The flicker of gold landed
on my shoulder.
The bringer of good news:
that there would be water
and glitter for the marching band.
Muahahahahahaaa.

Because I couldn't be serious as soon as I thought of "glitter". :-)  One Word's prompt today is "reporter".

        Idea that I want to try soon and do not want to forget:  Sounding out poetry.  Spelling everything as it would be to dictionary pronunciation or to a first grader who still must sound out individual letters.  It will look so strange.  But hopefully cool.

(Title?)

"I say I won't forget,
but that is
a lie."
I will forget that the rings
and your fingers
moved with the displacement
of water and sound.
And I will forget the paper-
thin leaves, with cobwebs
cracked into their stems,
waving over and saying,
"I can help.
Reach out your cobweb fingers."
when you did,
you pulled down the roots
of the merry weeds and flowers
had thrown out.
I'll forget you sank
to where your face was a rock
obscured in the silt.
And I'll remember
your blue lips
when we lifted you out
into the breathing violet fields
and the spider webs filled with dew
drops dripping off the dusty millers.

I want to be a drift of snow
draped upon your knee.
Quilted with crystals
that appear to be emeralds
or some blue stone from the east
when you brush them over
the red-hot stones in the fire.
But then, once you jostle
the logs for letting in the cold,
I want to stand beside you again
to hold you still with warm arms
and yellowing words.

        I went to Night of the Arts tonight, and it was great!  One thing, though -- the school allows the same art they banned from the literary magazine (which is bought by just a few) to be displayed to the whole school.  It's awesome, but so hypocritical!  Agh! 
        Art is great. :)

Project Attempts

I.
You step carefully,
        to keep the hollows
        domed out in the sand,
     on lava bubbles
and paleolithic fish.
They sharpen to red
        when you step over them,
and dull to orange
when they remember
they are sand
and they are orange
        in the sun.
I don't know you.
  But I peek  out from the sage
        and catch the rocks
        blushing
  because they thought
        your shadow
     was an invitation to familiarity.

II.
You step carefully,
        to keep the air
        pressing into the sand,
     on lava bubbles
and paleolithic fish.
They sharpen in the momentary heat
     when you step over them,
and dull again
when they remember
they are sand
and they are warm enough
        in the sun.
I don't know you.
But I peek out from the sage
        and catch the rocks
        steaming with all composure aside
     because they thought
your displacement of the sky
     was an invitation to familiarity.

III.
You hush the sand with the soles
        of  your feet, carefully,
        to keep the air
        whispering in the sand,
     on lava bubbles
and paleolithic fish.
They sharpen in the momentary crescendo
     when you hush over them,
and in diminuendo
     remember
they are sand
and they mumble
        in the sun.
I don't know you.
However, I understand from the sage
        the rocks roll
        in cacophony
     because they thought
your truncated sky
     was an invitation to familiarity. 

IV.

You deepen the sand with the soles
        of your feet, carefully,
        to keep the air
        clear in the sand,
     on lava bubbles
and paleolithic fish.
They brighten to scarlet
     when you darken them,
and mix with the light
when they remember
they are sand
and they gray
        in the sun.
I don't know you.
But I glimpse around the sage
        and see the rocks
        blushing
because they thought
     your shadow
was an invitation to familiarity. 

V.
You lick at the ground with the soles,
        of your feet, carefully,
        to keep the air
        breathing into the sand,
     on lava bubbles
and paleolithic fish.
They burn with spice
     when you linger over them,
and pacify to milky white
when they remember
they are sand
and they are bland
        in the sun.
I don't know you.
But I savor the sage
        and the rocks
        spill together
because they thought
     your salting of the sky
was an invitation to familiarity.

Working on my project... and it's sort of kinda working out.  Better than before, at least!

Sex and Violence

          Today a story and a photo were cut from the lit mag.  I'm upset.  It's not that I'm upset that they were cut, exactly, but for the reasons that they were cut.
          Anyone who's read our school's literary magazine before knows that there can be some disturbing stuff in there.  Which is fine by me, since it's usually not threatening.  There's swearing, drugs, violence, and cannibalism pressed right next to pages about tulips, apple trees, love, and autumn.   And that's alright with me.  I like it to be a relatively free student publication.
          However, of course, it's not as free as the staff would like it, which brings me to why I'm upset with the administration and most Americans.
          The photo that was cut was a shadowy photo of a girl with her back to the camera, arms wrapped around herself, and no shirt.  So, a naked back.  Cut.  But it's semi-understandable.
          The short story was about a boy (presumably in high school) who was God himself.  And he murdered a girl in a bathroom stall for being a "whore", cut muggers to pieces in the streets, and killed a mother.  Pretty graphic stuff.  But that's not why it was cut.  God loved a 12 year-old girl, because she was pure.  No sex involved, even though his attraction to her was implied.  Therefore, it was cut for being "pedophilic".  And that's what makes me angry.  Not because of the descriptions of the murders?? Because of implied sexual content??
          How is it that we can live in a world where anything sexual is supposedly worse than murder?  Where many people would rather have their sons get in fist-fights than get someone pregnant? 

*Shrugs*

I nominated the lamp to take this position
by the window and by the bookcase
to unite the real and the fake
of all that I know
and of all that I care for
which is in everything.

Today's One Word prompt was "nominated".  Ifferblahntersnap. (Shrug)

My writing... gaaaaaahhhhhhgghhhhuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhuhughughughguuuuuughhuuuuh... *breathes obnoxiously*

Finally, after a long hour and a half of tiredness and writing about naps, I concluded my creative writing class with the following:

When do my real naps come in, huh?

Not *Kills*...

Summertime chlorine
kills me a little every time
I remember it.
Sweat and sprinklers
and water and toothpaste
recombine
into an afternoon nap
on the green-leaf rug
in the swampy hall.
I march up the steps,
slower than I ever walked
before my street came up
on the map.


Can you tell I was still sleepy?...  Because I was.  I'm getting sleepy again from reading this. -.o

Why Write When I Can Sleep?

Silence is nice
in the course of a tapping day.
Silence is just quiet;
hands keep moving
and the air conditioner
sounds sleepy and old.
I am sleepy, but I am not old,
and the hospital I think of
is not young,
but black shoes
with white soles are.
The halls are empty
and sloped and curved,
to make walking easy
and to make falling hard,
and the colors on the windows
suggest that blindness
can see color
when faced with whiteness.
Now it is dark,
but still sleepy and old,
angular, orange, and brown.
I'm afraid that I cannot
feel my eyes, though
they never tingled
before now, either.
I am sleepy, and I want to
recline in a white room
with an air conditioner
on the window.

Another sleepy poem.  I was sitting on top of my desk and almost fell asleep, which I realized would probably have resulted in my toppling headfirst off of the desk, so I got down....

For some reason or another, the sound of the school's air conditioning makes me think of a happy hospital.  (Shrugs)

What's Over Doesn't Matter

An overhang drips
over stories of mist
which condensates on a marble.
It grows sticky
with honey-dew
and the dew of rain
on slivers of leaf greens
on the edge of the desert.
A cool sway
with the offshore
roar of water;
interconnected dew drops
stumble over themselves
to be on top and bottom
of the stones.
They rub the rocks clean
and foster growth
of happy slime in the cracks
where they crumble apart,
like dew drops from a breath
of crystallizing blue sky.
The roar of the marble
falling and rolling in in-
describable wetness
is as loud as the shouting
dew drops themselves.

I was really tired in creative writing, and I'm still not feeling inspired in the way that I'm supposed to for my project... but here, have some sleepy sub-conscious, sub-par writing!