Daily Lit Deviations for October 8th, 2012
Coffeehouse Bluespeople like to drown in their misery
because it somehow reminds them
that they're alive.
take the lady sitting by the fog-kissed window, for example.
see how delicately her lower lip quivers
as she downs pints of coffee like a drug addiction
when in reality, each sip creates fissures on her tongue
and fills her stomach with caffeinated liquid
she secretly wishes was cyanide.
or watch how the curious boy with suns as eyes
turns to face you and aligns his line of sight with yours;
watch how his juvenile soul becomes
a map of bones so easy for you to read.
suddenly, you realize a gaze could have never held
that much despair
i used to be like this.
except i drank ten times more coffee with a mild dash of ecstasy
and pretended to be the Atlas who shrugged
simply because he could no longer
carry the weight of the sky
on his shoulders.
this was until i understood i wasn't the only one who felt this way,
that adults who constantly relied on caffeine
and kids who were born with celes
astronomerswhen we're together
dusk is containable; the moon in my palms
and the stars on your ceiling.
we lull the city to sleep
with our theories of life; my tongue curling
do you remember,
when Jupiter was a silver wick, lighting its countless moons?
you balanced a cigarette off your lips,
and I watched the vermillion flame burn life
as a newborn sun;
planets moulding and constellations snaked
above our eyes.
what it would be like to be curled
inside the embers creator and destroyer
so close to your lips.
writing about you.Today, I am not going to write about you.
Instead, I am going to write about the saltwater licking up on the beaches outside my grandfather's house. I am going to write about the way that the waves look at dawn: mercurial and vivid in the early morning rays. I am going to write about the time I ran into them fully clothed in the dead of winter, how the cold stole my breath, froze my skin, numbed my limbs. I will write about the only memory I have being tossed from wave to wave, like a child flipping hot bread from one palm to the other. My legs bent, my spine curled, my hair knotted in front of my eyes excruciating, frightening, but invigorating. I will write about how the pain brought life into greater clarity, the cliff edge shoving me into consciousness like the moment I thought I might lose you, curled on the carpet in that old room with my nails buried in my thighs
No, today, I cannot write about you.
Instead, I will close my eyes and write about hospital-grie
Chaque jour ressemblait un peu plus au précédent, désespérément long, morne. Seule dans une maison devenue beaucoup trop grande, accablée des tâches ménagères démesurées et épuisantes qui lui étaient rattachées, rongée par sa solitude, elle n'avait plus la force ni l'envie d'espérer en quoi que ce soit. A bientôt 80 ans le moindre geste lui était devenu un véritable supplice et tout ce qu'elle entreprenait était ralenti, hésitant, malhabile. Ses belles mains roses, précises autrefois et douces comme une peau de pêche, s'agitaient désespérément en vain. Ses doigts ridés étaient à présent maladroits, douloureux, remarquablement arqués par le poids des années; noueux et secs comme le tronc d'un vieil olivier. Traîtres ils se riaient d'elle, impitoyablement moqueurs, en tremblant méchamment sans permission.