Why are dead roses so much more beautiful to me than live ones?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
And What About Life? (Cento Poem)
And What About Life?
Can I have this dance, and tell everyone you were a good wife, a fragmentary lapse of reason caught in the alcove you call your mind, above the drumming Jamaican tongues, all winter long?
Honey on my right eye.
Writing is dangerous, the beauty of the cycle never stopped knot.
Stomping like a child, weathered signs of danger speak.
Be respectful when you confess to him, as you’ve discovered certain pleasures.
You were like an angel, until you took a sip of death. You began to redefine heaven.
We are scalding and beautiful, like stone.
Ignored.
Out where the crows dip to their kill.
Possession, I’m just a little preoccupied and I hope you die, and I hope you blink before I do.
The magic has faded, tasting each fingertip and remembering. Love is not inspired by obedience.
A survivor of death and time, down the storm drain, there is no slight of alabaster-hand.
I’ve known her, from ample nation. We are scalding and beautiful, we come from a place made of purple and rugburn brown.
This is for dim lighting and whispering…
Can I have this dance, and tell everyone you were a good wife, a fragmentary lapse of reason caught in the alcove you call your mind, above the drumming Jamaican tongues, all winter long?
Honey on my right eye.
Writing is dangerous, the beauty of the cycle never stopped knot.
Stomping like a child, weathered signs of danger speak.
Be respectful when you confess to him, as you’ve discovered certain pleasures.
You were like an angel, until you took a sip of death. You began to redefine heaven.
We are scalding and beautiful, like stone.
Ignored.
Out where the crows dip to their kill.
Possession, I’m just a little preoccupied and I hope you die, and I hope you blink before I do.
The magic has faded, tasting each fingertip and remembering. Love is not inspired by obedience.
A survivor of death and time, down the storm drain, there is no slight of alabaster-hand.
I’ve known her, from ample nation. We are scalding and beautiful, we come from a place made of purple and rugburn brown.
This is for dim lighting and whispering…
10 Treasures 3
If the symbolic nature of Cornell’s objects spurs the interpretive process, then the juxtaposition of those objects compounds it. Juxtaposition here is simply the placement of one object against another to create certain effects such as tension and release, interruption and flow. –Illustration 2: “Hotel Eden”
This could be an interesting way to look at editing writing; to look delicately into the exact placement of words against one another.
"Consider the images: Humming heat. Unraveling. Children playing. Parents drawing drapes. Sparks flaring and dying. Eyes reflecting. Static crackling. Severed end. Common past. Amniotic fluid. Echoes. Silence. As these sensory cues accumulate, my interpretation of them expands."
I almost always like writing starts with “consider this:…”, images are extremely fun and interesting to play with and throw at people.
"To establish a sense of unity in works composed of pieces, collagists use a number of devises. Among them, repetition—repetition of image, color, pattern, and texture. The recurring use of one or more of these elements gives the eye something to track as it sweeps the surface, something to recognize, process, and link." – Four: Balls of Fire
This reminded me of when I first started writing poetry, I would always come back to what I started with in the beginning; I think that’s called reprise or something. I just thought it gave my poetry a more finished sound or flow, but sometimes it was just plain redundant.
Bodybuilding is about failure because bodybuilding, body growth and shaping, occurs in the face of the material, of the body’s inexorable movement towards its final failure, toward death.
I feel this way about dieting.
“In complete darkness we are all the same, it is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us, don't let your eyes deceive you.”- Janet Jackson
I read about a teacher in Detroit getting in trouble for quoting Janet Jackson in the classroom; she was trying to teach the female students in her gym class something about body image.
“A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do.”- Bob Dylan
I made a New Year’s resolution to do what I really want to do; I wish I would have read this quote while thinking of that resolution.
“All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland.”- Jimi Hendrix
This made me start thinking about how writing can sometimes seem like you are dressing the words for their day. Making sure each word has it’s hair combed the way you want it to be and looks exactly perfect against the other words. You don’t want your word to stick out like a sore thumb so you dress it like all of the others instead of letting it stand their naked. We dress our words with their own meanings as their outfits.
“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes.”- Charles R. Swindoll
My Dad used to say to me “You are in charge of your own attitude, but I suggest you change it.” I guess this is just an elaboration on what that actually means. But sometimes the day strikes you and it seems hard to control the way you feel about it until the end when you are all flustered.
