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FamilyDon’t rely on those
who love you
for everything about you
that is beautiful,
because that is not enough
to merit trust.
Instead, turn to those
who love you
despite everything about you
that is ugly
because when you let go,
they’ll still be holding on
and when you give them your back
they will still be there when you turn around,
ready to forgive
even before you’ve mustered the courage
Turn to those
who you call brother and sister
though you don’t share a lineage;
those you call mother, father, children
through a bond thicker than blood,
because though they did not give birth to you,
they give life to you.
It does not fool me –
a visceral understanding
allows me to see through this veneer:
of stones solidified by struggle,
and cemented into place by insecurity.
Painted with patterns of positivity,
it deceives passersby so well
they never once think
this façade is framed by a fortification,
and just beyond that barrier
wanders a soul, tangled
in a maze of its own making.
This fortress fabricated from fear
is possessed by the spirit who haunts its passages,
and makes of it a prison,
but this confinement was not crafted consciously.
Tattered by trauma, the body became a bastion,
walls within which the mind withdrew
to dwell, like a shadow in a shell.
And just as I see through the false front,
I hear the stifled screams beneath the laughter.
You’ve become raveled in your refuge,
and though I mean to rescue you,
I will not destroy your defenses,
steal from you this sanctuary
and leave you naked to unknown elements –
no, I know this stronghold is a shelter,
Late night, Early birdA caffeine induced Insomnia,
I forgot what morning feels like,
I'm the first customer.
A shot of espresso in a cup of coffee
to forgot I'm tired
and a cigarette to feel normal.
It's cold, I'm shaking,
not sure if there's a relationship,
and here it is:
Early birds are trying
to get a head start
populating the roadways,
I want to tell them,
hey, man, hey!
the worm is a myth.
Fish Eye ViewIt’s not my fault
you expect a fish
to walk on land like you,
but maybe it is my fault
for taking the bait,
letting you yank me into the air
to deal with the questioning criticism,
“Why can’t you just breathe like everyone else?”
I know, you tell me you care
but I’ve swallowed enough worms
to know what that means -
You care what others say.
You care about the comments,
about how I have fins instead of feet.
You care about a perception of me,
because when you look
down into this pond,
you see a distorted reflection of yourself.
You don’t know the schools I swim with,
you don’t know the depths I live in,
so you don’t know
what’s beneath the surface.
So here’s the situation:
either I’ll live to be
a disappointment in your eyes,
or I’ll suffer to be
a disappointment in my eyes,
and guess whose eyes I care more about.
I’m sick of this suffocation,
so take your hook out of the water,
and stop trying to save me
Used to beSober used to be “normal”, but now it’s “not drunk”. Drunk used to be a destination, but now it’s a way-point. The shelves of brown liquor used to be an adventure, but now it’s a road map. The clock used to be fifteen minutes ahead, but now it’s as good a time as any. It used to be the future, but now it’s tomorrow.
It used to be a glass half-full, but now it’s ice. It used to be one drink, but now it’s another. It used to be a pleasure, but now it’s a tolerance. It used to be a cigarette, but now it’s a filter. It used to be today, but now it’s tomorrow.
Imperfect MachineMaybe from the dust of stars,
which span from one side of the universe to the other,
you were conceived to be a beacon of hope,
with a guiding light, dissolving the darkness of human life
to see what is and what could be,
to help others discover their own internal benevolence,
to make the world a brighter place,
And maybe you were meant
to be above and unfettered by this reality,
to give the clouds their silver lining,
but you were dragged down to this earth
by one who did not comprehend or appreciate what you are
and, injured and confused, you lost your way.
So maybe from the ebb and flow of existence,
which spans from the beginning to the end of time,
I was crafted like an imperfect machine
and sent after you, following a dimmed shimmer,
to see you for what you are,
to help you understand and believe,
to make you embrace and be,
And maybe I was meant
to stumble onward with faulty parts
and attempt to fix other broken creations,
learning to work with dysfunctional tools,
having a purp
Something about Spring in CaliforniaSomething about Spring in California
makes me want to
quit my job
start a new romance
write about Spring in California
So I did,
so I will,
so I am.
Something about Spring in California
makes me want to miss my exit,
so I can keep driving down the freeway
with the wind rushing through my open window,
even though I finished my cigarette
several miles ago
makes me want to get a drink
when the sun goes down,
so I can stand outside the bar
in the warm twilight and share with strangers
my feelings on the weather
makes me want to cut ties
with the world of responsibility
lose the feeling of my feet
on the ground, and float until my head
is in the blue, blue, slightly cloudy blue.
So I did,
so I will,
so I try.
