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ApparitionsI was nervous when I arrived.  Had my information been right?  Was she used to trans patients?  Would she be supportive and helpful or weirded out? Would this be a waste of time or the freeing experience I hoped it would be?

I looked around the lobby. It was small and well furnished. A large coffee table occupied the center of the room, surrounded on two sides by a small sofa and an armchair, which for some reason made me think of my grandfather. On the opposite side of the room, there was a water cooler and several large unopened refill containers.  On a table near the door was the item I was looking
Sing-Song, Stumble SlurChasing fire works, fire flies,
these fucking lies through urban sprawl and graffiti scrawl,
fingers locked, heart thumping in my throat like the bile I can't choke down.
It tastes like Vaseline and ashes,
a mouthful of proof of my cystic demise.

The clumsy stumble roar,
beasts with cherry-flavored foam leaking through their teeth,
and how much more skin can be chewed from my neck?
Skyscraper mazes and the pain-and-memory hazes I live and breathe
like it'd literally kill me to let it go.

Let it go.

Time slips and slides,
ice and lies,
love-dipped fallacies that hide
chrome and Vodka-bottle teeth.
Survive for the fig
Convenience  Ducky Short usually avoided using 'convenience' stores. The floors were always grimy, the lighting was too dim for his tired veiny eyes, and the cashiers never spoke more than five words of English. But the thing that irked him most was how every one of them put the Ho-Hos on the very bottom shelf, and every time he would have to find a way to maneuver his long body and old rusty joints into a crouch just so he could reach them.

  He had been struck with a Ho-Ho craving as he was walking by, and since the only store nearby was a tiny convience store, he had no choice but to go in and claim his cakes. There was no contro
LevitationObserve.
This is how women walk away.

In broken heels
and secondhand jackets,
cigarette smoke in their hair
and no kiss goodbye.

Do not mock.
It is what it should be.

A girl in a car,
hanging a u-turn
on a glistening, empty street.

Her body is a road to be traveled.
A shipwreck to be plundered.
She does not know how she got here,
and she does not care.

And it does not matter.
This is how women smile.

Knowing, secretive,
though her cheeks are sore.
Though the wind
is blowing right through her clothes.

Though there is no good music
on the radio, and no food
in the refrigerator.

This is just an impression.
An idea of nir
Evangelos and that film from 1986Evangelos and that film from 1986

I am not a fish.
My mother is a fish.

You should know, my great-uncle Peter
From Hungary has a daughter
With whom I fell in love when once
I was there
That time I braided her ashen grey hair
In braids

Two

My mother's best friend only spoke Italian
He did taekwondo, jiujitsu
And played Santa every year

He was Portuguese

I want to enchant you with my secret code
Once again it has to be said:
There is no story

The hedgehog is sleeping in the garden, his father and
The squirrel:
Today they are wearing
Winter scarfs
Instead of ties
They will hold session until deep in the night

About money
petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.
Expedition Letters to GraceDear Grace,

You told me, back when we were visiting Peru and I was feeling down, that I would eventually find my calling in life. I write to you now to tell you, quite happily, that I have.

I can't explain much about it at the moment, only that my sudden absence from the university is for a reason. As I write, I am currently en route to New York City, to visit their museums and get a taste of the culture. I told you before how I wanted to visit New York while I had the chance, and now I travel with purpose.

I will say now, that while what I am about to do may seem strange to you, even mad, I can promise you that I am of sound mind and am d
You Slept Through The Alarm Again - Little AubadeIf, perhaps, you had turned at that moment
and your hair had caught in your fingers,
the straw being fed into the spindle, struck
by the high, thin light of first waking, the whorl
of a single line descendent from the sun, born
watery from the gap below one velveteen curtain,
all of it staining over gold and dusty and slow,
the edge of your mouth might have met the edge
of my mouth, narrow gaps both without attention
opening—if, perhaps you had turned again,
your hand could have met the curve of my neck,
your canvas rough fingers tying knots of my hair
and I would have sighed, thick spreading in your ear
like the light it
Wyrmling Ghostwritenew millennium toothache
w feeder hand, aluminum
bubblegum knuckle muncher bumpin' phoenix plumage...
   & I rock the Rings, now!
supernova falcon flipper -
was-a-real-boy chicken shitter -
fist-fuck photon vision sifter -
  soullost, anon forgetter -
  so lost, rewind protector -
  dead princess bone collector -
  hopelessly tethered to the Ghosts, remember?
    Nah, man, I don't know any of the Ghosts by name
   but I've been following the will'o'wisps
    chasin' knowledge, speed & blame
    try
SleepPerhaps it's the pressing consciousness
that across the world
people are at work and school
and walking sad with worry
Did people sleep
before they had to think of that?

