i was very excited to see i had gotten a DLD this morning! x) on a piece that i am rather fond of. FitsJosiah's tears were fat but silent, first glimpsed in the rearview mirror when Noel asked if he wanted to talk to Jamal before they arrived at Nana's. Rather than answer, he began to wail, and the volume of his wailing increased with every minute that passed. By the time they were on Pinecrest Road, the final stretch of their short drive, the radio could not drown out his screaming and gargling and hiccuping. "What are you crying about, Jojo?" Noel repeated desperately, but Josiah whined and thrashed and coughed.
Noel pulled up his parents' driveway and parked, resting his head on the steering wheel before he yanked Jamal's keys from the ignition and climbed out of the car. He slammed the door behind him and basked in the sanctity of his own thoughts. Summer was still and quiet, the lull of cicadas and bright trees belying oppressive humidity and stinging heat. He inhaled deeply and walked around the little maroon Toyota, opening the door that released his son's fury onto the thick air

my other DLDs
:thumb349827153: happy birthdaydishwater the color of dawn
detergent is grayed by three plates
and two mugs. your hands are pruned,
the same soap opalescent against
white ceramic and pale skin.
i dry what you pass to me,
then take your wrists to mop away
the suds that bed beneath your nails,
the color of grayed dawn.
"at least we didn't have spaghetti,"
you say while i spread your fingers,
admiring your dull calluses and
knuckles, thick. "at least you're drying,
i said you didn't have to."
"it's your birthday,"
and i admire the thin hair at your temple,
faintly grayed. To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady grey
gentle kin,
you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.
ii. darjeeling
bengali goddess,
i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astringent, fine-boned cheeks seeking nothing less than perfection. your tiger soul knows your worth, seductive and mysterious; in the autumn, you remind me of leaves ripe with color, falling from my desperate touch: a distant lover.
iii. chamomile
virginal flower,
you are the sun's daughter birthed by soil, a celestial soothing who blooms

Mature Content

Mature Content

MuseI
Redwoods were within reach; his home was on the precipice of a forest, and as young as four, he opened the garden gate and wandered up the street to stare at the towering 
Gods, marveling at what little light pushed itself through the canopy and counting day-stars on the mottled ground. In June, the leaves were so thick and green that they ate up all the sun, and he stood in blackness, feeling his path with chubby fingers. Moss and bark alike guided him deeper and deeper into the thickets, thorns catching his hair and clothing. He had cuts on his face and arms but could not cry; in a trance, he stepped over rotting branches and at the end of his journey, came to a creek. The trees parted for it, and phosphenes blinded him, receding slowly as he adjusted to the rush of brightness-


And for a moment, he was not in California: great gray buildings grew before him, and he gaped, eyes widening as he tried to comprehend their height, their mass against a sky dimmer than
blasphemyin a Heaven no grander than a forest, He sat upon a throne weaved of ivy and wild roses; it was there He first touched the Universe, and it was there He came to find the thriving rock He named earth. absent lives were flitting about in oceans deep and dark, and He sought to make company, entertainment, using His vast power to manipulate these beings' path. they grew until they resembled His intention, but before the first man thought of the savannah's cruelty or had any thought besides instinct, angels were birthed of the Lord's passing thoughts—
He would breathe and exhale
lights that cuddled like sweet birds,
tucked close for warmth in a simple
nest draped with their brothers' down
feathers and cotton brought up from earth;
amongst the soft glow of each new ideal
came a pop like an ember cracking— this one
was weakly lit and stuttered its first words
in a hoarse chirp (humanity, love) before it came
to still with its slumbering companions.
in the evening, the lights

