Water the grass and pull the threads through the trees, where she left and leaves and kept and keeps the wind close to her chest, deep like a sneaker, ribcage full of hearts and beats until she can not see any further than the pulse over her eyelids that flutters in seagull screams, dreaming her skin in canvases of unfinished and neverminds, ( Read more... )

The cityscape shines sun sewn, stitch rays, looming buildings with funny faces, and God's hands are in the trees, blown through the leaves, and this is why your parent's believe in what they can't see.  Through their hair and over their faces he will breathe.  And Jesus will kiss them on every turned cheek.  Everytime.

( Read more... )

It's not that he can't yell; he's just uninterested in making sound.  So he says.  But the well is deep enough for even a deaf boy to wonder about reverberations.  As he stares down.
    And from thirty yards away comes his mother's voice.
    "Niles!"
    She still likes to pretend that he has working ears.
    "Niles!  Goddammit!  Do you know how ( Read more... )

    The wind roars in dandelions and a mane of white halos her index finger.  The sky is a banana peel, bruised and being peeled back.  Clouds come.  She sits at the top of the hill with her legs crossed, legs stained green.  The clothesline filled with waving dresses and socks and jeans.  Rain falls so far down the hill that she can't even hear it ( Read more... )

    Chestnuts dress sidewalks.  Goddamn beautiful caress.  Maple hands, through palms, like branches left, leaving leaves, and go and be, wind chasing autumn bugs.  Freckles, flowers, fevers.  Sweet girl half dead in bed until Christmas comes.  Breathes frost from windows to trees, in the skeleton branches left, without leaves to leave, and go and ( Read more... )

For anyone who doesn't know.

http://www.lulu.com/content/970003

That collection of short stories I've been posting bits and pieces of for the past eight or so months.

This is the fifteenth and final story in my collection, Various Verbal Illustrations of the Female Form and the Consequentially Sentimental Nature of the Rest of Us.  A publication of the collection should be finished within the month.

It's only when the sun comes up, for whatever reasons.  Poetic reasons, more than likely.  She makes sure that ( Read more... )

And with the bay unfurled like the curls of sheep and coats of marine, a fisherman is counting waves under the mast of his ship until he falls fast asleep.  Sunshine showers.  Tourists swell the apertures of their cheap cameras with hopes to live in the photographs once they return to their dreary homes.  Seagulls wish you would listen as they ( Read more... )

    All of the city's fireflies were electric eyes.  Everywhere that I would go; green and orange hellos.  I couldn't sleep.  I drew down the shades but they still peered in.  I drew up the sun but the lights just folded their wings and waited to be painted, waited to color inside the lines.  So I went to work where I was ironically one of the ( Read more... )