Or perhaps it's the dreams
the ones you hate or hate to wake from
that don't offer their portents
as long as you are staring at the screen
or the printed page
or the windshield.

Or maybe there's a part that thinks
if you can just push the night clock round
Dare yourself not to close your eyes
like the everyday sun-wakers
To walk yourself through morning and beyond
the world will have to change somehow.

And the next time you give in
you will wake to someth
a memoryI remembered the afternoon I called you,
curled on my bed with someone's good book
in my palm, nestled softly in the waning light

and under my gently roaming fingers
the baby moved – not to my hand-touch,
but inside, an insistent flutter,

not like the swiftly beating heart
on the doctor's monitor, not like the slow
appearance of a plus-sign on a drugstore test.

I called you, my gently rolling daughter's
mother's mother. I called you like the woman
standing at my back while I held the kite string

on a pushy spring day, the diagonal shape so
far above us I could only feel the jerk of the
cord around my fingers, holding us t
list for ninth october1) your lover is dead and
you burn the eggs. grease
streaks the stove. you
sit, stand, switch off
the burner. sit.
the birds chirp. sit.

2) your lover is dead and
the birds are hungry:
the blue-jay funereal
blue, mockingbird
sick ocean grey.
you shore yourself
against the bare mattress,
empty mason jars, your
mother's phone calls,
bestsellers commended
by desk receptionists.
the author's name
dwarfs the title,
that means it's good.
that means it's popular.
you spill tea
and soak its pages
and sit. sit.

3) your lover is dead and
the tea is cold.
the leaves have settled
in rorschach patterns.

the tea
Awake For The SunriseI despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,
the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling away
and resting in my bloodshot eyes that say
I will cry before it rains and the sun
will always be more bright than our future.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
because the moon loves the stars enough
to be with them at least once a day.

The way rain clouds ploughed their way
into yesterday and tomorrow reminds me
of the time I asked why you were crying
and you told me "Today won't last forever."

So my heart broke
like it had no other options;
a water-filled jar being frozen
and there just wasn't enough space
left in my chest
l'hiver.(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
the grand church of dizzying space - )

and the trees are yellowed in cowardice, raking the sky
to the ground and around and around.

listen to your organs: the almost grand piano of the
churches i'd never attend.

and never mistake the courage of the sky for the cowardice
of the ground. never frown, never frown.

listen to your palms: the salty swing of the old snow
burning up on silk and splendor.

and visit the dying snow birds in their graves of the
ground, and they drown and drown.

(you can't tell the birds and the snow apart in the sky:
a grand church of dizzying space w
for a friendThe sky is captured in his eyes, clear and blue.
The weather etched smile is honest.
The slender face says sixty; it lies.
It is that and half again.

Knobby hands sun baked and brown
peek out from ragged gloves.
They seem part of the old split locust post
where they are resting;
one of the row of soldiers
that keep watch on their field and its occupants.

The smile broadens as I approach.
I help stretch the wire.
His archaic dialect fills the road
with cows and snow and the yankees
that his grandparents saw marching.
The hours pass pulled by the mule
he plowed with as a boy.

He mentions his wife
they'd been marri
Browse More Like This

More from ~completeaccident

WalkI never got here with my shoes
on. I could never find the path:
it is marked by bricks
a little more slippery, bits of grass
without stickers, but down the path,
long, long,
is a little home.

If I say you were under my skin,
please, understand, I painted myself
like a hallway: doors here, here.
I come home when the sun
leaves behind silence, and if you
come, take off your shoes,
I am spread beneath you
and I am the doors, all the doors
you pass into.