Free Coffee and Forgotten PensCoffee at the bar – I mean, its not good, but it’s free and that’s a helluva lot cheaper than at the café. Free, like this pen I found on the ground outside the café, and I’m just happy to discover it works. It works, unlike me, because I quit my job to be a writer, so that’s why I like things that are free, like dive bar coffee, and forgotten pens. But back to the coffee; it tastes a bit better then you throw in a shot of whisky. The whisky isn’t free, but hey, they don’t serve Irish coffee at the café – I mean, they probably from upon it, but they know me, and if I brought a flask and kept it subtle, they probably wouldn’t care, but I don’t like diluting good coffee, but I have done it before. Let’s move on.
I quit my job because it was killing me. It wasn’t stabbing me in the chest or slitting my throat, but I’ll put it this way. This is what I thought when I decided, months in advance
Pre-AlcoholicA pocket full of black, narrow, chewed-up
straws with the trace residue of
gin and tonic from the dive bar where
they call me Caesar, where
men shooting pool bet five bucks
a game on a slightly slanted table, where
friendships are formed over a cigarette;
Half-gnawed ebony plastic tubes
when I reach for my wallet
symbolize the transition I knew was coming
from black coffee at the cafe
because it was never really about
the cappuccinos, just as it's not about
the cocktails, it's nothing more
than consuming a beverage at a location,
wearing away the novelty of an atmosphere
in search of inspiration to translate
into words etched in dark ink.
So, here's a compromise:
I'll get a cup of coffee,
with room for whiskey.
09-11....I Can Still Remember If one closes their eyes and thinks long and hard, they can still remember.
They can still remember the glory that graced the New York skyline before the dreaded 11th day of September in the year of 2001 when hell burst through the skies, and rent the world into ruin and sorrow. Families were broken, hearts were shattered, and nothing would ever be the same again. The security of our nation was never again taken for granted. We thought we were safe forever....then, we realized we weren't. Because we are the most powerful nation in the world, we thought no one would ever do us any harm. We though we were invincible. We thought were like the Titanic...unsinkable.
The towers fell, they crashed to the ground, and the rubble filled the streets. People were trapped beneath it, and many cried out for help, but sometimes, no help would come to them. The steel was wrenched in all sorts of ways...it was the skeleton of the towers, an
Descriptive PortraitureYour eagerness to begin our first day together, in person, was as bright and warm as the golden California sunshine that crept playfully into your window. You waited to wake me only for as long as you could stand to, then tousled my hair and spoke to my jetlag-stricken self in singsong until I stirred.
Your own dark brown tresses, unbrushed, fell flawlessly around your face and onto your pajamas-clad shoulders as you responded to a few e-mails on your laptop. The contrast between your skin and hair in the light of dawn was absolutely striking. In mid-dress, I whipped out my camera and sneaked a picture. You mock-fumed when you heard the shutter click.
"Don't worry," I reassured you. "I won't post it anywhere."
But I did, and thank goodness you were forgiving. It was too perfect not to share. Even my smarting eyes could tell that your face had expressed the utmost sense of joy and serenity.
* * *
That blue-and-white-striped Hollister shirt had been a staple in your wardrobe for ne
nueve.Die Frage ist jetzt, was ich an einer Frau eigentlich liebe. Soll ich es einmal komplett auflisten, so richtig von A bis Z? Voilà:
a) Die geschwungene Linie, mit der sich die Taille zu den Hüften verbreitet.
b) Die Art, wie sie ein Leben lang das gleiche Herz durch die Welt trägt.
c) Eine Frau besteht aus zirka zwei Quadratmeter Haut (Grössenvergleich: Mein Bett ist 90 cm breit und 1.8 Meter lang, was eine Liegefläche von 1.62 Quadratmetern ergibt. Aus einer Frauenhaut liesse sich daher mühelos ein Bettanzug schneidern – plus passendem Nachttischlampenschirm aus den Abfallstücken).
d) Eine Frau ist etwas, in das man sich so hinein verlieben kann.
e) Diese Augen, die mich so elend machen.
f) Die Hände mit den zehn Fingern drauf.
g) Die Stimme am Telefon.
h) Der Hall ihrer Schritte.
i) Das Echo ihrer Gedanken in meinem Kopf.
j) Der Schmerz und die Traurigkeit – die Sandkörner im Meer des Lebens –, die sich in ihrem Innern zu
DaddyI can count on two hands how many words I said to you today.
I say two hands because I like rounding up.
Remember when I used to pretend to be asleep in the car on the way home from Grandma’s so you’d have to carry me into the house when we got back? It wasn’t always you carrying me, sometimes Mom or Matt did, but I’m sure you knew that I was faking it and you happened to like carrying me just as much as I liked to be your little passenger.
Fake sleeping was something I did a lot, and I’m sure you knew every time that I did. I faked it so I wouldn’t have to get out of bed so soon in the morning.
I faked it so I could sit in my room until dinner had long since got cold and you’d gotten tired of calling for me. You don’t wake a napping child; it’s far too hard to get one to nap so you just let them be.
