Poetry

Slowsand.

Sighs masked as hearty shouts,

wand’rings marked as guided routes.

Yawns removed from concentration

feebly yearns for liberation.

A slow ascent upon a plane,

a crawling climb beneath the slain.

Labored breath intent on rest,

the rise and fall within the chest.

Thoughts just flitting here and there,

sparks igniting ends of hair.

Preparing speeches ne’er to raise

the spirits of the languid daze.

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Writings

April Stools.

As he yawned with the exhaustion of a man who slept too late to be waking up so early, he groaned out of bed and into the bathroom.  There was the smell of lavender, like someone had used his fancy liquid hand soap, but he was the only one in the house, and he had just woken up.  Perhaps it was leaking? He picked up the bottle, examined it, and set it down, scratching his head in bleary, apathetic confusion.  It was probably some stupid April Fool’s joke.  There was nothing wrong with the bottle, not a crack anywhere he could see.  He felt the familiar clench in his bowels, and knew it was time for the morning ritual.

Sighing, he sat down and began to take the children to the pool.  That is, he defecated.  Today’s experience was a pleasantly soft ordeal, sliding out without much strain.  He exhaled fully after holding his breath in from the initial release, feeling the cold tile beneath his feet, and feeling the cold seat slowly warm to the temperature of his rear.  As he felt the familiar emptiness within his stomach signaling the end of his time on the porcelain throne, he began to reach for the the toilet paper, but paused. The soon-to-be-soiled paper was coming from the bottom up, not from the top down.  Who on Earth could have done this, he thought.  He attempted to remove the inner tube of the toilet paper dispenser to flip the roll upside down to his liking, but discovered that it had been glued shut.  I must be dreaming, he sighed.  So, with eyes squinted shut, he dispensed what he perceived to be enough toilet paper, and found that he must have yanked too hard, littering the bathroom floor with excess toilet paper.  He could feel his spirit begin to crack within the pit of his heart.  He bent down to tear a segment of the fallen bathroom tissue so that he could wipe, then proceeded to clean himself.  After he wiped, he discovered, with gradual mortification, that a brown streak ran up from the toilet paper past his wrist, past his forearm, up to his bicep.  He began to cry.  Why is this happening? What have I done to deserve this? I just wanted to relieve myself…

He looked down, and discovered that the toilet paper was gone.  He reached desperately over to the cabinet to find the extra rolls.  Instead, he was greeted by a raucous explosion of noisemakers, leaving his knees quaking and without a doubt that he had emptied himself of refuse.  With his heart pounding and his head furiously attempting to stave off a headache, he took a few moments to make sure he caught his breath.  Then, he got up with his head down grimly, knowing he had not entirely cleaned himself – he came to terms with the fact that he had no other choice. He grimaced as he pulled up his pajama pants, knowing that they would need to be washed promptly.  As he flushed and met his own gaze in the mirror, his spirit crumbled within him as he saw that the brown streak ran all the way up to his right eyebrow.  He washed his hands in the sink, which thankfully worked, and found he couldn’t remove the brown streak that marked him, so he just wiped his hands off on a towel before he realized that he was smearing it all over his towel.  Resigning his life to his circumstance, he tearfully began to stuff the towel into his mouth, hoping that he might suffocate himself and end his misery.

And then he woke up with a start.  He had broken into a cold sweat, and was looking about himself in a panic.  He looked at his arm, and it was clean.  He checked his phone and it read April 2nd.  Relief.  Relief?  He felt the clench in his stomach, and stumbled into his bathroom, and he almost fainted.

There was the smell of lavender, the toilet paper was the wrong way, and his towel was smeared brown.

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Poetry

Poet Tree.

A thousand voices, each cry rang true

the poets’ voices all sang through.

A silent night, a mighty storm,

death of function without form.

The poets rose, shrieks shrill indeed

’til echoes met with scorn did bleed.

A waste of space, but some would say

that time itself could not delay.

And so, from fell branches swayed their words –

a noose bound tight around their fate.

A meal made ready for the birds

who feasted on the wanton hate.

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Writings

Save It for a Rainy Day.

As rain graced the front lawn with its mild pitter-patter, he sighed as he turned his eyes from the window back to looking longingly through an old photo album.  The fact that he had a photo album at all already hinted at the amount of dust he had to blow off before opening it.  Eyes watering before he even got to the first page, he waited for his coughing fit to subside before attempting to make out individuals, years younger than they were now, on the glossy, colored rectangles.  He saw familiar pictures of him as an infant that had been embarrassingly shown to every family acquaintance, family photos at various scenic locations and unremembered birthday parties, and his dad’s transition for donning glasses that made him look like a human fly to lenses that made him look like a pretty fly human.  These were all just memories now; re-creating some of these events wouldn’t even be possible.

With a sharp intake of breath, he saw his first pet, Buddy.  How had he forgotten him?  A warm golden retriever, Buddy had been with him during his teenage years, loyally sitting at his side through all of the unspoken troubles that rebellious teenagers inevitably go through.  He remembered throwing the frisbee as far as he could and watching Buddy race after it, then laughing as he watched Buddy jerk his head from side to side trying to throw it back to him.  He remembered sitting on the couch, watching the television, and seeing Buddy amble along and plop down right under his feet – he remembered Buddy’s breath swelling slowly up and down against his legs.  He remembered…

He killed Buddy.

As he pulled into the driveway late at night, that foolish, affable, loyal creature bounded right in front of his car and the consequential thud said enough.  He ran out of his car without a second thought, but it was already too late; Buddy lay still, never to catch, nor attempt to throw, another frisbee again.  He forgot about how he cried as he held the cooling body in his hands, waking up with a blanket draped around him.  He forgot about walking into the house, shivering, holding Buddy in his arms, and collapsing in a chair, hearing what his parents said to console him, but not understanding anything they said.  He forgot the months spent in quiet everywhere he went, swallowing bit by bit the guilt that had consumed his soul.

He got over it eventually, but they never talked about it again in that house.  Buddy was in many more pictures in that album, but something suffocated the desire to continue reminiscing on the matter.  It was raining that day as well.  Suddenly, the rain outside intensified in volume, and it took on a more menacing tone, a rumble of thunder, a glare of lightning.  He saw the headlights of his car rove into the driveway, he felt the thud, the rain washed over him.  How quickly it was all over, years of companionship ended by an exaggerated gesture of welcome.  He missed his Buddy.

He had no idea how long he had been repressing this memory.  It has been decades since he even thought of Buddy, much less the circumstances in which Buddy had been killed.  He never got another dog, nor did he ever desire another pet.  He always felt pangs of melancholy echo in the chambers of his heart when he saw other dogs, but he figured it was just puppy love.  He sighed. He thought he had suppressed recalling the tragedy for so long because he took the life of what had been his best friend – turns out he had just been saving it for a rainy day.

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Poetry

Roads Traveled.

I’ve walked a shadow’s dance,

a letter’s prance, a mountain’s trance.

Lances, shattered spiral twirls,

fallen stars that sunshine hurls,

poppy meadows deign to bellow

melodies of churches yellow.

A song of sorrow for tomorrow,

dancing sprite a heart did borrow.

Pardon me, the ride’s at three,

I have not paid the rainbow fee!

Time to eat a panda’s meat,

filled with fury, tasty heat –

in a hurry, speak the worry

as I run to seek the meek.

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