I'm not nice like her.

I'm not sweet like her.

I can't behave like her.

I am my own. I am separate.

I am irreplacable just for being me.

I'm not perfect.

I make mistakes.

Alot of mistakes.

I learn.

I try.

I try so hard.

But to what avail?

In this terrestrial life that’s a rat race/

I’m trying to get my diet to be a little more plant based//

So when I whip up this food for though for you to taste

You can take it straight to the face/

& know there’s no sugar on it//

The Truth Hertz

So I tend to put this medicine In sonnets

& Tune it right & put that 432 on it/

Cause this 440 Hertz Shit

will leave you all retarded//

Don’t even get me started or beginning with this shit/

Don’t try to argue with me bitch

Start a debate I’ll make you quit//

& Make you come to grips with the facts/

that you about to Tap out/

Your arguments hold no clout

in a rational discourse//

I have know idea what you was learning in your college liberal arts course/

While you was there something big must’ve happened like your parents got divorced//

What I SAY

I SAY it with more than a little FORCE/

Not one bit do I have remorse

with changing one’s present course

or direction//

So when I start to reflecting

on ideas in my head

Please hold your questions to the end/

I know it’s a common trend

for me to go over your head

with concepts that you don’t normally comprehend//

But Hey I’ll tell you something my friend

Understand what I have penned/

These rabbit hole’s have no end

or a bottom//

Do you really believe that was Saddam

they found in that hole

& hung on that video/

if you really believe that Yo

then here’s some more Chemo//

it’ll help you...

it’ll help you to die slow

Radiation will make you glow

I know this a ILL flow

Na...

I know there’s no hook yo/

My actual goal bro

Is simply plant these seeds of knowledge

& help along the grow//

I don’t want you to just say it’s okay.

I don’t want you to just go away

when I lash out at you.

I don’t want you to tell me it’s fine.

I don’t want you to pretend like I

always have.

I don’t want to hurt you.

I don’t want to push you,

but I’m edging toward the cliff,

And I don’t know when I’ll fall.

I don’t know if I’ll shatter.

Probably.

Please fix me.

It’s really quite amazing

how quickly you are measured...

My children judge me harshly.

I have been weighed

I have been measured

They have found me wanting.

Jesus Jim!

Can you not just do

The thing your bosses

Ask you to.

Stop analysing every task

And simply do

The things they ask,

Stop questioning at every turn,

Just take the money that you earn.

Jesus Jim!

Why must you vent

On each political event?

Just let the rulers do their job

And help them quash

The angry mob.

Stop moaning we should stand and fight

Against those on the extreme right.

Jesus Jim!

Just go to war.

Stop asking what we're fighting for.

Let politicians say what's right

Just join the army, join the fight.

And as you lie in bloody pain

Remember, we think you're insane.

For asking.

Jesus Jim!

Sitting in the faculty workroom halfway between midnight and one making copies… need to organize some thoughts before I sleep tonight. Not gonna bother to proofread, so… sorry in advance.

I’m up so late in part because I went out to a poetry reading tonight instead of staying home to do the necessary work. One of my students was the featured poet before an open mic night at a coffee house a half hour away. She moved to my beloved, backwards area upstate from Queens last year, and asked me shortly thereafter if I knew of any place where she could perform slam poetry— not a common request in my land of active farms and deer hunting. But I put her in touch with the local librarian and the librarian organized an open mic event around the work of our young Queens transplant, and it turned out, she’s legit. So the librarian reached out to the local Arts Council, and so…. half hour set of slam poetry for a 17-year-old tonight.

I’m twice her age. The six poets who followed her at the open mic before I had to leave (Dad duty called) could all have been my parents. I assume most of them have heard a slam poem or so in their day, but it’s hardly their genre. Little local open mic group tend to be welcoming, but these are still somewhat intimidating circumstances. Did I mention my student started slamming as a therapy method for stuttering?

There’s really only one way to say this: she killed it. I’ve seen a lot of people, from kids to accomplished professionals, squirm behind a microphone, and even for most of the good speakers, it’s simply a necessary audio tool. But when this girl is behind a mic, she is alive. Alive in that way that you sense she feels deeper and fuller than most mortals dream of, and if you’re in the room, you feel pure joy to get to borrow a tiny part of it. She’s vibrant and not a little anxious in daily life, but behind the mic she’s full on fire in the arteries.

