Having tied his Capezio shoes, Vito brushes his white slacks and gets up from the chair. He walks over to the mirror in the living room to brush his black hair — again. He tilts his head to one side, looks at himself from the corner of his eye and runs the brush across his coal black mass of hair. …
Glorious organ and cheering horns
Swarms of birds
Rushing the cushioned clouds.
And there is you.
Your yellow eyes melting.
Yesterday’s crying on your face.
Fallen seconds trickle down your
The weeks worn
Around your neck
Like broken diamonds.
Tonight is still.
The moon eclipsed.
The stars unfixed and the lighted
Look! A hush inks the darkness
A hush to comfort, a breast to rest. – mh clay
Reaches down into
Itself. Where demons mingle.
Knotted roots signal battle.
The blackened soil, a hollow
For unseen wars. Muted screams stored into
Silence. The roots coil back,
Like harrowed victims chased home. Once inside
The dark terror subsides and they can rest. Tomorrow, as leaves,
They sing in the sun, their flapping kisses the pearly air.
Where angels cushion
Where birds of feather flock, not scatter; fight fears, threats shatter. – mh clay
I was a high school teacher before they came. I’m not sure what I am now. They said they chose me because they needed cases to test. To make sure their experiments worked. Now I feel more like a Wax Museum custodian than anything else. What I most recall is that it was a very regular night. Even the light …
He is crouching on the grass behind a bush, out of wind. Only a few feet away he hears the growling of a tiger. He holds his breath until his lungs almost burst, cautiously letting the air seep out of his lungs. The tiger lingers, but then seems to stroll away. It doesn’t matter what we call this being. He …
Ever since St. Bernadette had a vision of Mary in the grotto, tourists came to Lourdes, some to be healed by its miracle. Arriving by train in Lourdes, Roberto alighted onto the streets, now crowded with seekers from across the globe. They came from all over the world, some on crutches, some in wheelchairs, and some even on flat beds. …
Under a spiral arm, she kissed me. A beam of moon-glare light streaked past us. A meteorite?
She laughed. But my heart felt heavy. Something about her emerald eyes said she would have to leave.
Shiny metallic rocks. A pulsar beating like a desperate heart. The sound of a waterfall.
Scared of heights, I looked at where my feet stood. I must be standing upright, I thought, but it was hard to tell. Was this an asteroid? I had only seen them in books. Dark black chunks of angular rock. Pockets of glittery metals. Suspended in the shawl of eternal night.
I didn’t know her name, but I knew her. Yet I couldn’t place when or where we had met. Maybe we had always met here. Her paraffin white face, so smooth and perfect. Full lips, like rose petals. Almond shaped eyes.
We didn’t speak so much as share jokes, looking at the stars. I made a gesture, pointing my finger, suggesting that I lived in one of those distant solar systems. Her laugh made my skin tickle. She nodded and pointed with her nose, as if saying yeah I’m going to be just as vague with my astronomical directions. Then she reached out to hold my hands in hers. She took a deep breath. Suddenly, her eyes grew wet. I wanted to burst out crying, too. All of my old games laid bare. All my hang-ups exposed. We held each other, our bodies shaking.
Then everything seemed to tilt. A hole in the sky opened, pulling everything into it. As she drifted away, we reached toward each other. In that moment, her fingers like long flower stems. Her nails painted ocean blue.
I knew we’d meet again.
A celestial tryst, a stellar stop, a romantic ride; (seeking?) certainty of love in an infinite loop. – mh clay
I once was, we once were, ordinary people, like you. Being together we have become one mind. I am sorry if our writing is clumsy. We don’t speak, write or use words any longer. Our thoughts are felt by each other before we have them. The ideas of I and we aren’t as clear as they may be for you, …
Don’t die, Bob Dylan. Don’t die not now. The clocks are moving backwards; their hands are out of work. The hours are aging, heavy and lonely, like old heroes from an ancient war. I don’t mean to sound like a coward, Bob Dylan. I’m not asking you to write the songs we need. I’m not asking you to give us a pound of flesh. You have every right to water your toes in some cool ocean, or to let someone call you grandpa. You have every right to write bad songs and sing them horribly. If I could wrestle a whale with whispers, or lull the moon to sleep with words, I would. I don’t need you to do anything – nothing at all – I just need you to not die, Bob Dylan. Not now. I need to know that you are living and breathing. I need to know that you can sing – even horribly. And that maybe, just maybe, I will sing with you and for you and for us all.
Musician as muse, so we are not mute. Sing out! – mh clay
The heat had become unbearable that summer. “Make it stop, daddy,” Liddy’s son, Torin, said, as they walked home from school. The sun glared down with a vengeance, its rays like vicious lapping tongues. It seemed to Liddy that the sun was angry at the earth. “I can’t make it stop,” said Liddy. “But we’ll be home shortly. Mom will …
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