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Archive for October, 2009|Monthly archive page


In by Lara on October 31, 2009 at 5:34 pm

What are you eating?




What kind?



Like a Polaroid.

That’s gross. You know how much MSG is in that?

Enough for my taste buds to dance around in glee.

Way too much. Not to mention VBP and a lot of other chemical crap.

That’s fine. I live way too organically anyway. Slurp.

At least tell me you’re not eating the chicken flavored one.

Nope. Shrimp.

Oh god, even worse.


Hey! You just splattered me with your chemical crap! (licks lips and tastes a little).

Sorry. Tasty, tasty chemicals.

Actually, can I have a bite?

A Bar Scene

In by Lara on October 29, 2009 at 12:40 am

In a small, crowded bar, hazy yellow light swarms haphazardly through intimate conversations and whisperings. A tall woman with dainty ankles saunters over to a man sipping a dry martini, alone.

Hey there, sugar.

Her lulling voice melts like chocolate in his ears and he can’t help lean in for more.

What are you doing over here all by your lonesome?

He smiles, but just at the corners.

Waiting for you.

She slinks in next to him, cozying up against his right side in the leather chaise.

He raises his eyebrows.

No strings?

She smirks. Only if you like puppets.

Thoughts on product design.

In by Wyatt on October 29, 2009 at 12:02 am

Product design is righteous if it seeks to improve our living condition. It walks a delicate line between improving our lives by solving problems, and harming our lives by forcing consumerist paradigms upon us. I love design, am fascinated by the prospect of making the world a better place, and know how tragically easily humans turn to consumerism to solve problems it never can. I need to know that product design can make the world better and not just persuade us to squander our money on misleadingly advertised trinkets that eventually leave us with nothing more than empty lives and wallets.

My stapler ate it?

In by Lara on October 27, 2009 at 5:13 pm

Last night, my stapler and tape dispenser came alive and formed a mutiny. Before creeping over to my bed, taping my mouth shut and stapling the blanket tight preventing my escape, they maliciously bent the paperclips out of whack, pushed the pushpins into the ground, and ripped the post-it notes into shreds. And then they destroyed my computer. They were tired of being under appreciated. Now, who knows where they went. They may be sabotaging countless others. But I want you to know that I was the first victim. And that is why I do not have my homework today.

Strange thoughts. Mainly hybrids.

In by Lara on October 27, 2009 at 5:08 pm

A turkey gator: a strange hybrid turkey with scales, a long snout and sharp teeth. It still gobbles.

A flying squirrel vampire preys on unfallen acorns.

A hot dog rolled in steak is fried in cheese and eaten.


Dust bunnies and monsters in the closest copulate and form one giant dust bunny monster.

Taxi hummers can get through any kind of traffic.

Ghost sheep. Actually countable in sleep.

A jello pillow.

Fork fingertips. Never need cutlery again, but may poke people accidentally.

Bra pockets. They hold coins too!

A bird with a flat beak. Oh wait, that’s a duck.

Hallow’s Eve Run

In by Lara on October 27, 2009 at 4:42 pm

It had been a sunny day, and now with a swollen moon, it was an equally glowing night. The smooth roads were primed for running. The cool air she breathed was fresh and reminiscent of autumn leaves and mist. Instinct told her that there was something vaguely disconcerting about not being able to see the ground beneath her feet, but she ignored it and through her head back up to the sky. As she passed a lamppost, she saw her shadow in the distance, her legs long and spindly. She chased it eagerly, and laughed on into the welcoming dark.

Sorry to shatter your dreams, but…

In by Lara on October 27, 2009 at 1:33 pm

Turns out Snow White wasn’t named after her fair skin. She was a cocaine addict and what they call a “crackwhore.” That explains the seven small men.

Last anyone had heard, Aladdin joined some terrorist organization and Jasmine became a sex-trafficker. The magic carpet, Abu, and the genie were all metaphors for the problems in their relationship.

Toxic waste was dumped into the ocean and the little Mermaid grew three more tails. The prince divorced her and married Ursula, who went on Jenny Craig and lost 50 lbs.

Everyone else is in rehab or dead. Or working for the DMV.