my DDs
blasphemyin a Heaven no grander than a forest, He sat upon a throne weaved of ivy and wild roses; it was there He first touched the Universe, and it was there He came to find the thriving rock He named earth. absent lives were flitting about in oceans deep and dark, and He sought to make company, entertainment, using His vast power to manipulate these beings' path. they grew until they resembled His intention, but before the first man thought of the savannah's cruelty or had any thought besides instinct, angels were birthed of the Lord's passing thoughts—
He would breathe and exhale
lights that cuddled like sweet birds,
tucked close for warmth in a simple
nest draped with their brothers' down
feathers and cotton brought up from earth;
amongst the soft glow of each new ideal
came a pop like an ember cracking— this one
was weakly lit and stuttered its first words
in a hoarse chirp (humanity, love) before it came
to still with its slumbering companions.
in the evening, the lights terminali.
we landed in oklahoma
and drank cheap martinis in the terminal;
you carried my guitar and fell in love
with my voice but not my tongue,
not my hands.
ii.
there's a man with a garage
that looks like a plane because nothing
meant more to him. will you make a model
of that bar? will you make a model
of my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhome
with her and three children?
iii.
the problem was you're not gay.
the problem was there was feeling
but it wasn't for us. i had you but
it wasn't for us.
iv.
i'm not sure if i resent you,
but i remember that bar and every pockmark
on the stool you sat on while i played
the song that parted your lips;
you remember every pockmark in oklahoma
like they were ours.




okay that's enough about myself. recently, i ran a poll asking people to show me their favorite works that haven't gotten as much attention as they think the pieces deserve. they turned up some beautiful writing and visual art that i just have to share.

The Story StartsThe story starts in certain Hay (neighborhood) Al Fedaa, Babyl- Hilla, Iraq, in the 6th month of the year 1969. Here I start off as a fetus in my mother’s womb; just one of a quarter million other fetuses being bred for the second out of three waves of death popular to the people of Najaf, Hilla and Karbala. One million lives brought out before me were being prepared for their annihilation in the first death wave as I was being made after all, so what’s another quarter million surely?
Seriously though, my story begins in the much summery afternoons of early August of the year 1979. Ooh, what a year to start a story really, since it was also a year where many would have their stories come to an end. 1979 was the final year before the first death wave and the final year of Iraq’s glory days. The smell of Mohammedi roses and Arabian Jasmine simmering and cooling with the arid winds, and dried apricot sherbet served alongside freshly picked Jaffa oranges from our own gard
"Seriously though, my story begins in the much summery afternoons of early August of the year 1979. Ooh, what a year to start a story really, since it was also a year where many would have their stories come to an end. 1979 was the final year before the first death wave and the final year of Iraq's glory days. The smell of Mohammedi roses and Arabian Jasmine simmering and cooling with the arid winds, and dried apricot sherbet served alongside freshly picked Jaffa oranges from our own garden— this wonderful anthology offset the smell of sweat and sand brought about by the browning, baking sun."


chickadeesIf only I could make a nest
within the furthest reach of me-
a cup of slender grass,
a bed of haircap moss,
a nest for chickadees.
They understand
the worth of emptiness;
they know that hollow places
promise immortality,
where patience broods
and small hearts dream
despite the cold,
despite the rain.
"They understand
the worth of emptiness;
they know that hollow places
promise immortality,"



"Out of habit she reached up towards the air in front of her to input some notes to the grid, but pulled her hand short when she remembered where she was. With a sigh she grabbed an electro-pen off the desktop and tapped the surface of the collection device to insert her comments. The lack of a direct connection to a wireless network had been difficult for Caroline to get used to. Most citizens on Earth were given the necessary implants shortly after birth, but she had not received them until the age of six. After a short period of adjustment her ability to verbally communicate developed rapidly until there was little trace left of her mutism. She quickly caught up to her peers academically, and as a teenager often outpaced them in athletic ability. Now, without the use of the grid and the intimate access to a universe of information that it provided, her daily reality seemed mundane in comparison to her previous life."


Sandsweptsmall sacrifices that
one lick sucked me dry
your desert tongue was a curse
nature called out gentleness
but instead we went dancing
i turned down antlers for diamonds
stole hooves from her womb
collected the beads between her breasts
and sold them for cheap copper
until I lay at your feet - panting
and between the tendons on your ankles
were lipstick stains
you wired my throat
to accept your feigned apologies
your gluttony
your sin
like telephone lines
my vocal cords severed in the gale
then your hoarfrost bones
melted away
leaving a thirst for sand
I found your crater-grave
buried in the cleft of my thigh
now with my forked tongue
lapping the rolling dunes
I am the serpent
owning the desert you abandoned
"this onetwo quickstep
unsettled leaves from the soil
stamped footprints into deer trails

nature called out gentleness and
instead we went dancing"


:thumb204644334:
"I remember being desperate to comfort you
and yet terrified of touching you
because I knew you'd hurt me,
just like your Dad
hurt you.

I was covered in bruises
courtesy of you
all the time back then anyway.

I should have held you."





