The sands of the hourglass
By the oceans of time
Leaving you sea sick
The sound of your headache
Embedded in a seashell
Still you rattle on
The sands of the hourglass
By the oceans of time
Leaving you sea sick
The sound of your headache
Embedded in a seashell
Still you rattle on
For anyone that might care, this is an old relic from middle school I found.
By nature we binge
On whatever is sacred
To leave the earth naked
Life comes full circle
In carnivorous ways
And count up the days
I walked away
At the scene of the murder
How can’t we notice
How much we’ve hurt her?
Streets and fences
To die down the mother
Life comes full circle
We devour eachother
Therese. It sounded almost french to him, the gentle way it echoed in one breath. Therese. Her dark chocolate hair fluffed itself divinely in the winter air. Therese. Her gloved hands were slim and heartbreaking, and when she clung onto him he felt himself shiver. Therese. Her warm, honey eyes did nothing to hide her shaking coldness.
MaryAnne felt the thrust of another paycheck deep into her body. She moaned and cried a bit, smiled for the cameras like she was primed to do. Eyes closed, she reminded herself. Nobody wants to see you looking at them. The director called it her one bad habit.
She feigned pleasure once more and readied herself to crawl. Forward she went, according to direction, and lapped up the bitter fluid. Gagging was no longer an issue; something you became accustomed to. Her face lit up and she smiled at the man above her, his cock arrogantly standing up. He grinned and she kissed it.
No one knows where the hell your pony runs to once you let it go. No one is sure what happens to the child you leave in the orphanage. Even the dog you turned loose might one day come back to bite you. And when the little girl lost is ushered away, she may just take one misstep and end up dead.
Or she could be a master of survival, a queen of the streets. She’ll know where to find the cheapest food and loneliest men. Her heart will be rendered a war drum; every day will be a battle. She’ll bite. She’ll scream. She’ll moan for the camera. No matter what, she’ll live.
The junkies congregating in back allies with your little girl won’t know what to say. She won’t take a hit. She doesn’t want to swim in euphoria like them. They’re downright pathetic to her. She knows better than to take comfort in the prick of a needle. In fact, this girl knows better than to find comfort in anything at all.
If she never knows a bed, the pavement is luxury.
If she never knows silence, the screaming streets are a lullaby.
And if she never knows you, all the better.
He met her under a street light, seeing a soft woman looking hopeless. Her smile alone made him take her by the arm and offer a drink, maybe some coffee. She didn’t drink, coffee was more than enough. And when they took their promenade, he felt a small suspicion he was escorting the princess of 5th avenue.
She was gorgeous, after all. And her mind seemed sharper than most. A halo of snow fell over her dark hair like a tiara. This angelic being walked with a grace he couldn’t define.
They sat down and she seemed unaccustomed to rest. A few awkward laughs only made him more sympathetic. She nursed the coffee, suckling its warmth like she was on the brink of death. Another awkward laugh. What did she do, he asked. Trying to model, she answered. He figured she dropped out of college and no one would take her in. Poor thing.
She claimed her phone was broken, but said that he could find her in the same place someday. Therese. Remember the name.
And all the while the young girl couldn’t stop shaking.
MaryAnne felt sick. Her stomach turned in knots as she took another 100 dollars into her body. Smile, she whispered. Don’t look at the camera, though. No one wants to see you looking at them.
Her mind replayed those times kind men skipped the sex and took her hand, the times men were gentle. In her minute, confused world these men would be her father, her lover, any man willing to look her in the eye. Women procured an uneasy hatred from her, as they continually offered jealousy and not much more. There was always someone to hold the other girls’ hands.
Women were not to be owned, as desperately as she craved it. She would not be possessed. Whoring herself out was simply a way to live, and she lived alone.
Sometimes your little girl will learn how to defend herself, how to go it alone. And you have the realization that maybe she was in control the whole time.
You never can know just where she’ll end up, but that might be her dancing on screen.
