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My best friend has fallen in love

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Communicate

Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?

I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful.  I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?

Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?

Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?

I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer,  blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day. 

Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.

And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?

Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.

Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:

One love.

Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.

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Existing as a Pessimist

 

i am not in the mood to exist today.

 

there's no rain screaming outside these

 

windows, and there's not even one

 

sickly grey cloud floating in any sad way.

 

but I am just not in the mood to exist today.

 

the grass isn't crying out from the

 

ache of a drought and the sun hasn't even

 

been slapped, hard with a stinging pain

 

from today's dreary thoughts or noises.

 

there is something hiding behind the trees

 

and it sits on its knees but it isn't danger.

 

it's a lone stick of emptiness, trying to

 

find the center of its body, it may come

 

from behind its shadow, it may until then

 

 it'll sway--

 

still, I am not in the mood to exist today.

 

the rock on my chest sits heavy, yes...

 

there is nothing strong enough to lift it.

 

ghosts parade on each sides, I've seen in my eyes.

 

to breathe, or to die in September lies.

 

to eat the dirt from September's floor because

 

it is all I am offered, and nothing more.

 

I may awake, or at silent rest I could stay.

 

though it will vapor and twist away.

 

I am still not in the mood to exist today.

 

I rummage thoughts and pain and fear.

 

I muffle the strained doubts I hear.

 

attacks crawling beneath my feet like

 

scuffs, streaked thin and mean on the tile.

 

i'm sorry I don't mean to consecutively cry.

 

 

 

i'm sorry I don't mean to consecutively die.

i'm sorry I don't mean to eat the letter "y"

and spew out the word "why" afterwards...

but it happens, day after day, because of these

noiseless sounds--

and they play with the strings of my heart

like a harp, so perfectly and majestic.

when has it ever been okay?

they say, and I have no answer.

when? when has it ever been okay?

but my heart keeps skipping, and my body goes numb.

when has it ever been okay?

pessimist, pessimist--

 

 

I can hear them say. 

 

gather the diminished breath lost on the way:

pessimist! I hiss

but i am just NOT in the mood to exist today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Service With a Smile

Let me be your bone collector, sir and/or madam.

I'll make you all polished on the inside.

There's no need for compensation, dear, I run this service strictly out of love, more or less.

Not for you, no, naturally, but for the pretty bones you're hiding underneath.

I love the uncomplicated you.

Tell me your best lies; I want to tear them up like wrapping paper, like a paper-thin dress in the very worst of hands. I'll never touch you, but those bones will never stop. No matter how you try.

They're inside you, after all. Don't be ridiculous.

Tell me your worst truths; I want to turn your dirty business bright and wax-smooth on my fingertips. I want to be the soft cloth in your closet. I want to rustle when we're all alone. I want to be the comforting sliver of light shivering in underneath your door. No matter where you hide.

I'm here to hide you, after all. Don't be ridiculous.

There's no need to penetration, dear. I run this service strictly with my hands clean, more or less.

Not for me, no, naturally, but for the pretty bones you're hiding underneath.

I love the uncomplicated you.

Let me be your bone collector, sir and/or madam.

I'll make you all polished on the inside.

 

Prompt: 

An intrusive Anonymous asked you: Skeleton in your closet? Throw me a bone.

I know what you did, but I won't judge you, so long as you don't just me for needing to know. (c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, critiques, critique requests, likes, follows, reblogs, and a little place inside your...heart. Yes.

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Pulp Non-Fiction

All right. Okay. Just fucking stop it already.

It's not cute. It's not funny. It's not fair.

You sit there, bending my vision and my mind with those endless and merciless blue lines, like it's just so goddamned easy, but it's not. It's not! Don't you get it? They want me to leave a mark on you that matters. They want me to pour my heart inside of you, to turn you into something valuable. They want me to turn you into a story. Into a poem. Into sheet music, sketches, art.

They want me to reduce you to a single object and they want you to be perfect.

Christ... what is this, a teen virgin comedy? You are perfect. You are art. You have a story.

