spring.

ah,


love.


i hope your thirst

is quenched.

Nighttime Jewels

Don't get your fingers smashed when your window of opportunity closes.

Surgeon Generals' Warnings

She kept whispering about the sociological implications of fucking around in somebody else's' room, incessant rambling about facts and concepts and theories which slid right off his ears. He wished she'd just shut up already and let him kiss her, but as she kept readjusting her classes and lecturing him about how it was so so so so wrong to do anything in a room not his own, he became bored, anxious, fidgety and frustrated. The way the computer monitors' light ricocheted off her nose ring made him all the more frustrated. God, why can't she just shut up? Kiss me. Kiss me. Anywhere. Take my hand. It's a room. Just a room. A room that was occupied by other people before the current owner. A room that was occupied by other people before the previous owner.

What does it matter that it's not his room, the place where he lays his head down every night? It's a revolving door, emptiness erased in every year by a set of different people. 

She kept talking and he started to fade. He yawned and closed his eyes. 

The Letter

Dusk arrived with nonchalant murkiness, the wind blowing discarded paper cups and plastic bags all about the street. Sitting near the window, waiting for the world to move, for it to shake, for the monotony of wind and change to manifest into something MORE, something... 

He couldn't quite figure out what it was. This unknown beckoning pulsated deep within him, making him tremble, turning his fingers white as bone as he clutched the rosary dear to his heart.

Less then two hours ago he had dropped the gallon of milk, and it splattered all over the linoleum floor, all over his feet, cascading towards the carpet, and retreating underneath the refrigerator. It was his only response, the only thing his body could muster upon his arrival into the kitchen.

Wrapped in wax paper and written on beige stationery was a two fold note, with elegant handwriting scrawled across each page, front and back. It began with 

"I think I love you, but now..."

He had smiled upon discovering the note, chalking it up to another romantic gesture, one in a series of acts which weighed heavy in his heart. Acts of love that made him flush, and made his heart swell, and flood with admonishment.

But then he kept reading. And then the tears came, and kept coming.

Two hours later, he couldn't move from the window. Re-reading everything over in his head, hearing her speak those words, it tore at him. Had he done anything right? 

He felt like he was decent, and loving, and caring, but the note brought light to his shortcomings. It took too long for him to be accepting, to admire, to be enamored. She cursed her tongue for putting this blame on him, but she couldn't mince words, or deny facts. She felt stupid, she felt weak. She felt at shame for being so caring and not having it reciprocated. She was tired of vesting all her faith and hope into the notion that one day he would feel as strongly as she did. She tired of praying for legitimacy. She left her copy of the key in the paper, wrapped up so delicate.

Now he was alone. 

All alone.

michelle

the overwhelming aura of cliche-
ripped from manifestos and dictionaries
and other writings in an attempt
a attempt to deride me and chalk my feelings up to nothing more then
gaudy, tacky, lifeless meaning
but,
I LOVE you. you. your sleeping body
rising gently with each breath

like the most magnificent sunrise
the sun attempting to broach the horizon and flood it with it's
red and orange and blood-tinged hues
but my words are wrestled from my lips
the words that say

I love you.

your skin, your scent, your touch... the way the sun hits your hair every night
the way you believe in nothing
but us.

the way you light up my heart, and turn my love into indescribable splendor.

310 #3

"big bright sky"


