Tag Archives: creativewriting

Singe House

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Te \ The house boiled on a hill
loof / lonely clamshell roof
moint \ meeting point
paths / adjoining black paths
fire \ carved by historic fire
surcn ds / surrounding concentric ponds
li. epid \ listless and tepid
elight / emblazoned with sunlight
and ctteds. \ and crossed by bitter weeds.

uk vil / Lucky Hour at the Lucky Devil
weisors \ we picked up visitors
s th bar / smashed, along the bar.
oat ntion \ our ears pricking at mention
of the Singe- / of the Singe-
co gnnn. ht! \ come with us tonight!
yoaenture, right? / your girls cream for adventure, right?
don’t tell m’t want- \ don’t tell me you boys don’t want-
SIperience / the full-on, Blair Witch SINGE experience
thewith… \ they wanted to go with us…
inate / in their beer-soaked state
ck-seat \ crammed in the back-seat
wflasights / we handed out flashlights
imor, \ in the rearview mirror,
ouetimes met- / our eyes sometimes met-
d. \ trust exchanged.

We wante ash! / We want to see the ash!
thecreamed \ they clapped and screamed
ests / we played their song requests
tried their pills \ tried their pills
tely / they understood, gravely
ke. \ why we didn’t smoke.

Tinge / The Singe
r n \ ran up the side of a barn
likhimself! / like Christ’s shadow himself!
fil d \ filmy lights crossed and uncrossed
thetures, / they took pictures,
se \ often with lighters, held to the consecrated base
cr ds / crunching and stomping weeds
nger \ one boy even pressed a licked finger
t d. / to the blackened whispering wood.

Ifce \ If they slighted us, minimally or maximally,
we nce / we took offence.
our picked them \ our pickup followed
nd / a gaining distance behind
ifnce \ if they were parents, we gave them chance after chance
up to g / up to the maximum number of offspring-
these gach \ these games always ended in the ditch
wes / we believed their sobbing stories of loved ones
or wn’t \ or we didn’t
in se- / in every case-
we. \ we left it up to the Singe.

Singe / The real Singe
bver \ hulked in the next town over
whd / white elephant creepy pioneer homestead
c t r \ carrying the mark of terror
wh wn / which rained down on our Town
i976 \ in August 1976.
nthr. ns / now guarded by threatening signs
twelenes \ twelve-foot fences
appd / artfully flame-tipped.

Sak \ Some nights we drank
I e / in dark hovels along the fence
t or \ tossing cans over
s. t. er / like rats in a dumpster
wh. . – \ that was how we imagined ourselves-
laugmeet us, / laughing at humans who had the luck to meet us,
real y-our blood \ real hay-bred townies with the mythic smoke in our blood
until sir night air… / until spotlights and sirens fleeced the cold night air…
and we s. kittere. off. \ and we skittered off.

Cupcake Windchime

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Her Cam Girl name was Cupcake Windchime, and boy, could she ever dangle. She was a dangler, because she had sex in the woods or else she could chill. She could hang, @petergriffin-studmode69 had put it. And she tells us where to put it, he nodded to his old poodle in the corner.

Her parents had looked at her screaming twisting body and named her Loretta. They thought she would take on the name like a dough, but Loretta never took. Loretta was in a fluorescent kitchen by six am, whipping a cupcake batter into shape. She did not feel like Loretta- she wanted to be the cupcake. At the first opportunity, she was cupcakelover12@hotmail.com. Then, icedcupcake86, semi-professionally. And now, she supposed, her reasons were spiritual.

She never signed off the chat before 4am. That’s when you got the real freaks. She woke up at 2pm every day, without setting any alarms. In her mornings, the soft tinkling of chimes seemed to follow her around the house. Looking down at her ankles, she’d see the circle of thread and the knot. The attached pieces doing the tinkling were just plain-old cutlery.

Cupcake shook her head, bubbling over in a big laugh. Same dick different day, she said to the coffeemaker, and it bleeped its red eye, snarling out a few more drops of decaf. She grabbed the mug, and with it in one hand, and her hairbrush in the other, Cupcake climbed the stairs to her office.

