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Can you see me?
What are your branches, where is your face?
If you truly have apples in your cheeks and leaves
woven into you then where am I
in your eyes? Though you are
you are also across a sea, a rift of molecules
and whispered sighs
that we write off as simply
nothing. If you put down your roots
do we grow together?
As your boughs climb
to exultant heights I sit in the deepest depths of scholarliness, I am
as a child
come before a maelstrom, and I
fall from myself and into
Your eyes reradiate all encompassing warmth,
Can you see me?
Do I want you to?
I am chanting mindlessly
to the music, and I
do not find anything
worth spelling, because what is
language to a priest, what is
time to a cleric, a bishop
who can only bless his own reflections,
a rabbi in a world where
is circumcised, but
only he knows
I once met a man with no name. He had no family name, no middle name, no first name, not even a nickname. No one knew where he came from, or where he was born. He had no religion to speak of, and he seemed to belong to any ethnic group you care to think of. So nameless was he. What does one call a man with no name? Mostly, people called him You there or Hey, You and Asshole, this being Chicago. As to how I met this man with no name, the story begins thusly.
I was standing in line at a hot dog cart downtown. The guy in front was ordering, and it was taking him forever. Id like it with ketchup and mustard, and relish no! Not relish, onions. Make that relish and onions. On second thought, no mustard. Actually, with mustard, but only a little
Well, you can imagine my frustration. Here I am, on my lunch-break, hoping to get a nice warm hot dog, dragged through the garden, and a large Coke. I hadnt eaten anything s
Dunino DenDunino Den
There is a place
behind a church
far away from here.
A place where ghosts from
a misty past mingle
with the sleeping spirits
of trees. Where a stagnant well,
with all religious implications lost,
plays a duet with a clear brook. Charms
decorate the honeycomb cliffs,
and tokens hang from branches like
wasps nests. Grass does not
grow, behind that graveyard,
because the ground has already been occupied
by a force of dead leaves and needles.
In that hollow, assaulted on all sides by
dwarf mountains, there are stairs, impossibly
antique. They lead to the
druid well, which I
mentioned earlier. The sun patterns
the soft ground and mossed rock
with spots, making the place
a giant sleeping leopard. So
when somebody says
Theres no such thing as magic
I can smile
and simply say,
You have obviously never looked behind a church.
Smells Like EnlightenmentSmells Like Enlightenment
Do you smell that?
Thats the sickly sweet stench of serenity.
Put your nose to the shadow
and take a whiff. It burns the
nostrils, and to be honest,
its a load of crap
wrapped in popular culture and fads,
put in a box decorated with
plastic lotuses. Middle class and age
mothers and fathers slowly becoming
mystics and lame saints. Jolly
fat men holding burning sticks,
ash falling on his most revered
bald pate, laughing at himself and
everyone around him, saying,
Who are you? What do you hope to gain?
Stainless steel and brass loops selling for
twenty dollars on a higher broadcast,
koi fish wrapped about arms, this years
grim reaper in ink.
Chi, ki, in a starbucks cup for a buck ninety-three.
Sit back, breath through your nose
and smell the incense.
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More