It is wise for a woman
To kiss before she kills
To chase all of her thrills
With another shot of jack
It may be silly of me
To have sugar rim my lips
Confess with my fingertips
And never look back
Who can blame a girl
For whispering her name
And directing her aim
To anyone, wherever
It is no mistake
I sign every paper with arsenic
The sight of you makes me sick
Never say never
I didn’t want to live forever
Kissing a cigarette
Quarter past ten, fives years too late
Sucked on a swollen regret
Swallowed and paid for
Let us not desecrate
Flashy winks, sharpened fangs
Slyly under a Sycamore
Where childhood hangs
Left behind, caught in the rain
That which is worth doubting
Framed on the bureau
Never, never again
No on understands
They never do, do they?
Darling child, take my hands
Get on your knees
The curtains are closing
Illiterate applause, final bows
Our Lady Aphrodite is posing
Trembling at the silence
She says her vows
Tuesday morning, sunny skies
Iscariot the jester waltzing on a high
Chords and notes and broken strings
My stolen kite made of angels’ wings
Dusty branches and wilted trees
Snowy memories and a warm breeze
Laughing like a mad wolf, chasing prey
I will not hang my head today
Don watched the pale skin of a young woman glisten in the sun complacently. He noted the curvature of her thighs, how her hips were maybe a little too wide, her short a little too tight. A fleeting peak at a pink thong awakened generous heat in his body, but his sad grey eyes continued to trace the formidable outskirts of her body.
She played carelessly with some drooling, panting canine. He could only assume she would tie it up, parade it down a few streets, then take it into her inviting home. That damn dog probably felt more affectionate caresses than James would get from any woman.
A Frisbee was thrown with such vibrancy it made his eyes widen, inviting scowls as he watched her flash smiles at an animal. It was a filthy mutt who didn’t give a damn about her. Dumb broad.
She must have been around 26, maybe younger. Probably fresh out of college, where she spent time fornicating at frat parties. One could read the liberal sensibilities she valued in her movements. It was shown by the way she swayed, energetic but with no punctuality. She probably bought organic food and never said the word fag. Bumb broad.
A brief diverting glance to the sun didn’t help. Don’s stare once again focused on the woman and how she laughed.
A lot og guys said women made no sense. Claimed they were irrational and obsessive and confusing. Don agreed that they were neurotic and bitchy, but not confusing. In his years, he had kissed a girl. He had fucked a girl. But he had not once taken the time to feel the profound smoothness of her skin, to let her delicate fingertips excite him. In some ways, he resented this with every fiber of his being. In others, it was no great loss. Nothing stopped him from drooling in front of a computer screen.
He remembered Cynthia, a skinny woman with sexy his bones and crooked teeth. She wore a mane of hydrogen peroxide blond and deep cranberry lip-liner. Her skin felt like leather and tasted like nicotine. She put out on he first date.
Don imagined her, her powder blue eyeshadow and love of cocaine. Once upon a time, he thought she loved him and got down on one knee with a sincere ring. The dumb broad said yes.
He never saw her drape a white dress over her dry, aging flesh. She picked up a fondness for methamphetamine and lost her teeth, causing the engagement to be called off.
Don never regretted it. Now he could do what he wanted whenever he felt like, never having to dodge nagging as he walked in the door.
The young woman bent over.
Don wondered what it would be like to take her out to dinner, a bouquet of roses in hand and a smile on his face. She’d drink red wine that would stain her lips a seductive red and she’s melt in his arms when they kissed. Of course, when Don asked if she wanted to come inside, she would. They would fall on the couch as she giggled with excitement. His dirty hands would probe the intricacies of her tangled curls and she would sigh when squeezing his muscled forearm.
“Oh, Donald, I wish this night could last forever.”
His would watch her small pink feet arch in pleasure and they would get lost in each others’ bodies. Together, they would fall asleep as her young chest heaved heavenly.
Or, he could follow her home and wait until dark. Her dog would whine, and as she passed the door he would make his move. He would take this girl, this woman and tie her up and have his way, leaving her and her liberal sensibilities in a lifeless heap.
The latter seemed more likely, but he would never try anything. Don felt himself a coward. Women were never worth the trouble. In attempt to assuage his longing, he focused his attention on his shoes, glaring at the ground. He didn’t need the dumb broad. He didn’t even want her. He didn’t need to feel the softness of her thighs, to watch her toes curl in pleasure, to hear her say his name. The bitch who loved her dirty dog and valued political correctness could get hit by a bus walking home, killing her and her dog. Don didn’t care.