When she walked in the room, a man jumped up from the desk chair. He landed on his feet, cat-like, facing the window. Legs spread apart and tensed. His audible breaths came like popcorn popping and she couldn’t see his right arm. His black leather jacket was turned towards her. Cupcake screamed and flung the mug across the room. It missed the intruder completely, breaking into shards and splashing its contents on the wall and window. The man threw his head back and cried out. She felt his whole body clenching- the sensation rocketing through her seemed both erotic and holy- driving at last into the buried pink nerve heart of each one of her teeth. Cupcake screamed out once more, then fell silent.

The man began lowing like a cow in heat. His bald head ran into a pink folded nape, reddening steadily.

“Spread those butterfly lips for me, chica, how ’bout it?”

How did you get in here? Cupcake asked. She watched in terror as a thin ray of moisture crept up on the air, her tongue ran along her bottom lip without realizing it.

He had said it all without turning around.

“Chica, I bet you’d do it with dirt in your mouth. You wouldn’t refuse me. Even if I sat your ass in a puddle right before.” He laughed- a high aluminum whisking sound that reminded Cupcake of a deli slicer. Her mood darkened, and she pictured pushing a great tube of salami into the path of a blade.

The black leather jacket began to shake, reveling in the bloodpump pleasure of its own lewdness. The right arm was again wrenched out of sight. Before Cupcake could speak, he had zipped his fly and was making a break for it! His legs swung up over the windowsill and in a flurry of chimes he was gone.

It was a long time before Cupcake could move. When she finally did, she walked over to the desk and unplugged the computer. Unplugged the webcam. Maybe she should take the night off. Maybe it was time for a different career altogether. Loretta, her mother wrote on lunchboxes, Loretta, at the top of her papers. Cupcake looked over at the kit, lying open on the desk, and her arms and face began to itch, itch, itch.

She carried the desktop over to the window, and, ever so carefully, pushed it over the edge.

The Perils of Belief According to the Meek (Tongue-in-Cheek)

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Mary wasn’t wild-
there was just man, in Joseph
who sought to prophet
from a timely
mis-conception?

Give them a wide birth, let a million stars
go blind in the stable wound
of One Sun, risen and

springing wet and screaming
from the flesh of her hips,
bred with honey and wheat
the shape of her waste
was a virgin, chased
out of veins and into vanity,
bleeding into the heir,
the one and only Hymn…

(a wise man bending to pray)
(a king bending to the scent of prey)

And do some holy theories lend themselves to
idle worship?

Allusions proceed from the altar,
in answer,
from a Book with No Reservations
and some would have them starting,
altered and ending
in a place
wholly borne of illusion-

born of Creation.

Notes

This poem is quite literally intended to be tongue-in-cheek, hence the title, but only in subject matter. It’s chock-full of homonyms/homophones; some are instantly apparent, and others may not be… When thinking about how to feature words that are similar in sound and spelling, but vary in meaning, I inclined naturally towards a biblical/religious theme (Christian scripture, simply because I’m familiar with the bible stories).

Why? As a writer, I am fascinated by the intent and function of each word in context. Equally fascinating is the fact that entire religions are based on the arbitrary interpretation of ancient scriptures. Regardless of one’s faith or lack thereof, most people would grant that the human experience is clotted with disputes over the language of scripture- one only has to open a newspaper to see how ‘inter-’ and even ‘intra-religious’ conflict has led to violence and other systemic social issues.

With regard to homonyms/homophones, I was drawn immediately to their role in misapprehension of language. As in the absence of precise context in scripture, this poem demands that the reader employ their particular context to understand it. After all, I employed mine… I made choices in the spelling of these words, intentionally, to provoke alternate meanings and alternate interpretations.

