NaNoWriMo Freewriting

The places they are from stain the liquid words that spill from careful lips.
Eyes shine with the reflections of their travels over pupils dilated to the strength of their home suns or moons.
Hands folded over tokens of comfort, leather and fabric.
Eyebrows taut against strangers
Lips traitorously slacking, moisture forming, to share.
***
He leaned, as to create an open space, but folded an arm in, against what might take the invitation. His other hand danced, fingers nervously caressing keys that would punch through a distance for a companion, a savior.
***
She made a dead sound, like the wind pulled through the hollow of a rotted tree. It might have been pretty once, even beautiful, but the world has moved on with the beauty since then. They eyes weren't dead though... death would have made their glassy sunken stares less terrifying. They were eyes turned inwards, not staring at anything more than the abyss of black and soulless nights brightened only by the hell flames of deceit and betrayal.. 
***
I close my eyes as an ambulance approaches below. The rolling sounds wash over the room and hit my ears like waves crashing on shore. For a moment, I can smell tamales and gunpowder, feel the vibrations of a wife being slammed into a wall. The ambulance arrives, the sirens are shut off, announcing their arrival with silence. I am brought back to my new ghetto, super sterilized, white washed, with lunacy perfuming the air, a medicinal smell. I flex my wrists against the leather restraints-- and smile.

My mother shone with a rugged Italian beauty, classic, but too rough, too large and loud for a magazine type appeal. Still, eyes always lingered on her face, her lips, a little too full to be sensuous, her eyes set too far apart to be piercing. Still, there was a perfection in the combination. An allure that caused other woman to sneer and hold on to their husbands arms, every so slightly tighter.

Intersections in Winter

a december moon
watches
death, painless. Numb
wind knocking down giants
homeless dreams
of meth and sugarplums

-written after channel surfing and seeing an image of a homeless man dying on a doorstep. I closed my eyes and say a black and white image where the only color was a muted strand of christmas lights that reflected on the half frozen puddle at his feet that he died in. As his eyes glazed over to the same sheen of the puddle, a syringe dropped out of his arm, not an attempt to get high, but to speed up his heart beat to promote more warmth. I think he is a character in a story I haven't written yet. I have seen him a few times, pushing a shopping cart behind the main character of my story about a broken toy, asking for change outside the courthouse the day of a death penalty sentancing. I'm not sure why he is following me in my stories.

Found Poem

I found this poem on my iTunes playlist. titles of songs that together pulled out an poem that had been dormant in my fingertips.

Accidental babies, all at once
(Almost crimes)
from accidental rooftop love.
Angels of another, lonely day
Ashes
Beautiful in the moonlight behind my eyes.

Before it's too late... sing me a lullaby
not of Fire, or Ice...
but on how to bend the Black and Blue
to better days for daughters of despair and doom.

So when brand new days bought of the borrowed time
(of hearts)
pierce the silence like bullets of bright lights--
can you see the tears in her eyes?

Outside, cars and telephones take us away from cautions lovers
Are we carried?
Captivated? Hostage to the barrel of the clock
that beats
slow rhythms
of cold water hearts

Untitled

I am not a stranger to the lonely silence
between guitar strings and the waning moon
But when it all sets and fades
know
the dices were loaded all along.

All of your sharp edges
cut me down so low, so good
my wrist, bleeds. a melody
a song for goodbye

I scan city streets and coffeeshops
for chords from our song
memories like childhood flavors
on my parched tongue

I lie on the brown summer grass
and gravity pulls me, down
in between sleep and dream
I remember
it was you
who tried to save me.


I have a memory of a memory that I hold onto. It clings to the back of my eyelids, I catch quick glimpses when I blink, and fuzzy pictures as I drift asleep. A memory of trust and love, unscorched by suns of passion or hate. A deja vu comes over me, a flower, a shade of blue jean, a note rung true in between words. Its an image I can only see clearly out of the corners of my eyes and my heart. Something I run parallel to in order to see clearest and understand.