So then I came home, and I heard that a writer had died. Never met the person, never read their work before, but disparate though we may all be, there’s still a sense of fellowship among us scribblers, and I felt compelled to look a couple pieces up. The fire blazed hot there, too, and I wish I had known the man. I wish I had gotten to see the fire blaze in the present and not just in memory.

I’m not a mystic, and this is not a piece about passing a torch. Writers don’t pass torches. Each writer gets handed a stick, and if we’re very good and very lucky and very dedicated, we might make it into a brand. And once every so often, somebody makes that brand into a real, honest-to-God torch and sets up the sort of blaze that gathers a fellowship in the dark. It burns for a while, and we might borrow a little of it to kindle our own nascent flames, but the torch is and always will be in the sole possession of that writer. As such, it will someday go out. We can read the remnants and remember, and that torch might have lit a hundred other fires that continue to burn, but the fire itself is gone.

But damned if it isn’t all descended from the same spark.

“People don’t read anymore.” “Readership is in decline.” “Look at the crap on the NYT bestseller list.” “Longform prose is dead.” “Poetry is dead.” “Theater is dead.” “Kids are too buried in their phones to read or write anymore.”

Bullshit. Stories of the death of literature have been greatly exaggerated. The fire’s still spreading; I saw it tonight.

There are people on Prose who have been writing since before I was a zygote, and they write some wonderful stuff. But this post is for the young ones. Do you realize how good some of your stuff is? Sometimes I’m reading pieces by 16, 15, 13 year olds (sometimes aware of it, sometimes have no idea), and I get to a particular spot, and all I can say is damn – that was a line.

There’s a lot wrong in the world, and we all know it. But I’m telling you, that fire is in good hands. The hands of the old guard; the hands of the young guard. The hands of the 70-year-old at the open mic tonight in that coffee house. My student’s hands. Your hands.

Burn on, Prosers.

Our hearts pounding rhythmically at a mesmerizing hypnotic cadence. A race against the clock ticking, winding, tocking. Rolling thunder chasing us. Lighting crashing. Sky growing fierce. Sweat dripping into lashes and blinding glacier blues. Cherry gloss smearing into a luscious cupids bow as decadence and aromatic whipped toppings and cherry jubilee slide down into unspeakable places. Smoldering hot mid -summers day. Sheets ripped by ropes, tape and glass. A metal rod and whip end the finale.

A walk in the park led me to a soulful glance at the broken pieces of bench where I was catapulted into its shattered remains

once more. As they led straight into my heart in a kaleidoscope of cognac merlot, empty promises and paramount nights. I stood alone. Wandering, meandering into broken paths. And it made me think of you.

#fastfiction #fiction #shortstory #lust #love #hot

.

my particles didn't shift in the right place

until you were there

and then I noticed . I forgot to breathe

again

Looking in the golden garden gazing ball

Smooth skin, sexy smile, shining eyes

Youthful sparks of fire.

When a dirty wart-nosed witch attacks

I rub my eyes and then the saggy skin of harsh reality leers back at me again

Turning away, I laugh. Standing up straight and strong, I take a deep breath and look around the garden full of life and the many paths waiting to be explored.

Don’t trust gazing balls.

Cordelia’s carriage ride to Dulwich was quiet. She was left alone with her thoughts for far too long, and she had so many questions that were still unanswered.

Was Mr. Bellingham’s death connected to Mr. Notley’s? Why did Mr. Bellingham have that peculiar table and candles, and why did Cordelia have a memory of it? And could they trust anything Mrs. Bellingham had to say?

By the time Cordelia was dropped off at the Yellowwood Inn, she was drained, despite it only being early evening. Still, she entered in search of Blackburn.

The inn was considerably less crowded than it had been the last evening, and for that Cordelia was grateful. It also allowed her to spot her cane-wielding companion quite quickly. He was jovially playing cards in the corner with a round-bellied man.

