A work in progress...
A gasp, a palpable and visible strand of air was expelled from
her lungs, stop.
He hung his moist words on the lines of her eyes,
to dry, stop.
Her eyes were teary, so his words shriveled and pruned like
old lady’s hands, stop.
So he picked the rotten words from her branches,
choked on the pits, stop.
Coughing, letters dripped from his lips, v l o e e m,
nonsensical, worthless, stop.
He understood speech to be extraneous material, glue
refusing to stick, stop.
She, glutinous from all his nouns and adjectives,
comes undone, stop.
They, strolling contradictions, unable to communicate,
choking, breaking, stop.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Victims of Ashes
This is my attempt at 'flash fiction':
Victims of Ashes
Stepping out of the ashes of the dead, Henja brushes her shoulders and walks out of the camp into the nocturnal sky filled with smoke. Her eerie appearance announces to the world the cataclysm perpetrated by the masters of inhumanity—a shaved scalp, a body now composed of cinder and bone, sunken eyes and a protruding belly. Henja, the fierce woman with 78923 seared onto her skin no longer knows how to live in a world where ashes blind her eyes, a constant raining memorial of those lost. She cannot look to the future when she cannot even bear to look to the past. When she closes her sorrowful eyes, a scene flashes of a girl with lustrous black hair, dancing around a table filled with challah and matzo ball chicken soup, but then this ethereal dream is drowned in crimson blood, with screaming whispers inundating her ears. There is no escape. There never is an escape from the cruelty of man and the havoc it wreaks upon its victims. Henja is a victim. Her sister, Pieja is a victim. Poland is a victim. And even Deutschland is a victim—to the ashes falling from the sky but originating from the corpses of once childish and happy individuals with dark hair and eyes and slightly pointed noses. We are all victims.
Victims of Ashes
Stepping out of the ashes of the dead, Henja brushes her shoulders and walks out of the camp into the nocturnal sky filled with smoke. Her eerie appearance announces to the world the cataclysm perpetrated by the masters of inhumanity—a shaved scalp, a body now composed of cinder and bone, sunken eyes and a protruding belly. Henja, the fierce woman with 78923 seared onto her skin no longer knows how to live in a world where ashes blind her eyes, a constant raining memorial of those lost. She cannot look to the future when she cannot even bear to look to the past. When she closes her sorrowful eyes, a scene flashes of a girl with lustrous black hair, dancing around a table filled with challah and matzo ball chicken soup, but then this ethereal dream is drowned in crimson blood, with screaming whispers inundating her ears. There is no escape. There never is an escape from the cruelty of man and the havoc it wreaks upon its victims. Henja is a victim. Her sister, Pieja is a victim. Poland is a victim. And even Deutschland is a victim—to the ashes falling from the sky but originating from the corpses of once childish and happy individuals with dark hair and eyes and slightly pointed noses. We are all victims.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
What Is & Is Not...
There is a miniscule path of footsteps and there is not.
There is a clearing in a tattered forest, whispering of your presence, and there is not.
There is love, this abstract apple whose taste eludes you, and there is not.
There is laughter, a gurgling sound emitted from your vocal chords, a hymn to goodness, and there is not.
There is evil, a dark and humid feeling expelled from humanity’s breast, released like spores into the air, and there is not.
There are words, pieced together letters that determine worlds, cosmic and organic, and there are not.
There is strength, a tenuous sprig resisting fracturing, and there is not.
There is Autumn, burnt amber leaves decaying to give way to death and despoilment, and there is not.
There is forgiveness, a deep and seething need to reaffirm the bonds that tie us, and there is not.
There is redemption, a revenant returning from the abyss where plant’s growth is stunted, and there is not.
There is a chair where love is perched, where hatred is perched, both dueling and yet no victor exists, and there is not.
There is a phantom that is reflected in a mirror with the same jade eyes and yet an indefinable emptiness that pervades, and there is not.
There is a father that departed, walked to the end of the street and then returned, and there is not.
There is a tear that cascaded down her parched cheek, an homage to a lost man, and there is not.
All seen and unseen, may or may not exist. All is and is not. All was and was not, but for you and me; us. Certainty.
There is a clearing in a tattered forest, whispering of your presence, and there is not.
There is love, this abstract apple whose taste eludes you, and there is not.
There is laughter, a gurgling sound emitted from your vocal chords, a hymn to goodness, and there is not.
There is evil, a dark and humid feeling expelled from humanity’s breast, released like spores into the air, and there is not.
There are words, pieced together letters that determine worlds, cosmic and organic, and there are not.
There is strength, a tenuous sprig resisting fracturing, and there is not.
There is Autumn, burnt amber leaves decaying to give way to death and despoilment, and there is not.
There is forgiveness, a deep and seething need to reaffirm the bonds that tie us, and there is not.
There is redemption, a revenant returning from the abyss where plant’s growth is stunted, and there is not.
There is a chair where love is perched, where hatred is perched, both dueling and yet no victor exists, and there is not.
There is a phantom that is reflected in a mirror with the same jade eyes and yet an indefinable emptiness that pervades, and there is not.
There is a father that departed, walked to the end of the street and then returned, and there is not.
There is a tear that cascaded down her parched cheek, an homage to a lost man, and there is not.
All seen and unseen, may or may not exist. All is and is not. All was and was not, but for you and me; us. Certainty.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Broken Things
This piece is a bit experimental and most certainly non-edited, in need of much work.
Broken Things
A twig, made of innumerable threads,
breaking, bit by bit, each second,
silently tearing, silently breaking
apart. A mirror, shards separating
the recognizable self from the
unknown. Snow, piece by piece,
falling, broken from the sky and
bombarding pavement. Voices,
cracking with the weight of
nonsensical words, letters strewn
together, meaningless. Knuckles,
bleeding with pressure, a silent eulogy
to happiness, lost. Pages, fragmented
by weightless sentences, bold verbs that
rip. apart. Petals, pollen falling from the
stamen, polluting. Gravity, the particles
losing grip, allowing bodies, arms, bones,
brittle. loose. falling. breaking. Fire,
flames unleashing their burdening
wrath, fragmenting all seen and unseen,
to give way to an extinguisher, beseeching—
stop. the. breaking. of. broken. things.
Broken Things
A twig, made of innumerable threads,
breaking, bit by bit, each second,
silently tearing, silently breaking
apart. A mirror, shards separating
the recognizable self from the
unknown. Snow, piece by piece,
falling, broken from the sky and
bombarding pavement. Voices,
cracking with the weight of
nonsensical words, letters strewn
together, meaningless. Knuckles,
bleeding with pressure, a silent eulogy
to happiness, lost. Pages, fragmented
by weightless sentences, bold verbs that
rip. apart. Petals, pollen falling from the
stamen, polluting. Gravity, the particles
losing grip, allowing bodies, arms, bones,
brittle. loose. falling. breaking. Fire,
flames unleashing their burdening
wrath, fragmenting all seen and unseen,
to give way to an extinguisher, beseeching—
stop. the. breaking. of. broken. things.
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