Solidified

Fingers mesh and pull

your nails dig a hole in my palm

lips pinched by your tooth

fingers splitting across your back

melting into your skin as I slowly go from

solid to liquid to gas

floating into your breath and into your mouth and throat

looking for the heart

 

We are a tempest set aflame:

quenched and lit

breathing and breath

I want to be the puddle you step on with your bare foot

so you can sink into me

as I sink into you

 

Liquids melting into each other

drying to become one:

solidified

the strength of each

now one

and before such a thing, the world shall fall

Finding the Forever

I see me when I see you.

I hear your words and they might be coming from my mouth.

I can feel your thoughts because I think them too.

And there is this knowing.

It is a knowing like no other and it is one that cannot be worded.

The silence speaks so profoundly that my ears can hardly bear to hear it all.

And my heart can scarce dare to believe it, but it is there.

So may we simply let our bodies move in silence and never speak a word again?

It is not needed.

Because you are here with me always. Within my own words and gestures.

I have no fear to grasp for your hand,

for it is no stranger than it would be to grasp my own.

I think I may begin to see beauty again.

The magic of every cell and atom, each color and curve.

The strange shapes and movements that curl about our existence.

The infinitely small details that define our moments, our understandings.

So when I feel you I feel me but I feel everything about me from the tips of my toes to the specks that litter the night sky and the branch that hangs over the doorway and drips dew on some mornings softly onto the patch of dirt besides the walkway up to your front door.

It is all within one touch, and yet it is all across eternity.

Each instant is intertwined with infinity, a small part of the forever.

Your Hardy Mural

Did it hurt?

I don’t know if it could have.

Maybe if you cared a bit more than I thought you did, it would have hurt.

I can’t tell. But I can dream. And wish.

I can wish that they hurt like little knives that dug just underneath your skin,

enough to make you remember what the tongues of all those men tasted like.

As you systematically cut open their ribcages and, gently, removed their hearts.

With surgical precision.

The kind that can only come with practice and practice and practice.

I hope my words hurt like a scalpel slowly cutting away at your skin.

I hope it leaves you with a tingling sensation you will never forget.

They say that when someone loses an arm or a leg, they can still feel for a while.

Twitch the fingers or the toes that are no longer there.

Am I only feeling a twitching of a heart now? It’s all hollow but there should be something.

Shouldn’t there? I think it’s there.

I hope my words hurt like the knife you used to puncture my heart so you could use the blood for your own paint.

So you could draw your masterpiece. Of which I was just one hue of red.

I can almost see you, sitting amongst the hearts of all your lovers with a paintbrush.

Dipping in and out of each, watching the maroons and the light pink’s and the rosy red’s all dance together in the mural you thought you would spend your life creating.

I hope my words hurt like the Berlin wall crashing down on top of you. Like your life’s work being gone in an instant.

As if you had looked in the mirror for the first time, and you had finally found the monster you had been hiding from.

And I hope you know that they hurt me like that, but two-fold. Thrice-fold.

That those words drift back to me to haunt me. Like you do, from time to time.

And I hope you know that you won. Even as I used the only weapons I could to try and strike you down from your grand pedestal, you’ve still won. You always will. And I will always loose.

Do you want to know why?

Because I’m sorry. And you never will be.

It Is All That Remains

It is how the earth and sun and moon and heaven surround you

It is the manner in which they timidly wait for when to depart

It is your violently casual nature

It is those aggressively searching eyes

It is the way you saunter into the door of my heart, dropping your jacket on the floor

It is your promiscuous dance with the puppet strings about your fingers

It is the ink that falls from your skin that collects into small pools at your feet

It is the stains that sink into my carpet and still sit in the carpets of so many others

It is the burning fire and it is the coming rain.

It is the flood that washes you out of my canyon

It is the forest destroyed by a fire now gone

It is the ashes of all that remain.

Cracked

Polished gem: you have been so incredibly kind.

Why do you not spite me? Why am I not stabbed a million times over?

That’s what’s supposed to happen.

 

I’m not supposed to be happy. That’s not love.

Love is that terrible longing that can never be filled and if it is it will only be taken away.

I can’t let myself live like this.

 

It is not legitimate.

 

Life was not meant to be lived in the sun,

The rain will always return don’t let sun-dipped summer afternoons fool you.

But even you shine through the rain.

 

Have I been wronged so much that I now doubt every kind hand?

All the others I have grasped have only let go.

Why are you different? Are you different?

 

But there is always something and there is with you to.

 

You have walls like I do: better lonely and whole than broken.

I think you are right. Maybe.

But for me, what is one more crack?

 

It would be selfish. This time you would be the one to let go.

 

Not because you want to or you’re cruel but because you must.

