[x]

NectarinesI said I preferred peaches,
but you wanted a nectarine.
So we brought it back
and you portioned it out
and I found it wasn't better —
only different. You went back
to your city, and I held the taste
in my mouth for days.

Curl the knife around the pit;
gently twist the halves apart.
Admire the honey-golden forms
and the rich-veined flesh.

So what did I buy at the grocer's
on St. Benedict's Street? Not
peaches, but smooth nectarines.
It is different in this country,
where pleasures have become
necessities.
These days I cannot taste
except in memory.

winter has swallowed the worldwinter has swallowed the world today,
his blistering fury biting at faces

and speckling tree trunks and window
panes. he disguises all things, provides

a pure slate of marble dust that blankets
every surface. when he finally settles down,

all things settle with him. the pine forest
has become a herd of mammoths, weary branches

quietly sweeping the ground below.

Sweet Tunes - FFM 2010The only way to appease the creature was to play music at it – the older music the better. Whenever the music stopped, it'd stop its melodic swaying, freeze, and then let out the most terrifying and deadly cry. Eardrums bursting, glass shattering, electronics exploding, eyeballs melting – that kind of cry.

After that, it would disappear, only to reappear at the most inconvenient place imaginable, ready to explode again. If those around it valued their spleens, they would start digging for their MP3-players right away. The more musical amongst us might start a serenade, or some kind of ad-libbed drumming session on whatever's nearb

fatefatalism stalks me.
its chalky finger-bones
scrabble at my windows,
greedy to pry panes
and rend gaps—
mouth agape
to vent its algid breath.

conjured,
like a voodoo zombie
of the bayou,
by pious disciples
to the temple of matter.

they strain to evade
the burden of their choices,
worrying at the knots of destiny
and scattering dust
to fill in our footprints.

in a sly reversal of legerdemain,
they entice hands from rudders,
with their relentless mantra:
"free will is illusion!"

but illusion is smoke,
and stars still burn in my chest.
not nebulae, but hard points and brilliant.
I pass through them,
burning the fog

My WinterCardinals will
                drip
from the branches like
berries
and the sky will turn to smoke.
The ground crunches under your feet and it’s
Almost as if you could
         sail away
across the ice.
Brandished behind screens of glass
are fists of ivory
They are covered in scratches and
         bloom
from the dark like magnolia blossoms.

The Opus Of The Everythingthe ocean floor, the twisted sea and
all the flying jacket bees, and all

the flying birds and he, the one who
caught the glint of spring, who laid

it on the downy dew, the crispy green
of May fescue, who saw the plans of built

up lights that burn to light a thousand
pools of dripping rain and puddles lay

on any given night or day, the brick by
brick, the mortar spread, the snap of sugar

sweetly felt, the brine that made it
through the cloud, the opus of the

everything, the great and wide, the heat
of flame, the sun in cold but sunny sky,

the sound of when a child laughs,
the opus of the everything

illuminate my heartSeptember falls outside his window and the two-story house feels June. Time tilts here, the days canted to the left like the apple tree their grandchildren planted sometime last winter. It hasn't grown much since then, a few leaves on dry branches but no blooming flowers when spring arrived.

Today his fifty years seem like thirty. Sitting up in bed is easier. He doesn't feel as weak as before. The Pacific breeze touches his hair, chills his pale face and he thinks, Maybe Anna and I could drive down to the beachfront today.

He rolls to his side. She's burrowed under the covers, a blue blanketed lump, white hair poking out over dark blue pill

Letter to an Amateur AnthropologistDo not only
take photographs
of beautiful women.
This is your impulse,
the eyes naturally gravitate
to the sweet milk skins,
the awkward and elegant curve of bone.

Take photographs
of everything,
you are not an artist
but a historian:

remember this,
the way the hair emerges from
a leg,
infinitesimal,
the way flesh
accumulates against your hands.

Study
delicate black pores,
gasping and gentle,
dark windows into the
body's mechanisms.
The mouth flushed and curving, teeth
sturdy like a horse's,
something to love.

This is important,
the diet, the habits,
the peculiar dialects invented or assumed.
At what frequency was

The last bar in the MojaveClouds arrive at the pace
of oxen, stopping to drink
at the misshapen TV dish

picking up NASA signals.
The petrified cactus
near a humming Wurlitzer

says nothing. Lost travellers
stare at it by the bar,
hoping it might show them

the way, the bubbles in their
beer muttering

I want to go home
I want to go home
I want to go home

not noticing the clouds glowing
like lightbulbs with their electricity
and the entire desert moving
closer, ready to circle like moths.

Notes on nightCupped hands could hold
a moth's night,
a moon waning somewhere between
middle and index.