As she approached, she heard the round man make a rather rude comment that she desperately hoped had not been addressing her, and Blackburn all but agreed, knocking cups with his new friend. The both of them laughed, and the round man took a large swig of his drink.

She met Blackburn’s turquoise eyes with a glare. He sent her a letter that someone was dead and he was drinking and playing cards? He seemed to sense none of her irritation, for his eyes twinkled at her, and a smile spread across his face.

“Have you come to play?” he drawled.

Disgusted, she demanded, “Get up.”

Blackburn’s round friend gave the both of them a rather incredulous (and suggestive) look as Cordelia about nearly dragged Blackburn away from the table, then out of the inn altogether. It was best to avoid making a scene, and Cordelia was fuming.

Blackburn’s hat was missing, revealing a mess of dark hair, and his clothes reeked of alcohol. She was beginning to suspect his note was a ruse to get her to return.

“Are you out of your mind? Did you do nothing while I was in Rotherhithe?” she hissed.

He leaned towards her, his demeanor suddenly normal, completely opposite from the drunken flop he’d been inside. His eyes were clear, if amused. “I’ll explain in a moment,” he said quietly.

Cordelia leaned away from his closeness, but she didn’t notice any alcohol on his breath. And there should have been. Was he not drunk?

Confused, Cordelia said, “You’d best.”

Blackburn chuckled. “Wait here. I must finish my act.” He jogged back to the inn’s front door, then abruptly threw himself against it, clumsily falling inside.

Cordelia ran to the nearest window to peer inside.

From her view, she saw Blackburn’s back, his hands waving at the round man, who got up from his seat, nearly knocking over his table in the process. Blackburn continued his gesticulations, pointing towards the door a couple of times, and the man grinned and nodded, stumbling closer to Blackburn to give him a sloppy embrace.

After peeling himself out of the round man’s arms, Blackburn headed out the door. Still both peeved and thoroughly confused, Cordelia marched back to meet him.

“Mr. Blackburn, is Mr. Bellingham found or not?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Blackburn placed his hat on his head, then spun his cane in his hand, as if reacquainting himself with them. Then, he started briskly forward, saying over his shoulder, “He is found. Now, keep up. I stalled as long as I could, but we don’t have long.”

Cordelia huffed. “Was that a farce? In the inn? Who is he?” Irritation seeped into her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it.

“I needed a place to hide Mr. Bellingham, so I invited Owen for a drink. He is the owner of a small cottage in the woods.”

Cordelia shook her head, still not understanding. “You’re hiding Mr. Bellingham in a man’s house without his knowledge?”

“Not for long. I needed a place nearby, and I needed him to not ask any questions.” Blackburn smiled wryly. “And I don’t suppose he’ll be making it home very quickly in his state, nor be able to form very coherent questions.”

“That’s insane!” exclaimed Cordelia, shocked. “Luring a man out of his own home!”

Blackburn’s eyebrows pulled together. “I couldn’t be forthright with the man; he would clearly think I was insane—”

“You are insane!”

“—but I needed to ask him some questions as well, so that worked out rather swimmingly.”

“You are hiding a dead body in an innocent man’s house,” Cordelia stated firmly, too astounded to even yell.

“Who said he was dead?” Blackburn said with a lift of his brow. Cordelia cocked her head at him. “Now, we’re just about to it.”

They were approaching a small cottage, surrounded by trees but not too obscured. To Cordelia, it was shockingly small, even for one man; how could one live in such tight quarters? It looked to be the size of just one room.

Blackburn had approached the cottage and was about to open the door, but Cordelia stopped some feet behind him, hesitant.

“He is like me. How.” She would not enter until she understood. Was Mr. Bellingham alive? Was he dead?

Blackburn stopped and met her eyes. “I will not again try to convince you of what I believe about you, Cordelia, but Mr. Bellingham is not alive. Nor is he fully dead. He is not exactly like you, but I believe you two are similar.”

Cordelia took a shaky breath, frozen and unable to respond.

“I think you should see him yourself,” Blackburn said, turning back to the door.

She wondered if the answers she sought were inside this tiny cottage. Answers about Mr. Bellingham, surely, but answers about herself? There was only one thing she could do.

“Show him to me,” she breathed.

--

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