[x]

SalemI.

the bright scarlet egg of dawn
nests in my head.

when it is time, it will crack my
skull like a shell
and be born.

II.

I have a witch's fingers and a
witch's eyes, rough pewter lenses
through which I see the world.

I have sabotaged their crops,
I have plagued their children,
I have eaten their livestock in the night
(so they say)
and I hear the whispers in the streets.

they will be willing to kill
for their conviction, though
I am not willing to die for it.

III.

I am no longer human.
I've been branded
with an ugly mark
of fear and desperation,

one terse syllable that cuts
like a switch.

IV.

a thin reddish line

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

Our Meaning and PurposeI

All of death is death. Life,
too, is like death.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

II

I was confused
so I asked God: What should I do?

Move your body and have emotions. The birds were dancing.

Could you be more specific?

But now God was busy arguing with Moses.

III

All of life is life. Death,
too, is like life.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

IV

Tomorrow is the sound
of a question falling
on a bed of questions.

Today I hold out
your name, God,
in the public square.

Yesterday reason, the slayer
of song, wended its way
into our will.

V

All of light is linking. Dreams,
too, would se

immolatethe first step
to sadness is to
have.

[3]

poseidon
punctuates the bruised
shorelines with broken hearts and
shattered abelone
shell fragments.
sometimes the
shore creeps up, kisses
my feet. sometimes he rips through
the distance between
us, taking
what's his.

[5]

the air here
vibrates to a fire,
sparrow's heart humming in c
major. it does scare
me sometimes,
how i might love you
more than ibuprofen, or
the way the light might
oscillate
through an ether storm.

the person i am now is
not compatible
with who i
was before you. but
how do i scrape myself out
from under my own
fingernails?

[7]

we caught the
moon

Romancing CottonSomeone told me that the balled-up almost was growing inside her like
a sapling, that soon the girl would be all swell and wet. What she said
was, "don't leave". Her ego was a white sheet caught on a branch, the
type of fabric my mother treated with contempt. Frippery, beautiful
but impractical: keeping it alive was like trying to catch a bubble with
dry hands.

The wind carried the sickly smell of opium and morning sickness,
signals of a spring in which fingers like white spiders cradled
the beginning of bloom. Hope seemed at once skin-near and star-far.

What I offered her was not a marriage proposal, it was a murder
o

EulogyThe dream-catchers are handmade
but each bear the same mark of boredom.
On the reservation,
the dirt is red and separated from the turquoise on sale.
The tops of the mountains have been scraped off
like whipped cream from pudding cups
of beautiful alien rock.

"Plateau," my mother says.
I am not sure if it is a name
or a command.

The lightning storms are brighter in the desert.
I sit perched on the horizon,
the edge of one loss to another—
given up my love, all my bottled water.
The mountains carry their own babies in the muddy puddles,
against the wind they huddle,
but their semi-circle somehow is just one great smile.

intrinsic, you go unnamedthe memory of your laugh is an oral tradition
and I cannot release
the dust off my lungs
that you stirred from among long nights
and solemn books.
a philosophical question, innately unanswerable
and just as beautiful, you are
the denouement, fractal and convoluted;
like the Arabian nights
we were once. but you moved on,
personae, boundless

on commuting with no hurrythere you go
lighting matches in the rain,
walking with two feet
that the gods gave you
because they cannot walk,

heading home as if with news
of some miraculous disaster,

counting the steps between yourself
and the clouds that disappeared
behind the grey veil of October.

thunder and lightning unfold
so close above

and you dream of a destination
somewhere in the south

where birds and stormy weather coexist.

behind you there is nothing,
running water will erase
every footprint you have left
on the dark sand of this metropolis.

before you there is distance,
enough to live your life
in a constant state of travel,

but not n

Recycled DreamsI was halfway down the second floor apartment stairs when I realized I'd left my left arm on the table.

