Of the many tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead, two fell down, further soaking his already dampened brow. Suspended, he floated upside-down in a padded room, dreaming without consciousness of his body or its position in space.
His mind reeled from slide to slideimages of adolescence pooling together and then streaming into an old time film: The Life and Times of Donald A. Silver. The yellowed silent movie showed a young man smiling and leaning against an old Chevrolet sedan. Cigarettes burnt the corner, and he was dancing with the woman he'd asked to marry him. But in the center of the shot, a blur grew from the in
What do you celebrate
When the CLOCK has stopped ticking?
When the young will not age,
And the old do not die?
What is the American dream,
If none of us can sleep?
And you stranglehold the truth,
So that fear consumes the mind.
What will become of us?
If they strip away our souls,
And re-renovate with dollar bills,
Will we burn in hell?
And will we even care?
I'll reconstruct my father wrong,
Because no one here wants to be reminded
Of him, of me, and of the truth.
So I'll raise my glass,
Tell my lies,
And slip into a stupor and a red wine headache.
I won't tell you about the drunken disasters,
The lonely birthdays,
Or how my mother cried at night.
I'll work up a tear
And give a toast,
"To the greatest man who ever lived."
Even if he's not the man I'm really talking about.
Of the many tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead, two fell down, further soaking his already dampened brow. Suspended, he floated upside-down in a padded room, dreaming without consciousness of his body or its position in space.
His mind reeled from slide to slideimages of adolescence pooling together and then streaming into an old time film: The Life and Times of Donald A. Silver. The yellowed silent movie showed a young man smiling and leaning against an old Chevrolet sedan. Cigarettes burnt the corner, and he was dancing with the woman he'd asked to marry him. But in the center of the shot, a blur grew from the in
What do you celebrate
When the CLOCK has stopped ticking?
When the young will not age,
And the old do not die?
What is the American dream,
If none of us can sleep?
And you stranglehold the truth,
So that fear consumes the mind.
What will become of us?
If they strip away our souls,
And re-renovate with dollar bills,
Will we burn in hell?
And will we even care?
I'll reconstruct my father wrong,
Because no one here wants to be reminded
Of him, of me, and of the truth.
So I'll raise my glass,
Tell my lies,
And slip into a stupor and a red wine headache.
I won't tell you about the drunken disasters,
The lonely birthdays,
Or how my mother cried at night.
I'll work up a tear
And give a toast,
"To the greatest man who ever lived."
Even if he's not the man I'm really talking about.
Floating through the emptiness,
A philosophical physicist.
My moonlit axiom,
Sun-kissed with wet lips,
You are the center of my universe.
Space and time ask you how to curve.
Your fingertips send lightning storms
Down to the center of my ribs;
You shock my sensespure ethereal bliss.
Gravitation pulls me to you,
Knees weak, eyes open,
And bathed in curiosity.
An avid astronomer probing the scope of
Your infinite, immutable elegance.
I explore with my teeth
Downward from your stomach to your hipbones.
Your muffled pleasure screams sound to me
Like victory.
Explosions radiate red light across the surface
The brig
Seven more mouths to feed
(For this you left
your father's house?),
shoes piled by the door
and grimy rucksacks
full of coal.
(He promised you a diamond)
They keep you on your toes
with their uncombed hair
and their untrimmed beards
and appetites like young bulls.
That dress of yours
has seen better days
and your hands
are worn out -
bloodied starlings in your pockets.
So you cook and clean
and sew
and wait by the window
each morning for them to leave,
polishing your apples
and dream of what the huntsman
is hiding in his box.
Brother,
I'm writing to tell you I'm dropping out of college; I haven't told anyone. I'm twitching, Michael. The hunger came back a few weeks ago, and I'm not sure it ever left. Regardless, it's crying now, and I need to go. I need to keep moving on. I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow. My train takes off in the afternoon, and when I get there, I'll leave again. I want to go somewhere new, Michael.
I want to go somewhere I have never seen before.
Now, I know you have to be worried, but don't, Brother. Don't you be afraid. I'll write
It's been some time, deviantART, but it feels good to be back.
Here's to hoping you agree.
Usually I'd post something like this in the "Writing News" section, but these new journals confuse the hell out of me, so I'll say that I'm participating in a 30 Day Writing Challenge, and the stories can be read at
zmorgason.tumblr.com
before they're edited and uploaded to dA.