I am praying.
Money is your god
and my God is mine.
Papa asks for more and I am on another train.
Your schooling won’t pay for itself,
and Papa won’t let me forget this time.
I beg Mr. M—— for an advance
and he calls me “Ungrateful Samsa."
I ride the train all night and wake up sick.
My head hurts and I am late for an
appointment across town and and and
Mr. M—— will never forgive me
and Papa will say unspeakable things
and question my affections and I will have to say
"I take my worthlessness to my grave."
I wake up on another train and can’t
remember how I got there.
I dream of flight&md
I beg.
I watch you talk to yourself.
I consider
how many cases of mental illness
go undiagnosed each year.
I convince myself of your brilliance
with your own illumination of it so dim.
I beg.
There is a tiny point in my left temple that aches
and I think, ‘clot,’ and you cry
and I cry and there are many crosses
we could go around bearing, but this one
is not nearly bright enough.
At night, I picture you with wings.
I collapse.
They are translucent and cut my hands
and you go on crawling—Gregor,
what on earth has happened?
Father puts on his black coat and you,
you put on yours.
Your skin is soft.
I beg.
Your skin
boys and girls in america by rchelsea2005, literature
Literature
boys and girls in america
the land was beautiful; open valley, touch mountain
and the ranges were open like the spaces in your heart
and I was heading west with you, in spirit, where the fault lines widen
climbing rocks inside your mind, each foothold before me without thought
and I was beautiful and you were beautiful -- driving down highways
mapped by flowers in bright red and yellow,
like the sun, but softer, and you crumbled with my memory inside you --
a reminder of every good thing spoiled. in my mind, you are whole
and incredible, a bright star burning itself dark in the universe,
like me, with galaxies blooming inside your arteries like watermelon seeds;
chew
I am helpless to resist the ways in which you bring me back --
roots, brown! brown! bring me back from cold wanderings.
I want warmth and skin and a universe decentered by glory.
magnificence, bring me home to cinnamon crests and pine
needle tides. there is beauty here, under my fingernails,
and I will find it. body, hold me close and tell me what it's
like to love in yellow and familiar strains on the radio; tell
me what it's like when a window closes, when a splinter sticks.
we offer threads of hope and cash from back pockets with
pick-pocketed ten cent words, but I am here -- here and I cannot
escape it. the skies blue and the
There's cheap birch paneling under her feet. The floor is cold, and every breath she takes is a quiet loss. She closes her eyes and thinks about daisies. Halfway across the world is the dream of an elephant and a distant, foreign way of loving everything and nothing all at once.
Her breasts hurt. Her back hurts, her eyes hurt, and everything inside is just trying to crawl its way out. She thinks about floating face-up in the ocean, face hot, and dreams of disconnection. When she opens her eyes, she's still in the same place. Nothing has changed and she wants to write a letter to every person she's ever loved, but there'll never be enough tim
your arms are warm and open and, like summer,
your heart burns hot toward its own end.
your eyes fill, and there is no sympathy.
saturday mornings are lonely and quiet;
you start counting up so many small, old
pains that you lose track and can't run away
from losing days to fear.
your hands are cold and your fingers ache.
this is your life, but it is not yours. asleep,
you dream of gardens and noise, visions
of men without ambition. you love deeply,
but you can't love forever. your children
lose recognition, and here, please, just let
your eyes go weak and your fingers clench;
it is safer.
you want every place in the world, f
You dreamed of waking.
You dreamed of the way
a name sounds when leaving lips.
You dreamed of why why why
and the way peculiar things
pile onto each other like cells.
And, like a tumor or a loss,
your hands are not yours.
And like a reed you bend
but do not break.
There's a dead dog on your porch,
and your eyes go bright and empty
when the wound stretches and tears,
rendering itself undone and nameless.
Your body is a curse,
and the flies begin to come.
You are sliding down banisters
with your flushed skin -- shame building
to break through the new tissue,
your black sun. Your clothes are too big.
You swim and you s
green smothered over stitches and fingertips,
there is something to be had here.
questions are open-ended, and I am
blocked in by the resonance of mortality.
over the chipped cement, cracked sidewalk
of cul-de-sac life, I traced your footpaths
and went forward, dizzy dreamer-style down
through days lit up like forgotten porch lights
and summer sun. I was there, and
every smile on your face meant something new
to be loved----another lost strand of hair,
another found way of fitting fingers together.
now there is making sense of loss and the way
hope looks scattered across pavement, all
eggshells. loneliness becomes a virtue, and
I am praying.
Money is your god
and my God is mine.
Papa asks for more and I am on another train.
Your schooling won’t pay for itself,
and Papa won’t let me forget this time.
I beg Mr. M—— for an advance
and he calls me “Ungrateful Samsa."
I ride the train all night and wake up sick.
My head hurts and I am late for an
appointment across town and and and
Mr. M—— will never forgive me
and Papa will say unspeakable things
and question my affections and I will have to say
"I take my worthlessness to my grave."
I wake up on another train and can’t
remember how I got there.
I dream of flight&md
I beg.
