I live among you, a beat, fallen man.
To look at myself in the mirror is reason for my stomach to twirl;
force me to my knees and hurl.
Taste the waste that rushes out between my teeth, firing my tongue;
tasting so wrong.
It should make me livid, make me want to go and drown my stupidity
among the narcissi that know no pity.
But take me, my dear lord; let my seeds not already be sown.
O Provider, Provider
Let this not persist, or harm my daughter.
She is tiny and innocent, like no other, may she grow old and bright,
with dreams sparkling alight.
Let her quiet slumbers have dreams masked from violence and hate;
If it is her future that I control, I pray to carry it gently.
To her I will whisper praises quietly.
I beseech thee, Guardian, let my callous feet not falter.
O Protector, Protector
The humble nymph cries out my name once more.
Let her hold no attention of mine, for but a spirit walks in my stead;
forget I ever existed.
She sent love to me, softly handled by wind’s squalling fingers;
My defense cannot be conquered; my walls stretch to the sky, unflinching.
Even I cannot cross; I fear the writhing.
This is a castle of guilt and sorrow from the very core.
O Destroyer, Destroyer
Why continue cry out to this weak man?
Your words; they convey to me thoughts and feelings only foreign how I stand.
They feel like a fiery brand.
Stop, for these feelings are even higher than the skies above.
Why must you love?
You destroy my fortress, bring me to knee, leaving me naked and heaving.
Astounding! Your love for the unbelieving.
My castle is built anew, the way only a master can.
O Father, Father
The road isn't what I was missing. Close. not quite. Something that moves, sure, but not quite a motorcycle. Music does so much to my brain. Perpetually confused. Perpetually lacking in courage. music solves both. Courage. The great ones had the courage to move the way they wanted. Presented the fundamental threads their own way. universal audience. Found the rhythms that reached them and hurled them in every direction. Ultimate courage, facing everyone's response. Intensely personal. Trust. They trusted something. Ultimate courage, ultimate faith: That not only does one person's voice matter but that MINE matters, and that I'm accountable for its dispersal. Horrifying concept. Irrational. But only irrational because of personal effacement and sense of personal weakness, not genuine lack of worth. In which case, self-effacement is irrational. Self-hatred, irrational. Self-destruction, irrational. Self-deprecation, irrational. If worth is unknown, but depends on participation multiplied by an individual's self-concept, then to willingly nullify either variable with zero is an irrational act, and ultimately ineffecient.Participation X Self-concept = Personal well-being, feeling of self-worth and satisfaction(P) X (S) = Value (personal)Participation without self-affection is worthless. Self-concept with validation is groundless. No value without either. Either can be nullified by zero. MUST attempt. MUST believe yourself worthy of the attempt. Must fail.
I found this old piece this morning, one that I used to try and get myself into a class taught by the director of the Iowa Writer's Workshop, Lan Samantha Chang. Somehow, this weird little conversational piece got me in, but they split the class in two and I had the other teacher. Best laid plans, I guess. But that's beside the point. I'd encourage anyone to go take a look back at their older writing, as you'd be surprised how much there is to be proud of. If you're just starting out, hold on to what you're doing now and check in on it from time to time as you progress. Always somethin' to learn, even from your weird "Writing to the reader as if they were part of the dialogue" phase. I lost my virginity in a motel about a mile outside Columbus, Ohio. The Stardust Motel, if I remember correctly, which chances are fairly good that I don’t. There’s a lot I can’t remember about that evening, and a lot of things I can, not things, though, people typically remember from that particular experience. The things people remember, though, they say a lot about them as people with priorities. There are girls who tell you how romantic it was, even if you can still see the Honda insignia in their back where the steering wheel was digging in, these girls whose lives have been forever changed by their introduction to the world of sexual activity. There are girls, too, and just as many, that will tell you that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, that it stung for a little while and then it was ok, they guess, but they didn’t really FEEL anything. Then there are girls who the first, I mean the VERY first thing they tell you (whether you’ve ever talked to them extensively or not) is just how big his dick was, how defined his pecs were or what they could’ve fit in the groove on the outside of ass, because, c’mon, you’re a bit curious, even if you have no idea who the other party involved was. So what’s the first thing I tell you? That it was in a motel about a mile outside of Columbus, Ohio and I don’t remember much. Now, I don’t remember much for a lot of reasons, good reasons, none of which involve alcohol if you can believe that. First off, I find myself among the ranks, at least somewhat, of the second type of girl, the nonchalant. I waited 19 years. Have you noticed that’s always what it feels like? Your whole life you’ve been waiting for this one thing to happen, conveniently forgetting the years you didn’t know or didn’t want to know what sex even meant, much less what it was like. 19 fucking years. That’s probably how I would’ve put it, too, if you’d asked me then. I would’ve said, “It’s been 19 fucking years! The hell’s wrong with me, anyways?” That whole si
So this is a poem I did for a freestyle writing class. I really liked how it turned out. Tell me what you all think.
The familiar ring of the alarm clock startled him out of a sound sleep. Beside him, her equally familiar grumbles began, as she groped along the edge of the bedside table to find her phone and shut the ringing off. Cracking open his own eyelids, he looked over at her, at the curve of her shoulder as she turned onto her side and re-buried her face in her pillow.
