savvy

Thought forms rise. Collide. Blendingtheessenceofconversation. Balloon animals of consciousness.

I Staring at the charred remains, I grieve.  Trellis and stone blackened by fire, the scorpion statue that sat in the pomegranate tree.  I check the coming tantrum, reminding myself yet again that life is not fair, life is never fair. II The pomegranate, sole survivor, Proudly stands in the remains. A gift of his parents and responsible for tears in the children’s clothes. The garden is the only living loss; the ruination of the scorpion has raised our ire. It used to sparkle gaily in the sunlight, perched in the pomegranate’s branches. The children loved to look at it when sad. When the sun shone on it, glimmers cas

Rebirth came in a dank basement. Rotting snow and mud were scuffed into eternity on oozing cemetery grass. Crows above, priests below. The soul was a city broken but not sowed with salt yet. It smothered the past with headlights, streetlights swallowed by neon and silence. The skies lost their way between window reflections, painted your eyes, then fell to pavement. Lightning crouched like an animal on bruise black skies, raced across the skies, thick and white, deafened voices and filled the eyes drowned in tear-filled eyes

I carry bloodshot images I tuck in my pockets and carefully place them inside a box. and I cover them with sheets, torn      courage that was mistakenly thought           to defeat my fears,      of hidden poetry      and math equations. I draw pictures thoughts I feel ashamed of and I send them to the aunt that smells of hollow words and dense cigarette - the aunt they don’t like – ignorance      because ‘divine’ bliss hurts their eyes     

A DEBT TO THE DEVIL by Nat Faul      What I noticed most about this part of the city was the prevailing “brownness.”  The buildings, streets, and sidewalks are all of brown stone.  The very air seemed brown, although not in the way of smoke or smog; just the sky itself.  I looked up and down the building, then checked to see if I had the correct address.  I opened the envelope, address to Daniel Walpole.  That’s me; the last of the Walpole line. This is it -- the Walpole House.  At four stories high, it fills an entire block.  All t

i. there is no need in this, only want. ii. i fear for my safety, and you know this. i don’t know if i should be disturbed by your telling me that you would kill them if they ever hurt me, and yet you are nearly a man too.  i am disturbed by how far i let you in and i am glad you can’t see how you are the one who could hurt me most of all, and only the trust i have in you will prevent that eventuality. iii. i have always been an obstinate creature.  my mother spent years telling everyone who asked how i spent days clinging to the inside of her womb, unwilling to come out with the rose-tinted, nostalgic wis