He entered in through the side door, in a decidedly hurried pace, more then likely as a means to escape the rain-whipped winds. He was a curious man; mid sixties, grey hair, grey mustache, the development of the old age manifested in his distorted paunch. This was a guy who had a wife and 3 kids and 8 grandkids, but also a guy who masturbated entirely way too much. His days each began with a quick silencing of his erection in quiet confidence of his showers tight-lipped bubble, an ironic ascetic touch to a man not yet convinced that his best years were over.
He hears voices. His knees quiver, and his heart beats faster, faster, fastest.
He knew no one should be in the building, but it was Spring Break and maybe he could get lucky. He followed the ethereal calling, to the second floor. Another side door, but he doesn't care for silence much and whips the door open.
He's right in front of an apartment. His ears are burning with the sounds of two other voices in the building. They were in front of him! Well, behind the door actually. But still. His knees are shaking, and his hands began their beautiful metamorphosis from appendages to greasy, clammy stumps. He rubbed them together, already soaked to the bone from all the sweat.
His ear pressed to the door, the feeling of victory washing over him. He could hear them, they were having a conversation. Two men. Sounded in the early twenties. Yummy, yummy bros. Another quiver. He licked his lips and wiped his brow. They were talking and carrying on per usual, and he was on the other side, looking in the peephole and pressing his ear to the door. The two friends without the faintest idea. This excited him.
In a lot of ways.

The griminess of his hands were the best reflection of the man as a whole.

the sage

CREATIVE WRITING THEME OF 2010: (drumroll please) -

mediocre fiction at it's finest

"Three blacks came up in the place. With guns. Of course. And they gave their fucking presence away before they even got in, motherfuckers blaring their rap music in their shitty ass car, fuckin; sounding like a fucking sheet of metal being hit with like a hammer, because of all the bass. Sounds so bad, and I hate to say it, but where we live those type of people don't ever come from down town to these parts. These are all college apartments; sometime one of 'em might be a delivery driver, or sometimes a bunch of fucking highschoolers drive from down there to the campus part.

So,  it's real fucked up that these dudes did that. I like black people but damn man. Shot up just the apartment, and for a fucking original xbox and 4 double a batteries. Didn't hurt Renold but stole his shit. Heard the dickhead didn't even put up a fight. That passive little shit. Drank all of the fucking bear to"

- Terry

(2009)

By far the most creative note I've gotten from my roommate as to why he couldn't pay his half of the rent this month. Why he couldn't just tell me he spent all of his money on weed and a few new shirts was beyond me. It's not like I don't ever know. He spelled "beer" as "bear"

Idiot.

310 #2

The cigarette corpses littered the streets. The stale smell of tobacco leaking out of these ancient carcasses, petrified and tranquil among the canvas of concrete. Blanketing the highways, mixing in with the decrepit leaves and trash that blemished the skin of the city.

Three blocks away from the epicenter of this mausoleum was a man crying alone, lamenting over the shit-luck route his life decided to embark on. Instead of letting it run its course, he wept. For misfortune, for luck, for lack of... everything. The suns' relinquishing of it's duties to make way for the reign of Luna coinciding with the man's' incessant bleating concerning fairness, and equality.

The city moaned along at night, creaking and bleeding for an audience of none. The cigarettes that strangled the roads were witnesses of no importance, as they could not speak, they could not recant the nights of filth and gluttony that was so commonplace. Alone they sat, to be moved only on days of wind and rain, washed away to locations unknown. 

More and more cigarettes joined the burial ground.

Elsewhere in town, more and more coffee was spilled down drains, more and more tears staining faces, more and more hearts incinerated and broken into nothingness. This constant was the sum of life and it's vague idiosyncrasies.  So many people unhappy and living with strife. 

And more and more cigarettes joined the burial ground.

310 #1

it sounds like -
a summer night out there, with you. the cacophonous roar of traffic
all around us, knocking from afar
washed up
on the shores of your neighborhood

devour'd

The stale...

stench of tobacco, of smoke

wafted through the floorboards, a portrait

of failings and shattered promises

framed in the reflection of guilt soiled recollection.

A whisper, a prayer.

The division of labor

between 

heart and soul

the fleeting sense of 

satisfaction.

WRAPPED up in porcelain strength lies. Organization and

struggles; 

dully aware of the heartache that incinerates my mouth.

Grasping for the right words to feel, the right emotions to say, the spotlight on the revolution

inspired

by the seamless transition from heartbreak to sorrow, from

fulfillment

to hollow clamoring. 

