[x]

mondaymornings are important
to the poem. sometimes it
has to struggle toward Monday
and the house has to be cleaned.
it hardly has time to think of you.
it needs bagels for strength
and caffeine for the tangled mess
of words, strewn about like cheese
doodles locked in battle position
on the floor. the air is stale.

it will unearth suitcases full
of past. read chapters of history
written on cracked luggage tags.
it will want to stop because its
allergies are flaring. the flotsam
and jetsam of the mess is getting
in the way of the poem. it becomes
impatient and contemplates whiskey
and a cigarette mid afternoon.

it will di

Far AwaySometimes we grow up like this:
gyroscopic, like sunflowers, our faces turning
towards the sun. And the sun is more than a ball
of burning gas. The sun is warm and bright
and alive. And we are warm and bright and alive.

I am no bloom. Wings do not rely
on the kindness of strangers. But sometimes they will tell you
that people aren’t things you can own.
They will tend to the flowers, they will lean into the garden,
prune dead leaves and reshape
innocent bushes. Their sweat will drip into
your faces, my glittering lilies, my lonely and cynical roses,
and they will tell you how to
come into your own. They will say the wo

gestalt I hope this is more than inebriated romance.

I watch you in the diner.

I'm always watching, through mirrors, through doorways, seeing you and seeing me and knowing we're reflections of the same hypocrisy; I'm outside the television, this tellingvision, I'm disconnected, broken, the nerve between me and the rest of existence is strained and I see beyond your charades. I'm on the outside of the window, our interactions are equivocal, ambiguous, filtered and muted. My reality is a drunk prism, and your reality is an insane labyrinth of pattern, schedule, and bullshit.

The coffee at dinner makes remnants of the vodka at breakfast taste l

yellow bird.

yellow-bird with coffin breast,
roosted sling of matchsticks and spider legs-
I’ve watched her strip them in twilight
from bulging blood bodies, grapes she’ll eat,
wine to throat, a song to sing beneath slated roof.

A screw, a bolt, I’ve turned a winding fir
branch into mechanics of hands and clutching.
A trap: salted fish with thumbtack scales-
an unkeeping of flight, on the snow of the perch.

I sweep song to ring with muted clapper,
between beak hammered shut,
wool-bite moth with snap-close wings,
pinned to a curl behind my ear.

To Write Love on Her ArmsWe’re riding in the car like we always do, always on our way to somewhere else. I’m driving, passing highway sign after mile marker, counting the interstates until we get where we’re going.

She’s asleep in the passenger seat, skin porcelain pale in the choked dawn sun. It’s streaming through the windowpane in flashes that mark time with the gaps in the trees, just a few hundred miles more.

Somehow I can’t see how this is a real thing, real like the way hearts break, but like floating up above here, just looking down into her beautiful face. I shake myself like it was only a dream, but here she is, right here in

Unfinal SolutionJim and Dave shuffled down the street in the hot summer sun. Occasionally they would encounter an obstacle, such as a shopping cart, corpse, pile of trash, or burned out car. Depending on the size and nature of the obstacle, their zombie intellect would kick over into high gear, and a conversation such as this might ensue:

“Braaaaaaaaaaains….”

“Rains! Rains! Raaaaaaaains1….”

“Brains….”

If the object was large, such as a chunk of flaming airplane wreckage, Jim and Dave would do the Zombie Shuffle around its perimeter, sometimes bumping into each other and the obs

the year of the animaljanuary,

i am attempting to hide from
you. i am hibernating in a bed
four times my size. i am imitating
a bear, clawing at you and growling
in my deepest growl.

february,

i stuffed you in a heart
shaped box and buried
you in my garden.

nothing grew,
but when i planted
radishes they tasted like
chocolate raspberries.

march,

where are your lions and lambs?
i have pigeon toes and
wild oats for hair,

april,

i went to the doctor on
the 10th. i learned that
i had forty two feathers growing
from my shoulder blades.

may,

el cielo es azul,
y te quiero,

june,

my legs are the color of mosquitos,
which is deep blood red and sc

A Literature QuestionQ: I dread writing a report for my Early British Literature class. Is there a piece I can focus on that will satisfy my professor while still keeping me amused with crude humor?

A: You've come to the right place, friend.

In terms of mixing historical relevance, academic consideration and outright potty humor, one certainly can not go wrong with “The Censure of the Parliament Fart,” a 1607 masterpiece that has been attributed to a number of authors including John Hoskyns, Richard Martin, Edward Jones and Christopher Brooke.