Finally, the beauty of the choice to proceed with a religious theme, revealed itself as twofold: first, the tone/language of the poem evolved organically to reflect actual scripture; and lastly, this poem (hopefully) accomplishes the goal of provoking disparate reactions in readers. And to accomplish it, according to each person’s spiritual orientation in life- the very thing which tends to figure at the core of who we are, and how we see the world.

Objects In Mirror

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The ambulance in the rear-view that makes you aware of
delicate bones & the crashing moments before flight.

You are too quick to find in there
the part where people grieve you-
you imagine coming to them
inside their heads
while they go to bed
thinking of you dead.

There is heat sliding over the air
there is always energy expelled
when something so large sinks-
when in the rear-view mirror

everything goes to hell.

Musical Chairs

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In fifth grade, our class chewed up and spit out a revolving door of music teachers. Our first victim was Mr. Alexander, a tall Asian man with ruthless expectations. He demanded “tone, tone, semi-tone” until we could hear it no more and locked him in the vault, which happened to be the music office. He got his revenge by leaving kids at the side of the road on a field trip, but by then it was too late- Mrs. Hyde had arrived.

Mrs. Hyde/Jekyll stamped her heels with such enthusiasm that eventually, one flew off and struck a student in the eye. Given our campaign (in progress) to record (in secret) her violence to use against her, the principal had no choice but to introduce Mr. Gilbert.

The old man disappeared on an alleged cross-country motorcycle trip. This, of course, when we had just begun to like him.

Watching out for Birds with Ruin Written on their Wings

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I watched the explosion from my chair outside,
mesmerized by little paws, dancing all along the edge
of a wall
pushed out of hoof-chewed ground-

this is the way our town burns down.

Fire licks and whines along the edges
scarring streets and buildings-
our family home assumes the shape
of some small person
shrouded, crying

next to a house departed as ash.

It is the kind of winged migration
that rides the wind too far, too fast.

A Version of Thorns

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Behind a sinking, healthy & back-lit sun
A sort-of-game played with your feelings

That is why you are this person.

One team wore white, like brides & napkins
Their lips shimmered dully
bruised stars
an aversion to thorns.

A second team is everything the first team could only hope to be
The team loves you, and their hearts match their red socks
and the way they held you
and still getting dust in your eyes
the sand kicked up to last, and last, and last…

You can’t imagine how they loved you into becoming this person.

Your split-lip self was a consolation prize
& You were not supposed to go down like that
& You are turning to face me in the library
And you do not show your face
it clings fast to your skull
your hand curling out of a cloak
into begging & being
the bloated fingers
of a man

who’s blue hand

has been swimming for days.

you’re welcome

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Out of a long list of lovers
Someone’s neck smelled like gingerbread.

Yes, it is possible for someone to follow you down the elevator
There is such a thing as laundry room etiquette-
flip through a magazine and know it.

There is half of a welcome mat outside my door
I put the other half where I jump off the balcony.

I am on the eighth floor and the squirrels still find me
They are welcome because I am nuts.

This is the Opening Paragraph of My Autobiographical Novel as a Wealthy British Man who has grown Long in the Tooth

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It later occurred to me that had I awakened that morning not as a hysterical prisoner of damp and twisted sheets, but having instead been deposited by some dreadful means into the scene of a recurring nightmare. I shouldn’t have regarded the day’s events as any less extraordinary, for by that afternoon, I would find my circumstances so frightfully confused that I wondered if I might have fared better as the doomed victim of my own tragic hallucination. Disturbed as my condition was, the prospect of a watery grave had grown increasingly attractive, and I wished desperately to be stirred into the reality of that slight, trembling boy balanced precariously against the cliff’s edge, whose terrible anguish had the haunted, distanced quality of a dream. Resignedly helpless to the brutal activity of crashing about the jagged rocks, salty thunder swirling inside my skull- consistent with the unforgiving manner with which the wind had taken to whipping about my helpless form. As it happened, the day could not have got off to a more unremarkable start, save the noisy rattling that had quite suddenly begun in the old house, startling myself (and, I believe, the house, for she groaned as if to explain that she, too, had slept fitfully).