Thomas Edison loved a doll
with a tiny phonograph inside
because he made her speak.

Is there any other reason
to love a woman?
-
We wake up electrified out of the coma by our own soul

I was put here, in a stone cell, fourteen years ago. By now- my house sold at auction, my wife driven to another man's arms, my children protected by someone other than me, after those fourteen years- I call this small place my home. But I am fine: this room is my house, and I have replaced my family. Now the rivulets of light daily dripping ( Read more... )

It really bugs me that she says my defending myself against her accusations of emotionally cheating on her means that I'm guilty. She says if I lamely accepted her accusations without fight would mean that I'm humble ( Read more... )

He fainted again. His breath, spilled messily across his lips, chilled the floor. It had never felt breath before and wondered at it. The breath was soft, in a way a floor, knowing only the rough soles of human feet, could never imagine. It was a new color, a new idea, a new way to be. This small piece of life showed new arrays of chromatic ( Read more... )

Him, a companion for bold stretches of time, was. He was, and once again was. With fiery voice he pledged himself to a charge; with bitter electricity he drove himself against the road, parcel and partner in hand. It was hard. His news was always seven days old and, alone, he knew only the darkness of a blanket kept warm around his shoulders and ( Read more... )

I knew a man with healthy hair. His dark lengths grew to cover his eyes. Any logic was lost to him for the colorful horizon he kept, blind, and with vanity he nurtured his locks, refusing all friends, keeping only the hair. The world pined for him; he kept. Rugged fury and madness took him; he kept. He died; he kept. Stark bone remained ( Read more... )

A rock doesn't bleed, dirt
isn't moved, and, still,
my heart has forgotten
to be a heart.

I met her. She glutted me with delighting ideas, and I, glutton, ate them, and died. My grave was built into her bed. I still lie there, red with the undertaker's rouge ( Read more... )

Music holds only seven primary tones, but is still with infinite variety. Again and again the notes play- you've heard this, a wilting melody, held as hope- and still we listen. When the drums begin, your mind keys to the rhythm, captained, wanted unwilling. It takes your cadence, tells it when and where to move. A hex, driven magic, binds you, ( Read more... )

At night, I hold marvelous wonder, ideas of living light. Without, I hold myself ( Read more... )