Epidemic of Happiness

In by Lara on October 27, 2009 at 1:24 pm

I’m happy. Yer happy. They’re happy. Gosh darn. Everybody’s so freakin’ happy. It’s a goddamn plague of happiness. Everyone’s smilin’, the children ‘specially. ‘N don’t go thinkin’ yer safe from those big bear hugs. That shit’ll infect yer soul wif joy n’ laughter. Gosh darn that laughter. That ther is serious. Rull serious. It’s jus’ so gosh darn contagious. If one person gits it, the next one’ll start, then the next, then the next. Yer startin’ to see how this all began, haven’t ya? It started with the gosh darn laughter. Prolly from some rull funny joke. Ha ha ha.

A Dialogue

In by Wyatt on October 27, 2009 at 11:25 am

I thought of you today. Pensive.
In what context? Wry smile.
I was at the post office.
I stood in that absurd line and thought about how much you used to enjoy such inefficiency.
Hold on—it was because the entire time you waited, you wanted. And the feeling of wanting was more powerful than the gift at the end.
Roj, did you forget our anniversary? Knowing stare.
No…but you’ll have to wait for your present, and I hope you have the presence of mind to realize you used to love that.
Is it a necklace?
Well okay.

Exactly 100!

In by Wyatt on October 27, 2009 at 11:24 am

Liquid indecisiveness flowed through my tangled brain. Do I take this job in Syracuse? It’s forever away from here, everything I know and love—and that’s the good part. It’s a bank teller position that I couldn’t care less about—that’s the bad part. But on the side, I’ll be able to be my own man, because with such mindless work, you leave your job at the door. Maybe there’ll be a cute girl there that I can wrap into my existence. Maybe I’ll meet an old man who be-sons me. Maybe I’ll stare into the oaky night sky and be happy.

On The Kitchen Bulletin Board At Stacy’s Asian Cuisine

In by Wyatt on October 25, 2009 at 11:29 pm

Squirrel farts.
Blueberry nostril face.
Huge nugget vapid legislature.
Disturbed monopodular hippopotamal disenfranchisement.

Acorn poo.
Strawberry weenus visage.
Vast gem-like empty laws.
Removed single-celled bufalloal eviction.

Noodle squishier than Tuesday’s. Might be the water. No salt this time. Sidenote: garnish with cherry?

Table 9 has wobbly leg. Call Brian to fix. If he charges more than ten dollars give him kiss and a no.

Cheryl, movie Thursday? Yes, dummy.

Health Inspector Soon: Wash Your Hands Frequently! Hair In Nets!

Roger – the regular at table 7 – vowed he’d never return if we made the soup that sweet again. Less sugar.

Powerpoint and The Matrix

In by Wyatt on October 25, 2009 at 11:18 pm

The world would be a more exciting place if bullet points catalysed bullet time.

A philosophy lecture would be punctuated not by extended periods of abstract reasoning, but by extended seconds that screamed past as the lecturer dodged clammy spitballs in slow motion.

Each mediocre group presentation would be a foray into the realm of the absurd – as each new point hits the projector screen, the class would be flung into retardation. In this blobbery, relaxed state movement is feeble and inconsidered. Havoc is wreaked before the next slide hits the screen.


The Bottle

In by Wyatt on October 25, 2009 at 10:58 pm

Running towards a falling bottle of Bombay Blue Sapphire, mangled auto-erecting umbrella in bloody left hand and outstretched right.

It was falling from an apartment window.

It was also raining.

The wet cement emitted subtle aromas of fresh grit and cool grease in slow clouds with each darting plop.

The bottle of Bombay Blue Sapphire was almost at the zenith of its descent. The culmination of its efforts. Brit challenged his leopardian ancestry with one spring, and made contact with the bottom of the bottle just as it splintered into the pavement.

He licked the delicate tear-coloured fragments of crystal.

Things That Crunch

In by Wyatt on October 25, 2009 at 10:58 pm

A pigeon’s vertebrae
A hard candy
A burnt sausage
A lightbulb put in too vigorously
A shard of glass under a steel boot.
A stomache
A tooth on too-hard candy
Time (busy and deadline-filled)
A peanut shell but not the peanut
A plastic cup thrown onto a landfill to join multitudes of its friends
Keyboard key strokes
Crab shell split open
The outside of a chicken nugget
The inside of a chicken nugget (bad)
A camera when you wind the film too far
A bike when you change gears wrong
Frozen liptstick
Yellowed newspaper pushed into a ball
What else?