The poem stems from a March 4, 1607 meeting of the Commons in which one Henry Ludlow let loose with a quite

How to Write Villanelles Villanelles can be frightening; they look simple but are actually quite difficult. However, when mastered, it becomes “technically easy” according to Conrad Geller. Just like riding a bike, right? The name Villanelle is derived from the Italian villa, or country house, which is where aristocrats went to “refresh” themselves. Strangely enough, the form is originally French and only appeared in the English language in the lat 1800s (19th century). Out of the 19 lines in a Villanelle, only two rhymes are used. &#

the ocean is pollutedthe ocean is polluted
and our children will be throat down baptized
in its weightless mausoleum choke.

staring at the rising tide
swallowing the shore,
swallowing the rivers,
man sees himself reflected across the cerulean surface,
remembers the tyrants past,
given power so surging
(the helpless destroyers),
sees the giant lumbering to transplant him
in an ecosystem generated for the mermen,
the chemically inflated
above the land where
there is only hunger and cold,
the leftover lineage
of an animal that slit its own tongue
and drank its belly full,
desperate for the memory of blood.

Accepting a drinkDoes this cloud-maned beauty see
how I ironed this shirt, pressing mercilessly
until the ionised water evaporated? Does he

understand how long it took to shape
my hair this way? To cover the gape
where my once-full coiff's now planning its escape?

Did he notice my choice of a twenty?
I had tens in my wallet. The drink cost two-fifty
but it looks like purples are all I carry

this way. Does this Pan, who probably fucks
his choice of uni intake bucks
see my killer-sweat? The flux

his lick of the lips casts? Of course
he does, but it works. No laws
against flirting, grandpa. Can't force

him to stop. He thanks me
for the double and

His Never-Wed BrideBriskly comes the bloody winter wind’s vent
Gray dusk looms over my shattered homestead
The crow’s caw makes known the warrior’s descent
Across the dying pasture, misted red

Glory, comes now my once sweetly adored!
Fighting brothers with valiant reluctance
His tender eyes shut, his breathing no more
His body lies stone-cold with stiffened stance

How well he fought for his country and lass
Like Prince Paris, fighting for what he claimed
Now laid ready for a still, somber mass
His face in my conscience forever famed

Gone is the restful warmth of his skin
Gone is the honey-like voice from his tongue
Yet, here he lays

The Fractal ManYou wake up and before reality sets in you plan how you would like your day to go.
You do the whole bathroom thing—you lather, you rinse, you repeat.
You dress slowly under your own scrutiny and regardless of whether you are in overalls or a uniform or a silk linen suit, you hate the way you look. You will never look the way you did that other day, the day you were happy just being yourself—though you cannot specifically remember when that day was.
Eventually you exit your humble little home and stumble into the concentrated centre of a mad, mad world. In this land skyscrapers dwarf the rising sun and the earth below them

BiologyBiology

They didn’t teach us anything important
in high school. I remember you,
negotiating with your back to the class
in those giant 80s glasses,
as the teacher took a break from his boy’s own stories
of pissing tigers
and Vietnamese cobras swaying in the tall grass
to expose himself: Being beautiful isn’t enough
to get you through life,
sweetheart.

Now at his age, I sit in front of my laptop
at an upscale bar and lay you open
over a California roll, chicken tortilla soup, and coffee
with cream: It seemed like life would be easy
for you. Has it been?

You reply that you were in your twenties
before you started

Through the Blue-Green HazeI am always looking up. One arm is raised in an arc above my head and the other rests in a half circle down by my hips. My face is fixed in an expression of grace and a hint of pride. Straight hair falls around my shoulders and tiny sea creatures are carved onto its surface. My hips flow into the shapeless form of an elegant evening dress, replacing what could have been my legs.

Colourful fish swim to and fro, startled by sudden movement and sound. They shimmer in the sun's light, casting tiny dancing patterns across the ocean. When they swim above my head all I can see are shadows. Dancing, twisting, turning shadows that play in this cool c

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The MonarchA black bird stepped into my tent today
its thin spall legs were as grim as Decay.
To its sight swirled the words in my mind to an eddy
filled with fear was my soul of its crude curiosity:
Its punctured ghast' eyes pried studiously
and perplexed it was staring, with such a dexterity,
as if power possessed, tremendous and unearthlingly;
Ruling it stood, at the gates of my tent, so impudently.

