A coffeehouse in amber light, dark wood
soaking in extrapolation, dampening
the drink orders that glide above the workday
din, faux-leather and tweed, smoke,
ink, photos on the walls and ideas
that linger and dodge the circling mobiles
hanging from the ceiling,
where we sit, alone, and look
that someone is falling in love
To Charles Bukowski
"I haven't shat or pissed in seven years," she tells him, negotiating each word around the Marlboro.
Because he doesn't know what else to say, Isaiah asks, "Haven't you seen a doctor about that?"
"Of course." Her words fall out white clouds against an off-white carpet and light cream plaster walls. The air is a stinking thick haze of tobacco smoke. There are only a handful of boxes next to them; they sit on the only pieces of furniture he can see, two metal folding chairs. The room is bare.
"If you don't shit or piss for a week the body poisons itself -- drowns in its own filth," she says. "The doctors said there was nothing wrong with me. One or two actually went as far as to say I was lying. But I haven't defecated or urinated for about the last quarter of my life."
"That must be uncomfortable," Isaiah says, his desire to fuck her quickly subsiding with this new bit of information, thus he had no reason to stay. He'd made his delivery -- the last that evening -- a thirty-six pack of downy toilet paper, to one Beatrice Smith who, despite his usual gamut of old ladies and stay-at-home moms, turned out to be an attractive young woman, shorts tight enough to count her change at a glance and a tight white T-shirt thin enough to see the absence of a bra. Her hair was tied back in a red bandana. When she turned to get him the money and a drink he decided she had the best ass he'd seen in months. So they sat down for drinks, he a beer and she a Long Island iced tea. Then she told him she hadn't shat in seven years.
Kill the beer and go, he thinks. Bitch is crazy. Still. "So, why order the largest and most expensive package of toilet paper?" he asks indicating the behemoth sitting next to him.
She shrugs. "Entertaining guests. I've made a rule, you see. Once I've run through three of these I move. That usually takes about a year of entertaining guests, boyfriends and whoever else walks in."
"So," Isaiah says, "you have a certain threshold of shit you take before you move."
The wind blows, the apartment groans and the rain slaps the window at the termination of freezing, forming a sliding layer of ice on the glass. It looks like the whole world is melting.
"Want another drink?" Beatrice asks.
"Yeah," Isaiah says before he realizes he's handing her his empty. He calls to her after she disappears into the kitchen. "So, how long have you been doing the one-year-and-then-move thing?"
"Since your problems started?"
"Since my problems started?" she says and it sounds like she's telling the punchline of a dirty joke. "My problems started a long time before that."
She reemerges from the kitchen, hands him his beer, sits down and gets to work on a martini. "
This feeling; so unexplainable;A deep rise of passion from within,Hast now brought a glow of theeUpon my heart again.A warmth inside my bodyAnd love throughout my soulShall ne'er fade again, dearUntil this life does lull.And as your grasp draws strengthUpon my heart so nesh,I feel you in my soul, my mind,And even beneath my flesh.But now in total temperance,Still ardent as a friend.My wish, but only desire now,Will ne'er come to end.I know your limitations,And to this I do concede.Albeit my heart does long forYour strong hand to lead.This is not goodbyeFor goodbye shall ne'er come;See it as a new beginning, love,True friends we have become!
So this is my first daily writing challenge piece. I know it was yesterday's piece, but I started it late last night and was too tired to finish it properly. I was afraid I was going to rush it to the end before it should. So yeah, I'd like to hear what others think about it.
Write about feeling completely unprepared.
tendered flesh where your
found my skin—
[jaw lines, joints, appendages twixt]
indistinct regret as my
turnt my chin.
reminiscent of your essence,
everpresent in all my recollections
seeps between discretion.
you linger like a dream
lining my subconscious,
you stick to my clothes—
[jeans dirtied, hair tousled]
you re-emerge in inhalation and contemplation;
disrupt the surface with ease.
the smudges left,
the rubber burnt,
the charcoal scent stains
in a chest pit;
fueled with every
the skin-to-skin sensation
and each beat accelerated—
a feather-lined stomach
wont to sway in anticipation
stays its state
as if it were expected.
and to lie beside
is more than welcoming,
to sit with a firelit
until the morning; tempting.
loyal like a dog,
loyal to a fault,
This piece is a collaboration between myself and the XRIVO Writing Interns. Each of them were given the same introductory paragraphs and told to creatively interpret them. They could do whatever they wanted, whether it was to completely rewrite the paragraphs or simply continue with the story. Each of them have a different focus when it comes to writing - from poetry to journalism - and they interpreted the initial paragraphs with that skill-set in mind. The result is a rather fun collaboration of the different directions a single story can take when multiple perspectives are brought in.
This poem is partly inspired by Gertrude Stein. I tried to let the sounds propel the poem, feeding off the energy of the words.
This is a poem about my grandma who passed away a few years ago, i usually write a lot about her.