i'm a writer. plain and simple.
Current Residence: BGSU
golden and greengolden and green by ~dork9368
Father winter hobbles in slowly. He's archaic, and this year is making him tired already. His beard is the wind, and its strands are slowly choking the life from the trees, slipping into the cracks in my coat, and making my fingers hurt. The cars, like so many beetles, are greasy black under the streetlights. They come for what seems like hours, in an endless parade, and I wonder where they were all hiding. These beetles, these college insects, are clearly nocturnal. They've been hiding all day in some sort of underground burrow, or a parking garage, I'm not sure which. With night folding around me, I can almost see old man winter getting up from his rocking chair to dance. He invites me up to dance with him, to share in the joy that is the frigid and tempestuous night. I don't want to, but he is insistent, telling me that I have to. I owe him this, at least, because who am I to deny a friend in need. And so we do, we frolic, and dance, and play, but
Her Curfew Had Arrived We stayed up all night. Do you remember? We laughed, we played, we made memories, and remembered old ones.Her Curfew Had Arrived by ~dork9368
Falling into your arms seemed like my only option. I silently wonder if you rigged this, my inability to conceive of anything outside lying with you, but chuckle quietly at my own insecurity. The sensuous curve between your hip and ribcage catches my eye in the moonlight flooding through my open curtains, as bright as a cloudy day. Nights like these are my favorite. I want to kiss that spot, my favorite, but I'm afraid to move as you've now turned away from me, and I think you might be sleeping.
So, I settle for your bare shoulder. I kiss nearly the same spot, soft enough to not disturb you, over and over. I whisper my musings aloud, "I could get lost lying here, kissing you like this." I wouldn't dare say that to you, in fear of ridicule, but you can't make fun of me while you slumber. But it was to much, and you stir. "What did you say?", you
Puddles of HeartsThe wind shakes not only the windows;Puddles of Hearts by ~dork9368
But everything I thought was certain.
A storm has settled in, and its only a matter
Of time until the water rises to my eyes.
Even now, with the building cracking apart beneath me,
All I see when I close my eyes is her.
Her name was Nicole, and even though she always asked, even begged, to be called Niki, I always refused. She wouldnt stick out to many. In fact, a facet of Nicoles personality is that she tries to be as mundane as she can. But to me, she was divine. One of the first memories I have of her is watching her eat a sour gummy worm. Her expression made me fall in love, as she laughed through her puckered lips. Thinking about that reminds me of the last time I saw her, though. She was crying, because I had to make the long trip back to school, and away from her. I dont think anyone is really an adult until theyve had to say goodbye to th
memories, making glorious mudhis memories are making a glorious mudmemories, making glorious mud by ~getbeneathmebird
it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs,
arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star.
it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts,
so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird
whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter
with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife.
there is some raucous applause as she serrates
its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on
into its succulent chest meat as every spectator
dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in
and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow,
where she stops, lets the carver out
to start again from the beginning...
no lumberjack lives here,
no whiskered axe-man wakes to the rooster.
a daring cedar deadened him flat as toads who nap
beneath some winter stones. his brain was stapled to earth
with a mighty red branch and there have spread rumors.
the truth? his memories are making a glorious mud.