Month: January 2011

ellipsed

There is a way of writing that doesn’t stop at the end of a page. The words continue, letter by letter, across the margins and past the edge of the paper. You can’t see it, but they don’t stop there. Dark limbs, they stretch outward, streaks of black across an amber sky.

Winter-boned, too dusky to be stark, they are bloody insistent. They are symptom and ailment both: red-eyed, bleeding fingers, unheard voices and low growls.

But I’m not afraid of them; I have a Cronusian appetite and my children will make a fine meal.

For they are ash, incense incarnate, the Wednesday of the soul, and they have no voice but that of my less-then-meek typing.

this is not a story

This is the story I didn’t write.

About a girl I barely knew.

I wouldn’t call her timid or skittish,

(I’m not that cruel)

or ephemeral

(I’m not that kind).

But I would call her interesting.

I would even call her beautiful.

If I were writing a story, I’d tell you that she didn’t like to kiss men with beards.

(but she kissed me)

I’d tell you she didn’t believe most men knew how to please a woman.

(but she was pleased)

This isn’t a story, so it doesn’t have an ending.

(but this is the end)

(or the start, I’m not sure)