You've been torn down, ravaged, decimated, pulped. You've been processed, run through with that weird sort of kinda-sorta pink and a haunting, hospital blue. You used to be tall. You used to be part of something that kept the world alive. You used to be ancient. Then came the acid.

There's a message, though. You are still part of something that keeps the world alive. You can be, have been, and will be recycled, restructured, and reconsidered. You are still beautiful.

And you don't give one soggy shit what I happen to think. You don't owe me that. Or anything.

I owe you everything. So no. I'm not going prove anything. I can't you make you worthwhile.

But you? You can make me whole, if only for a little while. You tie me to the infinite and true.

So fucking stop it, all right? I'll think of something.

I promise. I think. I hope.

Prompt: journaling-junkie:

What would you write within these empty lines? Your story still needs to be told. We’re waiting to read it and listen! Write with your heart!

In the exciting sequel, I consider my giant screen and the electrical heartbeat of all matter...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Always seeking writing prompts, review requests, questions, and you.

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Free of Her

"You'll think about me after, won't you?" she asked.

First, "Of course." I lied.

Then, "I won't." I lied.

Next, "I don't," I lied.

Last? "I can still see her face." I lied.

Only the hot tears on an old, cold face were true.

writeworld:

"Think about me once in awhile, will you?"

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

I don't know if this should be poetry or prose. Some of the best works that I've read can blur the difference. Also - wear sunscreen.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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The Flower Maiden

Beside me marched my fellow flower maidens - sickles sharp, crowned in flowers, wreathed in armor.

Behind me strode our keepers - masked in ibis beaks, breaths sweetened by the herbs within.

Far, far behind, a city rose upon a mountain - a cornucopia of silos, fattened fruit, and children.

None of them were ours.

Rebirth was everything, the city sang. I cannot think that that's all that I am good for. Then I survived a sudden strong wind thick with Fertile pollens. With these flowers on my crown, they've marked me as a hollow vessel. They've written infertility across my brow.

In their eyes, I am barren. So in their kindness, they send me with heir keepers and their quest.

Ahead of me, in a pollenic haze, the Fertile rise up from their fields. The castrated keepers sing, light and sweet, as we slip into the yellow fog...

One per acre, man and wife,

Stamen, pistil, throat and knife,

For every spring, a weedy cull.

For every fruit, a belly full...

For every fruit, a belly full.  Lips stuffed with lavender, rose-thorns scarring the edges of eye sockets fluttering with soft petals, sinuous vines threading their sun-dried skin - once I've cut and weeded the Fertile from our city's fields? I'll pluck a fruit each from their hearts.

The flesh, I will eat, to fill my belly. Each pair of seeds, I'll spit up for the next year's harvest.I will fill my belly so they'll let me be fulfilled. I'll give them fruit so I that I can be rid of them. As the flower maidens march into the pollen-dusted fields, the keepers sing of glory, victory, and maidens turned to mothers. They'll never make life. They have no seed of their own. Only this.

I don't know what's more inhuman; what lies before me or the city now so far behind us.

I don't know, but as sure as the seasons, I cannot stop it. I can only survive.

Prompt: An ominous Anonymous

when winter ends, but death begins.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking your prompts, review requests, questions, or random input.

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After the Tower Comes the Star

Stars can explain art to us.

I mean, think about it. In a thousand years, even at the staggering speed of light, we will never touch the star that twinkles in our eyes. That second star on the right? It's out of reach. We're out of time. That star may well be dead and gone, a champagne supernova or super-massive black hole well past its prime.

So what do we do? We reach out our hands, We grope and grasp at time-lapsed illusions.

Stars would burn us down to less than dust, but we still strive to dance with them. Stars lie far beyond any world we'll ever touch, but we still adorn ourselves in diamonds and feel beautiful. We wish on stars that will never hear our voices. We navigate by stars who do not know our journeys. We strive and innovate to reach the stars that promise nothing more than our own.

Amateur astronomers make terrible investors. Stars are just not practical.

Even so... Without a star? We'd not only have frozen, we'd have never even lived. Stars in the distance give us light. One gives us life. They give us our imaginary answers and a shining moon.

It's only natural to bring them down to earth with us.