PBR DUDE

I sighed-

I'll never get past the hair on your head,

never get to the scalp, never get to taste your skin never get to wet my 

lips,

I sigh, I rub your skin, I see your eyes

big, brown, beautiful

love, man those eyes

those fucking eyes

makes me sad, makes me a fool, makes me a ass,

all the times my lips were coated with an acidic handshake

the beer, the smokes, the other cheap whores and their perfume

cutting me away from you and smiling all the while

man, it's no wonder you're not the same, it's no wonder you hate me

so,

but here I am, wearing my crown, smiling for no one, 

pour another drink, finish wringing my heart onto this page

when my ice 

melts.

HATERADE LOL

Your an ugly man,
                  Oh yeah? Go suck on gravel

I drink ugly, I eat ugly
christ, I am
                        UGLY.

But, for how ugly I am,
you
           sure seem to
           care?

Alot.                                             What gives?
I drink my beer, I smoke myself to an early grave
     my face is eroding and my smile?
Well,
shit,                                             my smile isn't even all the way
fuck it,
                           half way there.

But I'm ugly. And
you
                       care.

how am I supposed to sleep?

Awaken from sleep, by a grave-robber who toils in inconveniences, mired in
compassion, steeped in hollow tragedy. Robbed of life by the fear, gripping fear
of indecisiveness, keeping tragedy close, clothed and bathed in reassuring second guessing,
resting on the lips of everything that is pure.

She whispered "you.. cant give me what I need", and my heart bent, twisted and crumbled. Off to sleep again, in the grave meant for me, to be awakened by grave-robbers toiling in
misery.

oh sweet vase of heartbreak!
Harbinger of diluted inequity, cursed by your transgressions
hold your tongue, hold your tongue if only for the night
let me hold you for one last time, let my hands be yours
it'll be a miracle if you fought past your demons
yet making my deathbed seems inevitable
my tomb, my tomb, my declaration to all
without you I am nothing but hollow and empty
my heart has divided and pulled apart
sword sheathed at my side, my hands away
I yearn for one minute more, strive for your return
it's cold and empty in a broken house
my lungs are shaking and my breaths are shorter
frost covered romance urging me to come home.

winds

I noticed the man a few weeks after fall semester had begun.
Smoking a cigarette, pouring the grease into the soft mound of dirt right outside my doorstep
-each day, I saw him.

I swear I saw him behind the dumpster one day on the walk to class
using the ice as a mirror. I didn't know anything about him or his circumstances for acting as he did
but I didn't worry either when I saw him, because I saw him everyday for 3 months.

One day, while passing the dumpster, I didn't see him so I continued on, disenchanted.
A few moments later I saw him sprawled on an apartment complexs steps, sipping a pint of an abborhation of a tequila brand.

I had built up the courage
after 3 months of gazing at each other, of him watching me, and me questioning his motives,
I had decided to ask him why he lingered around, just staring at me.

So I asked, my words falling out over my tongue, out of my mouth.

He stared at me, blank eyed, the same stare he had first slipped me some 4 months back. His mouth opened and he softly replied, his voice getting lost in the wind:
"I'm finally living my life".

songbirds

nightingale

this isn't the complacency that's served to comfort me
for years, and days
slipping in and out of time
the tight lipped secrets of pantomimes
and statues
lisping out of my soul
boiling out of my mouth into seas of passion
and decay, the crumbling of my
bones,
limping away into peninsulas
whence our love faded, thrice.

each negative summer, erased like ripping through cassette tapes
finding each memory stuffed into a drawer discarded like trash
on the sun porch of our summer home.

lyrebird

I set the typewriter on fire if only to match my tears
stationery, pens and paper have all escaped my grasp
foreign to my touch and breaking my wrists
I set my typewriter on fire.

Piopo

Veins of liars and sighs of relief from saints
under a ceiling of ink
dripping and making us thirst
our throats drowning with the taste of such bitter ink
from your pen and paper ooze the vitriol to
bury a thousand empires
the secrets you've dropped have been collected
and placed in the shadows of the
kingdoms fall, because when the seasons change
and the sun is exhausted,
fatigued and
desperate we'll be clawing
at your throat. so please,
save us.