It's no surprise of course, for I've always had a habit of misplacing important things like keys, documents, and identification cards, but to leave one’s arm on the table is truly embarrassing. I would have run back to get it, but the bus driver is always a bit early on Tuesdays and I could already hear the distant hum of the engine making its way to me. And it's not like I really need it for work anyway. So I left it behind.

It's penguins and oranges today; my latest client is a fairly normal one. The last dreamer wanted marsupia

Autumn MythsThe seasons form
a marriage of opposites. Two
exalted lights meet, both searching
a sky devoid of allegiance. It reads
like a prelude to creation.
-
Not cumulus, not stratus or cirrus: instead the
mists lie on gravel-throated greens, entirely indistinct.

We pass with caution through divine riot, knowing
very little except of the carrion: the treetops who
snatch celestial glory, gilt earth with futile pride.
They hope for a metamorphisis of old habits but
instead find fortunes are fleeting- goblin gold,
lifting with the skies as they fill with hoarse gloom.
We gathered some, plucked them from
the air for souveniers. Counted

for exit 165.in the outstretched wingspan of
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain

your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall

you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
a

The art and technology of lifeEach day we awaken without a second thought. We complain of oversleeping, of under sleeping, of not sleeping right and contemplate getting just a few more minutes of rest. We go throughout our day, routines, seeing to our needs, responsibilities and wants. We think we are so aware, but are we really?

So seldom do we think of that works beneath the skin. From flesh to marrow, our body functions in ways unseen to us. Ways often forgotten until something goes wrong. As we eat our breakfast, such a simple action, the complexities of our body begin to go to work. Saliva flowing to break down our food, the muscles needed to swallow, how our esopha

for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri

tetherhookedYou shift around me, bejeweled
with currency which cannot be
exchanged because detaching your eyes
would be like hollowing a lighthouse,
would be smashing a rare beacon
with stubby fingers and because

trading your mouth would be like
silencing shellsongs and symphonies
and the cinders of your sentences,
the embers of your exhales would
welcome ash where once was warmth

and because your callouses catch on
clothes too well and your shoulders
are the base of a sturdy cradle
and every time you blink, I wake up
and I am uncovered and I am new

and because you would have to
watch the demolition of your
features, the thieving

RigaIt wasn't quite spring
when you first slipped
into Pils bar;
lithe and fluid,
Mucha muse.
I had to have you.

Chocolate eyes, rum-kissed lips,
milky skin: 607 special.
Gloved fingers
pleasingly revealed to hide
no ring. In the gaping blue
VIP maw I yearned, plotted.

It wasn't quite summer
when I first threaded
my fingers
through your gilded tresses;
gazing into eyes
nervous and champagne heavy.

We spoke the language of lovers
most nights after that -
the syncopated rhythm
of your art nouveau curves
my playground.
We painted the town red.

It wasn't quite autumn
when you first arrived late
in that maroon dress; animated

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A Perverted Elegy for Atlantis

by ~ablackembrace, Sep 19, 2011, 8:45:02 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I. Skeletal Scaffolding

A lone skyscraper
Pokes out from beneath white waves,
Its atrophied framework, anorexic;
Voraciously breathing in the sea air,
Barnacles clinging to its sides
Or perhaps trying to forcibly re-submerge it.

In the far-off, rust shoots up the sides of
other immobile titans,
Imprisoned cages, if there's a such thing.
Structures lean over a trench
Like the teeth of a fly trap,
Preying, camouflaged in viral algae--
Or dejected; all having surrendered
Their sad efforts to escape to the world
Above the water.

II. A Funeral without Much Fanfare

Gigantic shadows stretch
Like dark tombstones;
The tendrils of silt
Spelling out a calligraphic epitaph.
Ebon characters of dirt in ornate font
Tenaciously bubbling upwards,
Eddying indecisively
Nowhere.

The brilliant light of the sun
Spotlights an elaborate eulogy under an
Absinthe-green sea.
Somewhere off, bell buoys toll the
solemn notes of an impromptu requiem.
In filigreed script, something scribbled in the sea:
Illegibly eroded text.