In fear,
the dust,
the cuddling craters,
the end,
would become the flight.

Thaw spring thaw -
chickadees splashing
in my bootprints

Sophie's Misfortune"Will you run away with me?"

"Yes."

I hadn't expected him to say yes.

-

We were far from home before I had the courage to ask why.

"Why not?"

"Haven't you anything back there?"

"Yes. But I want something more."

-

We mostly lived in an old trapper's hut in the woods. I swept it every day but I could never get the floor clean. There was blood on the bedroom wall. I think the trapper killed something here. I hope it was an animal.

-

I meet an old woman among the trees one day. She is dressed in ragged brown with a brilliant gold locket around her neck. She says she can read my palm. I am skeptical. She takes it anyway.

"Your name is

Doorway Hourapril 15th, 5.01 a.m.
The rain doesn't fit in my ears any more. I lie in bed, picking at a corner of the old tinderbox, and I think, yeah, you'd be proud, Dad. You'd be so damned proud of me right now.

I can still hear – get it off, I whimpered – bzzzzzz, and the screams – get it off –

april 15th, 12:03 a.m.
Rachel thinks the sound of a knock is an emotional-slash-scientific catalyst. Once you've heard it, you can't block it out. Even if you don't open the door, you'll always wonder who's on the other side. Maybe she wonders how many times ignoring it would send you mad with curiosity.

I think it's common sense. On a

winter footnoteswinter footnotes
e.bojnowski

your elbows were anchors
in a softly-lit parking lot,
where you sang to glass and paper:

and your visions are quiet hills
your visions are shy sounds
your visions are sheep covered in frost.

speaking
loose tongued,
like an old shoe-

that dry rasp
that leaves me covered in skin flakes,
leaves me
brushed onto the wall .

I am the raised bumps in spackle-
ripped off with the sound of a poor phonograph:

in my chain link home,
a residual ghost.

Cretaceous YardThe call came in at 1500 hours, exactly twenty minutes after Leviner returned from his break. He picked up the phone and listened.

"We'll be there right away, sir."

On the other side of the desk, his partner looked at him. "A homicide?"

"If only we could be so lucky," Leviner snorted, making Ellsie wince.

It was just another case of illegal dumping. Once the 'cera crew had cleared away the overgrowth of ferns, Leviner stalked his way in. "What do you see?" Ellsie called. Although the entrance to the small shed was large enough to easily accommodate Leviner, there was no way Ellsie was fitting inside. Not that it was her fault. Maiasaurs w

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je ne sais quoi

by =Chillinvillain, Sep 17, 2010, 11:17:47 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

against my chest you make a soft semi-colon as my hips
     press into yours and you yield like damp paper

and against my chest the pulse of us
     a filament-hum in a sixty-watt bulb

and my chin against your neck, an impromptu bookstop

and your cheek runs against
     my stubble and it is an embossed leather cover

and our noses meet

beads of sweat on my brow roll against yours and we are
     a printing press

until our dilated eyes meet like magnifying glasses
     and our lips touch like the curves of an m

and the follicles on our arms raise into braille

je ne sais quoiby =Chillinvillain

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

i'm not sure really what to say about this one..was really in a weird mood

\m/ thanks for the DD y'all

Daily Deviation

Given 2010-12-11

je ne sais quoi by =Chillinvillain made me into a printing press. ( Featured by !GwenavhyeurAnastasia )

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!pixieplay Jan 6, 2011

Incredible.

=Chillinvillain Jan 16, 2011 Student Writer

~Sarah-the-writer Jan 6, 2011

This gives me chills!! Great work

=Chillinvillain Jan 6, 2011 Student Writer

thanks!

~Rook22 Dec 22, 2010

and your cheek runs against
my stubble and it is an embossed leather cover

And the braille are brillant.

Congrats on the DD, Kev! Awesome!

=Chillinvillain Dec 22, 2010 Student Writer

<3, i r misses u

~Xedramon Dec 19, 2010 General Artist

well i was thinking about this again and came to read it again today, but...

did you change something? for some reason I dont remember the embossed leather cover. I thought i was something about a thousand quils...

=Chillinvillain Dec 19, 2010 Student Writer

yup, this is still in editing phase.

~Xedramon Dec 19, 2010 General Artist

ah okay, just making sure i wasnt going crazy

though personally i liked how it was before, i still think this is a really beautiful poem

=Chillinvillain Dec 21, 2010 Student Writer

thats the whole thing about editing that tends to piss me off, over the years I've learned that I know I cannot make everyone happy, but it's still obnoxious when I turn people off from a poem while editing.

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je ne sais quoi

je ne sais quoiby =Chillinvillain

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