consonantberry

Posts Tagged ‘Prose’

A line in the Sand

In Poetry, Uncategorized on November 24, 2016 at 8:29 pm

At least I know that I’m dumb.
It’s a line in the sand,
Some see it and some don’t .
There are no smart people,
There are no ignorance-void gods.

Among us, uncertainty dumbs us all
Along fallible passages.
Our cobblestoned  aspirations and beliefs,
They walk us drunk towards passing out
On the hope that all ends well…. despite

Our sober mind’s hard fear of the imaginable terminations of each our own dreamed-up know-it-all kingdom.

Crumbled Earnings

In Poetry, Uncategorized on November 14, 2016 at 8:27 pm

I desire a headache
Just to to acknowledge the robbed-throbbing
One-splitted goings for each general
Makings of a thing not just like I lied them….

I desire a slapping stingfuls’
Assessment of my aspirations gone regular
Rank my runnings for “Most Deserved
Shitting-Good Burn”. Insolvencies

Spill me out of my trough.
-I desire my acute voice-over to think
Of the non-nuisance it is. Mundane business
Behaves me to root inside these

Crumbled earnings.

Enormous Simplification

In Poetry, Prose on November 7, 2016 at 10:08 pm

Be heard of dependent importance,
Imperatively so.
Use associated words in many-word
Cuckoos, chords.
Approach an important place.
We can locate definitions
And ignorance
There.

The wold has fantastic images,
Uncountably so.
Imagine those images as sounds,
Those sounds as words.
Speak those words and be

Utterly disappointed with the quality of translation.

Lick your lips and try again.
Enjoy the frustration-accumulation.

Turn off the lights. Lie in the dark,
Desperately waiting to “sleep on it”…

Jerk off.

Find the fridge. Chug a half-carton of milk.
Take a pill and pass out thinking (still).

Robot Candy/Cocaine

In Prose on May 10, 2012 at 4:07 pm

This story is purely surface value fun -no deeper meanings intended!

I have this pet robot that runs on apples. Right after I first bought him, the little guy absolutely refused to intake the apples I offered him -I think they were too organic-looking or something. I quickly came to worry that he’d starve his circuits to death. One day, in desperation, I wrapped an apple in tinfoil and -to my relief- he sucked it into his intake chute without any prompting whatsoever. I was so elated by this turn of events that I went and wrapped up an other full bushel in aluminium and fed them into his input in rapid succession -I figured to fatten him up while he was consuming.

After the last one disappeared into my robot’s chute, though, he obviously wasn’t satiated and started to spit sparks and pieces of algorithm screeches in the worst tantrum I’d ever seen ejected from a machine’s outputs. I tried to calm him down with a nice program of soothing interface, but to no avail. I finally had to flick the kill switch on the little bugger.

Now, every time I power him back up, he’s rendered defectively manic by insatiable craving for aluminium-wrapped apples; I’m afraid that he’s addicted to them. I bought him on Craigslist, so the warranty is not valid… I really don’t wan’t to scrap him as I can’t afford a new one.  If anyone knows anything about this type of condition, or if anyone has experienced this kind of problem before with their own robots (mine is a model T22A45/33N FarTech), I would very much appreciate some advice.

We Met in Different Places

In Prose on April 27, 2012 at 6:52 pm

The chapped split in my lower lip pulsed dull to the drone of the television in the room next door where my neighbor had either underestimated the thin makings of our separation, else he just didn’t give a shit.

The Charlie Brown murmurings of the wall wouldn’t let me slip away into sleep, so I finally undid my brain from the notion of rest and pulled my feet to ground and tied some shoes onto them to go for a jog and blow off some of my frustration. This was all instead of knocking down the neighbor’s door, shooting off the bastard’s head (with a gun I didn’t have) and smashing the TV to a million bits; that’s what was in my heart, but I’m too passive for that kind of violence. So I went for a run.

It was that late time of night on a Saturday when the very last stragglers of parties and bars and underage drinking in the park are wandering back home on the uncertain dregs of being in between drunk and hung over. I passed a group of three so-disposed individuals, splayed out on a fringe of grass next to the sidewalk outside of this cheap student apartment complex at the end of my street. One of them looked dead, while the other two looked over the dead-seeming one in a useless stupor.

I planned to run on by them like a good stranger, but one of the not dead ones -a girl who looked a little older than me with short-cropped hair and a mild attractiveness that was made both worse and better by her disheveled state- she trotted after me as I ran by; I heard the panicked click-click-click of quick-stepping heels and figured she needed help with the dead one, the passed-out body on the fringe of grass. So I stopped. She caught up to me some dozen or so feet further down the sidewalk from her friends.

“Hi!”, She said out of breath, “I’m Anna.”

Hi Anna, what a casual introduction! As if your friend isn’t passed out ten paces behind you! I thought in my head sarcastically (I wasn’t in a conversational mood), while aloud I said, quite businesslike: “do you need a hand with your friend?”.

“What?”, she said in reply, obviously confused by my response. The gears turned perceptibly slow in her blurred brain as she belatedly threw a backwards glance towards her passed-out friend. “Oh, her? No, she’ll be alright”, she exclaimed with a lazy-drunk dismissive wave of a hand, before adding: “So, I didn’t actually get your name”.

What does she care about my name? I thought, but like the old telemarketer’s trick of “get ‘em talking and they’ll hear you out for the sake of politeness”, I had already stopped and hooked myself in to this unwanted exchange, so I told her my name. She continued to engage me a round of small-talk; in my mind, I tried to readjust the context of our entire interaction from one of her soliciting help on behalf of her friend to… what? I still didn’t get her angle.

She got blunt about it in that unique way that only drunkenness can elicit and asked me straight out: ”You know, I live right here, in this apartment building. Do you want to come up?”

