June 23, 2017

Posts from "Portfolio"

  • Portfolio | Mar.22, 2012

    For Marcus, Long Overdue

    The moment of emergence from the clouds is what finally broke him. It had been almost 30 years, and he figured that at that point, his numbness would be perennial. The flashes of white still overcame him every once in a while; the screams, however, had died away. He had never returned to that place. In fact, when he left, he vowed he never would. But life has an odd way of taking every preconceived notion and dogmatic belief that you’ve ever held and throwing them out the window like inconsequential discharge.

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  • Portfolio | Mar.22, 2012

    I Call Him Billy – Short for William

    My friend Billy is a bit rough around the edges. I would never call him handsome, and though he doesn’t exactly smell, he definitely has his own peculiar scent. He may not be the strongest, the most appealing, or even the most dependable. But what can I say? He is a comrade of mine-a darling, if you will-and nothing, and I mean nothing, can ever change that. Oh, quick author’s note: Billy’s a car.

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  • Portfolio | Mar.07, 2012

    After Mardi Gras

    Sun-lit waves of bourbon heat flow

    freely like flocks of seagulls soaring

    over waves of salt water sludge. But we

    sip sangria out of shot glasses

    while the band plays a bluesy beat

    of broken hearts and bruised

    body parts—the kind you see knee-

    deep in sugar-cane mud. And when I left

    you sitting on slanted stools, body

    parallel to beer-soaked, glitter-tinted floor

    boards, you were carving our names into

    the bar; like a dog digs his claws into seashell

    dirt, burying his riches from the world.

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  • Poetry | Mar.07, 2012

    A Common Mold

    I saw tonight, one hundredfold

    Your countenance—a common mold

    Affixed with many different names

    And many voices, all the same,

    But all the same I knew not one,

    For you among them were not one,

    There to fill and then refill,

    To swill and spill and swill again,

    To take part in the fable,

    Dance the sticky floors and tables

    To music shrill and quite unable

    To endear this common face to me;

    I fear this common face might be

    The last thing that I see

    When called at last from earthly stead,

    Gazing up from the final bed,

    I should long for some other sight instead…

    In the dark holes where we like to go,

    Full of people we pretend to know,

    We abhor the too familiar faces,

    But we too are familiar faces,

    Returning to the same old places

    To fill the empty spaces

    With drink and empty conversation

    And hints of baser inclinations—

    Glimpses we mistake for love,

    But for all your host repeating nigh,

    From now until the end of time

    I swear, by the vacant night above,

    Not one among them has my love,

    Not one among you has my love.

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  • Portfolio | Feb.29, 2012

    ARS VIVENDI

    Six a.m. Friday morning. The alarm clock shrieked amid the low hum of the radiator. A figure stirred from beneath the blankets, reluctant to rise from its perfect state of lethargy. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, and the first rays of light peered in through the window. The alarm continued to shriek to be noticed, but the figure would not move. The room had been left unkempt for months, leaving a thick film of dust covering most surfaces. On the desk lay an open notepad. Poems, quotes, and sketches of another life littered the pages with the sort of magical touch that could make one forget reality and escape to a distant land of ecstasy. An empty bottle, turned on its side, complemented the notebook as though the two objects were unlikely lovers holding hands. The alarm continued to sound. The figure sprung from beneath the blankets in a rush, silencing the alarm in one motion.

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  • Portfolio | Feb.15, 2012

    Stadium Fright

    The doors were unlocked, and the light switch turned on. The lights slowly warmed up, gradually increasing in brightness until the stadium was lit. The seats were all empty and the locker rooms were all locked up. The athlete walked through the ghost town listening to the silence. The foreboding silence would soon give way to the loud, frantic screams of onlookers. The athlete wished for comfort in the silence but could find none, for his mind and body felt all too vividly the pressure and anxiety caused by the imminent screams. Caught in a state of paranoia, the athlete walked on to the locker room for preparation, and quickly the crowd rolled in, eager to watch the opening games.

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  • Portfolio | Feb.01, 2012

    Seagulls in St. Paul’s

    The flock of seagulls appeared in St. Paul’s two weeks ago. I said appeared. That’s what they did. There was a group of people there, in the pews right around the statue of Mary, and when they rose to leave, there was a group of gulls perched around the baptismal font. They didn’t touch the water. Nor the bread. But I’m getting ahead of myself—back to where I was. The gulls perched there, not a white feather rustling; and the way Mrs. Hoess tells it, one of the gulls took to the air, flew back to the entrance, and perched right on the announcement board. And then, stranger still, the rest of the gulls rose into the air, all at the same time, not a feather out of place, and flew back with it. Anyway, the strangest thing was that none of those gulls made a noise. None of them cawed, crowed, or cried out at all. I don’t know what else to call the noise a seagull makes, but none of them made a sound at all. They would, though. They’d make quite a ruckus.

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  • Portfolio | Jan.25, 2012

    Sewflakes

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  • Portfolio | Jan.25, 2012

    This Is Not My Life: Part 2

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  • Portfolio | Nov.30, 2011

    The Place of the Skull

    There is a certain bench positioned along a certain path in a certain park that grants the perfect vantage point for watching people walk. I sit there often, and watch the people walk. They are infinite in their variety, even in the brief glances I steal from my bench. Most of them are shy. They never look at me, sitting on my bench. They are afraid to meet the eyes of a stranger. Why should they be? It doesn’t matter; it is all the more charming. Most of them walk with heads down, attention directed inward. They are thinking about family, or work, or any number of temporal problems.

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