not only did I feel like I was contributing to the world around me because of my new license and status as “fellow vehicle operator”, my wallet also felt like any other contributing wallet of the days’ economy each and every time I filled my gas tank.

            Fast forward from late August at our return home to early September. Part of the definition of being a secretary is being prompt and taking notes. After being the secretary for the Georgia Junior Classical League (Georgia’s latin club), I was good at exactly neither of those things. The meeting was schedualed for that morning at eleven o’clock, and , of course, I was running late by about half an hour. Said meeting was suppose to take place in Cumming, Georgia which is roughly three hours from Augusta, with good weather. Fearing the rapture of the state chair, Cameron Ward, my foot was a lead weight on the accelerator. My car is almost twenty years old and as a veteran of the roads it’s shiny grill has been pushed very hard many times but that day I pushed poor Sir Lancelot to his very limit. Going twenty-six miles over a seventy-mile and hour speed limit I am truly surprised that my car did not just fall apart around me like that of the Flintstones’s. Panicking, with loud music on, I could never have seen that deer that might have decided to dart across the highway. Racing at mind blowing speed I could never have seen that truck come over the median as the poor, tired man behind the wheel had only closed his eyes for a just a second. I certainly could not have seen the nails on the road, or even known they were there until my tire blew out, making me swerve out of control, mowing down at least four or five other cars in the process. I wouldn’t have been able to explain to someone’s love one why they would not be coming home had I lost control of my vehicle and hit another car, striking and killing it’s occupants. I couldn’t look at the construction worker’s wife and children and tell them their father would not be coming home because, going ninety miles an hour, I did not see him and hit him.

            I am glad the Georgia State Patrol Officer pulled me over when he did. Although, at the time, I was only irritated and wanted to hurry along to my meeting I now fully understand potential of the damage I could have done. I am not trying to say that I am a terrible person who is bent on killing half the population by vehicular homicide. I just never fully understood how dangerous a potential three-ton killing machine could be while being operated at ninety-five or more miles per hour. I never realized that those things do not always happen to someone else. I really began to look at speeding and driving very differently after getting lectured by that GSP Officer on the strip of I-20 right outside of Madison County. All I want people to know is it is not worth the price of a life just to make it to your meeting three minutes early.

waiting for the morning. November 7, 2008

only i could know the smell of 3 hour-old muffins, with a hint of orange mint. That was our secret. We had waited all night for that bakery to open. running down to the shop we purchased 50 orange cinnamon rolls, 24 creme filled donuts and 2 bakers’s dozen scones WITH the rasberry creme cheese. i had dreamed of this day for years, even since childhood. I wanted everything to be perfect. I would have a midmorning wedding followed by a light brunch. It would be perfect.

I waited at the alter. He never came. i ate a muffin, tears in my eyes, three hours later. I was in my apartment with my sister and my mother. they were with me but somehow i was still so alone.

the rasberry creme cheese is still in my refrigerator. unopened.

the keyring. October 29, 2008

    Daddy had never been my favorite. Really, i dont’ think i ever even liked him. i was told i had to love him becuase he was of my flesh and of my blood.  I had never been told that i had to like him though, so I didn’t. One of the only things i remember about my father was that his military job always required him to carry a large key ring on his belt with at least half a dozen keys on it that opened all sorts of doors. I could fit my wrist through the key ring, could wear it as a bracelet except for the fact that it was so heavy on my little wrists.
     I wasn’t more than 10 years old. Daddy had just come home, his shiny black boots and camoflauge uniform hung stiffly from his craggy form. He slouched into his normal seat at the dining room table. Huffing, he pulled out a thin, white marlboro. He asked my brother how the day had gone. Kevin, who is only a year and a half older than I am, began babbling about a fishing trip that our oldest half-brother, Chip, had taken us on that particular day. As Kevin continued retelling the day’s adventure with Chip and me and my mother, my father become increasingly quiet, rolling the marlboro between his fingers slower and slower – his jaw set hard, his eyes partially closed. At one point he stopped moving all together. The only thing that hinted at life was the heavy rise and fall or his sunken chest. Suddenly sensing that Daddy had stopped listening, Kevin got up from the table and began to walk down the hall.
                                     My father called him back. 

                                     I never thought that keys could fly.

     In my father’s anger, the only thing that saved my brother’s face from those flying keys was my father’s aim; he had always been a terrible marksman. 
    
     Before the chunk of plaster hit the tile floor my mother had run into the room yelling, my brother was halfway down the hall and my father had strode over and scooped up the keys. Roaring, he threw the keys, once more, down the hall after my brother’s retreating form. Flying in a wide arch, the keys shattered my mother’s glass light fixture attached to the ceiling. MIllions of crystal  fragments rained down on the hardwood floor. Looking at the shards later, i could only think of angel tears; all the the shards so small and sharp. Throwing beautiful colors on the hallway walls. Little did i know i was sweeping up the last remnants of our family, dumping these precious, broken pieces of our lives into the garbage.