“Experience is the name every one gives to their mistakes.”-Oscar Wilde
People “dress” or pad their stories with terms like “learning experience” instead of coming out and saying, “Hey! I made a mistake!”
“He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”- Oscar Wilde
Sometimes the things I write seem so far away from me.
This could be an interesting way to look at editing writing; to look delicately into the exact placement of words against one another.
"Consider the images: Humming heat. Unraveling. Children playing. Parents drawing drapes. Sparks flaring and dying. Eyes reflecting. Static crackling. Severed end. Common past. Amniotic fluid. Echoes. Silence. As these sensory cues accumulate, my interpretation of them expands."
I almost always like writing starts with “consider this:…”, images are extremely fun and interesting to play with and throw at people.
"To establish a sense of unity in works composed of pieces, collagists use a number of devises. Among them, repetition—repetition of image, color, pattern, and texture. The recurring use of one or more of these elements gives the eye something to track as it sweeps the surface, something to recognize, process, and link." – Four: Balls of Fire
This reminded me of when I first started writing poetry, I would always come back to what I started with in the beginning; I think that’s called reprise or something. I just thought it gave my poetry a more finished sound or flow, but sometimes it was just plain redundant.
Bodybuilding is about failure because bodybuilding, body growth and shaping, occurs in the face of the material, of the body’s inexorable movement towards its final failure, toward death.
I feel this way about dieting.
“In complete darkness we are all the same, it is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us, don't let your eyes deceive you.”- Janet Jackson
I read about a teacher in Detroit getting in trouble for quoting Janet Jackson in the classroom; she was trying to teach the female students in her gym class something about body image.
“A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do.”- Bob Dylan
I made a New Year’s resolution to do what I really want to do; I wish I would have read this quote while thinking of that resolution.
“All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland.”- Jimi Hendrix
This made me start thinking about how writing can sometimes seem like you are dressing the words for their day. Making sure each word has it’s hair combed the way you want it to be and looks exactly perfect against the other words. You don’t want your word to stick out like a sore thumb so you dress it like all of the others instead of letting it stand their naked. We dress our words with their own meanings as their outfits.
“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes.”- Charles R. Swindoll
My Dad used to say to me “You are in charge of your own attitude, but I suggest you change it.” I guess this is just an elaboration on what that actually means. But sometimes the day strikes you and it seems hard to control the way you feel about it until the end when you are all flustered.
“Experience is the name every one gives to their mistakes.”-Oscar Wilde
People “dress” or pad their stories with terms like “learning experience” instead of coming out and saying, “Hey! I made a mistake!”
“He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”- Oscar Wilde
Sometimes the things I write seem so far away from me.
10 Treasures 1
“Collage is really the practice of a theory of knowledge.”
-I used to make collages when I was younger. The type of picture collage with all types of things that I’d cut out from magazines and old books. Sometimes they had words but only a few. It was usually the pictures that meant the most to me. This was my first attempt at conveying meaning through images instead of words.
“Romantic poetry wants to and should combine and fuse poetry and prose, genius and criticism, art poetry and nature poetry. It should make poetry lively and sociable, and make life and society poetic.”
-When I think of romance I can’t help but think of love. But to think of it in more of an outwardly social way leads me to the thought that most of my poetry romanticizes the negative ideas I have.
“Fragments speak to me of hope. They reach out to completion but never reach it.”
-Almost everything I write is a fragment. I never know where it comes from or how it is going to end. So many times I feel like when I write I’m starting in the middle of a thought. I find it hard to reach the true beginning of most things I write; I always feel like I’m chasing an idea and I can only see it’s backside.
“When I was younger, I wanted to write long poems that would hang together, that could be admired for the deftness with which their heterogeneous materials were woven into single fabrics.”
-One day I’d really like to write a long poem. It seems like I exhaust myself at about one and a half pages.
“At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice. “
Maya Angelou
-It is ok to give up on something, sometimes giving up is actually better then dragging it through the mud with you because of pride.
“And then it was day again, all morning
at the office machines, their clack and chatter
another journey -- rougher,
that would go on forever
until she could break a hundred words
with no errors -- ah, and then
no more postponed groceries,
and that blue pair of shoes!”
