~dactilografa
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FigLove is a sticky sweet thing A ripe fig Made to be eaten, shared If it’s not taken It falls It splits on the ground The first insects crowd the tear The fruit, sweet, begins to rot Congeals, hardening And then there is no having it Then it’s as good as poisonFig
by ~dactilografa
Tir na nOgWe have been climbing this mountain for so long that I cannot remember what it is like not to climb. My feet have been moving forward, following my mother’s feet, which follow my father’s feet, since before time began. I have worn this backpack for so many eons that I can no longer feel my hands, they float like cold ghosts at my sides. My legs no longer follow commands. I am covered in a cold sweat, as though someone has rubbed ice cubes all over my body.Tir na nOg
My mother points to something off through the aspen trees. Whatever it is, I miss its shape between the leaning white trunks with their green petals. Even this is no
by ~dactilografa
This My Hand SaysHe guides me through the clouds of dust rising on either side and in front of us. The sun has become its afternoon self, with less light but somehow almost more heat. The beeps and honks of the fair move behind us as the last people trickle on and off the old rides. We wander out into the deserted fringes, past fast food vendors, the floors around which are splattered with oil and ketchup slicks. We pass empty stalls, the animals gone earlier in the fair. My boyfriend takes my arm, guiding me towards the seedy edges. A clean short white tent, its canvas sides pinned back sits alongside the animal stalls and fast food vendors. A smThis My Hand Says
by ~dactilografa
The OliveMy mother claims she never had me help in the kitchen when I was little. But my one of my strongest memories, a moment of epiphany for me as a child, happened while in the kitchen with her. I was five or six years old, and we were living in the Condominium in Florida then which means Dad was away often on business. Perhaps this is why I was in the kitchen at that time, a helper and a companion. Dad was going to be in town and home for dinner that night, and we were making a salad, something, apparently, with which I could help. We had a can of those soft pitted black olives that taste slightly of aluminum and are wonderful to eatThe Olive
by ~dactilografa
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--
Often times a gentle influence will win over a forceful one, this is true in many things; love is just the most important of them.
-Me
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My father raised a novelist but my mother gave birth to a poet . . .
...
I also come off as an asshole
..
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Often times a gentle influence will win over a forceful one, this is true in many things; love is just the most important of them.
-Me
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<salshep> but then I have a thing for wood
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My father raised a novelist but my mother gave birth to a poet . . .
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<salshep> but then I have a thing for wood
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"What a charming sound my tail makes...." --Splashdown
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"no poet, no artist of any art has his complete meaning alone (...)
what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it."
T.S. Eliot.
=Twilighters-Forever
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'When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes'
Desiderius Erasmus
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