The Nap

In by Wyatt on October 25, 2009 at 10:57 pm

Dreams needn’t be fully-formed, pre-planned, final-draft, plan-A entities, but they’re not supposed to be a messy collapse of recent fragments either. This was.

Probably because he slept in a warm room.

His ideas were allowed to ruminate, stew, breed. Warmth is only a positive notion if it’s cool outside; if it’s hot outside and really quite warm inside too, then perhaps the notion of a nap isn’t so positive either.

But nonetheless, he napped. Hard.

He hugged a man who through his crossing arms to lock and petrify stone around the sky of orange water candy leaving objectified love darts.

Desk Items

In by Chris on October 23, 2009 at 1:44 pm

The three oranges on my desk are not friends
They rub peels like disgruntled subway riders
And shoot each other invisible dirty looks

My contacts bubble in a cleaning solution
Say goodbye to eyeball pollution

It’s a little pumpkin
Small and round
Ridges radiating
Dull and unprofound
It’s a little pumpkin
Seeds inside
Stem upshooting
Trying to hide

Books and papers
Overwhelmed with writing
Jumping and jiving all over the pages with infinite writhing and rages!

What do quiet speakers do,
Tangled in cords like webs?
When they have nothing to say
Their shapes come clear like towers
Above a plain

Talking Time

In by Chris on October 23, 2009 at 1:42 pm

Time is a slippery solution, schedules are the chinks that clog the gears of our days.

Or schedules are the evolutionary orders that raise complex societies from primordial sludges.

No, the instinct to be free to follow your nose wherever it leads is innate, nothing can overcome it.

Without organization and discipline, we would regress into a soup of perceived yet insubstantial meaning.

Schedules rip me from the things that I find important like a blind weeder pulling up every plant in a field.

And it is good for you, for without that intervention, you would quickly outgrow your bounds.

Hunting For The Wild Hot Pocket (Inspired by Michael Brandt)

In by Lara on October 21, 2009 at 3:55 pm

Many believe that the hot pocket is a synthetically created food—a pastry shell filled with low-quality ingredients, stuffed with unnatural chemicals, but new research findings may blow your mind. The hot pocket is, in fact, an organism in the phylum chordata. Yes, folks, that’s right. The hot pocket is indeed a wild animal. The Hot Pocket Corp. founder kept this information secret since his discovery of the hot pocket in the Sahara in 1964. It was highly endangered, and he abducted the last remaining population for his own manufacturing purposes. So, ladies and gents—let your hot pockets run wild!

Two Friends

In by Chris on October 21, 2009 at 12:23 am

Two friends find each other on a lonely street in a city both of them are strangers to. What brought them here? How could they have found each other so far from the times they used to share together? They embrace and walk down sidewalks, rearranging the unknown streets into shapes their minds have known. In a world of strangers, how is it possible for two people to know each other? It is beautiful! they say. This city is majestic, and I’m so glad we are friends, and that we have found each other for tonight! High above, others agree.

This doesn’t compile

In by Wyatt on October 20, 2009 at 9:21 pm

/* File:
* This program takes a commonplace sentiment
* and translates it into a moving, emotional
* exemplification of a transient moment.

import acm.program.*;

public class hundredWords extends ConsoleProgram {
public void run( ){
println(“This program helps you write 100 words”);
String opener = readString (“Please recount a recent experience that felt important to you in some way. Be detailed yet brief. You may use quotes, poetry, abstract notions, and metaphor.”);
String denoument = readString (“Now, please write a short yet strange sentiment that may or may not have anything to do with the above recount”);
String lastSentence = readString (“Lastly, in six words or less, tie the two parts together”)
println(opener + denoument + lastSentence + “count the words”);

Awkward conversation

In by Wyatt on October 20, 2009 at 3:09 pm

I have to talk to you about your exam grade.
Oh? Why?
Well… you failed!
Wait what?!
Didn’t you know?
No! Wait, I was certain that I did really well!
Apparently not.
This is awful, what grade did I get?
A D+… and Computer Science classes don’t give out anything lower than C-…
So I failed.
It would seem.
Can I see my exam?
No. It was eaten by my fish.
I thought carp only ate kibble.
Mine eats paper too. Sorry. About everything.
At least I still have two legs.
That’s more than I can say for my carp.