Rita Dove
-This just makes me think of the daily grind. Waking up, working/going to school, going to bed. Sometimes it is hard for me to find beauty in the things that are looked at as normal or mundane.
“Black literature is taught as sociology, as tolerance, not as a serious, rigorous art form.” – Toni Morrison
-This is so true to me. Even when my most open minded teachers talk about black literature they separate it into a compartment of difference. I hate it that we live in a world where it is still important to say, “Such and such is a BLACK author who does amazing work.” As if that’s surprising.
“Form is never more than an extension of content.”- Charles Olson
-The way things are written on a page is an extension of what is actually written. The way you see and experience a piece of writing is often just as important as the piece itself.
“How can it mean anything? The stop & spout, the wind’s dumb shift. Creak of the house & wet smells coming in. Night forms on my left. The blind still up to admit a sun that no longer exists. Sea move.”- Amiri Baraka (from Turncoat)
-I’ve never seen anyone describe the wind as dumb. Reading his work made me get out a thesaurus while writing. Finding new and different ways to describe the things I write about is becoming more and more important to me. People always say that nothing under the sun is new but I’d like to strive to prove them wrong.
“During aerobic and circuit training, the heart and lungs are exercised. But muscles will grow only if they are not exercised or moved, but actually broken down. The general law behind body building is that muscle, if broken down in a controlled fashion and then provided with the proper growth factors such as nutrients and rest, will grow back larger than before.” – Kathy Acker (Bodies of Work)
-I have absolutely no interest in body building but while reading her essays I thought about how clear and detailed each sentence was. I’ve secretly always wanted to write for a newspaper, but I need to work on being more concise and to the point.
-I used to make collages when I was younger. The type of picture collage with all types of things that I’d cut out from magazines and old books. Sometimes they had words but only a few. It was usually the pictures that meant the most to me. This was my first attempt at conveying meaning through images instead of words.
“Romantic poetry wants to and should combine and fuse poetry and prose, genius and criticism, art poetry and nature poetry. It should make poetry lively and sociable, and make life and society poetic.”
-When I think of romance I can’t help but think of love. But to think of it in more of an outwardly social way leads me to the thought that most of my poetry romanticizes the negative ideas I have.
“Fragments speak to me of hope. They reach out to completion but never reach it.”
-Almost everything I write is a fragment. I never know where it comes from or how it is going to end. So many times I feel like when I write I’m starting in the middle of a thought. I find it hard to reach the true beginning of most things I write; I always feel like I’m chasing an idea and I can only see it’s backside.
“When I was younger, I wanted to write long poems that would hang together, that could be admired for the deftness with which their heterogeneous materials were woven into single fabrics.”
-One day I’d really like to write a long poem. It seems like I exhaust myself at about one and a half pages.
“At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice. “
Maya Angelou
-It is ok to give up on something, sometimes giving up is actually better then dragging it through the mud with you because of pride.
“And then it was day again, all morning
at the office machines, their clack and chatter
another journey -- rougher,
that would go on forever
until she could break a hundred words
with no errors -- ah, and then
no more postponed groceries,
and that blue pair of shoes!”
Rita Dove
-This just makes me think of the daily grind. Waking up, working/going to school, going to bed. Sometimes it is hard for me to find beauty in the things that are looked at as normal or mundane.
“Black literature is taught as sociology, as tolerance, not as a serious, rigorous art form.” – Toni Morrison
-This is so true to me. Even when my most open minded teachers talk about black literature they separate it into a compartment of difference. I hate it that we live in a world where it is still important to say, “Such and such is a BLACK author who does amazing work.” As if that’s surprising.
“Form is never more than an extension of content.”- Charles Olson
-The way things are written on a page is an extension of what is actually written. The way you see and experience a piece of writing is often just as important as the piece itself.
“How can it mean anything? The stop & spout, the wind’s dumb shift. Creak of the house & wet smells coming in. Night forms on my left. The blind still up to admit a sun that no longer exists. Sea move.”- Amiri Baraka (from Turncoat)
-I’ve never seen anyone describe the wind as dumb. Reading his work made me get out a thesaurus while writing. Finding new and different ways to describe the things I write about is becoming more and more important to me. People always say that nothing under the sun is new but I’d like to strive to prove them wrong.
