Monthly Archives: March 2013

Not Now

It had to be the week I decided to listen to White Blood Cells in my car to and from work. The week I choose a random episode of This American Life called “I’m Sorry” to listen to on my lunch break. It had to be this week that I opened Facebook and saw One New Friend Request that in itself might be a tiny, whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Ten years, man. Ira is talking about how apologies are rarely satisfying for anyone involved. I wouldn’t know. Apologies are something I don’t often hear, but it’s my fault. I have one hell of a cold shoulder. Once it’s clear that someone’s no good for me I just cut them out of my life. Sure, some of them come back around with apologies, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I think about the last time with him. Myspace. A friend request and a message that began apologetic and ended accusatory. No way, Jack.
But isn’t forgiveness supposed to feel good? Fuck his feelings, but maybe I would feel better? Me. Maybe it would be nice not to want to vomit whenever someone mentions his name (which is, thankfully, rare these days). If I could forgive him, would that make me a better person?
Jesus. It’s Easter and I am not Jesus. It’s not in my nature to forgive. I pick up my phone and press “Not Now.”
Not now. And maybe not ever.

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Paper Wings

I like to piece things together.  There’s something about being able to see the edges of things that I find so appealing; the little corners that you can peel back to reveal the fleshy mechanics, the ooze and the turn and the steam. They flutter at me suggestively, little triangular points of dried Papier Mache, old newspaper print and the eye of swim suit supermodel from 1982. Sometimes that’s what I feel like the world is made of, on a day when it’s not looking so solid and so infinite. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who’s made of paper. I take my scissors and cut the curve of a girl’s leg. It is smooth porcelain white but in the yellow light of my only light bulb the taut skin looks dusted gold. The curve makes a perfect arc, high and natural. I can see her eyes, two orbs flattened, glossy. They are listless, they are looking to the right. Her lips are painted the colour of ripe plum fruit. She’s beautiful. But there’s something not quite right about it all. What is it? What is it?!

It’s that head. It’s all wrong.
The camera’s lost the life. I curse under my breath, and sever the head from her gold dusted shoulders.

I go in search of another, a face that still has a sip of life left, a spark in those eyes. It takes me almost an hour to find her, hiding away in the depths of high fashion. She has the skin of a white tiger draped over her black silk body. There is fire about her, and it smoulders, smothered slightly by the gloss of the page.

There. Not even any scar tissue to worry about, no Frankenstein lines. Perfect.

Almost. It’s still not quite done yet. There’s still something missing, and it’s just a speck I can feel it. Something caught under my fingernail, in my eye, between my teeth. What is it? What is it?!

 Wings. A flare of red feathers against white lace, opening. That’s what she needs. That’s what every girl needs, something to carry her up and out and above.

Sometimes I think about doing this for real, sewing wings onto girls backs and turning them into angels. The girl that sits on the reception desk, she looks like she could handle it. And she’s got those perfect shoulder blades, so evenly spaced and tucked just under the surface of her skin.  Such vibrant bones, perhaps she got the buds beneath, little feather sprouts waiting to take form, to take flight. Maybe she’s got magic, too.
No. She’s not like the rest of us. But every time I see her she’s reading one of those colourful Japanese books, the ones filled with fae. She isn’t one of us, that’s for sure. But she wants to be. I bet you she would say yes, if I asked her. I bet you she would thank me, even if I didn’t ask her first.

I have to stick the wings onto the paper with pink sewing pins. I’ve used up all of my tape.  

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Genevieve’s Week 12: Untitled.


Bear cub sleeps within my heart.
He growls and yips in dreams
heavy with the scent of spring
approaching — thickening mud,
warning caw of the red-winged
blackbird. When night falls
I crawl into his cave and feed
him golden combs dripped in honey,
red tubers dusted with earth. His
coat shines, his claws lengthen.

Where is the medicine? I have searched for it
on paths leading far from the homestead;
past skeletal groves of stark birch trees guarding
the iron gates of a world beyond my grasp; ashen
fields pale with drought, thirsty buds pursed upwards
for any lick of rainwater. I tunneled into the ground
and wandered through ancient cities, pored over books and
yellow bottles. I have traveled through steady breaks in time.
Where is the medicine? Where is the medicine?
Bear cub wakes from restless
sleep and toddles into my arms.
He yawns widely, incisors bright,
pink tongue curled up, up towards
the narrow roof of his mouth.
There are no pills, no powders;
no six red seeds to swallow
and keep spring’s fever at bay.
There is only a longing, nascent still,
that quivers and stretches with each
passing moonrise. It is a voice, hushed,
that dares to whisper when all are fast
asleep. Your rivulet, bear sings softly,
barely above a sigh. Your rivulet is here.