In by Wyatt on October 20, 2009 at 3:09 pm

Make pseudo monastic internal reflections,
Trade mellow bombastic eternal directions,
Grade yellow fantastic recurdled contraptions,
Flake glued open nasty kin turtle shell actions.

Plinth sausage stick flint adage kick blunt divulge bleat stick my bulge thick.
Criminal animal goop subliminal mineral stoop convectual visceral snoop directional vesicle hoops
By-the-by that buy to sigh what my old guy moulds sky for sly dough wry no rhino cryogenics, cry OJ nix, plyer fence bricks find whole trench bits

Warfare leaves a sparrow steeped in narrow cross hair barely creeped in
More fare tower burly beeps and warehouse surly sandy street ends.


In by Wyatt on October 20, 2009 at 3:09 pm

“Sire, the octapoodle is missing again.” Francewald bowed and rolled his eyes. Fourth time this week. God almighty knew how an octapoodle could so much as move its eight furry legs in tandem, let alone escape from the Tower, but it had. Somehow.
“Very well, Waldo. Send the boys.”
The boys were already out searching for Jack the Ripper; they had larger and greasier fish to fry than recapturing a pet for their illustrious, capricious leader. But God forbid Francewald bringing that up.
“Indeed, Sire.” Only Francewald knew that Jack and the octapoodle were in fact one and the same.


In by Wyatt on October 20, 2009 at 3:08 pm

“It feels like a dream. You feel… vivid, and colorful, and…juicy? The only way to describe it’s to show you. Come on!”
We stepped into her room and looked at each other. I had never so desperately wanted to embrace something and run far away from it at the same time.
“Put your left hand… here,” she said, lifting my fingers and touching them to her forehead. Her warm, beautiful forehead. I wanted to kiss her until I dissolved.
“And your other hand… here,” she whispered, moving my right arm around her so I nestled the small of her back.


In by Wyatt on October 20, 2009 at 3:08 pm

Outside, a banker in a suit sauntered by cradling a skateboard. The day looked warm and pleasant, not carefree, but beginning to be. The first toke on a stressed cigarette. Soon, relaxation.

But the air inside was a starched shirt that had been bleached and rewashed a thousand times, only to become bloodied when reworn. And here he hunched, inside. His hands were dry and mottled, for any water consumed was eagerly leeched out by the vapid air. The lonely Kitkat wrappers on his desk played silent games with each other for company. He would do it tomorrow. Always, tomorrow.

This skin

In by Lara on October 20, 2009 at 12:06 am

Your moisture dropped sweet, sweet drops upon my lips

and ooh, I couldn’t help it, something in my heart dipped.

And it wasn’t the lips or the taste or the hands around my face,

It was this skin, this moisture, this skin we were in.

and ooh, I’ve wanted closure for so long, it seemed so wrong that we didn’t belong

but now that I’ve been alone

it seems I’ve known

Nothing mattered except when you were gone

And it was that moisture, the moisture of our skin

It was this skin, this moisture, that skin I’m no longer in.

Pumpkin Flight

In by Chris on October 19, 2009 at 11:53 pm

The lopsided pumpkin sailed through the emotive night air as the onlookers draped oohs and ahhs from its bristling stem. The police leaned on their rearview mirrors full of dour bravado. The pumpkin passed transcendently through a streetlamp’s glow as it reached the apex of its frightful journey, then succumbed to gravity gently. The four boys stood with arms dangling in the air, mouths open in gaping grins. Their still-gasping peers ducked loquaciously, car lights flashed by, and the moon sighed as the fatal arc reached its terminus, dashing chunks of pumpkin skin and seeds across the wet parking lot.

An Abbr. Wrld.

In by Lara on October 19, 2009 at 11:49 pm

R. Smith opned his BIW and tried to look for sth to wear, but since he hdn’t done lndry in 2 wks, the only clthes he had were NSFW. He donned on his least offnsve pants and walkd dwn the St. to the MUNI STA. He caught the 8:34 one, and wndred if he’d make it on time to the off. As the train car swivled a bit, a fem. bmped into him. They shared an awk. mnt. for a sec, bef. trning awy and blshing smltnsly. He hesitated, but dcded to GFI.