Conch

Pt. 1
No one is around
sad that it rings
true,
but when no one is around
everything seems
perfect.


Home:
No body born here
wants to crawl
back and die
here.


The End:
Memories slip out
of the open door...
fade away?
dissapear.

My response:
Memories slip out of the door
-and for what?
Leaving for your hearts desire? Slip out of my grasp
tomorrow I leave the coast.
Hope to see you soon.

Pleas (AND THANK YOU)

Don't wreck it! Such a tragic ending for your
storybook life.

Epilogue:

Like, I'm just trying to write
with all these nameless whispers that fall out,
of your lips to my ears
I just push them aside,
we're due on the coast in a moments' time
grace-
can still be found under that smile! and every time you raise
your glass, I feel you getting colder.

Break-Beat Science

It's not that I don't like you.

It's that as time has gone on, I've come to hate you. Sorry princess, but that's the way it goes.

You can insult me all you want, with petty little insults that are so so so trivial. I'll still sleep sound.

But truth be told your nagging incessant striving to assert your self-importance wears thin, and hurts my head. It makes me oxygen deprived, or at least feel the effects of it.

I get it. You're like important, or at least you lie to yourself enough to think and believe it.

Get over yourself. Stop being such a bleeding heart, trying to make yourself a champion for various causes. Your hypocrisy washes away any sort of positive effect you hope to achieve. Stay out of my fucking business as well. I don't care for your opinion, and if I did i'd ask you for it. But don't hold your breath.

It's strange how someone can get so full of themselves and attempt to tip the scales in their favor by hurling ignorant criticisms and barbs towards you. It's comforting however, to take all those insults in stride and not let it affect you in any way, because you know, that at the end of the day when the sun sets and your eyelids close, and the smile creeps across your lips that...

you're better then that.


It's a shame we can't be friends.

But actually no, it's not a shame because you've shown me nothing but the ability to stay consistent... consistently unworthy of friend material.

From your attitude, to the way you portray yourself, to your personality, to the bleeding-heart sanctimonious belief you have in yourself..

I hope you choke on your inflated sense of worth and self-righteousness.

You're nothing special, and as long as you live the way you do, you';ll never be special.

I'll be content in my life and my happiness, knowing that the amount of detractors I have is severely outnumbered by the amount of people who enjoy my company and sharing the bond of friendship with me.

Better cross your fingers and say your prayers, but lets be honest, no amount of well-wishing is ever going to make you a decent person.

Restrd/ReMSTRD

to all the women I've never loved. to all your empty rooms/hearts

Erasure of the tape, wiping out
the cassette scarred tracklines masquerading
as your veins in a wine-stainedbrokenglass dance
party. Claw through pulsating coffin-envelopes
to remember

MAKE NO MISTAKES!

As you project yourself into a disemboweled
fantasy of youth and splendor and
mouth-gaping aspirations of completion
and

FULFILLMENT! OH, sweet yet bitter fulfillment, collecting on my tongue, capsules of ineptitude and shame. Sweet, sweet shame.

installment plans, replacement parts, and rebuffed charades
to catch the twinkle in your lover(s) eye(s) to
chart and recollect fleeting touches
that once chilled your spine, instead now
sleeping in the bitter wasteland
you've created for your self, for your
false sense of affirming your individuality
and independence
have left you
bloated
washed up
dry
and alone.

(you had your chance, but you love yourself
you loved the mirror, you loved the attention
you love your libido and faux-intellect,
drown yourself.)

Can We Own Clouds?

I know the end and beginning of where the solution
to your question lies, and with second thought
a unrepresentative quandary
is proposed-
for health, for benefits
to the erasure of solitude
but to spend years in a jade
tomb, is to entrench those who contemplate
salvation and untrustworthy endeavors
with the splendors of a million sunsets
which is a privilege that should never split
the lips of those who live as if
life was countering the movements of
one thousand scythes.