(Heated) Waterand I told her;
water won't waste gravity.
she breathed in
scraps of a
wonderful life,
until she melted
down.
(she loved to swim -
sea-burns & headaches;
the way it made
her smile, she
couldn't stop)
her clammy breaths
enraptured
humidity,
as heat felt her
up.
(she wanted to drown -
wayward & dehydrated;
this time it made
her energy
stagnate)  
and I told her;
water won't waste gravity.
"her clammy breaths
enraptured
humidity,
as heat felt her
up."


:thumb361999938:


Flightless Birdoh, why aren’t you flying?
amaranthine feathers belong to you, the flightless bird.
wings, calloused and frayed;
your body burning from sunlight, flames bursting from within
little hot-headed creature,
mad at the airborne world above him.
oh, flightless bird – why are you so alone?
once you were the sun, but now you are the moon;
you fell into its craters, came out the other side,
but who are you now?
grounded,
       (stuck.)
bruised,
       (purple-red, turning azure.)
your bones have stiffened, cracking beneath your skin –
you are held back, lost.
        you don’t know who you are.
if you could fly, you would leave this place, and
release yourself from the moon,
and once again
become the sun.
"oh, flightless bird – why are you so alone?
once you were the sun, but now you are the moon;
you fell into its craters, came out the other side,
but who are you now?"


:thumb347865799:
"You saved me, once.
And you have no idea.
Because I am not allowed
to tell you.
Because I don't know how to
form curves
into letters
into sounds
into truths.
I do not know how to make you love me."


:thumb350521340:
"All I want is oblivion, the lack of existence, the lack of memory or sensation. I beg for freedom of my conscious form, to return to colourless world between death and my arrival here. I used to pray for release; I haven't prayed since I realised that god either doesn't exist or doesn't care. Because no Angels in shining white armour have unleashed holy wrath and freed me; no, I still remain in my cage."


:thumb271370780:
"We did not move fast enough
to accommodate you, and so you shied
at the gate, protesting the locks and walls
made for smaller ships. Looking up, I wondered
how many in the crowd were betting on you sinking beneath
the weight of the iron heart in your breast: silver coins passed
from hand to hand as it was all maps for me: New York waiting
on white paper far across the servant tides of seas strong-fettered;"





Heavy MetalYou crawl on hairy haunches,
cigarette smoke clashing
against your ale breath.
I choke on stale, musty air;
your chapped lips
scrape across my skin.
Sing to me, raspy baritone.
Claw your way
up and down my arteries
and pierce my eardrums
with flat tritones.
You are deadly intoxication;
on a hardwood floor, shattered glass
I can't tiptoe around.
"Sing to me, raspy baritone.
Claw your way
up and down my arteries
and pierce my eardrums
with flat tritones."






""Did you know that if your commute is eastbound in the morning, then all year long you're going to be driving into the sun before work and into the sun on the way home? It says here that people with westbound morning commutes live longer than people going the other way. Heart disease and suicides are both higher if you're driving straight into sunlight twice a day, assuming your commute is more than 25 minutes.""


tu fui ego erisif you wish we could play connect the dots
with my skin. run your fingers across type-
writer ribbons, mar shady silk with prints.
drift freckle to freckle, make port wine stains.
black out these eyes; accent the dusty blue.
ink doesn't fade as expected. viscid,
oozing into the crevices to stay.
burning maps, enjoying being unfound.
choosing to camouflage. bruise twisted joints.
i have covered up everything for you
making sure that the game board does not change.
walking slowly and washing carefully.
as not to move the pieces from their place.
"ink doesn't fade as expected. viscid,
oozing into the crevices to stay.
burning maps, enjoying being unfound.
choosing to camouflage. bruise twisted joints."



"but here

we are, waking you up in the
morning with a sick hang
over. your mouth holds us
like your body once did and
the place you throw us holds
us even more tender and

your body quivers because you
are so, so sorry for ever needing
me more than i had to give"


:thumb163492172:
" During my young days I would never sit on those steps in November at night watching that grove in the dark. I would be in a house somewhere with lots of lights on and even more people around. I would be teasing my wife and feeding my kids or maybe some nephews and nieces. After a while my wife fed my Mama too, but that did not last long. Mama knew when to go.
    Or maybe I passed a bottle around in an even brighter place with my brothers and maybe with some of those girls we knew."