“Why?”, I said -I actually said that- a second before my brain finally clicked in to her barely covered insinuation: she wanted to fuck; she wasn’t ready for the dissolving oblivion of her hard-partying evening to end; the desperate quickness in the click-click-click of her heels had simply been her chasing down her very last chance to keep the good times from winding down right there on that fringe of grass; I was that last-ditch opportunity at a one-nighter that could push back the closure of sleep for her until the daylight hours.

But I wasn’t chasing oblivion, I was chasing boring old sleep -literally trying to run myself tired in order to beat the wakefulness out of my system. I was blowing off the high tension of frustration while she was coming back up from the mellow of excess intoxication. We couldn’t have been in more different places, her and I.

She never answered my question, the “why?”, but I didn’t give her much of a chance, either. I just turned around and continued on with my run in no longer than it took me to meet her eyes and share both my recognition of her subtext and my rejection of it, and then to soften the blow with a quick instinctive smile saying “sorry” before leaving her high and dry.

I had forgotten about my split lower lip, and the stretching effect of the smile re-opened the just-healed scab; I could taste a bit of blood in my mouth as a I ran on and, as I spat a gob of red metallic-tasting spit onto the road, I realized it wasn’t disgust in her that I was running from; I’d been where she was many times before and likely many times to come. The thing that really made me turn and run was the knowledge that, despite the complete disjunction between where we both stood in that moment and the totally unnatural placement of her offer and the simple fact that I much more wanted to sleep than have sex with a drunk stranger, I knew that if I had stayed there long enough to open my mouth again, it would have been to say: “yes”. So I turned and ran before the words could leave my dry chapped lips.

French Toast Frankenstein

In Poetry on April 9, 2012 at 5:47 pm

It could be a coincidence
Silence
A distinctive body odor
Like towels of browned lean beef
High gluten
Steps heard from the landing
A colourless mass in a dark suit
Shiny shoes
A deep breath slides craning
From the bloodless and mute
Lips
Of death fumbling hands
With a shocked denial
That none of DNA
Could have such a distinct body
The size a large (or perhaps an extra large)
The skin reminded of viscid dead fibers found on… nothing.
Closest approximation:
Like the sweetish blacktop of maple syrup bottled in a dumpster

“Its perfect”,
Said the doctor
In a days-old bloody garment.

Subway Surprise

In Prose on April 7, 2012 at 5:13 pm

It’s already crowded in the subway car when the doors open up, at the next stop, and the push of people waiting on the platform nudge their way into previously unacknowledged slivers of empty space. In the practiced blindness of uncomfortably close strangers, I take a careful lack of notice of the person pressed up against my side.

But then, as the osmosis of inrush keeps stealing away ever smaller slivers of room to breath, this person -this stranger- pressed against me slides into the space between my pole-grasping arms and leans herself back against my chest, the top of her head resting right beneath my chin.

I don’t understand… This isn’t in the city-slicker manifesto of how to ignore your fellow fish when squished inside the sardine can of crowds. She should be giving me a hard shoulder, a perpendicular denial of presence. Not this parallel back-to-back intimacy, where I can’t help but breath in the smell of her long brown hair -inches from my nostrils- no matter how much I control my nervous respiration; where I can’t help but become aroused by the lean of her hips back into my body.

I don’t understand. Is she playing with me? I don’t know. so I pretend to be a wall placed there upright and functional to support her lack of handhold in the cramped confines of the crowded subway car.

But as the stops roll by and the press thins out and the slivers open up enough to afford a breath of personal comfort, well… she’s still there, intoxicatingly close like lovers. I could move away, now, but I’m enjoying it too much, and I’m starting to wonder where this might lead.

But then, as the train darts through the dark of a tunnel, the windows become temporary mirrors, and our eyes meet in the reflection, and I see that the woman with the long brown hair, the woman nestled in between my arms, pressed up against my groin and exciting me with possibility, has the face of a man.

Smothered Moonlight

In Poetry, Prose on April 1, 2012 at 12:22 am

A cigarette yields a worry into the night with a drawn-in glow and a puffed-out billow. The draw is deep because the worry is deep, and the lazy traces of smoke calm his nerves as he follows their meandering trail up through the streetlight’s dull orb of illumination. He grinds the cigarette with his heel and turns his resolve around to face his shaky purpose for being there on a lonely corner outside a run-down truck stop. He pushes through the doors in a hurry, quick before his gumption splits, and amidst the smells of sweat and booze and smoke, he spots her wiping beer stains and globs ketchup off a vacant table. She looks up when he enters, and they lock gazes, and he’s shocked into disambiguating the her of now and then.

There’s smothered moonlight in your eyes
A dull reflection of the dreams that fade in time
There’s weathered softness to your skin
A youthful penchant cast in humbling chagrin
There’s buried freedom in your smile
Lost beneath worry lines that trace the miles
There’s curdled sweetness to your laugh
Colored with the heavy twinge
Of fortune’s fickle path

You’re a worn out woman
You’re a crying shame
But I can’t stop looking
Straight through your stains
And I see you, sweetheart
Staring back at me
That girl I loved in
The faded memories

Are you still there beneath the scars?
Or am I chasing cherished memories too far?
And if I called you by your name
Could you still answer me with something more than shame?
And if we spoke with less than words
In body whispers, far too silent to be heard,
Would you still quiver with the feel
Of someone close enough to see what you conceal?

You’re a worn out woman
You’re a crying shame
But I can’t stop looking
Straight through your stains
And I see you, sweetheart
Staring back at me
That girl I loved in
The faded memories
And I can’t help wondering
As you hold my gaze
What do you see in my eyes?
Do I look the same?