“32. Fem (duh). NOMA.”



Mount Abaddon

In by Chris on October 19, 2009 at 11:19 pm

Every year at a certain moment, the earth and sun orient themselves so that the desert sun waves enter the dusty cauldron of Mount Abaddon, a volcano lost since the beginning of time in the deep Sahara, and illuminate the searing edges of a huge, flaming, seething creature. The few who have ever stood encased in dust on the crater’s lip at that moment describe a sight not seen but burned into their deepest retinas, and they shiver as they relate it. For they are the only ones to have seen that most ancient of evils, the great serpent, Satan.

The Great Novelists

In by Chris on October 18, 2009 at 11:11 pm

I am a hermit crab, and I carry everything I’ve ever owned everywhere I go. Hidden in my shell are three grains of sand, and I live in the mouth of a lagoon. Some days during the summer, huge, old creatures come and move great mounds of earth around, drawing things out of the sand that I have barely glimpsed. Inspired, I try to dig my claws around the edges of things, but to no avail. The humans leave and my memory of them stays somewhere back in my shell with the three sand grains, tormenting me to keep trying.

Sunday Sob

In by Chris on October 18, 2009 at 11:10 pm

It was good, she told herself, therapeutic. Each Sunday she knew she would do it, knew as surely as the weeks were marked on the calendar in her bedroom. When the pastor prayed at the end of the sermon, a maelstrom of emotions automatically overwhelmed her, and she burst into face-contorting tears. Barely able to see, she felt her way to the entranceway and left. The other churchgoers barely looked up it was so ritual. Sobs wracked her in the morning parking lot. Then, soon enough, she looked about, dabbed her face, and greeted the congregation smiling as they left.

The Little Boy and The Tree

In by Lara on October 18, 2009 at 9:42 pm

The little boy looked up at the great branches above with reverence and awe through his little yellow visor. Excited, the little boy took his shoes off, placed them neatly at the base and prepared to climb like he had never climbed before. Clutching the ridges of the bark with feet and hands, He felt intrepid and daring—an explorer in the deep jungle. But a wrong foot here and a missed grab there and the little boy fell on the seat of his red pants. He started to cry but saw the branches, arms welcoming him to climb, climb again.

Hugging The World

In by Chris on October 18, 2009 at 12:17 am

She lay face down, arms and legs spread sticking straight out with her palms grasping the cloddy grass.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Hugging the world,” she said without looking up. “This body is shooting filaments through the soils and atmospheres. My wrists are bridges over the Nile and the Amazon and my fingers are intertwining with the roots of the Himalayas. My chest is curving, my toes are meeting somewhere on the other side of this great celestial sphere and though it may look like I’m here, I’m everywhere. Yes, I am extending, extending, surrounding, surrounding, and loving…”


In by Chris on October 16, 2009 at 2:23 am

My oily eyes pool under sockets of wrenches.
Grizzled mechanics in flashing ‘Stangs and ‘Vettes,
Popped leather collars in my vision. She said,
“Faster crowds” and left. My piston fingers
Fall across books and rub against both of my hips.
We met last in sleet streets snapping rhythms
On greasy knuckles. “I hope I’m not too late.”
And, “goodnight until morning.” My rubber toes
Charge in contact with violent surfaces. They run
Still through tinted drive-thrus coming in my ears.
Tomorrow night I will see her again under a solitary
Streetlight. “Take this.” Parting my hair, velcro shoes
And screws –

Perfectly Rainy Day

In by Lara on October 15, 2009 at 1:23 am

I gathered my fleece blanket around me, put on pajamas, and curled up in a big chair with a book and a good cup of tea. The rain fell in different tempos, different pitter-patters throughout the day. It was grey and blue outside, and there was no telling what time it was. Day passed into evening, and I periodically looked out from my window to see the deluge collect in promising puddles. I looked at you and you grinned ear to ear. We donned our rainboots and soaked ourselves silly. That night, we fell asleep with raindrops on our lips.