He chuckled, more at her obvious reluctance to greet the morning with any of the respect it deserved than anything else. Kissing the exposed skin, he threw back his half of the blankets without uncovering her body and got up to make coffee.
Their kitchen was in a casual state of disarray from the evening's get-together the night before. They'd made dinner for a few guests, a not so transparent attempt on her part to set up his brother with one of her best friends. The dishes were piled in the sink, her edged china and his sterile pots and pans. Wine glasses from the over-indulgent were stacked on the counter, along with two empty wine bottles. Between the six of them, they'd had maybe a little too much to drink.
Plugging in their coffee pot, he selected her favorite hazelnut blend and began to boil the water. Once the coffee was percolating away, he meandered into the living room and began to tidy up, refolding the blankets and straightening couch cushions that had been left askew. They were charged up the ass for their electricity--which included heat, as she was so fond of pointing out. Usually this meant that when they had guests over they would pass out blankets and encourage couch sharing to minimize the length of time they had to crank up the thermostat to seventy.
If he had their way they'd find a new place, hopefully bigger and better, by the first of the year. The location and amenities mattered, but not as much as his choice of roommate. As long as he had her, he would be okay living anywhere--no matter how crappy the place was.
Settling for crappy didn't much appeal to him though. If they were going to take the next step in their relationship, he wanted to be able to prove that he could provide for her. Picking a place that would suit both of them was an easy way of doing just that.
Once the coffee had finished, he poured out a steaming cup, doctoring it just the way she liked with a little half and half, but no sugar. Then he went back to their bedroom and stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame until she smelled her drink and inevitably woke up enough to get it.
This was one of his favorite parts of the morning. Seeing her stir, freeing both hands from beneath the blankets before she finally rolled onto her back and sat up. The simple repetition of the process always made him smile. "Morning," he said, when she propped herself up on her hands and looked at him.
"Morning, you." Tucking a long strand of reddish-gold hair behind one ear, she said, "You come bearing gifts."
"Two," she corrected him. "The coffee, and yourself."
He smiled at her, coming around to her side of the bed to set the coffee on the night table. The second he was seated on
evinced only by the stimulation in a sway,
in an eventual chafe;
the short-lived breath of renewal passing through.
inoutinout — the wounds reminisce.
they smile wide in nostalgia
and weep a salted pink.
serein, and she remembers.
he had a likeness to sand, slipping
like time; she had a soul like a soldier,
still going, searching back
confidant lost in combat:
I'm making a choice to be out of touch...leave me be,
he said, he said, he said—
but the essence burrowed deeper than realization
could dig, than acceptance could seep;
it stole away like an infidel,
as a memory withstanding
the rotted, pungent stench of
as a hope doused in impossibility, still kicking.
its place of seclusion pernicious to the touch and
thumbed only when honesty supersedes sensibility,
a phantom ache where you did reside:
soulmate, dry your eyes
you were my shadow and now
I walk unbalanced,
the sun ceases to exist as its evidence
and you have outlined my convictions
personified by widened eyes
shutting slow & liquified;
hindsight an accompaniment to
lighten chest & shorten breath,
a calm perceived by susceptibility
and while surrender evolves into
an orchestrated act
(the motions predisposed,
the words set in stone)
memories of endings always remain
history repeating &
fatalistic reasoning, a suture pulled
drawing fro the curtains to reveal
an organ of mythological proportion
beating in&out& faster now
like a prodigal child shoved onto stage;
widened eyes, shutting not & petrified
he knows the lines, mouthing in
you don't see through my eyes...
Whether you use the XRIVO.com workshop function to revise and get feedback privately or share with the entire community, you’re taking a very necessary, though terrifying step in the creative process. The XRIVO feedback process is modeled off those workshop courses to give you the ability to thoroughly respond to work. Now, through XRIVO, you can get and give line-by-line feedback on any piece. All you have to do is highlight what you’d like to comment on and type away in the “Comment” box. As the author, you can filter what feedback shows up by user to make the comments easier to peruse. All you have to do is run your mouse over the comment to see what they’re commenting on.
But there’s more to getting the most out of sharing your work than just detailed revisions and discerning readers. Sharing your writing can be daunting, yes, but here are some things to keep in mind to help everyone get everything they can out of XRIVO.com. Here’s a simple guide: 4 keys to giving and 4 keys to getting feedback on your written work.
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i refuse to say
anything that matters
related to itself
amnesia traces motion:
how do you say
hello when the wind
like a distant friend
arboreal fingers reaching
the gusts of a body
passing into past
i deny to see
anything of meaning
absence fills up silence:
how do you see
the wind’s memories
when it only gives you
the creak of the seat
lulls memory to sleep
back and forth
the tranquil repetition
of an empty chair
a dying presence
i refuse to feel
anything of importance
the pain of knowing
you forgot something
i retold myself
with a new ending
an old beginning
in a few thoughts
i will remember
only the lost nuance
of a swaying chair
a rocking branch
fading in a photograph:
how do you say
see and feel
of the wind
now moves faste
For William Blake
with eyes of struggle
watch the wind blow history
from limb to limb
as experience foliates
leaves fall to deteriorate
in the soil of the retina
to plant innocence
in blooming vision
as the future oxidizes
events start to accumulate
in the wind breathing on my limbs