But he did. He so desperately wanted to see beads of sweat travel down her shoulder so tenuously. He wanted to possesses her body, to grab hold of it with a rough fist and wrap himself up in it.
And at once, all his thoughts turned into a knott and punched him in the gut.
The young woman looked at him with concern in her eyes, fear twinkling in her irises.
Don grunted hastily and looked around. The shame of being spotted was almost too much to bare, but he didn’t care. He glowered at the dumb broad and her dog, picked himself up and walked away.
He told himself he didn’t need her.
I spend a lot of time with mirrors. I mean exactly what it sounds like. Hours of my life, likely a full year, has been spent gazing in a mirror trying to make sense of myself.
It’s a bit odd, seeing myself. Would I look any different if I didn’t know this was me? Would my eyes sparkle a bit more brightly, would the lines on my face be even more profound?
I write with shaking hands and a weary figure. My skin feels just as velveteen as it did the day I was born, but in it I can easily spy inconsistencies. Small, contorted blue veins trace the inside of my forearm, leading to some exasperated aorta that just wants a break. But anatomy tells me that it’ll keep heaving and sighing to keep me alive.
If I was a genius, I’d flaunt my degrees and probe inside flawed bodies, trying to to scope out the little inconsistencies, and perhaps then I would feel less alone.
With so much time spent lost in my own reflection, you figure I’d find it hard to see beauty in anything but myself. It’s quite the opposite. There’s something poetic in the way a cigarette looks when its ashes are ready to break away. Scraps of paper littering a desk make up a biography. And the little inconsistencies in the form of a man make him interesting enough that I want to possess that beauty, if only for a second.
Jagged shoulders speak to me. Tired eyes make me want to get closer. Sometimes I dream of probing a stranger and making them tell me the story behind every little bruise and scar, so I can weave together a life imperfect and profound.
It was a hot summer day and I could see the heat rising up off the pavement. As humidity permeated me and sank down to my nerves, I looked over at the quiet unassuming Billy Weizstein.
He smiled at me with a crooked grin and looked up from under thick glasses. I giggled at him and continued licking a kiddie cone of vanilla. My tongue felt the cool, but everything was melting quicker than I anticipated.
Billy must have noticed the frustration on my face when he said in a tiny voice, “You can have mine if you want.”
“Nah,” I said between determined attempts at finishing the ice-cream. “I’m okay.”
I noticed him blush, but at that age I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. The brilliant emerald grass and clear sky both told him that I should do something I wouldn’t have ever thought of on my own.
I reached over, with young dirty fingers, sticky with sweat and melted ice-cream, and grasped his own little hand.
“You know Erica,” he looked at me with wonder in his eyes, “you really are my best friend.”
I nodded my head. “Yup. You too.”
As he held onto my hand, I didn’t know that there was a tiny infinitesimal distance between us caused by repelling charges.
Maybe, the split second before Billy left the earth with a bang, he got to feel something for real. Maybe his nerves got the most beautiful sensation of all time.
Billy Weizstein lived a quiet life and he left the world in a quantum flurry. Once and while, I can taste one of the snowflakes he created on my tongue like the ice-cream I licked while I had his hand in mine.
No body was found after the accident, so Mr. And Mrs. Weizstein were a bit troubled on how to stage for a funeral service. It wasn’t as if his will asked for his body to be cremated. They couldn’t bury what wasn’t there. Never had they dreamed they would watch their own son pass away.
They pulled off a memorial anyway. The Weizstein family all gathered together in a humble but clean dining room with lights dimmed. Candles flickered, and I watched will mild interest as I saw the chemicals tango together in the flame. I had made it, not wanting to disrespect the nice invitation handwritten and addressed to Ms. Eric Dreyfus, but this whole affair failed to ignite anything in me.
I had shed my fair share of tears before, but now it seemed irrational to cry.
I couldn’t imagine how anything at all could even be alive, so I couldn’t imagine how Billy was dead.