“During aerobic and circuit training, the heart and lungs are exercised. But muscles will grow only if they are not exercised or moved, but actually broken down. The general law behind body building is that muscle, if broken down in a controlled fashion and then provided with the proper growth factors such as nutrients and rest, will grow back larger than before.” – Kathy Acker (Bodies of Work)
-I have absolutely no interest in body building but while reading her essays I thought about how clear and detailed each sentence was. I’ve secretly always wanted to write for a newspaper, but I need to work on being more concise and to the point.
10 Treasures 2
“I am not interested in money. I just want to be wonderful.” –Marilyn Monroe
“If you are my student reading this and, it being the end of the drop/add period, completely unable to prevent the fact that we will be discussing various lyric/warped subjects until the first week of May, then: hi. You might be awake. If you go to see this play, and write a letter to the playwright, or the director, or one of the actors, or the stage manager, or the sound/projection genius, then...I don't know. How can you give extra credit in advance? That's wrong. I can't figure this out right now, but basically, go on the bus to Denver and see this play. I command you. Well, obviously, I don't. That would be wrong too. I'll shut up now.” –Banu Kapil (from her blog)
“The Adam’s apple is no apple
But a little man, an artistic type,
An unpublished poet half swallowed,
Squatting in front of the voice box.” –Linh Dinh (“Ductless Gland” from Borderless Bodies)
“A dictionary with positive adjectives only.
A dictionary with no wet verbs.
A dictionary with negotiable definitions.
A dictionary that defines words by their antonyms.” –Linh Dinh (excerpt from “Brand New Products”)
“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.”- Richard Dawkins
“In the centre of this singular chamber was a square table, littered with papers, bottles, and the dried leaves of some graceful, palm-like plant. These varied objects had all been heaped together in order to make room for a mummy case, which had been conveyed from the wall, as was evident from the gap there, and laid across the front of the table. The mummy itself, a horrid, black, withered thing, like a charred head on a gnarled bush, was lying half out of the case, with its claw-like hand and bony forearm resting upon the table.”- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."- Jane Austen (Sense and Sensibility)
“There were a lot of situations were men were being evil to women—dominating them and eating their food.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This just stuck out to me, it could be because of the picture on the page, but it was probably just because of how it relates to my everyday life.
“I put my father in show, with his cold eyes. His segment was called My Father Concerned about his Liver.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This was interesting to me mainly because of the picture. I had to stare at the picture above this quote for at least ten minutes before I could tell what it actually was. It just made me think of the literal show I create in my head while writing and how dysfunctional some of the images are.
“The new volcano we have placed under contract seems very promising.”- Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
A reflection on how we see things as conveniences and expect most things in life to occur according to our own personal agenda.
“If you are my student reading this and, it being the end of the drop/add period, completely unable to prevent the fact that we will be discussing various lyric/warped subjects until the first week of May, then: hi. You might be awake. If you go to see this play, and write a letter to the playwright, or the director, or one of the actors, or the stage manager, or the sound/projection genius, then...I don't know. How can you give extra credit in advance? That's wrong. I can't figure this out right now, but basically, go on the bus to Denver and see this play. I command you. Well, obviously, I don't. That would be wrong too. I'll shut up now.” –Banu Kapil (from her blog)
“The Adam’s apple is no apple
But a little man, an artistic type,
An unpublished poet half swallowed,
Squatting in front of the voice box.” –Linh Dinh (“Ductless Gland” from Borderless Bodies)
“A dictionary with positive adjectives only.
A dictionary with no wet verbs.
A dictionary with negotiable definitions.
A dictionary that defines words by their antonyms.” –Linh Dinh (excerpt from “Brand New Products”)
“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.”- Richard Dawkins
“In the centre of this singular chamber was a square table, littered with papers, bottles, and the dried leaves of some graceful, palm-like plant. These varied objects had all been heaped together in order to make room for a mummy case, which had been conveyed from the wall, as was evident from the gap there, and laid across the front of the table. The mummy itself, a horrid, black, withered thing, like a charred head on a gnarled bush, was lying half out of the case, with its claw-like hand and bony forearm resting upon the table.”- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."- Jane Austen (Sense and Sensibility)
“There were a lot of situations were men were being evil to women—dominating them and eating their food.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This just stuck out to me, it could be because of the picture on the page, but it was probably just because of how it relates to my everyday life.
