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could I? ( w/ cosmic echo )

*

could I 
put paper on
words - damned and random;
be just mainly, 
passably, artistic?

meh, clever?
no… great!

what say?

would readers 
that so page this
on places random, totally in breaks, 
line making -
be more caring, without?

could I 
order reverse in it, 
within, words all -
and poetry 
write?

could i?

could i?

*

i could

i could

write poetry
and all words within it 
in reverse order

i could
without caring more,
be making line breaks 
in totally random places on this page 
so that readers would say, what?

would it be great? no.
would it be clever? meh
would it be artistic? passably

mainly, just be random and damned words
on paper, put;

i could.

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Tomorrow

Beyond The Sea by Michael Bublé on Grooveshark

Some people dream of marrying the right girl, but not Gerald.

Gerald made do.

The right girl, he knew, had a pretty busy schedule, even bigger dreams, and didn't seem the type for Thursdays in with Fondue or Saturday morning out for book brunches. Neither was he, but...

Gerald made do. September 15th, 2019, he always told himself.

Then the fondue days were done. The manufactory was done. Safe and sound, all done.

Gerald couldn't complain. Others did, but Gerald couldn't bring himself to do it. He knew that out there, the right girl - Aurora is her name - Aurora struggled, suffered, and probably cried some nights just to keep Prefabricated Conditioning Systems behind the border, safe and dull and prefabricated gray. Of all the trillion-billion stars behind 15 layers of bulkhead, there were certainly worse stars to revolve around. Besides, it was only temporary. He'd been saving up.

Gerald made do. September 15th, 2019. Then the academy.

So Gerald worked. 14 hour days in the manufactory, then 4 more in quality control. He had fondue with his friends and their wives and husbands and gender non-specific partners every Thursday, but felt guilty about it. It was the cheapest way to meet his social diversity quota. Friends mattered, at least on paper. So as much as he hated mimosas and suffered a slight lactose intolerance...

Gerald made do. September 15th, 2019. Then the cockpit.

Most people had medicated away the need to sleep, to scrabble for those extra recreation hours, but Gerald didn't have the cash to waste on drips and shunts. He didn't take vacations, not even to the window rental parlors. He hadn't seen a non-digital color in two years, except in his dreams. In his dreams, he saw nebulae, celestial fires, and neon-sparkling shrapnel. Even terrifying, the color left his heart racing, his skin sweating, and his mind in a happy haze.

So Gerald made do. September 15th, 2019. Then the stars.

Then Roger and Trevor had a baby. Their fondue budget went critical and fast - children cost so much, but what future doesn't? His social diversity hours looked dire. Everyone's did. Some people hated Roger and Trevor. I mean, who needs a baby in a manufactory anyway? Gerald didn't complain, though. He wanted to, but...did Aurora ever complain, at war among stars?

So Gerald made do. Gerald hosted, paid for, and swallowed more fondue. His budget shifted.

June 16th, 2022. Then?

He'd be beside the right girl, among stars. Not for her; she wasn't right for him. But for Gerald.

He'd be a hero.

(Prompt: Write about a person who has a monotonous life but holds on for something better. - An empathetic Anonymous. You know me too well. This is a story about heroes - because it takes a hero to wait.)

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Poetry


 

words float a-whirl around my head

then from my fingers silent said

like sweetest notes of soft refrain

on a bed of pixels gently lain

 

then rearranged and juxtaposed

to bear the meaning I supposed

spruced up and trimmed – their syntax tweaked

then freed to find the home they seek

 

some, as if deaf, no music hear

my meaning missed, my thoughts unclear

yet, others sense a heady thrum

as nimble longings heartstrings strum

 

if these words, in some way inspire

give birth in those, enlightened fire

if they can feel this thrill in me

that is the gift of poetry

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A Girl Walks Into a Bar

A girl walks into a bar. She walks into my bar. That's how the story goes.

I was sitting at the bar, drinking beer and reading when she came in. She sat on the stool next to me. I looked up from my book for a second to find two big, brown eyes staring back at me. She smiled and bit her lip.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" The girl stayed silent and her brow furrowed. "Pleasure of your company I mean."

