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GenitiveI’m a linguist;
I get a lot of dates.
meet their bilabial approximants
in monophthong, glottal hums
that turn into shocked diphthongs
and fucking infixes,
palatalized by each glide of voiceless fricatives.
I’m a linguist;
I get a lot of dates.
WIP - FlusteredThe record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
A pear tree full of applesI have been gifted with bushels
of knowledge, sometimes packaged in hardcover bindings,
but more often baked into kind words and high esteem.
I have peeled the skin from your pips of insight
and found learning sweet, if sometimes tart.
You have cast your charity upon this apple tree
and labored underneath its branches
for pittances and frustration,
but yielded crops of students ready to do the same.
Seeds for trifles,
childless but fruitful.
My pear tree is full of graceless curves
that have fallen, still green, into the shade
of your undergrowth where you have allowed them to ripen,
indifferent to the bruised skin.
My boughs and sprigs have been pruned,
a lighter load to bear weightier produce,
heavy with education but buoyant with understanding.
These seeds you sow have taken root
in soil lined with failed essays and poetry;
but I will tend to them, with all of your care,
and my pear tree will blossom with apples.
MessagesThe thought of your fingers turning these pages
makes me feel close to you;
like we share a secret delivered by
the author from one reader to another.
This spy network of exchanges,
author to reader,
you to me,
puts a spring in my pulse
and makes me turn the pages a little bit faster,
looking for the thumbprint
that marks the message you left for me.
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
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