“I put my father in show, with his cold eyes. His segment was called My Father Concerned about his Liver.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This was interesting to me mainly because of the picture. I had to stare at the picture above this quote for at least ten minutes before I could tell what it actually was. It just made me think of the literal show I create in my head while writing and how dysfunctional some of the images are.
“The new volcano we have placed under contract seems very promising.”- Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
A reflection on how we see things as conveniences and expect most things in life to occur according to our own personal agenda.
Verbal Photographs 4..
Her arms were bare and pale, she crossed them. Rushing to her car, fiddling with her keys her face was red.
They kissed quickly, she smiled and he looked away. He got back into the waiting car and fiddled with the radio, not noticing her glance back at him and smile even wider.
They giggled and spoke to one another in their own language; abbreviations and jokes they’d heard a thousand times.
I saw a cream colored rose pedal fall from her bouquet. It danced lightly against the dingy gray snow. Resting in the cool evening air, it was forgotten.
She ate gingerly, tearing pieces of her sandwich with her index finger and thumb. She placed each piece gently on her tongue and chewed slowly. Leaning against the chair, she took a sip out of a purple juice box, careful not to take too much she squinted at the nutrition facts.
A tiny pastel-pink balloon tangled in the dark branches of a tall tree.
She seemed angry, pursing her lips and shoving her hands in her shallow pockets. Flouncing out into the cold morning, dipping in and out of the crowd she disappeared into her day.
He had sleepy eyes, nodding off in the undersized desk. He slumped over to the left resting his chin on his chest, the muscles in his face were relaxed, and the skin over them was smooth and dark. His fingers were resting on his lap; they twitched as he started to dream.
The speckled linoleum was damp with puddles of dirty snow and slush. Each puddle was a piece of someone’s day, growing only to disappear.
He held his head in his hands stared into his lap he seemed sad. All alone at the end of a table, he is breathless, motionless, awake and confused.
They kissed quickly, she smiled and he looked away. He got back into the waiting car and fiddled with the radio, not noticing her glance back at him and smile even wider.
They giggled and spoke to one another in their own language; abbreviations and jokes they’d heard a thousand times.
I saw a cream colored rose pedal fall from her bouquet. It danced lightly against the dingy gray snow. Resting in the cool evening air, it was forgotten.
She ate gingerly, tearing pieces of her sandwich with her index finger and thumb. She placed each piece gently on her tongue and chewed slowly. Leaning against the chair, she took a sip out of a purple juice box, careful not to take too much she squinted at the nutrition facts.
A tiny pastel-pink balloon tangled in the dark branches of a tall tree.
She seemed angry, pursing her lips and shoving her hands in her shallow pockets. Flouncing out into the cold morning, dipping in and out of the crowd she disappeared into her day.
He had sleepy eyes, nodding off in the undersized desk. He slumped over to the left resting his chin on his chest, the muscles in his face were relaxed, and the skin over them was smooth and dark. His fingers were resting on his lap; they twitched as he started to dream.
The speckled linoleum was damp with puddles of dirty snow and slush. Each puddle was a piece of someone’s day, growing only to disappear.
He held his head in his hands stared into his lap he seemed sad. All alone at the end of a table, he is breathless, motionless, awake and confused.
Verbal Photographs 3
A smudge of crimson lipstick on almost white teeth. Careless primping shattered her first impression. She shrugs in embarrassment feverishly rubbing her teeth with her index finger.
He brushes an eye lash from her cheek and she smiles shyly. She avoids his loving gaze, touching his arm with hers.
She stumbles over each word, tripping over commas and periods.
Baby blue, stone washed denim leggings perch on his thin hips. Over-sized aviator sunglasses tip toe to the end of his narrow nose. He takes a meaningful drag of his barely there cigarette and flicks it into the air, ignoring its landing spot.
She trips out of the doorway and into the overcast day. She looks around, seemingly hoping that no one saw her mistake.
He dips into his mother’s deep purse. He pulls out a pen, a soft brown wallet, a cough drop, two tampons, and an agenda. She glances at him and smacks her lips. He pulls out a worn bag bursting with cosmetics. She starts to toss the things back in the purse, fanning him away.
She cups her hands over her mouth and sneezes. The person sitting next to her looks on in disgust.
He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She leans towards him, resting her head on his chest and sighing. They both look toward the approaching bus, he fiddles with the wool collar on her grey pea coat, and she pats her hair down when he’s done.
