cheering up leon werthTo Léon Werthcheering up leon werth by zebrazebrazebra
I ask the indulgence of the children who may read this book for dedicating it to a grown-up. I have a serious reason: he is the best friend I have in the world. I have another reason: this grown-up understands everything, even books about children. I have a third reason: he lives in France where he is hungry and cold, he needs cheering up. If all these reasons are not enough, I will dedicate the book to the child from whom this grown-up grew. All grown-ups were once children-although few of them remember it. And so I correct my dedication:
To Léon Werth, When he was a little boy
dear teen meDear Sarah,dear teen me by zebrazebrazebra
Remember that time you tried to top yourself by hiding under the covers? That was hilarious. I remember you tugging at the edges of the blanket and praying, without a shred of scientific evidence, that the lack of oxygen would be enough to kill you. You sat under there for something like fifteen minutes before you gave up and went to make a sandwich. But while you were under there, choking a little on your pillow because you never washed your sheets, I remember you thought someone was watching. Someone who understood your suffering. Someone who understood you.
Kid, that was me. And I've got two words for you: man up. Life can get a whole lot harder than this. Before too much longer, it's going to. And by the time you get to my age, you're going to be glad.
Why were you
descentour love is an old bikedescent by zebrazebrazebra
dodging cars in the summer,
built of rust and dirt and spin
and two spoked stars:
kisses falling into the long lope
between hills and heat,
the height of the seat,
your face like a kid with a bell
or the swell of a shout,
the flash of a wheel as the sun
hits it, or both brakes squealing
as the wind skims down
to meet us, hands in your hair:
and we take the slope
like kings in the swing
of things, arms out, heads high
even as the dip rolls dry.
metamorphosisHe's caught the green bugmetamorphosis by zebrazebrazebra
and the shape of him stumbles,
wound up and resounding like a spring;
a tumbling flower, or a man in heat deseated
who's caught the green bug like rain on the tongue.
Now he's coiled tit to thigh, skin twitching like a gadfly
and shaping a rare round amen to the sob of it,
the sheer glorious throb of it: the dirty thumb
pressing on the seeds in spring, the storms
and showers working hour to hour
at the nonsense of being
while down in the garden
his body becomes a boyish stamen
and aiming between the eyes of the sky
he splits himself, spitting aphids and sucking
at the ground, the euclidian sway of his petals
hounding for water, begging for sound: he settles
and stops in the earth, all naked and green.
He cannot tell the round arse of a tulip
from the sun. No, he cannot run,
and the mayflies are dying
one by one by one.
haiku series - march 2014*haiku series - march 2014 by boundlessgravity
they don't know me,
so they wave --
little boys on a back road.
the spring floods --
turning up arrowheads
again this year.
in a winter meadow --
outside winter windows,
the evening snow.
the shift of ice
in the water jug.
in a blue glass bowl.
a late winter moon --
the road home.
an empty green bottle
floats down the swale.
the little girl with blonde hair--
she reaches out her hand
as she scampers away.
Assembly instructionsBefore You StartAssembly instructions by futilitarian
Novices should read instructions
from start to finish
to avoid embarrassment later.
Ensure you are wearing
for the job at hand.
are not required
but there’s no shame in it either
Designated two person assembly (two males pictured)
females may need
to adjust configuration to suit.
Any number may assist.
Spare dowelling plugs
Unwrap all the parts; fold and retain
the packaging for later. Check
all pieces are present, and in working order.
Familiarise yourself with them, feel
their heft, their quality; caress
the expert workmanship, the smooth
and supple finish.
Try to envisage
which parts will slot together:
this will assist you later.
WARNING: DRAWING NOT TO SCALE
RETAILER ACCEPTS NO LIABILITY
FOR FEELINGS OF INADEQUACY.
Insert part labelled A11 into slot E6;
lubrication may be necessary (not provided).
Here you are laid
on the floor and your
assistant is braced
against the wall and
DischargeOn what was to be my last and final day, I was resolved to stay there as long as I had to. I had friends now, friends that wanted me to get better, friends who had already left telling me "I'll see you in therapy!", friends who urged me to get what I needed out of this place.Discharge by Molly-Snicklefritz
But I still yearned for home.
I did not want to hope for home just yet--I knew that my doctor had set his sights for the beginning of next week. Hoping seemed in vain, and I couldn't allow myself to be let down. If I had no expectations, then I wouldn't be unhappy. When the day I had hoped for arrived, I went through all of our morning exercises and classes fully knowing that going home might not happen.
When I saw my doctor, and he saw me, we smiled at each other. "You look really well today," he told me. We talked about my moods--had I stabilized? Most certainly. Was I doing well? I thought so. "Do you want to go home today?" he asked.
How I had waited for those words. My heart couldn't help but soar. "Yes," I s
Tessa.We laid you in the earth
as the day reached its close.
The afternoon's thunderstorms
passed to the east and in the west
the sun burned brilliant,
its diurnal death a ruddy kiss
upon our swollen cheeks.
That morning you looked at me
from the backseat and suddenly
you knew what we meant by
"it's time." And you let go so quick,
so quiet – your tail thumped, thumped
against the clinic floor, then stopped;
your face was a calm, golden yellow.
The tears did not come then
in the office, transactional and sterile,
but as my bare feet picked up the rain
lingering upon the backyard grass –
here where you scouted out smells
and followed us children about,
nosing our pockets for something tasty.
Tonight, the hollyhocks are in bloom
beside the old oak tree in whose
shade you curled up, contented
as you aged to simply watch over us
and paw at the occasional acorn.
You never asked for much – a little lov
The DetailsHer hair:
cropped short and brilliantly fair everywhere
but the roots. There, fragments of dull dilute her,
whiskey thinned by water.
lack the sheen of new and the wear of old,
that in between that makes her blend, that make her
indistinguishable unless properly apprehended.
Left-right, left-right, left-right, left behind
her group that rushes out, drunk on undefined
fates and the sort of drinks that make you forget that this is not
the sedate part of town.
And he wonders what it is like
just to breathe.