Now that i’m older, i like daddy even less. Sometimes, though, when i’m angry or sad i look into the mirror and see Daddy’s eyes where mine should be. Not his eyes, but the deep bitterness that always made me shiver when i was young. 
        
             My key ring isn’t very heavy; not as heavy as Daddy’s was. 
 
         As I took Jeremy home from church he began to tell me about his day. While i was at school, our freind Stephanie had come over and they had spent the whole day together. I remember wishing, for a moment, that i could have been there. As he kept talking the road turned green. Actually, everything turned green. everything i saw was green. only green.
        
        I felt my hand turn the engine off. Grinding my teeth, i heard the car doors slam. I’d made it all the way to his house without exploding. he turned to me and smiled. “oh my, Don’t you look a little steamed!” he laughed turning toward the house. The only thing in my hands were my cellphone and my keys. Holding the keys, i cocked my arm backward, poised right at the back of my boyfriend’s head. Somewhere in the back of my mind i saw angel tears on the hallway wall with a million tiny crystal shards littered across the hardwood floor, a little girl with a broom and a wastebasket…

clouds. October 15, 2008

puffy white clouds surrounded our love,

 our minds,

or hearts.

You said you loved me,

cloud in hand.

I promised to go pay the bills,

clouds trailing behind.

we shared a life together,

clouds above our heads- below our toes.

as i stand, watching the puffy white clouds

roll out of the blunt between your fingers,

i wonder

 why

i bothered….

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust April 24, 2008

If I’m going to be ashes in a decade or so, I’d hope to bethe ashes that reside in the middle of the pile. I hope that when they put me in those big iron jaws that will surely gobble up my image, reducing me to a scant pile of biodegradable mass, I do hope that they won’t pu tme on the top of the pile. On the top of the pile, you see, my ashes could be swept away by the gales of time, or even drift off on the winds of change. I’d also hope that my loved ones would have enough sense NOT to put me on the bottom of the pile. The bottom of any pile is usually warm, dark, and heavy – none of things I am partial to. If i am to be ashes in a decade or so I would hoped to be put in the middle of the pile. There my ashes migh mingle with everyone else’s so that death, in it’s intirity, might not seem so lonley.

invisible ink. March 28, 2008

                i am invisible. i know this because people only see me as part of a group,in which there are others like me. Society places us on a shelf, snuggly fitting us into place. They read us once, maybe even twice, and believe that they know us cover to cover. Before important people come to visit they take us out, blowing off the dust and cleaning us up. We are then put back on the shelves only to be used as a subtle hint of implied intelegentsia,   implied understanding,   implied empathy.

                  But this is not who i am. Society will not put me in “my place”. Iwill not be catagorized and catalogued, to be shoved on a shelf, sharing tight quarters with those who’s desitiny parallels my own. I say this with certainly for i am doing what has never been attempted. I am writing my own story…

Stairway to Hell. March 28, 2008

mashing the white

button with my thumb, i wait.

the sound of my chronic foot-tapping

echos off the plaster,

gets sucked up by the cracks running

down the wall,

swallowed up by the man in the corner

snoring, slumped over a brown bag.

Ding – the door slides back.

hesitanting, i step onto the silver landing,

praying i will not be met by

the  a tiny hammer cocking –

or the swish of cold, sharp steel.

The door closes behind me.

I am alone in a skybound capsule.

Shoving my hands in my pockets,

setting my feet with determination,

i count the levels of ascent.

1…2…3…4…5…6…7

the door bangs open with a resounding

tump.

and I step out onto the white-black tiled floor…

the capsule closes and returns to reality

leaving me

        up here

                    alone.

Last Straw (2voice piece) January 7, 2008

An explosion of

COLORS                                                    COLORS

red,green,yellow

BLACK                                                       BLACK

orange,purple, and

BLUE                                                         BLUE

i see your

face in my dreams                                   face in my dreams

                                                                   my screams

echo through the

still black

NIGHT                                                      NIGHT

                                                                    your fists

on my

FACE                                                          FACE

your hands around my

THROAT                                                     THROAT.

                                                                      and my

knife between your

RIBS                                                             RIBS

brings about a

BLISSFUL ENDING                                   BLISSFUL ENDING

to all of

THIS                                                             THIS.

Gone – Somewhere;not here… January 7, 2008

the faucet is dripping again.

                                 again.

                                        again.

    droplets

                       gone.

like the seconds on a clock

                              clock

                                       clock

 i can feel your heart beat

                                 beat

                                              …

 gone.

           Where have you gone?

                                             I can’t

                                     seem to

                                                             find you.

His Father’s Mistake (dedicated to Magistra) January 7, 2008

“don’t fly too high,

but keep high enough

as not to get your feet

wet.”

“Drink plenty of water

before you go.”

“Don’t talk to strangers

& dont follow the flocks.”

“Use the bathroom

before take off.”

          Pride fills you as

you watch him begin to soar.

You stand back and watch

as his youthful energy

goes into motion.

Your heart rises in your 

throat, as you try to 

call him back.