He barrels into the classroom with his tattered book bag strapped on upside down and half-zipped. His dark brown hair is greasy, the curls are limp. He picks at his scalp and flakes of dandruff fall on his face. He wears the same clothes every day, and they smell like every spice his mother uses to cook dinner.
The bark on each tree looks smooth as we drive by, they are eternally dark against the unforgiving gray of the winter sky.
He brushes an eye lash from her cheek and she smiles shyly. She avoids his loving gaze, touching his arm with hers.
She stumbles over each word, tripping over commas and periods.
Baby blue, stone washed denim leggings perch on his thin hips. Over-sized aviator sunglasses tip toe to the end of his narrow nose. He takes a meaningful drag of his barely there cigarette and flicks it into the air, ignoring its landing spot.
She trips out of the doorway and into the overcast day. She looks around, seemingly hoping that no one saw her mistake.
He dips into his mother’s deep purse. He pulls out a pen, a soft brown wallet, a cough drop, two tampons, and an agenda. She glances at him and smacks her lips. He pulls out a worn bag bursting with cosmetics. She starts to toss the things back in the purse, fanning him away.
She cups her hands over her mouth and sneezes. The person sitting next to her looks on in disgust.
He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She leans towards him, resting her head on his chest and sighing. They both look toward the approaching bus, he fiddles with the wool collar on her grey pea coat, and she pats her hair down when he’s done.
He barrels into the classroom with his tattered book bag strapped on upside down and half-zipped. His dark brown hair is greasy, the curls are limp. He picks at his scalp and flakes of dandruff fall on his face. He wears the same clothes every day, and they smell like every spice his mother uses to cook dinner.
The bark on each tree looks smooth as we drive by, they are eternally dark against the unforgiving gray of the winter sky.
Verbal Photographs 2
The corners of her eyes dissolve into a sea of crevices. Her smile slips through the cracks.
The smell of fresh pineapple seeps through the confines of a cheap sandwich baggie. The tropical sent flirts with my nose as she sits next to me, I eye the baggie. Slices of pineapple slither in their own sweet nectar.
She sinks into a seat, propping her book bag on the legs of a chair. She seems hollow. She smells like at least twenty fresh cigarettes and floral perfume. Trashy and fascinating.
He tugs at a fray near the hem of my jeans. Twisting the soft thread between his thumb and index finger, focusing on working the tiny piece of denim out of its hole.
Never been brushed, frizzy, fuzzy, fluffy, reddish yellow hair.
Stiff yellow ribbon caught up in smooth blonde hair. Bent into a bow, she tugs at it leaving it lopsided, sad.
Neatly stacked rows of purple sweaters disrupted by a rogue sleeve hanging over the edge of a table.
He says he feels that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He folds his long brown arms into knots, cringing, bending almost all the way over.
Sometimes my Chihuahua looks like a baby seal. His perky ears lay neatly against his neck when he sleeps. He curls into a ball near my hip, and hides his nose with his paws.
Strands of hair in the sink, wrapped around the stopper. Slick strands slipping in and out of the drain teasing the faucet.
The smell of fresh pineapple seeps through the confines of a cheap sandwich baggie. The tropical sent flirts with my nose as she sits next to me, I eye the baggie. Slices of pineapple slither in their own sweet nectar.
She sinks into a seat, propping her book bag on the legs of a chair. She seems hollow. She smells like at least twenty fresh cigarettes and floral perfume. Trashy and fascinating.
He tugs at a fray near the hem of my jeans. Twisting the soft thread between his thumb and index finger, focusing on working the tiny piece of denim out of its hole.
Never been brushed, frizzy, fuzzy, fluffy, reddish yellow hair.
Stiff yellow ribbon caught up in smooth blonde hair. Bent into a bow, she tugs at it leaving it lopsided, sad.
Neatly stacked rows of purple sweaters disrupted by a rogue sleeve hanging over the edge of a table.
He says he feels that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He folds his long brown arms into knots, cringing, bending almost all the way over.
Sometimes my Chihuahua looks like a baby seal. His perky ears lay neatly against his neck when he sleeps. He curls into a ball near my hip, and hides his nose with his paws.
Strands of hair in the sink, wrapped around the stopper. Slick strands slipping in and out of the drain teasing the faucet.
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