Tag Archives: free write

How I got Up there

Once by the sunflowers I was afraid to jump.

I had a home in a dusty box
Hammered out in cheap words and wood
On another edge of the world
In dresses, mothballs, needles and blown pipe ash
The brown bag refuge in the pines

Once I flew over the library in the pink cold sunset.

Somewhere there’s sandy clapboards and the shells in the rock
Smoke and mattresses
Delirium and stolen breath
Rolling cartwheels down cobbleways
There’s a drag on your coat tails
And a bishop behind the gate

Once I tread on thin shingles and plastic ghosts.

I had a canvas jacket
I had a brown patch coat
I had a long black number
I was all sandglass and brick

Once I simply opened a door and climbed up.

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Blind shoots and wooden bones

Blind shoots and wooden bones
through the slow, sandy strata of time
wove through hidden mineral years and split trunks
searching arms to skeletons.

Twig and claw from a distance
the dime portrait of a great neuron
frozen forks of lightning in the blue clouds
soft cotton colors in the early evening.

Gentle and warm behind the bisection, no aid in illumination
the light breathed slow and bright around them.

A tin-can grey train
intermittently
battled with inertia like a great bear, grumpy and afraid
from its long hibernation
rolling, limb by limb, back into the waking world.

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The moon is as lustrous
as any common dusty street lamp
but it does not pick and choose
among the streets and sidewalks
nor depend on the hands of men
to determine its illumined subjects

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Coffee Notes 3

It’s too hot to write. I wish the sun would make up its damn mind.

The fears we drown away. The razor edge of reality we dull, dull, dull with friendly sweet liquor, not here to serve us but to be served. We tumble haphazardly over a day and a night; the drink sleeps in curled around the brain lazy and catlike and choking. We are parched and baked, the salt flats from the seafloor forest of humanity.

the corner of a diary page peeking from a blue cover ajar: hints of a life i cannot know

Watching an artist sketch passers-by in a ratty notebook: like sharing a secret with a stranger

Watching a poor artist, starved for technique (or maybe talent) sketch strangers from a cafe patio, with his empty cup of coffee and boyish striped tee. Is it for personal growth or some perceived sense of artistic mystique that he persists in these grotesques?

you come in from the cold and gradually unwrap and unwind and unbutton and slip off your shoes and coats and scarves and gloves and hats and reveal yourself smaller than you looked in all those layers all that armor against the frosty chill of a clean march morning and you order a hand made bagel it tastes like fresh water and sticky sour dough and the coffee is warm in a white ceramic mug and you notice there is a cloud on the window holding a little fog of vapor from your heat and blood creeps back in hot and stinging to your ears and nose and lips and its only just mid morning and there is so much time left but so little left to go–

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Marack Friesach

Ihr Premium-Jungwagen Partner in Österreich.

Death, The Life Story

Tracing a life through stories of death. Sometimes funny, sometimes not.

sevenstarhalo

"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

Seal Matches

Stories & News

unbolt me

the literary asylum

Mugilan Raju

Prime my subconscious, one hint at a time

The Flyleaf Wordsmith

The door leading to blaring madness.