A Perverted Elegy for Atlantisby ~ablackembrace

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

An experiment, bare with me. I'm not sure what my feelings are regarding this one just yet, so any insights would be appreciated.

Respond to any of the critique points below that you feel are relevant:

1. Word choice--does this feel cliche? Too verbose, too plain?
2a. Given that this isn't particularly linear, would you say that the description is stagnant? Erratic? Confusing?
2b. And how about the transition from the two? I made an effort to set up the backdrop for the second half, but I'm not sure that it was executed as effectively as it should be (so I'm looking for second opinions). Is the transition too dramatic?
3a. Anywhere you felt like it could be expanded, compressed or otherwise manipulated to be more effective?
3b. Does this feel like it ends too abruptly?
4. What do you like or hate most about my piece?
5. Other comments?

Thank you for looking!

A critique per request of theWrittenRevolution:
[link]

Daily Deviation

Given 2011-11-11

A Perverted Elegy for Atlantis by ~ablackembrace ( Suggested by ~pretty-yin and Featured by `Halatia )

love 1 1

joy 4 4

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*Carmalain7 Nov 17, 2011

i'm actually slightly depressed, i had this in my notes to feature as a DLD but obviously got to it just a handful of day too late haha; i do hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

On a similar note, please keep imagining, keep creating, keep writing my man; i'll continue to keep my eye out for your pieces in the future and sincerely cannot wait to be able to rectify my mistake when, as one of your talents undoubtedly will, you write a piece to challenge this in brilliance.
Congrats on the well deserved DD my friend.

~alexiscaitlinking Nov 12, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Good job, Javery...

~ablackembrace Nov 12, 2011 Student General Artist

*Daevin Nov 11, 2011 Student Photographer

1. I found no problems with your diction. Your word choices suit the tone and imagery.
2a. I think it fits the subject nicely. The ruins of Atlantis is something I imagine to be quite stagnant, dead. I'm not saying the description is dull, but rather that the tone and word choices support the image of the once-majestic city abandoned and in disrepair.
2b. Hm. I think the transition is fine, really. There might be a better way to do it, but I'm afraid I don't have any suggestions. I don't know what exactly you were aiming for with the transition, so it's hard for me to critique it.
3a. Anywhere you felt like it could be expanded, compressed or otherwise manipulated to be more effective?
3b. Maybe a little bit, but at the same time it ends with such confident finality, in my opinion, that it works. You might try writing an ending that lulls to a close rather than ends sharply and resolutely, and compare the two.
4. The words choices, I love. You painted the scene so beautifully and confidently. Concrete, but allowing the reader's mind to embrace the descriptions and run with them on its own.
5. Congratulations.

~ablackembrace Nov 12, 2011 Student General Artist

Thanks for your critique! That's mostly the image I was going for, so I'm glad that people are reading it that way. I'll take your suggestions into account if/when I make some revisions!

Thanks again!

*Daevin Nov 12, 2011 Student Photographer

You're welcome.

~dragonwhisperer Nov 11, 2011

It's only means It is. If that's the usage you were going for there, no problem. However to me it read as though you were actually trying to say its - the possessive of it doesn't use an apostrophe, it is treated the same as his or her.

~ablackembrace Nov 12, 2011 Student General Artist

I'm ashamed! Thank you for pointing that out--I meant to use "its". I have no idea how I let something like that pass over my head. Thank you!

~Euxiom Nov 11, 2011

1. Word choice I thought was fine, I really liked see not-often-used ones.

2a. I thought the description flowed nicely...almost like a conversation or a river does; very sporadic.
2b. The transition, to me, they seemed separate parts of the story. I didn't quite catch that they lead into one another, but maybe I just need to read it a few more times.

3a. I thought this was quite good the way it was! If I knew more on poetry perhaps i could offer more about that.
3b. I thought the ending was just fine! The word 'text' has a good finality to it, and you used it well here.
4. I liked the whole thing, a LOT!

The titles of the two parts, the lines.

5. Congrats on the DD

~ablackembrace Nov 12, 2011 Student General Artist

Thank you! I'm glad you liked my work!

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