There are some paths we cannot choose to take but we are sent off on.

I would hold onto you if my fractures would not cause me to crumble

 

and if my fingers wouldn’t be pried loose by the monsters of fates beyond our control.

My Carte Blanche

Carte blanche,

I know I’m supposed to hate you.

I realize you are terrible.

That I should stay far, far away.

 

If only you were not so… clean.

I can’t help but want to smear my dirty hands

across the pearly white marble of your surface.

To leave my brutal mark on apparent perfection.

To smell you breath in and breath out clean air and

build my factory above your fragile stones,

so when we fall together, smoke will pollute the air.

 

Then we may not be so beautifully white.

But the blackness that shall rise will paint, like charcoal,

against the blue sky that is just a cardboard backdrop.

hemingwaysplaypen:

Issue 02 is now for sale! Since it is bigger than Issue 01, the price has gone up. 

Thank you to everyone who submitted to the magazine. You all have helped make a dream come true.

Finished my first novella/novel/story thing!

A few days ago, I finished the first draft of what was supposed to be a short story that didn’t end up being so short. I put it on a Google Doc so people can read it and give feedback as I start to edit it, you can read it here: https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B4GD5GdtCyzfb1lKSEVvNWp4bG8/edit

Inbox me with feedback/ideas/thoughts! Lots of plot and logistical issues at the moment.

Fireplay

 

It’s like playing with fire,

being with you.

The flicker of your hair

and the deep embers of your heart

beating— I can feel it in the palm

of my hand.

 

Can I hold the fire.

A statement, not a question.

The dancing flames mesmerize me

as they sway to me and then back into

the darkness of the night and up

in smoke.

Burning away the time. The

timber.

These logs are all we have left.

And you are eating them with your beauty.

Oh, but look at how the fire flourishes!

Look at how it singes the edges of my skin.

Crispy. But, soft.

Smooth and soothing. Even as it burns, the

fire is all but a warm bath

that only burns when one exits unto the cold and biting air. When the bark is gone and the flame gone out.

The inescapable truth of all my campfire tales.

“The End” will always be cold, dark, and alone.

 

But I won’t stop feeding the fire.

And I won’t stop staring into the flame.

Because of the caressing warmth of now: the sublime happiness of today.

It will be gone within the month, snuffed out

by wind and lack of wood.

When that time comes, I know what I will do.

I’ll pick up some twigs and rub until I find a spark.

Until then, I shall dance about the fire and flame.

incomplete colon

 

see your body in all its punctured

pores

fractured and bleeding puss-like yellow liquids

with wind making skin flake off and into the air: dandelions

seeking formation within chaos

 

melting and flying into oblivion:

leaving without direction without choice without time

in limbo

 

Feel the limbo.

 

know the nothingness and the space

as it fills your essence in with all it can:

your sustenance and sacrifice

 

reach: reach: reach: but never grasp

 

thin air between your fingers with closed eyes

so much undefinition

don’t take out some damned dictionary

 

unknown evils harm none but yarnless felines

 

suffer in limbo but don’t dare grasp: grasp: grasp:

the imagined support shall vanish before your fingertips

throwing you off balance until your fall: fall: fall:

 

stuck in the freefall in darkness: waiting for an end

coming so soon: so soon: so soon:

but no

 

still in limbo: in limbo:

Orchestra

The distant triangle is ding-donging:

singing like a star all alone in urban blackness.

Distant: alone in its sound,

but only because it permeates the silence beyond the rest.

It sings with an orchestra, but is heard alone

 

by those too far away to hear the rest.

 

Like you: you hear nothing but that solitary sound, a part of nothing you understand.

The theater has a ticket with your name on it.

The milky way of sound awaits: a pond to disappear in.

Chaotic pieces piecing themselves together for beauty’s sake.

 

Why don’t you walk to it? Run to it? Why aren’t you sprinting at this moment so it

can reach your ears and transform your view of your own stationary toes?

 

Why do you insist on listening to that lone triangle, ringing out above the rest?

 

 

Ah, so you have changed your mind? I see your feet shuffling.

You are beginning to inch forward… bringing up the dust around you.

Changing.

As your momentum grows with every step, I see your eyes fill with an eagerness for the music.

That song you rightfully deserve. After all you have endured and know you will endure.

 

You MUST listen.

Because you need to. So you have something to hold onto.

So you can stop being so very alone.

Without the music, why run at all?

 

 

You’re stopping. Why are you stopping? Now, why did you do that?

Get off the floor. You fell. Now get up and continue.

Go! Get away from here. Don’t fall over onto the side of the road.

Like a lame horse who cannot ride. Aren’t you that stallion I once knew?

 

I wouldn’t lie down like that. You know I wouldn’t.

