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On Not Being Hit by LightningAccording to the National Weather Bureau, the average person
has a one in ten thousand chance of being hit by lightning.
It is storming, and I go for a walk.
The rain is light and irregular,
flickering on my face, sparking off puddles.
The night sky shatters white with lightning like a china saucer
dropped on a black floor.
The thunder hums in my sternum.
The thunder is lions, bass drums in a canyon, empty barrels
bouncing down staircases.
The thunder is nothing in my mouth it hasn't been
in the pens of a thousand poets.
I am barefoot in the rain puddles.
The grit and gravel on the sidewalk
bite at my soles, but that's all right, it's part of it,
It makes the puddles feel cooler and sweeter.
The dark, rich scent of grass and mulch and the fish
of far-off lakes is spiced with ozone, like cayenne in chocolate.
I stand and watch the flashes reflect off the dome of grey cloud,
And speak poetry into the wet air, spooling it out
like kite string. None of it is very memorable.
None of it stic
The Lonely and Dangerous BullyI Am the Lonely and Dangerous Bully
I am the lonely and dangerous bully.
I will not be tamed, or redeemed, or purified.
I will not repent.
I have no need of repentance;
I am the villain, I am ungrudgingly the villain,
But if I am wicked, my only wickedness
Is that I am selfish, is that I am hungry,
As all men are, men and animals both.
And whatever I want, whatever I need,
I will pursue, and capture, and have.
I will fell temples and spill blood for what I want.
What man does differently?
I will fell temples and spill blood for you.
I do not know how it came to be this way.
I do not long for the unattainable, for the light of virtue,
(Would I still want you
If you were willing, if you were wicked? Yes)
But for you. You symbolize nothing.
It could never have been anyone else.
I long for your eyes, your voice, your smell,
And the need for you is like the need for water.
I have never been content. I would not recognize peace.
It is hard enough to chase and battle all my many demons
HomesickThis is it, thenthe moment when you find
You're homesick for a place where you didn't grow up,
Where nobody shares your last name.
It's no turning point.
You knew the turning point when you saw it,
When you swept out the corners of the closet
And put your hand on the lightswitch and oh, oh,
How was it that a room could be that empty.
It's no turning point,
But a point just past,
Just ahead of the blindness of the corner,
Where you can still see what was behind you.
The road home goes in opposite directions
And ends at two different addresses.
Your front door is two different colors.
Your desk, your dresser, your bed in its battered quilt
Could just as easily exist in two different places
At once, and if you took either part of the road
And opened either door you could find them there,
Find your life waiting in one of two equally plausible states.
At three in the morning,
As you anaesthetize your cotton-muffled mind
Against the solitude with lack of sleep,
You notice the usual pro
Tact and TactilityThe world, without meaning to, can be so cold.
Tree, flower, earth, stone are beautiful, but with
A heatless beauty, warmed secondhand if at all.
Sun that warms them, fire that warms them,
Cannot be held, cannot be touched.
I find myself in a world full of people
Who dislike being touched.
I accept this.
I stand three paces off, hands behind my back.
I accept, but I do not comprehend. How would it be,
I wonder, to dislike light? To dislike warmth?
People talk to me of personal space,
But the language I speak says "You are dear to me,
You are my friend, let me share with you
The gift of my heat, of my nearness.
Let me hug you, touch your arm,
Sit close to you so that our elbows jostle.
We are all of us adrift in outer personal space,
And it is so cold and empty,
but I am here. Let me show you that I am here,
Let me tether you to Earth. Tether me too,
Keep me from floating away."
But all around me are bubbles which it is impolite to burst,
So I refrain. Or I try to.
Forgive me if I brush
Family UnionOne of these days we're all going to meet
The way we say we will--
Someday, years from now, when respective national holidays
Converge on one warm three-day weekend.
Some will book plane tickets,
Tweeting from the runways, logging on from the terminals
To post about delays and layovers.
Some will drive all day and through the night,
Staring at the windshield
As they are used to staring at computer screens,
As the GPS ticks through the hours.
And some will walk down the street to the park
And will have already spread the checked cloths on the picnic tables
When the rest of us arrive, bleary-eyed but grinning.
The webcammers will recognize each other first,
And at least one person will marvel
At the high resolution and phenomenal connection speed of reality,
And they will all laugh because it's only half a joke.
Those who have exchanged phone numbers
Will be next, turning around suddenly
When they hear a familiar voice.
The rest of us will have to rely on our memory
Of overcropped profil
Electric and Fully AutomatedIt isn't as though the house
is dustier than it has been.
The quality of the laundering has not suffered.
Conditions, she thinks over the rim of her wine glass,
are largely unchanged, except for
a sly smirk when her husband thinks she isn't looking,
and what may be an answering wink
or may be their maid's left optical LED on the fritz.
She doesn't see the appeal, really,
of coy black rubber wheels at the ends of
long chrome legs, of pert metal cones on its chest
like pylons, molded aluminum hairstyle,
sassy chips of color at the ends of articulated steel fingers.
Of course if she didsee the appeal, that is
this would all be an entirely different issue,
It comes around and offers them both
more wine, and he accepts with a cheeky grin.