Little Commander

In by Lara on October 15, 2009 at 1:12 am

“Okay, here’s the game plan. Listen up! This fort is going to be gigantic. the waves won’t know what hit them. We gotta solidify our troops okay? I want to reach China by tomorrow! You hear me? That doesn’t give us much time. So let’s start. Dave, Lisa—I want you to start mixing the sand. Paul, Tina—I want you guys to start clearing our area of toys. I will scout the area to see if there are any spots we can’t dig through.”

“Honey, come inside. It’s getting late!”

“Darn. We’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow, gang. Good work.”

Kneeding Blocks

In by Wyatt on October 14, 2009 at 11:46 pm

Outside inbred pickles muster courage to assault gestalt
With often-coffined coffee beans
Tarnished vortices slick flaccid morbidities along graceless comeuppances.

Amputate the visceral decision from her rhubarb palette
Sear the quick-clipped snippets of antiquated pseudo-wisdom
Paste gentle smears across lathered tireless wheels,
And grate screeched steel against wooded asphalt.

Filament of sweetberry winds flossy blinds up
Conceal reality within writhing peels of orange zest in gasping bloody eyes.
Unbridled cornucopias pretend that archangels presume delinquency
But righteously, stilted flows garner further blows.

And inside, homespun wunderlust licks thick heat into the heart of
A rusty morning.
And exeunt.

The Anchor

In by Chris on October 14, 2009 at 9:02 pm

The anchor fell into the sea with a misty splash, unfurling the rope from the ship’s deck as the metal claw wafted down through layers of blue.
For days the sailors explored the cove, bringing back scurrying, brightly colored creatures and trinkets as they searched for gold and natives.
On the last day, disappointed, they pulled the expedition’s zoologist from the sandy forests and unfolded the sails. Two gaunt sailors pulled up the anchor. It rose from unknown depths, covered in golden scratches and barnacles.
The captain hefted the anchor and traced the scratches. “We are here, where are you?”

This sweatshirt

In by Lara on October 14, 2009 at 2:01 am

This sweatshirt is old and it’s ratty beyond all repair. The fleece that used to line its supple interior has pilled off after countless late nights running around to this place and that, several instances in which a mess just happened and no towels were to be seen, and not to mention hundreds of cycles through the unforgiving washing machine. But in its faded glory, this sweatshirt has a story. Its tatters speak of adventures, its subdued color of long hours in sunlight. And to this day, it’s still worn—not for warmth, but for comfort and those bears in mind.

The Way

In by Lara on October 14, 2009 at 1:53 am

Let’s think about the world in this way and that. Let our hands be still and feet lay flat. It doesn’t matter at all which way we go, which way we throw, to whom our thoughts eventually flow. And flow they will, if only to fill that void of utterly substantial but lacking thrill. But perhaps the sound of silence can make a pitch—rich in tension and some unmentioned poignant light. For who is to say, really, what is the delight? The delight of day possibly may just be the time I get to say, “Hey, that is the way.”

A slow loris’s favorite thing

In by Lara on October 14, 2009 at 1:38 am

A slow loris likes to grasp branches in its small furry hands. A slow loris enjoys clinging to things for long periods of time and peering at you through their big, big eyes. A slow loris is never in a rush and enjoys the laid-back pace of things. A slow loris also relishes the idea of an lizard for breakfast, a mussel for lunch, and a salad of grasshoppers for dinner. But above all, a slow loris enjoys being tickled on its tummy. It craves the sensation of twinkling fingers. A slow loris will do anything for a tickle.

Cloud toss

In by Lara on October 14, 2009 at 1:26 am

I jumped up and reached for the sky. I reached for a cloud, plucked a tuft right out. It was soft and cool, and as I tossed it to my friend, I felt both the pliant bounce and the friction inside it. The cloud landed in my friend’s hands, wisps splattering to the sides and quickly recoiling back into the mass. He did not know what to do with it. The cloud started getting restless and started to shake. All of a sudden it jumped right up there, up to the sky, and parked itself right below the midday sun.

Uncover Our Ears

In by Chris on October 14, 2009 at 1:15 am

The tree troll forked minutes down from the branches
To uncover our ears
To hear the shuffling chinking pieces of misty minds
Meeting in clouds
Discussing the tree troll for endless minutes.
Corners of conversations
Washed down with picnic cloths and imported iced tea
Found on plates in dusty houses
Forgotten in our minds
As the tree minutes troll across the sky.
Shards of cardigan flung aside
To hang like ripened tea bags from greasy fingers
And figure the slyest way
Under the ground
Squished in amongst the roots and forgotten
Even by the minute trolls in the parapet trees.

