that the world is not all frosted window or pixelated screen cartooning the moment into fiction. looking back is neither a kaleidoscope of meaning or exhausted glass in the violent hands of a toddler; we must learn to consider blindness without also having to mention corrective lenses. i mean to say something of desert, that all memory is a house in a field at the end of a winding road or an empty we cannot fathom. outside there is marching, inside an echo. little has been said of justice, only in name, damp and hanging from another still mouth. the seers see and we refuse to listen. the past tumbles across our windshield on another strange planet and we brake, pull to the shoulder, take a polaroid of the asphalt, squared at our feet.
mark’s face split like a papaya, pulped, the pavement eager to accept another’s ripe skin.
bruised. rinsed fruit. a polynesian boy screams go home haole, the lights of waikiki twinkle
in applause. how violence begets violence. a flood or lineage of reciprocity: this vast circle,
tide pool draining into itself, showing us a face we’ve become all too accustomed with: our own,
deserving, meaning history is the strangest kind of loop pedal. legend has it
when the white man came to oahu the trees stopped producing fruit; sugarcane, toothbreaker;
i guess this is the legend or some version of it: winded, the long howl,
the summer that his parents leave... by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
the summer that his parents leave...
the summer that his parents leave, greg's house becomes the busiest club in south florida
tonight, the patio is its own kind of forget. a menagerie of glass and shadow, bodies looking to take space where there is nothing to tell them otherwise. a halo forms on the patio, condensation and stifled breath. parker overpours pitchers, frothing at the mouth, from a keg that we stole from an alley behind the duck tavern. around the pool, a table adorned in solo cups. dj rolls in with a posse. he is six foot seven but looks like he’s still growing. d money sells drugs and has a golden ak45; says he can say the n word because he’s
quarantine is a frigid word by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
quarantine is a frigid word
sterile. metallic. i watch the white spires stalagmite the parking lot of queen’s medical,
masked creatures emerging and disappearing again into the mountain’s tyvek belly. decon.
negative air. the plexiglass stained with fingerprints and salt. i can’t help but think of
extraterrestrials, that some bikeridden savior will slip out and show us another useless
miracle. flight. alchemy. something performative, eternal. the long applause. a comedic
history ending only in tragedy. the problem with angels is that they are always returning
to a home that isn’t here, trying to become more like god and less like us
a family friend reaches out via linkedin by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
a family friend reaches out via linkedin
thanks for the good wishes, i put them in the drawer of my bedside table,
hoping to one day fill the morrow of pockmarked sky, that jar of stolen marbles,
the misplaced color of grief. and yes, i’ve been reading up on truancy.
or trigonometry, that is to say: leaving. or on my way to somewhere else,
swallowing a handful of moons to try and make it through night. this selfish living,
how we drop our loose change down cracks in the earth and avoid strangers
with our scrolling gaze, ignorant in smithsonian delight. i
here it always smells. detritus. life after it has left the body. come, sit with us on the seawall. hop the fence to the old banana plantation and smoke black n milds. you explain: the once living, relic of the outgoing tide, bakes on rocks under the heat of afternoon. sargassum. sweet decay. a whole civilization of yesterday. here we take our girlfriends and learn what mouths are capable of. say things we will later be ashamed of. allow the thick night to hide our judgement. everything here is salt: gentle breeze, a drop of sweat trickling from your forehead, the ocean accumulating in piles at our feet. blocks away, our parents sleep
there's a fine line between(...) by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
there's a fine line between(...)
there's a fine line between interstate and interpersonal
in the attempt to price emotion / we overdraft the sea. an architecture
of plastic amassing measured breath. how biblical, to rise and drown
by the same acts of faith / both blind and taken in waves. turning
microscopes to the sun / in the hopes of commercialization. dirtnap,
flashsale / all linoleum and second chances. the thing about leaving
is ending up somewhere else / naked and ripe for mo(u)rning.
naming stars for their angles and not shine, sticky fingers, a pinpricked
summer blanketing the canyon moon. yesterday you were afraid
of the ocean and now we are all swimmin
for a long time i've wanted to say something of hope,
that tickle me pink folly; bandaid on the cataclysmic
knees of pandora, burning scapegoat, gilded question.
