Sunday Writing Prompt “Everyday Objects”

The Window

He pressed his palm to the glass. The pane was cold, its expression sullen. The rain had stopped more than an hour ago but the sun remained hidden behind layers of ash-colored gauze. He hadn’t been outside for months and in that time the seasons had changed without so much as an acknowledgment. No one had written, rang, pinged, or visited in over a week. He’d imposed his absence without much consideration for anyone’s feelings, his own included. Even if desired how was he ever to return to his old life? He was unrecognizable even to himself, even amidst the gradations that he alone had witnessed. His beard was long and gnarled like the roots of an upended tree. Shadows gathered about his crevices. His clothes were rumpled and malodorous. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a shower or brushed his teeth. His nails were worried to the quick, coagulated blood stuck to his cuticles. His hands looked old, his face looked old, even his skin seemed out of place on its dilapidated frame. The window’s gaze was steady and patient. He saw nothing of his reflection in the glass, only his own backyard which in neglect, had grown wild. Piles of rotten apples spilled over the lawn collecting vermin and insects alike. Inside was even worse. The air was thick and meaty, food deliquesced in the sinks, discarded and unwashed garments littered the floor. Dust and decay gathered about him and he could feel himself submitting to them by degrees. A towering stone wall prevented him from seeing into the adjacent property, all he saw when looking out was his own walled in lawn, with its dying and disheveled flowers and it’s mealy, brown harvest. The window groaned beneath a penitent wind. “What have I done?” He repeated (as if in response) three times each version more shrill than the one preceding.



New Star

It’s not a rift that a button can conquer
It’s not a matter of fashion or posture
My body is a starched linen
My face a wide-brimmed hat
My hands, two monkeys stirring

This island is eroding
Tame next to the sea’s wiles.
The boulder no longer commands
My exits nor presumes to waylay guests
I am not the same surplus
The same angel, the same grail
Immortal, nirvanic
Content to equip my enemy
With both ammunition and gauze.

When I die please do not consider me
A victim, know that, I went fighting,
Know that, the cave grimaced in sunlight
And that I took those yellow tendrils
Into myself as one takes a mirror
Willing, if inadequately equipped,
To embrace a truth superseding ego.

I can no longer justify my trips to purgatory
The poverty that follows each extraction
Some days I leave my face unmade.
And set out to conquer the extraordinary
I was given but one heart
And none but she can pronounce my name.

Photo Prompt #28 “Climbing the Walls”

Climbing the Walls

ghost-of-a-gone-bird@Deviant Art


Whenever I scream

It’s always behind a fist

Of carefully perforated neglect

A little window of light

As inconsistent as a pupil

Hardly worthy of mention

But if not for that oversight

I would have darkened entirely.


Being is more than enough

Too much when it assumes

The future tense.

I wear my nails to a pulp

Later I’ll fashion the shavings

Into a fine ivory parchment

Too rigid to absorb ink

I’ll write barren poems

And we’ll both weep

Under the white ceiling.


When I ascend this outer wall,

The first of many shells,

Will you extract the bones

From my larynx

That I might draw a breath

Every now and again?

The gravity of success

Plays me like a dervish

And I cannot but waver.


I do not want to speak

Of therapy or torture

Of the moon-harvested vacancies

That gnaw at my heart

As if it were comprised

Of rubber bands.

I will never be beautiful

In terms that other’s envy.

I am strange, stranger

Even than the imaginings

You’ve used to persecute me

Though perhaps less evil


My hair comes out like cotton

As if my head were a field

Infested with veils

That have not yet been sewn.

I am naked as a watermark

Clutching the wallpaper

As a virgin does modesty

But I am not a virgin anymore

Never was thanks to the apples

Shat by my liberal ancestors.


They’ve taken my blood

And I theirs so there’s no knowing

In whom the contagion began

Perhaps it was born of this union?

A kind of karmic revulsion

That we pass between us

Like bouts of hysteria.


They suggest that love is art

And yet so few are willing

To divulge their content

And who can claim beauty

Or profundity in such fallacies?

I do not wish to assimilate with you

The invertebrate variable

The necrotizing fascist

This life will kill me soon enough




Zdzislaw Beksinski

There is nothing merciful

About these silent departures

For I know neither the source

Nor what manner of apology

Is required to make amends

(if indeed an apology would serve)


Did I return to my fortifications

Withholding my affections

As a miser calibrating his fortune?

Perhaps I never left my tower

And you, curious of the spectacle within

Happened briefly upon my window

Withdrawing only on admission

Did I refuse to come outside

Despite your best intentions?

Or did my nakedness invite rejection?


I do not know if my exertions

Extend beyond my anxieties

If I struggle with individuals

Or merely with the stereotypes

Of society in a more generic sense


Perhaps I think of myself alone

The breath, the progression, the dalliance

Perhaps I am more actor than student

More dreamer than industrialist

I doubt I’ve set one neuron

Outside since conception


I might even be a letter penned

In darkness by one who has concluded

That we are all just machines to freedom

(Can anyone claim autonomy of thought or deed?

Even spontaneity is premeditated for effect )


I am not different enough

To claim another species

And yet all novelty seems

Taboo when first encountered

We learn so much less from success

Success being a script

And so rarely a measure of value

Given the methods of attainment


I think we must be in purgatory

Why else would we repeat

The abominations of our histories?

Perhaps there is a fundamental flaw

In our records, to let the victor alone speak

Does it not assume of gluttony, virtue?


I don’t usually write down my stream of conscious thoughts because usually they don’t make any sense but today that is precisely what I did haha

Wordle #7 “Jar”


Your beak nuzzles my lungs

Chases my words as if a chill

Rides deep in my towering bones

Seals my lips as a sprain

With a stiffening anguish


My reserve is erratic at best

For I seek still the jar

The jar with its human sap

Its viscous amphibious masks

The price of anthropomorphism

Does not abate with practice

But grows and grows

Until I am wearing my smile

Stitched beneath my nose

Impassive as a scythe


I the chimera, the eidolon

The invoker of indolent fears

Will you betray me little bird?

Or shall I dance upon your grave

My heart being the perfect fit

For your delicate sentiments

An organic cage that feeds

Of itself for fear of company


How lonely I am and how long unseen

Strait as a Cypress for dread of sleep

Arrest not my eyes for my dreams

Are not so easily curbed as my thoughts



I have dressed myself

In her velvet shadows

She the madness

Complicit to my art

The mother of all regrets

The vixen whose scorn

Curdles blood and ink alike

She is my jailer

Beneath her myriad forms

I have known a solace of sorts

A solace bred in obsession


A galaxy unto myself,

Planets and stars extinguished

Architecture and dreams

I gather at the seams

Nesting molecule after molecule

Into the same grim chasms

Replacing a necessary space

With substance

Small but ponderous

I grow indomitable

In my loneliness