Horror fills you

as you realize;

you’ve taught him how to soar,

but not

               how to stay afloat…

Circumscribing America November 15, 2007

all our lives we’re taught to

work around the kinks,

and deal with the flaws,

we learn that people live in their own

round little bubbles.

We’re taught that time is

a vast, unescapable ring

that flows over and over

only

to repeat itself…

But (if that’s true)

Why don’t we ever have

the courage to step beyond

the boundries of our bubbles

and face the flow of reality?

So circle this my children

and mark it in your notes to

 ponder over at a later date…

ColdFingers April 23, 2007

                       He had left an hour ago. A full hour. She sat at the scarred wooden table, running her hands along the the grain of the worn wood. Her mother was asleep in the master bedroom,  at the end of the hall. lauren shifted her weight in the har wooden chair. it had been a long day. Her mother had gone into another lung spasm. She called Lauren at school, and she drove her to the hospital…again; but this time it was different. After sitting on her ass in the emergency-room for three hours, the doctors had come out and to talk to Lauren and her mom. They told her that the lung spasms were bring caused by irreversible lung cancer. 

                       She sat at the table remembering the cold dread that had filled the pit of her stomach. Jane, her mother, was older than all of lauren’s friend’s parents. Lauren and Kent had been the last of five children. Jane was nearing mid-sixties, alone, and had a seventeen year old girl, and a fifteen year old boy. A boy who was late, Lauren remembered. He went running arounf the block everynight, but they never worried about Kent. He was mildly mentally-retarded, but he loved to run and everyone on his track team adored him. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if she was the one who was born like Kent and he was born normal. he seemed happy. He loved to play his violin and run. When she heard the door open, she turned to yell at Kent for being late, but stopped at the sight of him. As her eyes filled with tears she brushed them away and took a deep breath.

                         His lower lip had been busted on the left side, and a black bruise was forming around his right eye. His knuckles were bloody, and there was a gash that was worthy of stitches. He was absolutley covered with spatters of blood.Lauren walked over to him and looked into his eyes. The usually bight, electric blue eyes had a dull, flat look to them that made Lauren’s heart ache for him. “Kent, who did this?,” she aked quietly. He looked up at her with surprise. “Aw Lauren, don’t be mad. They were my freinds. We were just playin around.”

                            She sat Kent down in her chair and went to get a rag and some medicine to clean him up with. Her mind raged as she gathred the materials. This wasn’t the first time that these “freinds” had done this. It was an induction into the local gang to find an unarmed, unsuspecting person and beat them up. Kent was a favorite, easy target of thiers. LAuren just didn’t understand why Kent wouldn’t tell her who it was, but she wouldn’t push him. She would clean his wounds liek she always did. the gash would need stitches , though. It was another trip to the ER. She left her mother a note, grabbing her cellphone and keys. She ushered kent into the passenger side of her car. As she turned the keys in the ignition and began to back out of her driveway three faces loomed outside of her window. The tallest one knocked on hre window, almost politelly. The grins on thier faces and the looks in thier eyes though, were anything but polite. To her horror, Kent smiled over at her and said, “Look Lauren! It’s my freinds!”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(This is the first chapter in an ongoing story. I’m not really sure  I like the story as of now and it’s really long so I didn’t want to post it all……. but feedback  would be nice if you get the inclination and the time. The constructive critisim on my other stuff has been REALLY helpful so far….I could use some on this one too. 🙂 -PraebeoVerbum)

Didn’t have to happen… March 20, 2007

                    The sky was inky black. the stars looked like a handful of glitter thrown into the air. A crescent moon shown over the treetops, as they basked in it’s pale glow. The hood of the covertible was pulled down, and they sat in the backseat, wrapped up in a woolen blanket. She leaned her head against his shoulder, clearly remembering the that night. Almost two years ago, in this exsact same spot, he had asked her to marry him.It was a tradition of theirs to come to this spot and sit and watch the sun go down and the  stars come out.

                   She loved this time of year; it was almost winter, the brink of fall. There was a chill in the air, so she burrowed deeper into the blanket, snuggling up against him for warmth. He wrapped his arms around her, laying his head on top on hers.

                    They sat there for a while longer. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. He said with a sigh,” Come on SweetHeart. Let’s go home.” He picked her up and setting her in the passenger seat, he brushed his lips against hers. Smiling, he jumped over her and landed in the driver’s seat. He started the engine and shifted the gears. She smilied to herself and turned on the radio.

                    Driving down the dark, winding road, they sang along to the music. He, with a rich baritone, and she, with a soft alto. He slowed the car approaching a large hill. He looked over at her, and smilied.

                   There was light. Too much light. Two huge lights were baring down on them. SHe could hear him shouting her name, but her mind had gone numb with fear. And then there was only silence.

                   The next day a passer-by saw the mangled cars and called for help. As the police, medics, and firemen tried to sort through the mess of metal and car parts, they found the truck driver. He had bruises and a few cuts worthy of stitches. And a massive hangover to go with it. They found the little convertible. It’s windshield was shattered. In the back seat they found the bodies of the man and his wife. they had died in each other arms.