Though you always knew when I was faking sleep, I doubt you ever knew the times I did because I was feeling guilty.
Crystal of Dreams I enter the little shop, and it catches my eye immediately. That crystal, so square in its pointedness, so blue in its paleness, I know that crystal, I am sure of it, for I have seen it many times before. I can still remember when first I saw it, in fact.
I was lazing one day by the riverside, under a large green leaf for shade, when I heard the sound of something approaching, like a boat paddling up the river. What I saw though, glimpsed through the twisted vines, was no boat though. It was some sort of serpent, or large eel, with grey leathery skin, with it's neck stretched upward and its head towering over the tall jungle trees. It was moving quickly, unnaturally so for something of such a size, splashing me with a great torrent of water as it passed by, so that I only saw for a moment that a solitary figure, human probably, sat atop its head, and that it was being followed by some sort of black flock, or swarm, though those horrible things could be calle
28. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3/5/72
Pretty much has happened between 'then' and now, though the stuff I considered heavy was manufactured internally and kept there for the most part. The heavy head trips happened mostly around Sam, one of the people who brought Winnie and Nancy from Chicago. I found after a spell that I was attracted to Sam--enjoyed laughing with him and also was thinking about what it would be like to sleep with him. It was all very obscure though because Sam and Judy have been married 6 and a 1/2 years (though they argued a lot) and it was the old third party routine. It got to where I wanted to talk to Sam about it, but didn't in the very few opportunities to discuss it alone. I couldn't bring myself to be so bold as to say "I want to sleep with you," which couldn't have happened anyway without everyone knowing.
It was strange with his wife too. She kept saying such things to me as "Of all the people here, Sam seems to get along with you the best. I wish you'd try to
27. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'2/13/72
Well I ended out having a pitiful night last night. After I quit thinking complicated thoughts about being alone, I lit yet another cigarette and settled down on the bed at the window to watch the street, expecting to see either Celia or Diana and company. I watched every VW drive by, examining it for Celia, and sometimes closed my eyes to tray and relax but just felt waves of anguish, so watched the street. By 10:00 my arms fell asleep from me leaning on them and I stared at the wall, rehearsing what I'd say to Diana when she came home.
About 10:30 she came in alone and knew right away I was totally bummed out, and gave me all kinds of sympathy, so I didn't say mush at all. Then her friends arrived and I got a comforting word from each one--I guess I looked pretty fucked up, and Diana said why. I looked out the window again, but at 1:00 gave it up and went to bed.
This morning I went shopping with Jean and Diana, still not very togethe
Another worldShe rested her head on the plane window and let the electric guitars and screaming vocals flood her ears. The drums pounded away, and the dark, melodic vocals soothed her grieving soul. Her blue eyes surveyed the air around her; she longed to see someone. Even if it wasn't possible, she dreamed of seeing him. A crash of the symbols and a final riff collided in her eardrums, signaling a grand finale. As the vocalist screamed at the top of his lungs, she watched the world around her fall, as she slipped into another world.
She traveled to this dimension, eyelids heavy from her journey, and sleep embraced her peacefully.
But still he haunts her dreams.
Inseparable The two became inseparable that summer. Tiffany met Charlie after Christmas break when he arrived as the new kid at her school. A few months later Charlie's older brother Phil joined him. The boys moved to the area from their mom's house in the Twin Cities. Tiffany had taken a small liking to Charlie's older brother Phil. Once school let out in May, she began spending time at their dad Pete's trailer. One night, sitting around smoking cigarettes and watching the Kiss movie, Detroit Rock City, Tiffany stood up.
"I have to pee," she said as she made her way towards the end of the trailer. Charlie acknowledged her while Phil's eyes followed her down the hall.
"Knock, knock," Phil said, standing on the other side of the bathroom door.
Tiffany opened the door, and then continued to wash her hands.
"Have to go, too?" she asked.
"Nope," he said, locking the door behind him.
"Well, then what do you want?"
"You," he said.
Phil started kissing Tiffany on the neck. She
An exploration of the egoFootsteps echo into the emptiness and fantasy of the Two AM reality. Sauntering amongst the heavy shadows, the clever/cynical/overly-sexual/crude/sophisticated writer knows as J.M.Kauftheil waits with a Scorpionic intensity for an unsuspecting inspiration to wander too close. J.M.K. is a wild card, a thrill-seeking journalist, penning fiction and narratives based on his shifting imagination and his strange, exciting, fulfilling, and sometimes unpleasant experiences. Unbridled poetry rolls through his breath, abstract mechanisms expressing his impermanent, swirling emotions. Words are J.M.Kauftheils playground.
The experimental and adventuresome wordsmith doesnt quite see himself as an American citizen rather, he feels himself a resident of the young 21st century, with fingers spread out to the Twentieth and beyond. Considered by many to be an old soul, he nibbles the fruits of the new, savors the wine of the past, and makes merry in his own ti
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More