A great lesson

In by Wyatt on October 14, 2009 at 12:48 am

What’d you notice watching yourself?
My body language was a little…
A little, dunno, closed?
What do you mean.
I had my hands in my pockets.
And why is this “closed”?
Because people can’t interact with me.
I agree, for the record, but let’s deconstruct this.
Why do pocketed hands indicate disinclination to conversational participation?
They show awkwardness?
And awkwardness shows…
That conversation will be difficult, unpleasant.
I should take my hands out of my pockets?
So people feel like I’m comfortable?
So they’ll be comfortable watching me?
Look what you just taught yourself!

A portrait of a closet

In by Wyatt on October 14, 2009 at 12:48 am

Seventeen wrinkled tshirts hang from rigid on hangers. They have been worn between six and four hundred, thirty-seven times, depending on their age, color combination, and fashion coefficient. They wait unexpectantly. They care naught what happens tomorrow, who gets worn, who gets washed, who gets torn, who gets tossed. The only person who cares in any way about this interaction is their owner, who is currently staring at them in confusion.

For he cannot choose one. And in this tiny, transient moment, his ability to successfully complete this task matters more than whether or not he inhales another breath tomorrow.

What have we caught here?

In by Wyatt on October 14, 2009 at 12:47 am

Mona, pray tell, what is this?
It’s a fish, Patrick.
I can see that, Mona. What am I supposed to do with it? What are we supposed to do with it?
Cook it, Patrick. I was hoping we could cook it.
I wish I could. I think.
Do you have no gas, Patrick? Must you visit my house?
Mona that sounds wonderful.
Friday then?
I cannot.
Does another day work better for you? I wish not to seem desperate.
No days work. Every day I collapse. Every day I fall. I haven’t yet hit the bottom.
Perhaps you must choose.

Why is he famous

In by Wyatt on October 14, 2009 at 12:47 am

Bob Dylan’s voice sounds like hail slamming against that long-rusty grate at the boat dock next to my friend Tim’s house in the industrial part of town. His song’s instrumentals sound like campfire riffs on forgotten keyboards tapped out with limited skill and less emotion, until the inevitable dawn breaks and sends the cowering “musicians” back to begging out of hats on chewing-gummed street corners, with frigid gusts punctuating their monotonous existence. But that is irrelevant. It is all irrelevant. His words, his poetry, his tale answers my desperate plea for mutual human experience, I know he has been here.

A Riddle, unsolvable

In by Wyatt on October 14, 2009 at 12:46 am

It made no sense. Her capacity for loving one man while falling face first for another was breathtaking. And yet it wasn’t. It was entirely human. The love of her life was absent, now present only in her memory. And those were only active when she chose to remember him. She loved him, and yet. When a message arrived, she hoped it was from another. When a thought emerged into her troubled mind, it was of another. She loved him, yet she couldn’t help imagining this other’s hot breath against her ear lobe, his foreign touch against her yearning skin.


In by Chris on October 12, 2009 at 10:24 pm

No way I was going to pay two more dollars for another transfer. At the crowded bus stop, I crumpled the slip of paper in my hand and waited for the doors to open. When they did, two women clambered on immediately, pushing an old, scarved lady who was trying to get off back into the bus. I stood to the side and motioned her down, letting her take my hand as she descended delicately, painfully. Then I said hello to the bus driver as I deceived him and found a seat, not sure of how to feel about myself.

Written In The Marin Headlands

In by Chris on October 12, 2009 at 10:15 pm

I balance myself
Poured in among the wavy limestone
Artificial concrete arteries
Disappearing into the trodden hills
No longer used and crumbling above the ocean

And where is my heart
Perched atop the weary fortresses
Crawling through these misty hills

In ages past
Men peered from here each bone-cold morning
And tried to distinguish the shape of the horizon

Am I to be spread over you like dust
Flapped over by crows
And still punctured by spray painted concrete
Is my heart being worn down
Is my heart being worn down
Tumbling down the cliffs
To land at my feet