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How Do You Tell ThemHow do you say
how do you begin
to tell the next generation
How the world once was...
Should one speak of fashion trends
the pegged jeans
and big hair
Or perhaps the yearly
(if not more often)
vacations Up North
to crystal clear lakes
beneath diamond-bright skies
Watching as the big-block jetpumps
with the loud, metallic-flake paint jobs
roared across the waters
while we sat on the sand
listening to Phil Collins
How will I tell them
about the games of Hide and Go Seek
in between the pines
when the air was soft and fragrant
with youth and promise
Perhaps I'll them about
the hayrides in the Fall
sitting on the bales of straw
watching the fiery parade of colors
This Sunset Is Not For MeThis sunset is not for me
she is going away now
perhaps never to return
to this corner of the world
While whitecaps welcome her arrival
on sun-kissed shores of golden sand
dew will moisten the grass back here
where once her beautiful feet did stray
Blue light falling
softer than kisses
across my soul tonight
as I think about her leaving
could never recreate
in the grandest of oils
Words are cheap, battered things
strewn as debris
left to feed sharks as they roam
jackknifing in violence
devouring their prey...
Can they scream
can they talk
can they hear
can they walk
Lowly specimens of illusory synaptic delight
now grinding, shearing, wrenching
in the gears
as they spin
Yes. Yes, it runs
that black machine doth RUN
make no mistake, my pretty one
Never fail to respect
that black chassis
which so fiercely
Feeling melancholy this evening...
I no longer understand
Or perhaps I have thrown
a precisely targeted wrench
into my gears
To disable me from understanding anymore.
begins with joy (at least for the fortunate ones)
and swaddled in light
you begin your journey
down the road.
I look at pictures now
and the scary thing is
I'm approaching a point in my psyche
where if it had not been recorded
I would be tempted
to not believe
that those moments ever occurred at all.
I know they did but the part I grapple with
the part where my gears are stripping and breaking
is that...I was just there...
and I know that in the background of that photo
there is life.
A life where
so many disasters had not occurred yet
where there was pain
but more joy
and so the scales were balanced somewhat.
Ever so slowly
like a candle
flickering in a drafty room...
the light is fading now
fading and it won't return...
The Twelve Tuesdays of ChristmasLet's take a minute to think
about the day at hand
It's none other than the lowly Tuesday
between Monday's grump and Wednesday's hump.
This year it holds a special affinity
for the celebration of Divinity
happens to fall on this day
December 25 is a Tuesday!
I happened to peruse my calendar this evening
and lo, I did behold
that there are twelve Tuesdays between
and the birthday of Christ Our Lord!
In honor of this discovery
I shall not sing or dance
but I'll make sure to remember
each Tuesday as they pass.
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It Saving...
occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are
Stuck The car sputtered and shook as it came to an almost silent stop. The engine had gone silent as the horn beeped loudly through the dark night. The orange gas light blinked mockingly at the woman behind the wheel. It was making fun of her; she knew it was making fun of her. Grabbing the black cellular phone on the passenger seat, she looked at it with full intention of calling somebody to come help her.
“Oh, what the hell?!”
The “no service” sign was mocking her at the same exact time. The horn beeped loudly as she slammed her head against it once again. The day was out to get her in general. She had arrived at all her classes late, and her son was sick with the flu. The babysitter was able to watch him as she went to her late night classes. Giving a heavy sigh, she lifted her head off the wheel to look out the window. Drops of water pooled on the windshield as rain started to fall in a pitter-patter pattern. She didn’t quite understand the message th
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More