whatever it was that waltzed through the porcelain jar
knew already of wreckage, salivation, a whet-stemmed
glass piercing the feathered breast of some antediluvian
beast. here the map says nothing of subtraction: siren-songed,
salted meat, an ocean of both distance and destination. refraction,
anachronism. science
so i guess life from here on out is just one big ass sunset after another. we emerge from a light rain and the sky winks in glitter. the radio, a spotify playlist featuring only throwbacks, beckons us into yesterday. we listen still, even though we already know the words, let the chorus slip from our lips like a secret still worth telling. i tell you i will write about the interstate, as if it is supposed to mean something about where we’ve come. today the morning sits on the bed with us, like a quilt. the halved sun pulped and offering a fleshy meal. tangle of limbs, awkward recital. a mazda speeding down the dewslick tongue of concr
its burping mudflats sprawl of shopping malls and foothills.
here is a city at the end of wilderness, mouthpiece postcard
peaked interest. the ted stevens airport is its own kind of bedroom.
i curse satan or whatever office folk made the decision to erect
armrests on the benches. trace the silhouettes of shelved beasts,
all taxidermy and gangled posture. starved gods attempting to define
absence. who i am to say where a thing is to begin? the forest asks me.
to explain away the wild
Make a future out of thumb tacks in a pissed-up sort of fashion then live it. Down with fascism eggs for breakfast, & so forth. in a city on fire shall we line up nicely to die shall we hand over our belongings shall we renounce our neighbours under the watchful eye of the moon Slather the butter over your toast clink your glasses, say, Funny how time runs out! Tuck those doubts under your hat & remember where you come from. Turn off the lights where is the Revolution, mother why does nobody want to be saved a sore existence & a Hello Kitty band aid to patch up another January good year for conglomerates & men in power. There is no Love or Justice in the imperialist state & if I know nothing else about Jesus I know he fucking hates cops.
one candid night and a nice cheeseboard by scheherazades, literature
Literature
one candid night and a nice cheeseboard
February that endless landscape elusive the evanescent headfuck of dawn— I could reach God(or someone) on the landline I do not sleep—in sleep(as in waking) my body is my enemy the pitiful morsel to a cruel man's silver spoon On cold nights I do not turn the heating on backache microwave pasta making offerings to the greedy shrine of the gas metre. I believe in love, and communism I want my name on the list— I believe in love— the first night in weeks that I slept I dreamed I was running like a flock of birds I was running into the sky and dreaming(the pimpled skin of an orange I wounded the waiting) that a man I had once loved ran after me calling my name like a word that could be spoken(I knew better— but I still wanted to answer him) That fever was a different breed a solemn seed of scraping bled out the pith for one candid night and a nice cheeseboard before they
uselessly lamenting the state of things by scheherazades, literature
Literature
uselessly lamenting the state of things
Oh hell I could have been halfway to nowhere by now the rain fell over the hills and vanished becoming blades of grass or yellow flowers again I am desperate to get out of my body the habits of hurting are wearing me down my data is corrupted I know crazy peace where was I when the rain fell over the hills —I was leaving again I need to fall in love insanely there is no other way I dream up a thousand unsatisfactory men and kill them all. This week the world is ending and I am running out of laundry pods. How long do you love something before you stop. Still I know this bus route like the back of my hand—Stray is in my nature. Do you dare To say something is good. To say something is worth loving where the rain goes after it falls over the hills that’s where I'll be there was a time I wanted nothing more than to make beautiful things now I just want to become one before I die
a girl, an angel, and a maggot walk into a bar by scheherazades, literature
Literature
a girl, an angel, and a maggot walk into a bar
I split
right down the middle.
Girl crawls out
wipes blood from its mouth
Vomits summer fruit—
Im buzzing with pleasure
My body is a machine
I run it down. I program Girl
into my hardware
eat cereal for breakfast ;
{ once there was a creature it was gifted with a body that was beautiful & strong & it ran for miles & it knew little of pain & it knew little of love & it drank clear water & slept under the sky & kissed many angels }
Girl— killed in the New World—
Girl— stabbed right through&
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Your writing is the type of thing I'm sad to have discovered only so recently, seeing that it has been here for a while. I hope you don't mind my saying here that you are masterful with words, and I wish you peaceful success in your future.