He probably has no idea his tie is on backward;
it has been since this afternoon,
when he took the maid into the garage to fix
"that sticking right wheel that's been giving her trouble."
She supposes she should be more upset.
PostcardI often find myself wondering
what my family would think if they ran into me now,
the differences that would stand out to them
from the last time they saw me, a year ago.
I usually stop at the obvious:
purple hair, eyeliner, thirty extra pounds.
I used to hope they'd stumble across me
sometime when I was at my most lost and lonely,
a selfish snapshot wished on them at my lowest.
That would show them, make them understand.
But now, today, I wish they could drive by
right this instant, and see me on the sidewalk,
loaded down with grocery bags
full of fresh fruit and sweet tea,
cradling an armful of giant sunflowers,
in love with June, and laughing
just because I don't have room for all this happiness
inside of me.
A postcard sent home.
Greetings from sunny My Life. Having fun.
Have mostly given up
Wishing you were here.
The End of the First YearI say that winter is my favorite season
Because I like the feel of heavy blankets over me at night.
But now summer is back again, and the warm, thick air
wraps around me with a comforting, palpable weight.
The warm weather
brings out a certain smell in the apartment stairwell
Not unpleasant. Just sweet and dim and a little musty,
A smell the same smudgy off-white color
Of the light from the wall fixtures.
I might not have noticed it at all if it hadn't been for
The sense memories that flood me
Every time I lock the apartment door behind me on a hot day.
I inhale that heavy, off-white atmosphere
And for a moment I have fallen through a hole into
The heavy, off-white atmosphere of this corridor last summer,
In my first months away from home,
When I was still a stranger here and noticed things like
The smell of the stairwell, or the color of the light.
A year ago today.
A year ago today I left my home, left my family,
Found a home, found a family,
Climbed this stairwell,
Piled my bo
DowsingOnce, when you gave in to tears,
(Loud, messy tears with the door closed)
As the first step of the collapse you'd finally stopped fighting,
You discovered, once you'd caught your breath,
That the collapse was no longer necessary.
That kind of sorrow,
Those deep, sodden pits,
The savage, clawing misery that requires all your attention,
Is in many ways easier than the lesser kinds
The weight between your shoulders
That seems like very little until you've carried it for miles,
The subtle chill that you can take as long as it's in shifts,
The unobtrusive little creature that sits calmly in your gut
But bites you now and then
To make sure you know it's still there.
Because you remember the tears.
You remember how they helped, how relief felt.
You are thirsty for tears, so you play sad songs
And dredge up sad memories,
Looking for the soft place,
Searching for the wellspring.
But it does no more good than a forked stick in the desert.
All you get for your trouble is a headache, and sno
The MurdererTo be able to kill, once more, would've felt like heaven.
He imagined himself being on the streets again, in a big yet quiet town. He imagined himself walking behind a middle-aged woman, maybe arm in arm with her grumpy husband. He would pass her, slowly, while observing the wrinkled face, some locks of grey hair unconcealed. The extravagant Gucci, which was meant to show how different she was— obviously, she was just as different as every woman of her age. The clamping high-heeled shoes, blue veins meandering through her skin. He could smell her perfume, a strong scent of dated nail polish and petrol. He would probably give her a polite smile and she would be reminded of her son, who was about the same age. She would smile back.
He imagined starting a conversation and sympathetically touching her shoulder. He imagined her husband looking around and tapping with his fingernails on the glistening wristwatch he got from her for his 58th birthday, last month. He imagined talking to
it was just a jokeHello, my name is Anonymous
and I am a bully.
I have always been the girl who gets what she wants, especially in high school. I had them all under my finger. Students, staff and the PTA. Then this new girl came to my school, my territory. Her name was Anna.
There was this boy I liked. He was that guy, and he was the one thing I still wanted. I'd had guys but that guy was the one Then Anna came along. I knew, when I saw them together exactly what she was thinking. She liked that guy too.
She was getting in my way. Anna was sweet and charming and such a cutie, that guy was bound to fall for her. I was jealous. I decided to play a joke on her. So one day, while I was sitting next to her in class, I took a pen and wrote SLUT on Anna's arm, where very one could see it. She was shocked, I could see it on her face. She almost cried.
I knew that guy didn't like girls who had been around. I knew that Anna wouldn't get in my way again. But I was wrong. He helped comforted Anna and helped her was
911"911, what's your emergency?"
"Um, t-there's someone in my house," I whisper into my flip flop phone. I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the bathroom door. The robber had just kicked the door open and ran inside while I was climbing up the stairs. I could barely hold the phone up to my ear due to my hand shaking so vigorously.
"What's your location?" the lady on the line asks. She has a calm tone despite the fact that she must get lots of critical phone calls every day.
"Blue Avenue, Robinson Street, house number 8," I whisper back. I don't want the person who had broken into my house to hear and come after me. I would prefer it if he would steal whatever he wanted and just leave.
"Can you identify the person who broke into your home?"