Inquestingly it tilted its gray crown to the right
then it twig-breaking spasmed back again to my sight.
Conversing it was, with not much of a word; an attempt
to commune with the servile lot. An acknowledgement
of fr

When Autumn ComesTwo white arches rise
enclosing charred spirals,
a crumbling wall,
two gaped holes
windows darkened by sunset.

Underneath a crashing wave;
your tongue, your eyes.
Flowing to the rhythm,
some unforgiving DJ
and a shot or two.

A jazz bar by old theater,
three stories fly so fast;
this is where I go
when autumn comes this year
I just can't seem to wait.

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The Drive

by `leoraigarath, Feb 17, 2009, 7:23:42 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

Sitting here in this pointless office, I wander in my mind to different places, different times, different worlds. Somehow it feels like the world is trying to erase my ambition, creativity and ability to touch other people. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore, it is frustrating to not think that you are a machine, typing and pressing gray buttons to the rhythm of the ticking clock.

Some low whispered empty conversations, annoying mechanical phone rings, the night is falling down so fast you can’t even see it coming. The windows are so dark you cannot feel the real difference between day and night, it’s all the same here, all the same.

A girl approaches me, bends a little on my desk, smiling. She says she’s from Human Resources, wants to interview me about the workers conditions. I nod as I log off my user and detach off the keyboard. She leads me into a small room, round table, two chairs and a little laptop sitting quietly, humming to itself.

She asks me about my work, my tasks, responsibilities and vision. I reply, noticing her hand slowly crawling towards mine. The paycheck, the bonuses, her fingers on my skin, the breaks, the inter relationships, her lips against my neck, the attitude of the management, the annual reports, her tongue in my ear, the neon lighting, the softness of hands.

She takes her shirt off, takes my pants off; I close my eyes and listen to the clock's tick, just as if I’m typing on my keyboard. There’s no going back now. From here on it’s a one way street, a path I never wanted to explore. She is on me now, kissing passionately, praying in my ear, saying my name, moaning.

I sit in my car, hands on wheel. Engine turned on. Murmuring. Complaining on the weather. I shouldn’t go home… I really shouldn’t go home. Driving down through rain and smoke, a cigarette tucked between my fingers, eyes grow tired. It’s not the time, I tell myself as her lips kiss mine, it’s not the time for dreaming. The traffic light turns green, pumping the gas, the cars are moving. Eyelids grow heavy, fingers on my chest, left palm against the back of my neck. The traffic light turns green, I pump the gas, the cars are moving. It’s time to go. My eyes are asleep, the car is off the road, and I wonder what day it is.

The Driveby `leoraigarath

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

Not a normal winter day, not a gray painted routine. This is just a little photograph out of life, a few moments in the mind of someone who is not able, not willing, to change.

Published in The Missing Slate - [link]

Daily Deviation

Given 2009-03-12

I admit I read this lovely offering more than once. There was something that kept pulling me in and pulling me in deep. the Drive by `leoraigarath, seems on the surface like a simple fantasy, but there is much more here. There are several ways to interpret this piece, but nonetheless, take what you will from it and let those thoughts linger with you. ( Featured by `LadyLincoln )

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~tentaspyman Jul 26, 2011

nothing more to say that beautiful! So lifelike!~

`leoraigarath Oct 19, 2011 Professional Writer

Thank you

!CrimsonThrenody Dec 13, 2010

An enjoyable read. Dark in its own way. Congrats on the publication and DD (late).

`leoraigarath Dec 14, 2010 Professional Writer

Thank you

!CrimsonThrenody Dec 14, 2010

You're welcome

~Spirrus Apr 3, 2009

I don't know what to say about this but...wow...

`leoraigarath Apr 5, 2009 Professional Writer

thank you, I'm glad that you enjoyed it.

~VivianColfax Mar 24, 2009

It's difficult for me to comment on something I find simply amazing. I can never find the right words.
So instead I will thank you for the time you took to submit this, and for the time it gave me to read it.

`leoraigarath Mar 26, 2009 Professional Writer

I know what you mean, I can never find the right words too. Thank you.

~BrynLutek Mar 17, 2009

I love this scene, the way the slightly abstract fractured images fall together into a congruous whole is stunning. The piece in it's entirety is just captivating, like reality drenched in an ethereal haze of passive perception.

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The Driveby `leoraigarath

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