"You're the knife."
Words. Clumsy words. Taught to me by my father, and his before, and worn into my skeleton like a bad habit. This was a bad habit, and still is.
"Be the knife."
A hoarse whisper in the dark against the swinging, hanging light. Ten competitors, thirty spectators; all losers. Two in the middle. All my life I've practiced and trained and pained for something so much greater than this. Means does indeed, unfortunately, make the man.
As I grip the soft leather of the knife handle, circa 1909, I hope these letters find you well. I hope they find me well, too, and I'm sorry for the three of us that it's come to this, c
the city and annelyse by wearecommunities, literature
Literature
the city and annelyse
one more turn and it's
the Mission District. i'm taking pictures
of strangers.
these are my people, and
this is what they look like
when they're caught living
on camera:
taqueria green and the late afternoon light
reflected in her thin brown hair;
troublemakers on the corner
watching troublemakers
down the block by the
market;
two twisted lovers intertwined
in black and white jackets,
lips touching lips
that have touched lips
that have touched skin
that has touched someone famous
(before he was famous);
Annelyse, buying a lime
because it's three for a dollar
and she has thirty three cents, and there's
poetry to be
the speed addict knows if he stops moving,
he will die. so when inertia takes hold
his heart falters and his head slams against
a future, lit by the dashboard. he hears
his veins stuttering like gears grinding out
a staccato refrain, while the wheel spins and
goes numb. as his breath twists away from his grip,
rasps a hollow plea, he slides on a rail
towards impartial angels leaving rainbow sparks
in his soaring wake, and meets blazing lights.
the addict dies twice. one is nev
He'd put the forty-watt bulb in deliberately. Its dull glow filtered through layered fumes and added just the right touch of atmosphere.
Three thousand bloody words.
He swore and sucked hard on the spindly, hand-rolled cigarette. The raw, bitter kick at the back of his throat nearly made him choke and he spluttered, swallowing the reflex and the smoke and holding his breath until red lights danced in front of his eyes.
In the corner the girl cowered, limbs crunched tightly against torso, her weeping muffled.
The cigarette dropped into last night's coffee mug with a faint hiss. Grunting heavily, he reached around the desk, fumbled another
Berkeley Model United Nations by wearecommunities, literature
Literature
Berkeley Model United Nations
all day, ive been
out of my element:
fake UN delegates
passed me by like
political winds.
they didn't let us
know our names
(instead, we went by
nations, titles),
i was lost in a
scrambled, talking
puzzle-piece globe
and Argentina
was so beautiful
she made me stutter
instead of speak.
Afghanistan was from
Canada. she tried to debate
with other delegates
that Canada
is better
than America.
her case in point
was redvines.
i agreed.
i was a poet amongst
politicians. i felt like
France wanted to
fuck me over. it was
the way he spoke.
like a politician.
i wonder why that was.
i had a partner as
Paraguay: he d
when i was walking
with the ghosts, i got
frustrated, fire
eyed, depressed, because
they didn't
say shit. they
just gaped at me
and showered me in the
sights of the still-tender
skin of their wounds.
they pointed at doorways, hovered
just inches up
the stairs, but i was
too afraid to follow. the attic door
stayed closed, its paint
chipping like
dead skin.
orange,
simply;
an impression,
a handful
of summer;
a year cut
into four quarters.
rotund angles,
juiced nodes,
thin skin stuck in teeth.
fertile cervix,
rind pores.
the birth of taste,
light beyond visibility.
memories,
mother's terse fingers
undressing the orange,
making it easy;
rolling cloth away
from a wound,
the warmth of careful touch.
sound of knife laid
on the countertop,
fingers sharp with scent,
flaring around the fruit,
accommodating,
shiny with the
clean invisible cling
of survival.
"Oy, let me see your calorie card!" The skinny man at the hotdog stand demanded, holding my hotdog just out of reach.
I sighed and dug the plastic out of my pocket, handing it to him with a sour grimace on my face. I was sure I had already exceeded my allotted 1500 calories for today, but I was just so darn hungry. Seriously, what was one hotdog going to do to my figure anyway?
He shook his head as he swiped it through the scanner. "Sorry girlie. This hot dog is 242 calories. You only have 10 calories left for today." He shooed me away in preference of those with enough calories on their card to afford his food.
My stomach grumbled i