A View of EdenShe is standing outside,A View of Eden
somewhere in the garden,
trying to find shelter among the flowers
or in the deeper branches of the lilac bush. I see the lilies move, perhaps
from the wind, the color of her skin
next to the green, the yellow
of the flowers. Her eyes, just
the deepening color of night.
As she passes through these plants
how easily she turns the petals.
Without leaving a trace,
she takes the pollen and passes it among them.
She leaves no tracks in the earth,
even where it is muddy,
I cannot tell where s
RisingThere is nothing, the wind rises, the storm begins.Rising
Sand, taken from the horizon gathers on the wind, and it comes.
In the market, the copper plates sing, under the thousand voices of the sand.
An old man sits in a room, the linen covering the window
blows, the dress of a dancer that tempted him once,
in a dream, in the songs of a god, the call of man and wife rising.
The storm outside gathers and in one final effort,
swallows the sun.
The Spinning RoomAnd I ask you again, my hand on the dry papers that rise as you pass, taking yourThe Spinning Room
glass and in one motion still dancing, drink, holding the edge of your dress, above the long line of your leg.
I turn away, you pull my shirt, to stand in the spinning room. Your dress rises from the floor and falls in a rhythm, I cannot feel. I turn away, raise my drink, and sit.
...
She raises her glass and spills it against her che
UntitledPrologueUntitled
With eyes closed, we see ourselves in another light; a light that shadows our flaws, that covers our scars, the light of forgetting, of not wanting to know. We see the world only in part, a single pale light showing only that moment, nothing else. When there is nothing else, each moment becomes all there is. Judgment becomes strange living at one point in time. A night sky of stars, each a moment, cannot become a constellation; our lives, when frozen, are the same. That piece is missing, call it the unknown, call it sacred.
we are the descendantsi.we are the descendants
homunculus
my grandfather fought not for parties or liquor, but life in a sicker death. rifling, these horrors pawed at his midnight
breath, horses without plow. in whisky, he bathed
their howling eyes before burying
a man, a head, and a hoof
in a sprawl of shivering sand, (the pills were too hard to swallow – this was why he died)
three feet still
kicking.
ii.
a priori
my father grew up loathing
Spring.Sitting outside on my balcony, I watched the smoke lazily drift off. The weather is the prefect mix of spring and summer, comfortably warm with a crisp edge. It felt similar to biting into a fresh apple, and was equally refreshing. In the dim evening light, you can see the clouds hanging in the sky, waiting to drip down. Only three floors up, and I’m still scared to be too close to the edge. Before flicking my cigarette butt, I carefully put it out on the side of the railing. Guess I’m full of irrational fears.Spring.
I can’t help but notice how beautiful the tree in front of me is. With it’s new fresh leaves, a hopeful shade of green.
why I need sleeping pills.The dull point of boredom prods at me, just like the throbbing baseline of the song. I can’t tell you its name, and, even stranger for me, I didn’t know the lyrics. Curled up on the bed, I’m not home. I’m not even somewhere temporary. I’m just here in this, my, apartment, listening to a song I don’t recognize. Waiting and looking. I’ve always been messy, but the clothes, papers and dishes littering my room make even me sick. But I always eye it with a degree of separation, maybe because I know I can clean it at any time. Or maybe because I don’t care.why I need sleeping pills.
The sheets on the bed are smooth satin, the kind that make you feel rich when y
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zoo-
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let's go play on a baggage carousel
Beep beep.
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Sarah Anne.
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I'm glad you liked "why i need sleeping pills."
i love your writing btw
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now I just stare into the sun.
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