"I just needed a drink, fine sir." The bartender brought scotch for the lady and she took a long sip, "What are you reading?"

"Oh, The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Rereading it actually."

"So you come to the bar to read?" She said. "In the afternoon no less."

The girls continued to sip on her scotch and look at me while I plotted and answer, "Well, my job, it's flexible. And I don't think reading in a bar is that weird."

"I wouldn't know. I don't read much. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a writer. Published one at that, I said.

She grinned, "Anything I might have read from you?"

"You? No."

She burst into laughter, "That was very touche, mister writer."

"Allow me to make it up to you. I'm looking for a muse. You fit the description rather well."

"Oh really? And what would I have to do?" She asked.

"Well you'd have to have sex with me probably, at least once, or just something romantic, then you should break my heart. Sound as good work?"

"I'm not sure," She said. "You'll later write about it. I'm not sure I could be a bad guy."

Her glass was empty now and I saw a chance, "What do you say we continue this somewhere else? Go for a walk? Or something?"

"Sorry. I don't think so. I'm not cut out to be a muse."

The bartender came and I paid my bill, "Can I at least know your name?" She nodded away playfully. "Guess I'll just have to remember you as a single-serving muse."

She leaned over, "You totally stole that from Fight Club." She whispered into my ear.

"So you do read?"

"I watched the movie. Brad Pitt is gorgeous."

I got up from the stool and scribbled my phone number on a piece of paper; slid it under her glass.

"Well, if you ever decide to be more than a single-serving muse, give me a call. Oh, and also we do agree, Brad Pitt is gorgeous." She chuckled blew me a kiss. I walked out into the afternoon sun and immediately regretted not drinking another drink, but it was time to do some work. I started walking towards my house, a story already in the making.

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What love does to you

I knocked on the door.

I knew he would be in bad shape and I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him like that, but when the door swung open I almost gasped. He looked even worse than I had imagined. Pale, red-eyed, gaunt. His long hair was a tousled, oily mess and his clothes hung from him like used tea-towels off the back of a spindly chair.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered. He’d told me what had happened. He hadn’t told me how bad it was.

He looked at me from under his lashes with his shoulders curved forward, fearful, like a dog that knows it’s about to get kicked, but when his eyes met mine they opened and melted, brimming with sorrow. He was the same age as me, a grown man by common standards, but all I could see was a lost little boy.

I opened my arms and he flung himself between them. To anybody looking it would have seemed like an awkward embrace – me, short, blond and round, and him, tall and dark and now impossibly skinny – but it felt right. He curled up against my chest and I thought there was so little of him. All I could feel were his cheekbones digging in the crook of my neck.

I swept his hair off his face and pressed my cheek to his. “How long has it been?” I murmured to his ear.

 “A month,” he said. His voice was croaky.

“A month?” I pulled back, feeling shocked somewhat outraged. “Damn you Chris, why didn’t you call me earlier?”

He didn’t speak.  He just shook his head, burrowing deeper into my shoulder.

I tightened my arms around him and inhaled deeply, thinking of what to do. “Okay,” I said in the end, more to myself than to him. “Okay. I’m here.”

I knew he would not want to talk right away, so I got him back to the couch, kissed his forehead and told him I would make some tea.

It took me an eternity to find my way in the kitchen; the place was an abandoned battlefield of dirty glasses and empty bottles. I opened the fridge without thinking, looking for some milk, and recoiled in horror at the sight and the smell of its forgotten contents. I finally managed to find two mugs and fill them with teabags and boiling water from the kettle.

When I got back to the lounge I had to use my foot to clear the coffee table of more bottles, scrunched up journal pages, and other pieces of waste and debris just to be able to set the mugs down. Chris was still lying where I’d left him, except his eyes were now closed and the lines of his face were soft. For the first time in God only knew how long, he was sleeping.  His lips, slightly parted and pouting a little to the side where his cheek met the cushion, were whitish dry and marred by deep crimson cracks.

I stood and looked at him feeling my heart shrink in my chest.

This, I thought, shaking my head, this is what love does to you