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I’m listening to a band I love while reading the kindred Post and i just noticed the titles of the song could be worked into a writting piece….so here is just a little something from the works of Explosion in the Sky


The birth and the death of day ….welcome, ghosts it’s natural to be afraid 
What do you go home to?  Catastrophe and the cure?
So long, lonesome
The Only Monent We Were Alone , six days at the bottom of the ocean

Memorial – Your Hand In Mine 

Our Last Days As Children
An Ugly Fact Of Life 

Inside It All Feels The Same – Lonely Train – The Sky Above, The Field Below 
A Slow Dance -Snow And Lights -Magic Hours 
Look Into The Air
Glittering Blackness 

Time Stops
Remember me

Greet Death

Tell the Truth

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by | March 26, 2013 · 9:44 pm

Week 11(?) – Innate

How do you and I know what separates us from each other as well as the rest of existence?

Looking at this planet from the other side of the galaxy, let alone the other side of the solar system, everyone and everything blends together into a collective, a unit composed of particles sprayed randomly across the cosmos by exploding stars.

Yet we feel like distinct, unique individuals with a purpose for existence. There is something special about our inhabitance of this lopsided, blue-green marble, something that we need only look inwards to find.

What does innate mean to you? What resides inside you that gives you the drive to distinguish yourself from the infinitude of the universe?

That’s it, nothing major.


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Devil and Minion

D: Tell ’em to shake it a few times.

M: Shake their booties, sir?

D: Yes.

M: By a few, do you mean more than two and less than four?

D: Yes.

M: What will they do afterwards?

D: Tell ’em to shake it a few more times in the same rhythm as before, ad infinitum.

M: Are they to never cease?

D: Yes.

M: Not for food, water or sleep?

D: No. They will receive everything they need.

M: You’re sure this will work?

D: Don’t question my methods. This isn’t my first rodeo.

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macabre poem

i sink into the bathtub

steam kinking up the curls at the nape of my neck

sirens play a song outside my window

screaming, glass smashing against the pavement

a symphony of recklessness


a cold concrete jungle waiting to warm in the swell of summer

i run my hair under the faucet

cool stream clashing with a pool of heat

my stomach muscles tremble as i

try to keep myself from going under



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spring: a short poem en route to AWP

new london, ct.

the sea looks like crumpled gray silk

kicked at carelessly by mother nature

tangled in sheets

one more round of tumult and then

we will have our spring

clapboard houses perched on bluffs

dusty rusty rock and sand

surrounded by history

rain spatters like

morse code on the windows


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Springtime like a new word for “hope” and “joy”

Spring in Massachusetts is muddy and wet. It’s colder than we want it to be and frustrating. Some springs bring massive floods. Others bring even more snow. Then there are those days the smell like perfection.

You know the ones.

I start a countdown until spring every January first. For some reason, year after year, I always forget how many days until Spring (I think it might be 77) and what day Spring is on. The 20? 21? 22? It’s the 20th. At least this year it is. Does it change? I can’t be bothered to really, truly know.

I just know that I long for it to come, as soon as the clock hits midnight and the kidding brigade begins and people are popping open champagne and throwing up streamers and making noise. I am usually quietly watching television or maybe already asleep. That first kiss of the new year meant nothing to be, maybe because it never exist.

But on January first, what I have to look forward to is Spring.

I love the smell of wet earth, the slight scent of burning wood and leaves. I love watching the earth change from barren and cold to wet, warm and alive. I love the green the flowers. I always want to start a garden. Some years I manage to begin by planting tiny $1 seeds from Target into tiny $1 pots from Target. They grow, and eventually I forget or lose interest or something. 

And yet I keep trying. Or keep wanting to try. (Today I bought a tiny bucket from CVS with lavender seeds inside).

(I always forget about the bugs)

It’s almost here. It’s almost here. I can smell it. I can hear the birds starting.  I feel the warmth of sun on my cheeks. I ache for sunkissed freckles (I missed that gene) and lemonade. Fresh fresh fresh. Ladybugs, bare feet, showing off tattoos in flip flops, iced coffee, hand holding, bracelet making, daisies, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, flowly skirts, a want to wear white (And yet, that never ends well), hope. 

Hope for the flowers.

Spring come faster. I’ll photograph you and you’ll infuse me with honey lavender scented inspiration.


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Puppet Show

Someday we’ll all be
dancing on bones and dust
marionettes on strings
of the departed
slipping between worlds
painting faces with fresh blood

reaching aching yawning
outstretching fingers
with hollow eye sockets.
we are all a dream
of a deceased soldier
in search of


should we stop dancing
barefoot with muddy souls
and let go of the strings
say goodbye to the red faced puppeteer’

enter a thrill ride
because the end result
remains the same
ashes, dust, buried, scattered
beneath the earth
of the air
on the lips of lovers
who can sever rope
and just let go.

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