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Five Minutes in NormandyPrivate Ethan Sommers suddenly became aware of his skeleton. It laid there inside of him, weighing him down, pushing his body further into the wet sand. How could he have gone so long without ever noticing it? Its haunting shapes, twisting bulbous joints. Skeletons are rattling horrors hanging by ropes in long-deserted houses, they are worm-ridden knicked ivory lying in boxes under ground, a skeleton is certainly not something that resides in his very own body.
Had he not imagined his bones when he broke his arm playing baseball with with who was that? Arnie Weatherbee. He was playing baseball with Arnie Weatherbee and his brothers when he decided to take first base in a dramatic slide. He went down too hard and smashed his right arm between his body and the dirt. Unable to move, he saw Arnie, who had been playing shortstop, lying next to him sucking on a red, sweet-smelling popsicle, as
Driven OutSeven dollars until Monday and I can't get
to the mac and cheese in my cupboard for dinner.
A plastic Kroger bag filled
with a night's necessities: toothbrush, lipstick
and a change of clothes.
Sitting down on a bench in the middle of campus,
I pretend I'm homeless, and since I don't know
where I'm sleeping tonight, I suppose I'm halfway there.
Is this what it's like: plastic Kroger bag hissing
beside me in the breeze, stupidly cheerful people
walking home because they can.
Because they're having some friends over.
A cookout and drinking on the porch.
I remember those days before the invasion.
Here in the strength of the afternoon sun
everyone's casting strange shadows all defined, ridged,
perfect cut-outs of themselves tightly following them around.
And I can't even find mine.
untitleda car passes.
high beams through my window
the light rides
my dark ceiling,
and for those few seconds,
Downtown, A Benchfor BAB
I should wonder what you're thinking, staring
at these buildings staggered before us.
But instead I recap my life
trying to remember if I've ever seen lips like yours:
pouty and so inviting.
A pigeon pecks the concrete in front of us,
maybe he sees something I don't. Which reminds me,
I often think I am missing some great and obvious thing.
Like love has pounced on my lap like a cat or
I've under-balanced my checkbook and I
just can't see it.
The city is loud. Cars and people
pile up at our feet. I know you feel it
if I do: the separation, no matter how close
they get to us.
If I would ask where you are right now,
you would say, in those buildings, in the pigeon,
in the steaming pavement under traffic. But I know
you wouldn't be telling the whole truth.
Even I can see my reflection in the glass
across the street.
A single page of newspaper floats
across your shoe. You look down.
I should wonder what you're thinking.
Instead I ask the crowds, Have you ever
seen a green-ey
Realizing Things Were GoodIt is difficult to remember now, who said what
and how. It was West Virginia, and it was cold.
We stepped onto a bridge and you turned to me.
Headlights painted the left side of your face
a bright white. Your eyes were wide as a deer's
and your mouth about to say something.
But who remembers now. It was cold.
And it was raining the night I told you
about my lost years, the years I sat
waiting for the aching weight of some nothing
to be lifted. There, on that bridge, speaking into
your whitened face, I realized I was not the only one
made solely of things unseen, and that you understood
everything I understood. Above the drone
of passing cars it was clear that we were both
those people who see all with a twinge of tragedy,
who in everything, feel a persistence of doom
and like it that way. Or at least that's what we thought.
I cannot remember why we couldn't see it,
or why neither of us said it: There are those moments
when we look around and see everything is everything
10 15I had this dream
I got a letter from Matthew
and something from Anna
or Steph It was a postcard
nothing from you
It was my birthday
and this year
nauseated and squirming
through the past few years
I couldn't remember
what you have me
on my 18th or 19th
It was as if
since you weren't here now
you disappeared from then
too and I wondered
if you were worth
me feeling this way
on my day
So then in this dream
I became rather calm
and I felt as though I was
Then I looked in a mirror
at a blurry dream image
of me and I could almost see
tat I had matured
My eyes no longer wt
It was as though from my last birthday
to today a year's maturity
had stored up
and was let loose
because you were not here this October 15th
but I was OK
Then as the dream ended
you called I cried
as you wished me a happy one
Binoculars that's what you gave me
mechanici want to kiss every aching wound you have,
bandage your heart every time it bleeds,
and patch up your mind over and over
because not a single tear deserves to fall
from your brandy-drenched eyes
but this dripping heart of mine can only feel
and the healing honey words it flames get caught
in the back of my throat and on the roof of my mouth
so i only have these passionate guttural cries
to tell you that i care all too much
and in order to fix you up again,
i would need to tear myself to tatters
and trade all of my working parts
for your leftover, fading pieces
but i just haven’t figured out how.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More