He Would Leave Her On The Road And Watch Her Die

I would rather be a tree! And Not Make Children with Thin Hair!

She could not go upstairs. Her skin was still too uncovered from him, too revealing of the parts of her body that were not toned like his. At times this could be overlooked, but at moments such as these when they had raised their voices (Never interrupt me! Never interrupt anyone!), any contact of skin or body would send her bumping her head against the hard gravel ground as though she were hanging, being dragged. It has been too long since I have been reprimended. Far too long since my skin has been punished for the sins it has made.

"You are pale," he told her when the weather uncovered her legs. "You are pale and it is ugly." She knew he believed that this was true. That her paleness made him afraid of all the imperfections her womanhood might possess, might imply to future offspring he planned on feeding through her body.

He chose her because she was perfect, because he couldn't figure out her mind, because he knew she could not be afraid of him (his madness), when it came climbing out of her own limbs.

Strange people (strangers) write things down to keep them from the atrocities that make them mad, Because Noone Else is listening.

His father was mad. This was known, but never proven. He walked along the street, and then back to his house and he rarely said a word, not because people were out of reach but because people never came close into speaking distance. She could feel his father, breathe him, from six blocks away, know that he was there, wonder what he thought, wonder what might be said when it was realized that daftness was common between them. I wonder what might be said if one was caught bathing in water like this, she thought.

His brother ran away on drugs, an experiment that tested him also when he let it. They spent many a night in other worlds together, letting silences become laughter, misunderstanding become false understanding; a magnetism that held them together. The other night, she saw him at the bar and he ran his arms across her back. She could feel his large hand and she wanted to stay there but he had come with someone else.

When they made love they were hush, letting the silences act like breathes between them that communicated their desires. He chose her because he believed that when they were silent, when they stared at each other like children awake, but born dumb, when they made love, he knew what her voice and straight staring eyes would have said. He would be what he thought she told him, while she wondered what he thought she was thinking and improvised from his movements.

Often they did not touch each other, only touched themselves, with him kissing her on the forehead when the act was done. And always they acted when they finished, like they had never known each other, that this first meeting, again, was shocking enough to let the silence lead them away from the obvious indifference that always settled, that became proven between the rocks he laid down when they first moved in.

There are enough rocks here, she once thought, that if I rubbed them together long enough, I could make an island. There are enough rocks here that noone would notice if my skin and my blood became parts of the surface. Once she asked him, how do you think this setting implies us?

It changes us into characters we avoid, he replied. A beautiful woman cannot survive without her words, and I would rather go mad trying to keep her, than let her go.

Green Walls, Green Words.

Biking along the town in the heat.

The
cement does not breathe, and I sweat
off the tops of my shoulders and I think
about last night.

Idiot, you said. Faggot.
You know, you shouldn't
say those words, they aren't nice.

And later, me telling you: Speak in your
language and say whatever you are thinking
or were thinking.

I miss my G, I miss my D, I miss my chance at
Greatness.

(This is an example of a fragment you amount to).

An Island!

1. There are enough stones here
that I suspect if I were to rub
them together long enough,
I could make an island!

There are enough stones here
that I suspect if I were to rub
them together long enough,
they would grind so small that
my hands would bleed!

There are enough stones here
that I suspect if I were to die here
I might be happy knowing you could
rub them together and make an island
and leave me there surrounded by the
sky and the trees until it eroded enough
that it disappeared under the water,

maybe then my body could float
and then you could find me happy
once again.

2. If you should find me dead here, please know
that it was not something you said or did not say
but simply that I was bored and thought
becoming dead might stir things,

and that my spot in the shade under the sculpture
of the silver goose got smaller and smaller,
and my boredom got enhanced by the heat
and the way my skin was burning.

If you should find me dead here, please don't ask
about the bird or inquire about its purpose:
It is a sculpture and it is placed here for viewing pleasure.

3. I think if I were to be found dead anywhere, I would
want it to be here, on this island because the overhead
search and scan would be nice and it would reveal water
and water and water and land and water and water and
water and trees and -

There she is lying on the beach surrounded by the water -
what a beauty day, its a shame she had to die.

4. Since 5:oo I have been waiting. You, you who hates the
telephone, and never makes a call or answers the phone unless
a holiday when you may scream a greeting loud, you called and
said,

Be sharp,
Be on time,
We're leaving early.