I watch you talk to yourself.
I consider
how many cases of mental illness
go undiagnosed each year.
I convince myself of your brilliance
with your own illumination of it so dim.
I beg.
There is a tiny point in my left temple that aches
and I think, ‘clot,’ and you cry
and I cry and there are many crosses
we could go around bearing, but this one
is not nearly bright enough.
At night, I picture you with wings.
I collapse.
They are translucent and cut my hands
and you go on crawling—Gregor,
what on earth has happened?
Father puts on his black coat and you,
you put on yours.
Your skin is soft.
I beg.
Your skin
boys and girls in america by rchelsea2005, literature
Literature
boys and girls in america
the land was beautiful; open valley, touch mountain
and the ranges were open like the spaces in your heart
and I was heading west with you, in spirit, where the fault lines widen
climbing rocks inside your mind, each foothold before me without thought
and I was beautiful and you were beautiful -- driving down highways
mapped by flowers in bright red and yellow,
like the sun, but softer, and you crumbled with my memory inside you --
a reminder of every good thing spoiled. in my mind, you are whole
and incredible, a bright star burning itself dark in the universe,
like me, with galaxies blooming inside your arteries like watermelon seeds;
chew
I am helpless to resist the ways in which you bring me back --
roots, brown! brown! bring me back from cold wanderings.
I want warmth and skin and a universe decentered by glory.
magnificence, bring me home to cinnamon crests and pine
needle tides. there is beauty here, under my fingernails,
and I will find it. body, hold me close and tell me what it's
like to love in yellow and familiar strains on the radio; tell
me what it's like when a window closes, when a splinter sticks.
we offer threads of hope and cash from back pockets with
pick-pocketed ten cent words, but I am here -- here and I cannot
escape it. the skies blue and the
There's cheap birch paneling under her feet. The floor is cold, and every breath she takes is a quiet loss. She closes her eyes and thinks about daisies. Halfway across the world is the dream of an elephant and a distant, foreign way of loving everything and nothing all at once.
Her breasts hurt. Her back hurts, her eyes hurt, and everything inside is just trying to crawl its way out. She thinks about floating face-up in the ocean, face hot, and dreams of disconnection. When she opens her eyes, she's still in the same place. Nothing has changed and she wants to write a letter to every person she's ever loved, but there'll never be enough tim
your arms are warm and open and, like summer,
your heart burns hot toward its own end.
your eyes fill, and there is no sympathy.
saturday mornings are lonely and quiet;
you start counting up so many small, old
pains that you lose track and can't run away
from losing days to fear.
your hands are cold and your fingers ache.
this is your life, but it is not yours. asleep,
you dream of gardens and noise, visions
of men without ambition. you love deeply,
but you can't love forever. your children
lose recognition, and here, please, just let
your eyes go weak and your fingers clench;
it is safer.
you want every place in the world, f
You dreamed of waking.
You dreamed of the way
a name sounds when leaving lips.
You dreamed of why why why
and the way peculiar things
pile onto each other like cells.
And, like a tumor or a loss,
your hands are not yours.
And like a reed you bend
but do not break.
There's a dead dog on your porch,
and your eyes go bright and empty
when the wound stretches and tears,
rendering itself undone and nameless.
Your body is a curse,
and the flies begin to come.
You are sliding down banisters
with your flushed skin -- shame building
to break through the new tissue,
your black sun. Your clothes are too big.
You swim and you s
green smothered over stitches and fingertips,
there is something to be had here.
questions are open-ended, and I am
blocked in by the resonance of mortality.
over the chipped cement, cracked sidewalk
of cul-de-sac life, I traced your footpaths
and went forward, dizzy dreamer-style down
through days lit up like forgotten porch lights
and summer sun. I was there, and
every smile on your face meant something new
to be loved----another lost strand of hair,
another found way of fitting fingers together.
now there is making sense of loss and the way
hope looks scattered across pavement, all
eggshells. loneliness becomes a virtue, and
boys and girls in america by rchelsea2005, literature
Literature
boys and girls in america
the land was beautiful; open valley, touch mountain
and the ranges were open like the spaces in your heart
and I was heading west with you, in spirit, where the fault lines widen
climbing rocks inside your mind, each foothold before me without thought
and I was beautiful and you were beautiful -- driving down highways
mapped by flowers in bright red and yellow,
like the sun, but softer, and you crumbled with my memory inside you --
a reminder of every good thing spoiled. in my mind, you are whole
and incredible, a bright star burning itself dark in the universe,
like me, with galaxies blooming inside your arteries like watermelon seeds;
chew
Constantinople and carousel are going to be published in the 31st edition of Breadcrumb Scabs, run by the lovely Lena Drake.
http://www.breadcrumbscabs.com/
Please visit the site, and read a couple of previous issues (each issue is available as a free PDF download or in print). Will post more information on the 31st issue as it's made available to me! Keep an eye out for a link to the 31st issue! ;)
Best wishes,
-C.
Thank you to everyone who has added me to their watch list. An additional thank you to all of you who have fav'ed something of mine.
Best wishes,
-Chelsea