I would get up and keep going. Even if there was no music.

Even if there was nothing, NOTHING, I would still run.

But… I am you, aren’t I? And there I am… on the floor… dying…

 

And our tears are making puddles within which we might drown.

Ah— I hear the violins! And a piano too. The harp strikes out to pick us up.

Flutes and recorders with Chellos and guitars. All for us, aren’t they?

That great concoction of wave-lengthed communications, inducing such pleasure.

It’s just in our heads, isn’t it?

 

Isn’t it?

 

It could all stop. Right. Now. With us looking at the bountiful ocean of our tears.

Yet the song lives on. As the carrot we use to keep each other running. Until our time runs out.

 

And I just can’t help but wonder… will it be enough?

Temporal Displacement


Torn tornadoes within my rib cage

tear at my organs and muscles with rage
at what, I cannot tell or see exactly:
my feelings are clouded in a grey cloudy haze.
Fires too short to last the winter—
left to die, should they even be lit?
Time, left numbered, a count-down bomb.
I stand among the autumn leaves, frozen in the icy snow 
that has arrived only in the winter of my clouded and cold mind.

For What Fault?

Subdued solitary, the man sleeping alone.

He wakes in fear of whom he may find.

Beside him, comfort and pain he wishes to forego.

 

A longing and repelling, push and pull, a dance.

 

Just as she rushes to his fortress, the iron-barred gates

FALL.

The wind knocks her back. He watches from his spiral tower of solitude.

 

Why do his guards do this? He did not conduct such an order.

If so, only in some drug-induced fit of rage.

 

Shall history dictate future forevermore?

 

What wheel can roll which has been chipped?

Once cracked, the crack will fall again, with every rotation and permutation.

Stopping and starting, veering and shifting. A crevice and a curse.

 

He loathes all he loves before those he loves loath him.

Slowly, softly, the sheets slide between his empty fingers.

 

No body but his own. For no fault but his own.

Flower Ghosts

"She’s gone," he said.
Like the flower that few off in the wind that he couldn’t get.
"She’s gone," he said.

And he knew it, too.
(But he really didn’t).

She ran and he ran and he stopped and thought and
couldn’t decide if to turn or run and grab her and kiss
her into an oblivion equal to death and then it would be all
right but she was gone by that time and it was too late.

Or was she ever really there.

"She’s gone," he said.
(But it was a lie).

She lingered in that tortured soul, withered and worn.
In love.
"I was in love with you, you know," he yelled at the mirror.

He stared back blankly in response. She stared back blankly in response.

The hollow silence of defeat.

That blank glare of uncaring sorrow, of ice that hurt like knives that skewered hearts to soon be roasted for the dinners of the harpies.

He tried to cry and stop crying at the same moment.
Something about being a man and being a boy.

And neither at the same time.

Something about being alone and he closed his eyes and there he was.

And he opened them and there he was. His only friends the ghosts of flowers he once knew.

Fruity

Apple fall. Falling. Into your arms.
Eat. Crunch. Please. Sink in your teeth.
Vampire. Cannibal. Daemon. I want to be your sustenance.
Let me be your sustenance.

Orange unpeeling. Peel. Into your fingernails.
Scratch. Pull. Squeeze. Squirt out my juice.
It oozes from my heart in excess. Drown.
Drink. Sip. From me. Please.

It’s cruel and terrible and I’ll hate you.
But do it. I want to feel your bite. Sink. Pierce.

So I can say “ouch!” but in a sexy way.
I’ll get slapped but it’ll feel alive.

But no I am water. I fall. Falling. Between your fingers.
Pour. Spill. Tip. Cascade. To the floor.
Left to be mopped up by some afterthought of your whim.
I ripen and rot.

Bite. I dare. 

Sink your teeth into this mush of your own creation.
The more you wait the more I brown.

You will bite the air one day.
Crave fruit. Apples and Oranges.

Find piled mulch of the forgotten.
Mold. Green. Sour. Bursting. Overbursting.

You will find me and my fruit far too repulsive.
And we will shun you and spite you and hurt you but never ignore you.

Burst. Explode. Extraordinary. Implode. Expand. Encompass.
Never ignore.

Preferable to what silence and ignorance we were given.

Frugal fruits lie. They will let you burn. With silence.
None. Ripen. Rot.

Too cruel, but so were you.

Not me, but the fruit. Let the fruit ripen and rot,
the fruit will feel no fear to ripen and rot your regret and pity and calls of sorrow.

Better bite this apple before its ripened rotted and looted.
Give this apple a chance to bite back.

Crunch. Crack. Sting. Stick. Tang. Sour. Salivate. Dry. Citric circuits. Overload. Bitter rebuttal.

But you hide behind your wall of loud silence.