So here I was and you were not here, expected of course but still
I screamed curses and waited under the silver goose and stared at the
trash and the grass and the seagull manure covering the cement squares,
until a woman with no cellulite on her legs and a silver metallic bag
looked at me and said

Honey are you okay? You seemed flushed,
Like you may die.
No thanks, I am fine, I replied.

And all I could think of was that smell in the air, not muggy like the day
but lovely, and if you were here, I am sure you'd know the name,
but I am dead now.

Garter Snakes Occupy A Variety of Habitats

i've been dreaming of garter snakes,
ever since that time my dad made us
carry the wood and the bricks the mile
to the house and you declared

"i'm out
of shape",
you're always complaining
and i was tired of it so i
went inside only to hear you
screaming,

"its a snake, its a snake"
it's only a garter snake,
i replied,

and then you started chasing it
before explaining your paranoia.
now i'm dreaming of them every night,
hundreds of them weaving through
roots and acorns as i jump along
the hardened ground trying desperately
to stay out of their way.

the boys used to pick up those snakes
all the time and i guess my fear diminished
with the amount of time we spent telling
each other secrets and playing spin the
bottle under the raft.

i'm dreaming of them all the time and i can't
stop thinking of you either.

my dreams now successfully consist of
you smoking a joint, driving by in your car,
you smoking a joint, holding my knee,
you giving me crystal meth and cocaine,
you screaming about garter snakes,
you luring me into the empty bathtub
while i try to hide the drugs in my bra
and my back pockets,
and shopping for kiss-lock purses as a reward for my
good behaviour
(imagine a purse like that
packaged full of snakes like them).

ps. i can't believe your arrogance or
your pessimism, of course the bricks
and pieces of wood will fit down the narrow
hall.

Esther Morniga

I'm sorry but I have to cut you off.
I can't serve you with a name like that,
Sherrell I could stand but this is too much.
At least Sherrell was weak, strange, not as
stable as my good own name. But this I cannot
handle.

I have tried to serve you many times before,
I tried switching my disease to alcoholism,
Drinking binges here and there, but that did not
work, and then I tried liking girls but the only
one I ever wanted had a name I couldn't pronounce.

The Plaster White Girl

if something happens to mama,
i shotgun the woman in the back room

how do you feel about hitler, the grass, and me?

who would sketch
my breast
if i were dead now?

sometimes i wonder
if the breast is like the
ground,
if it matters how much rain there comes,
how many times it has been tread,

and if i had been dead
who would dare sketch my breast
onto paper?

there has been you
but it has been long
and my breast is

not like that
now.

i wondered if you could fix
the backyard,
the lumps of dirt sticking up
from the grass,

and i almost asked you to
once or twice,
but you didn't seem to understand

and then it rained,

but i still wonder what it would be like
now for you to cup my breast in your hand,

it is larger than before and it is more
round and more perfect,
and it looks better naked
and i assume that it would look nice
next to you

-

i wonder what he knows about the patches
of dirt where the grass used to be,

i wonder what he knows about the branches
ten feet tall with blossoms about them

It Was Beautiful To See You

I am scaredy-cat: I have fifty acres of land and I am still afraid to run through the trees with no shoes on, I am scared of the birds and the things that bite my ankles.

I am a liar: hanging from a telephone wire with my pants on fire.

I am selfish: I get angry when my sister borrows my books because I think that they are mine.

I am bored: and this is why I crave someone.

I am naive: I can't believe you had sex with him, that you cheated on the other him, that you don't even mind.

I am a stoner: I smoke weed, often, very often, and I wonder why I can't form sentences and why my thoughts are so sporadic.

I am a hillbilly: I would only ever like to own some land with some trees on it.

I am a liar: I am so sorry that I keep changing, but I don't like you anymore.

I am a lesbian: I would date girls just for you.

http://almcarr.blogspot.com

i am trying to have a conversation with my sister but my mother won't stop talking, and neither will her french boyfriend. i don't care about the messages, i don't care about you speaking french, i don't care about anything except for what my sister has to say. she is a science nerd and i love her and i want to be her sister for as long as i can live. she is where my heart belongs.

Gifted

her skin is pale
and she is bored
and he is scared
of her paleness.

he thinks her being white
is a sign that she is not
his woman,

that the children he plans
on filtering through her
will be pale and white
and not like a woman at all.

Inebriated.

do not move, just write

Jeg Savner Dig

you have been here,

and i have been home,

but we feel
the same

(drinks, papers,
lighter),

we both feel the same.

Mother Fucking South Africa, Pushed Me In The Water

the summer the devil finds us
is here once again.

"do you have an extra jersey???"