"No, I didn't see the person's face, he was wearing a hoodie," I use my other hand to try and ease the trembling. I place my ear against the bathroom door to listen for any indications that the robber might still be upstairs. If he was no long
Happy Canada Day BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Canada groaned and rolled over, blindly smacking at his alarm clock. When the beeping continued, he grudgingly opened his blurry eyes so he could press the 'OFF' button. I thought I didn't set my alarm last night, he thought groggily. Confused that the beeping had not stopped, he glanced at the glowing red numbers to see that it was almost 3:30pm in the afternoon. Jolting upright in bed, he fumbled around for his glasses, dropping them on the floor before finally succeeding in putting them on along with a pair of sweatpants.
Still hearing the beeping, he got quickly out of bed and went over to the window. Blinking against the harsh sunlight as he tied the drapes apart, Canada looked out and saw a beautiful day. The sky was a bright blue with a speckling of fluffy white clouds and the trees were swaying gently to an invisible breeze as birds flew from one to t
Let Me Wipe Your Tearshere sweetie,
let me wipe your tears,
i know the past,
may have held tough years,
they scarred your memory,
built up your fears,
but just think of,
our remaining years,
we'll be meeting at the airport,
kissing and smiling,
sharing our happy thoughts,
happy sort of crying,
we'll be kissing through new year,
cuddling and staring,
grins from cheek to ear,
i want you to know i'm caring,
i know you find it hard,
but i'm always here,
there's nothing you could tell me,
i'm not prepared to hear,
i know you remember disappointment,
but baby i can change that,
we could have our own appointment,
relax... and breathe... and lay back,
let me wipe away those tears,
just remember for me,
that from now on in,
you're life will be bright,
baby let me be you're shining light.
I only wanna help you,
I never wanna hurt you,
my heart pumps your love,
through and through,
one's a lonely number,
so i need you too,
The Weary Traveler and the Girl Who Fell.A study in grief and unity.
Opening the door I found the monster I had drawn pictures of in my mind, but he had quite a bigger jaw than I had imagined.
They call this a processa journeyand say that there will be missteps and stumbles along the way, but I feel I might have to claw my way across the ground before I can even hope to have missteps. They don't tell you that there's a good chance you'll fall right out of the starting gate, and the soil in your mouth tastes gritty and bitter. Bruised knees. Bloodied elbows. Breathe the scent of earth and lie there, hoping to God that someone comes back and realizes you're not moving along. It rains. It's cold. Trying, trying to get some strength to pick myself up off the ground, but everything hurts and it's so cold and I want to go home. Home is with you, but you're not here.
And as I lie there, eyes closed and mind tired, I hear cautious footsteps. A gentle hand on my back and the soft whisper of, "It's okay." An understa
Two sisters sat on the edge of a cliff
and one was old, and one was young
and their mother was not yet born.
They watched the sea below their feet.
The waves chewed at the rocks
as they had built the cliff through ages,
and green weeds flowed with the tide
like the sisters' hair on the wind.
The sisters sat for many hours,
their fingers twined with strands of yellow grass,
their eyes like chips of ocean glass,
fixed on the far horizon.
Without a word, they sang to each other
and rivalled and warred in silence
as siblings do
without a real reason to fight.
And the grass became a violin
beneath the elder's hands.
Her pizzicato challenge lost itself
somewhere between Dover and Calais.
The younger never heard it,
trapped as she was in a book
of her own invention
with half a reality against its spine.
So they stayed, forevers in the hours,
inside an opal fog, so thick they could see everything
except one another,
but no eyes were needed for that.
Two sisters sat on the edge of a
I Can't BreatheThese oxygen empty lungs
press against my rib cage
expanding with carbon dioxide.
I can't breathe.
For that single split second
it feels like I'm suspended
in space above the earth
and I can't breathe.
It's a tight grip
This red beating machine within me
is being pulled in every direction
Your hands are deformed slinkies
gripping; pulling; stretching; releasing.
I'm being detached piece by piece
but I do not mind
as long as it's,
Shivering WeedsShivering weeds
I float in the river, threads of green vines twined around me,
twigs and foxgloves laced in my hair.
If I drown perhaps I will grow gills, silver slits.
A truck cornflower blue pulls over to the side of the road.
A man casually scoops up a little girl with pigtails tied with red ribbons.
She has no name now.
Fish stare at me with flat eyes like silver coins.
They place coins on the eyes of the dead.
But I am something else.
The princess dreams of spinning wheels that bloomed like asters,
fingertips pricked, guppies swimming beneath her eye lids.
No one will find her.
The truck is now only a blue jay on a road ending in sky
surrounded by the shivering weeds.
The HeroineYou never really liked villains before,
never much understood the whole
But as you sit across from her
bent over her cheerios, frowning slightly,
bits of white fluff from her bathrobe
caught in her dark hair like seafoam,
you realize your favorite villain would be
any who had to go against
that. She feels your eyes and looks up,
turning the frown on you,
her mouth a delicate knot just off center.
"Stop, stop," you cry, choked with fellow-feeling
for the imagined opponent,
and your words hang startled in the air,
glowing in the yellow morning sunlight
coming in through the window.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More