Sense MemoryI developed taste.We lost touch.
Airhead (Oxymoron)Empty-headed.But so full of himself.
CrowBarGot hammered.Nailed her.Husband saw.
Unreliable NarratorSherlock Holmes stories?They were doctored.
ItchyFirst anniversary: Paper.Our love unfolded.Seventh anniversary: Wool.It all unravelled.
FisticuffsCall me odd?Now we're even.
Cupid Switches to Live AmmunitionEros' llama? I am all sore.
A NecklaceHis apology's stonesmatched the bruises.
Blue is for BoysBabysitter-painted nails.Daddy-painted bruises.
InnocentSammy woke abruptly from his dream.He was back in the garden in the sunshine but the scene was still vivid in his mind. Mummy pale and lifeless with bruises on her throat. Daddy slumped over her, blood seeping from his chest.Sammy's mother glanced across at him."That's a lovely smile, sweetheart," she said.
The Language of LoveFeminine plural.Third person.Feminine singular.
Life's Little IroniesThanksgiving evening.AA buffet.Cold turkey.
Tallulah the Drama QueenTallulah was a beautiful and charming young woman, with hair as red as an autumn leaf, as black as a winter night, as blue as a stormy sea. Depending on how the mood and the hair dye took her. She was also intelligent and highly ambitious. As soon as she was old enough, she went out into the world to seek her fortune.Unfortunately, this didn't work out and she came back home to live with her parents. It wasn't a happy situation for any of them, and one day Tallulah returned to the house to find the locks changed and her bag packed, with a housing benefit application form tucked into the handle. She took the hint, and went and sought cheap, rented accommodation.She found it in a semi-detached house owned by a completely detached man. Jack was quite old – even older than her parents. At least fifty. After she'd been lodging with him for a few weeks, she realised that no friends ever came to visit, he never spoke to his neighbours, he never spoke on the phone. He seemed uncomforta
ShellsThe fucking psyches tell him to look within and all that bloody jazz, but it's all bullshit. He's killed guys, and that's the end of it. Guys, and girls, soldiers and civilians, until the sound of gunfire drilled into his head and out the otherwise and took everything in the way with itIt's like those stupid shells his mum showed him once when he was young. 'Course, he didn't think they were stupid then, but what did he know. Just a kid who had no idea what it felt like to hold a cold piece of steel in your hand that explodes in hotness and judges whoever's in front with a wham bam and kiss goodbye, say hi to God for me and give him the finger because I'm a murderer now and I guess I'll be having fun in hell thank you Uncle Sam. Sound like the sea, the story went. Like fish and sharks and shipwrecks and dumped human shit and everything, when all it really is is a couple of swirls of air and a gullible little ear.Maybe he should just go ahead and turn himself into a shell with it's li
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.The espresso maker hisses.There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.Outside
One of those NightsThe morning sunbeams through the front windshieldlike an intruder:brash and unwelcome, forcing you to wake.Whiskey eyed, smelling like an ashtray,parked at the back endof some ghetto ass neighborhoodwondering what the hell you did the night before.It's like trying to remember wordsyou haven’t written yet.One thing is for certain:a little bit of rope goes a long way,but a lot of ropewill hang you.
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,teacher says,and poetry is not made of end rhymes.The ventilated fluorescence and Iflicker at the incongruenceand I want to tell hersometimes east is lefton the mapif you hold it right.
Train WreckWeare adisasterjust waiting tohappen; but I’m on the edge of my seat.
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
Mourning“It’s not like that; there’s nothing wrong with mourning your wife. Everyone deals with it in their own way. But now – sometimes. . . It’s just that sometimes you get this look on your face that’s less I wish she were here, and more I wish I were with her, and that scares me a little bit.”
War HeroesBoots left home.Flags came back.
Lost VirginityHe took pride;She claimed shame.
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
Story of My LifeThe feds believe I broke character.
Scarlet LetterMy child looks nothing like me.
Word ProblemsA is on a train traveling west at 60 mph. A is going to meet his friend, B. A can only misuse the things he has – A always buys a new pair of shoes instead of taking care of the pair he owns. A is careless with the words that compose his existence and is now down to one-hundred-and-sixty-four words; twenty-eight of them have been misplaced, snow taking the place of sleep and substituting happiness when he meant alone. A likes trains because they follow narrow, predetermined paths.B is A’s friend. B is the synaptic connection at the end of a line of thought. B has accommodated A’s trajectory points of interaction for twenty-nine years. B has owned the same pair of loafers for the last eleven years. B has been waiting at the station since one-oh-eight PM for A’s arrival. It is now seven twenty-six PM. How many of A’s remaining one-hundred-and-thirty-six words will it take to fill the silence between them?
Ancient Facebooklone coyote howlsanswered by moreprimeval social networking
His Better HalfBride/GroomWife/Husband /Widower