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Literature
She
You're tired of walking in the puddles of your own tears.
Going in circles, circles, circles. Getting nowhere.
So you take your suitcase full of burdens, worries, hopes, passions and dreams
and step out of the light and into the weeds
in hopes of catching a train
that never moves forward, and never moves back
but keeps a promise
with a puff of smoke
It's as if I can just reach out and touch her, tell her not to go.
Even though I know . . . she's already gone.
Literature
Land Mine
Click
We both froze at the sound of the land mine. My comrade looked at me, his eyes wide. No words were needed; we both knew whose foot was above the mine. We both knew who would get to walk away alive, limbs intact.
It wasn’t going to be me.
Not that either of us was going to admit that out loud.
This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to you; it always happens to someone else. You hear stories about people going across the mine fields and never coming back. You never become part of the stories. It is always someone else who doesn’t get to take another step.
But this time it was me.
“Maybe,” he started,
Literature
in the box
is a brain, removed from shell
disconnected
from signal wires. still viable (?)
maybe.
blue teeth and instant grams
and gallons of conceit;
our granular portrait no longer flatters
unless dull spots and imperfections are rendered
out in the wash--
we mask and filter, ask and answer,
bask in banter
understanding no one ever even thinks
to change the thought they've already had.
old news, rotten
if revisited. inquisitive
minds have nothing better to do
but second guess assumptions,
better than first-blush conundrums
that don't fit the formula we've written
for how the world works;
it's absurd to think
this is where our
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do you cut yourself???