Daily Lit Deviations for February 17th , 2012
caminoi am full of war song sadness.
gathered to you in disguise i
am past you, i who lived beyond
the path, beside your route, your
a roar on the moors,dwarfs my lonely
i am casting
myself upon the edges of those
lanes you touch
i am a broken tourist low
with dissent, i can
travel no longer with only my
bones and conscience, even
if i am dismissed by you,
i would cross the hardened steppe,
to come upon the highest land
and trawl the eastern shore
for the sound of you in a moment
yes, how is it that you have thrown
yourself so far away from me,
what was it that compelled
you to become there,
in the nightstillness i am
soaked up with longing,
perhaps i should not keep
my slow wander, perhaps i have
gone too far now, perhaps
i am forgotten in all too
dull a litany from one of your
thousands of ways through.
i extend my roots to you, across
however many shifting lines
it takes, i am spread so far i
bend like fire entangled in the bleak
wind, if you would only s
AugustAugust passed by with drunken gait,
Lurching forward, sprawling back,
In drunken haze.
Days span by,
Loomed long, snapped shut
A mousetrap traipse, and
All along, all alone:
Nights and haunting,
Dawn and wanting.
ars est mortem1.
The artist left his work unfinished and went to bed. He was soon asleep, and while asleep he died and went to hell. Contemplating the dark aesthetics of the river Styx, the artist boarded Charon's boat and crossed over into hell actual.
Brushing aside drifting ghosts, the artist trod the wide, smoothly paved road to Hades' palace. There were no guards at the door, and the artist entered immediately, attempting bravado.
Good evening, the doorman greeted him politely.
Hades is waiting for you.
The artist began to feel nervous. He had never been on friendly terms with Hades. He followed tremulously as the doorman guided him up three flights of black marble stairs. The walls were hung with paintings, mostly depicting the Olympians in chains. Mediocre, the artist decided.
He is in this room. The doorman left.
The artist vacillated on the doorstep, pretending to examine a statue of Cerberus. Low grade, he thought. The statue snarled. Th
The Parable of the WriterThree writers came to the table, manuscripts in hand.
One writer said,
"I wrote this piece to be edited. There is plenty to be cut and moved around."
Another writer said,
"I wrote this piece to be published. Between these pages you'll find everything people want to see."
The last writer said,
"I wrote this to be read."
Then he set his manuscript down, and walked away.