Minds were strange creatures. I was imagining things, with no chemical reactions to see things in my head. It seemed to go against everything the accident had taught me. When I closed my eyes, I could see Billy when he was all together, Before his matter turned to energy. Before he made millions cry and thousands die. When he was just a sweet, awkward boy with a big heart and a lot of potential. It sounded so cute, but it just made me sick.
I never claimed to know how to deal with this.
My sincerities went out to the family, I gave reassuring smiles and hug to those who needed it, threw on a coat, and made my way out the door.
There was something I needed to feel. I wasn’t quite sure what is was, but I could tell my bones were aching to get it. As my mind drifted to a million places I couldn’t comprehend, I swung myself into my car and decided to forgoe my seatbelt. My body needed to move.
I drove into town, and once and while caught a smile in the rear view mirror. Something in me was excited and peaceful, as if I had waited a lifetime. For what? I had no idea.
The scenery outside my window shifted in a languorous way, and not because my speedometer read 30 mph. Everything was so calm a perfect and distant that it made my heart ache in a more satisfying way. The road began to almost crescendo as more energy decorated the sidewalks. A glance at the sky showed pink melting into tangerine as marshmallow fluff camouflaged a blushing sun. I caught another smile in the rear view mirror.
Exhaling Albert Einstein and inhaling Julius Caesar, I began to remember all I had forgotten after Billy went up in smoke.
My mother stroking my hair as a little girl when I cried at my birthday party with cake covering my frilly pink dress.
Winning a spelling bee in the third grade with the word hippopotamus, and the smile I beamed out at the audience as my father snapped a photo.
Billy giving me a dandelion when I was six and asking if I would marry him.
The plush fur of my tabby cat as I tried to touch her dead body, and the way my mother pulled back my hand.
My friend Katie’s backyard, where we tried to sled in autumn.
The scream I let out when I got my first period.
How strange it felt when Daniel Lancaster gave me my first kiss on the playground.
The way C10H14N2 made me jitter as Katie offered me a slim, threatening Marlboro. And as the smoke filled my lungs, I wondered if I was disappointing anyone.
A card with some lame joke and a five dollar bill I handed to Billy for his fifteenth birthday.
I felt my hands get shaky as I pulled over the car into a deserted parking lot. There was a pretty little lake nearby and I liked watching the moon reflect off the subtle waves. Unlike gamma waves, I understood the lake.
Getting dressed up in something satin and purple for my junior prom, and blushing at a white corsage from my date who was just a friend.
The acidic vodka that slithered down my throat at the after party.
Focusing my eyes on a blemish on Mike Ciccone’s right cheek as I distracted myself from his tongue in my throat.
How I couldn’t stop my body from shaking and shivering when I lost my virginity.
Calling Billy afterwards to tell him all about it.
I turned off the car and open the door with conviction. That something my heart was beating for seemed closer than ever.
The time I was stroking Jason’s muscled forearm as I noticed my phone rining.
Ignoring Billy’s call once again.
Instead of seeing my smile in the rear view mirror, I revealed a grin to the whole world. The sounds of the world around me, music and shuffling feet, laughter and aggression, all acted as a call to action.
The time I hugged Billy and told him he had a great life ahead of him.
The sweat dripping down my face as I watched the explosion unfurl on a television.
During none of these memories did I recall the chemicals flickering, the atoms being empty, or the electrons jumping around. I remembered only raw sensation and bare emotions. Up until the moment I realized Billy was dead, none of these equations and theorems puzzled me. I simply lived.
Science had become poetry at that moment. It all flowed to a rhythm, and it’s mechanics were used to make me feel something unadulterated and real.
My shoes came off without issue as I pulled at them. My jeans put up more of a fight, but they were on the ground soon enough. As I pulled off my shirt, my eyes were on the goal.
The splash hit me like a bullet. There was nothing tenuous in the impact. Water licked my skin and I laughed for the first time in weeks. Chemistry and physics no longer matter as I felt myself enveloped in whatever some hydrogen and oxygen make. I didn’t care what it was, all I knew was that it cleansed me of regrets and lies and all the things I tried to change.
There didn’t have to be a God to make me feel so renewed.
And I laughed again.