Slow on my feet, tender, but I come home
in the presence of the Holy--
In the House of the Lord
past the dragon,
through the middle dreams.
Walking softly, letting shadows
Piss and FuryThe caves I'm digging
are calling my ancestors home. Wolf-haired,
doe-eyed men
and women with strong arms,
hearts that don't die
but burst
in a rush of blood and love, of other life.
The caves I'm digging are buying back
what we left behind.

In all these years, I never turned.
There are lives behind me. Hate behind me
I never watched recede. My anger
is shovels. Sweat. The caves I'm digging
are calling forgotten home.

There are territories staked
out here, piss and fury
to be scrubbed out. There are holes,
fist-sized, in the walls;
my anger is spackle, welcome mats.
The wolves are gathering
to sit by my fires.

The rain
Where the Desert SleepsI knew the miles
before the markers, I found the west
by walking with the sun. I said,
there are lizards in my blood,
there is sandstone in my teeth.

I said, I am the light's daughter,
I am a cactus wren.
This is my home among the thorns.

I said to trees, to starlight,
I said to graves and streets and men,
and you said,

Girlchild, I live too far out in the desert.

I whispered into corners, I wove into
papyrus: I am the light's daughter,
I am a cactus wren,

I raised my hand from lifetimes of loving,
died and dried to crispy bones
so you would find me
still with your name between my teeth, and you said,

The desert has me. It

Featured in Groups

:iconword-smiths:
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I Guess We'll Live To See It

:iconcompleteaccident:

You should start looking
for a place we can make our last stand.
The dawn is breaking:
Every morning, a little less light,
and the end
is not as close as you think.
Love is not enough,

and wanting

is not enough.

The desert is coming.
The sea is coming.
God forbid
they find us holding our thirst
in both hands.

Instead,
instead;

No,

There is no
rescue.
You should start looking for a place
we can make our last
stand.
Take my frenzy for resignation, put your boots
on. I have a lantern. I have a little
knife. We have so much still
to survive. Open

your hands

and let the thirst out.

Build. We will stand
until the dawn breaks- and you do not believe
in ecstasy, so we will know,
at the end.

3,323

202 60 463
:iconcompleteaccident:

I Guess We'll Live To See Itby ~completeaccident

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I married an athiest, and, God help me, I love him so much that I have given up all my escape plans.
Category: Literature / Poetry / Spiritual / Free Verse

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Submitted on
November 8, 2011
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-03-03
In `zebrazebrazebra's words, "every time I read ~completeaccident's I Guess We'll Live To See It, I become a little more wordless." I feel that sums it up pretty well.

(Also suggested by =oblivion00) ( Suggested by `zebrazebrazebra and Featured by $wreckling )
love 2 2 joy 1 1 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconskie2:
~Skie2 Oct 26, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
This mind of mine always wants to make me see... yet it was silent as i read this.
Reply
:iconcompleteaccident:
~completeaccident Oct 29, 2012
I hope that's good. :)
Reply
:iconskie2:
~Skie2 Oct 30, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
it is
Reply
:iconreygarfaust:
Mood: Love !ReygarFaust Mar 7, 2012  Professional Photographer
Beautiful work! I love you!
Reply
:iconflowagainstcurrent:
!FlowAgainstCurrent Mar 3, 2012
This is good.

Can I ask you a personal question? Do you have more problems or does it cause more problems in your relationship because your beliefs are different? I ask this because I was told once by a person who was supposed to be my friend that I was a "silly girl" for believing in God. He was an athiest, obviously, and for him to be an athiest he sure did like to talk about God and Christianity A LOT. We aren't friend anymore, but that's because of other reasons.
Reply
:icononionsmcgee:
*OnionsMcgee Mar 3, 2012
Vivid, beautiful language, wonderful flow, naked, raw emotion. Your poem truly, honestly touched me, and I love it. Congrats on the DD; it is very much deserved! :)
Reply
:iconcompleteaccident:
~completeaccident Oct 29, 2012
Thank you so much. :heart: I am grateful to have touched.
Reply
:icontech60:
~tech60 Mar 3, 2012  Student Traditional Artist
nice
Reply
:iconcascadelazuli:
~CascadeLazuli Mar 3, 2012  Student Photographer
Love it so much. Glorious.
Reply
:iconthehouseofk:
*TheHouseofK Mar 3, 2012  Hobbyist
This is very beautiful. I really like the imagery.
Reply
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