Stars, after all, represent hope.

Prompt: a celestial Anonymous 

Anonymous asked you: Write about the stars

Can you see the stars from there, anonymous? Even if you can't, they're up there. Keep going...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me prompts, questions, or review requests!

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The River and the Ocean

The river bled into the ocean. I had a lifetime of supplies, or so I thought, and I was right.

I'd filled my deck to bursting with the fruit of fevered memories - the heat of joy, the chills of well-remembered sorrows. I'd packed in and preserved them in songs and poetry, in written words and water-proof recordings. I filled my drums and my barrels with the waters of wisdom - piss-poor decisions and the tears that follow after. Life had left me all too ready to survive.

I would not hunger. I would not thirst. The ocean lay before me and the current led me on.

I had ways to keep myself in health. I burned away the bloat of easy living with the weight of harder habits. The silence of an open day turned to the music of a metamorphosis. When you can't sing, grow. When you can't speak, grow. When you can't breathe? Grow. When you can't think? Grow and grow, because tomorrow is another day. And it is. Another day. Then another.

Eat. Drink. Read. Remember. Always grow. The ocean lay before me and the current led me on.

I had ways to keep my mind in focus. I honed my silver tongue and polished it with wax from honeyed words. I told myself new stories. I made fantasies from memories, with wild flavors you almost wouldn't believe. I told the clouds tales until I wrung loose rain. I told the sun secrets until night fell into my arms. I made seasons turn from too much purple prose and cheap, bruised imagery. Sometimes, after all, purple's a fine color. Sometimes, after all, the cheap blow sticks.

I made a thousand words, new foods to savor, new drinks to sate me. I spoke until I understood.

The only word that didn't work was 'shore'.

The stories rose in wonder, but no climax ever came.

The ocean had never promised me an ending. It just lay before me as the current led me on. 

In the end, I didn't drown so much as dive.

See? Sometimes the cheap blow sticks. Or does it?

  Prompt: Anonymous asked you:

Write about your biggest fear.

That...wasn't fun to write. Back to the genre July tomorrow!

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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Sun-Dreams-Dying

Sun-Dreams-Dying

I’m so worn out from walking with the kids along the wharf all afternoon. Legs throbbing, feet beating with my heart. The sun is so bright, its rays lash my corneas like whips.

 

I’m driving through San Francisco. At every intersection I wait behind thrumming exhausts and red brake-lights. My head dips from fatigue.

 

The kids are thirsty, the baby’s crying. Everyone’s sweaty. We’re out of water. My god we’re like sailors lost at urban sea. Sticky tank-tops and dank wind. Fabric seats soak up our exuded liquids.

A grocery!

I u-turn and park. She takes the baby inside. The boys are passed out and sweaty strands of hair cover their faces. I sit in the car and lean against the window. My eyes close.

 

I’m so worn out from walking with the kids along the wharf all afternoon. Legs throbbing, feet beating with my heart. The sun is so bright, its rays lash my corneas like whips.

 

I’m driving through San Francisco. At every intersection I wait behind thrumming exhausts and red brake-lights. My head dips from fatigue.

 

The kids are thirsty, the baby’s crying. Everyone’s sweaty. We’re out of water. My god we’re like sailors lost at urban sea. Sticky tank-tops and dank wind. Fabric seats soak up our exuded liquids.

 

I’m at a light. The engine drones. I look down at my lap. My eyes close, just for a second.

I wake up, I WAS ASLEEP I FELL ASLEEP FUCK I FELL ASLEEP DRIVING OH MY GOD I’M DEAD I’M DEAD.

 

No, I’m alive. I’m parked. I look around. I’m in a parking lot. I’m ok. I’m ok. It’s ok. I grab my chest. I put my face on the wheel.

Dreams, terror,
I dream of life and death,
dying in dreams indistinguishable from life

and waking to living death.

The sun is on my face,
UV rays blocked by glass;


people are stocking up for Pride weekend
and to celebrate DOMA’s demise.

 

I’m dead as well,

in this steel, plastic, aluminum, glass sarcophagus.

The celebrations erupt.