madbeyond
practiced in the art of erasure
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To the best of your ability, tell us which would you choose or which one is better - A broken heart or An empty one! If you will, please include the 'Why'. #BrokenOrEmpty Tag me, if you want!! Happy writing, y'all :)
Written by madbeyond in portal Micropoetry

The Y of the Heart

it beats 

being 

broken

or empty

or both

or both

or both

#BrokenOrEmpty

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To the best of your ability, tell us which would you choose or which one is better - A broken heart or An empty one! If you will, please include the 'Why'. #BrokenOrEmpty Tag me, if you want!! Happy writing, y'all :)
Written by madbeyond in portal Micropoetry
The Y of the Heart
it beats 
being 
broken
or empty
or both
or both
or both

#BrokenOrEmpty

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Written by madbeyond

The Daily Lama

I don’t get it.

They’re calling me the Daily Lama, because I alone woke up with a memory of January 19. 

What makes this really weird is that I don’t remember waking up with a memory of January 19. I watched clips of it on the news so I know what they’re excited about. Me crawling out of a Parabang 27, talking about the rainbow. In the light of January 19 and the Thruway, I look like a hologram. My pathways are all disrupted. Woody Allen is in the background as Zelig, and also as Hannah, and also as her sisters and also as Mia and Soon-Yi and Burger King. 

I haven’t slept in how many days. God’s teeth, I am tired. I keep trying to go back to January 19, beyond the news clip.

Nothing. Nothing is there.

Somewhere over the rainbow. And your little dog too. The Munchkins. Dunkin’ Donuts. Are you wicked? Africa. Rosanna. Neopolitan ice cream. Elena Ferrante.

I don’t remember anything.

They’re looking to me for answers.

I am the Thruway Daily Lama and I know nothing besides what the newsclip tells me. Me crawling out of a Parabang 27, talking about the rainbow.

Flying over the oboe. The oboe banging out a new note no piano could ever play. The oboe birding itself and taking wing. The unnecessarily-banged up getting real all of a sudden. Snoopy taking the presidency by storm. Saying I am the Head Beagle. Winking at the vultures. Becoming Head Vulture. 

Here is the awful world, waking up in the future. Everything is outlined, and nothing has been lost.

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Written by madbeyond
The Daily Lama
I don’t get it.
They’re calling me the Daily Lama, because I alone woke up with a memory of January 19. 
What makes this really weird is that I don’t remember waking up with a memory of January 19. I watched clips of it on the news so I know what they’re excited about. Me crawling out of a Parabang 27, talking about the rainbow. In the light of January 19 and the Thruway, I look like a hologram. My pathways are all disrupted. Woody Allen is in the background as Zelig, and also as Hannah, and also as her sisters and also as Mia and Soon-Yi and Burger King. 
I haven’t slept in how many days. God’s teeth, I am tired. I keep trying to go back to January 19, beyond the news clip.
Nothing. Nothing is there.
Somewhere over the rainbow. And your little dog too. The Munchkins. Dunkin’ Donuts. Are you wicked? Africa. Rosanna. Neopolitan ice cream. Elena Ferrante.
I don’t remember anything.
They’re looking to me for answers.
I am the Thruway Daily Lama and I know nothing besides what the newsclip tells me. Me crawling out of a Parabang 27, talking about the rainbow.
Flying over the oboe. The oboe banging out a new note no piano could ever play. The oboe birding itself and taking wing. The unnecessarily-banged up getting real all of a sudden. Snoopy taking the presidency by storm. Saying I am the Head Beagle. Winking at the vultures. Becoming Head Vulture. 
Here is the awful world, waking up in the future. Everything is outlined, and nothing has been lost.




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It's record-breaking time. Together, we are going to break the world record for longest book. 100 word minimum. When this challenge gets 15,000 entries, it will expire, and we will turn it into a book. Each entry will be its own chapter. The plot? It’s the first day of a zombie apocalypse, write a diary entry. Each contributor should share this challenge prompt with as many people as possible. If we break the world record, this will be read by people for generations to come.
Written by madbeyond

Puts the Kettle On

Awful night in the cornfield after TruthDrone21 designated EarthBomb18NXS12 a hoax. People furious -- those who have PortNutes, anyway. I went out to find Sally, couldn’t reach her on WatchIt. So many are so far under now, impossible to FieldSight. All those family members separated for nothing – and who really knows how to contact them, or if they can be brought back. InterMaps has been down since 23:00. I keep thinking about Agape’s fight with Abilify. Maybe now someone will go looking for Gene Weaver.

The asteroid missed by Augustmoon.220. The Scient has been wrong before but not like this. It’s concerning. I’m writing this looking out on the cornfield. This is the time for Enclosure Cycle but Fielders have turned outward now, they’re coming toward the house. We’ll have a meeting, I’ll put the kettle on.

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It's record-breaking time. Together, we are going to break the world record for longest book. 100 word minimum. When this challenge gets 15,000 entries, it will expire, and we will turn it into a book. Each entry will be its own chapter. The plot? It’s the first day of a zombie apocalypse, write a diary entry. Each contributor should share this challenge prompt with as many people as possible. If we break the world record, this will be read by people for generations to come.
Written by madbeyond
Puts the Kettle On
Awful night in the cornfield after TruthDrone21 designated EarthBomb18NXS12 a hoax. People furious -- those who have PortNutes, anyway. I went out to find Sally, couldn’t reach her on WatchIt. So many are so far under now, impossible to FieldSight. All those family members separated for nothing – and who really knows how to contact them, or if they can be brought back. InterMaps has been down since 23:00. I keep thinking about Agape’s fight with Abilify. Maybe now someone will go looking for Gene Weaver.

The asteroid missed by Augustmoon.220. The Scient has been wrong before but not like this. It’s concerning. I’m writing this looking out on the cornfield. This is the time for Enclosure Cycle but Fielders have turned outward now, they’re coming toward the house. We’ll have a meeting, I’ll put the kettle on.


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Written by madbeyond

Muskrat Sludge

tail dredging sewage

spawn-whiskered muskrat

chomps swamp’s

last water lily

lilac print monet

purged from richmond fed

last flood

backstrokes to

rat strewn riverlodge

garbage masquerade

of cattails

ancient coattails

mr. boston’s

mudlogged cocktail guide

swims beneath

a whiskey smash

goes to sleep

on grimm’s

big discount

tale

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Written by madbeyond
Muskrat Sludge
tail dredging sewage
spawn-whiskered muskrat
chomps swamp’s
last water lily
lilac print monet
purged from richmond fed
last flood
backstrokes to
rat strewn riverlodge
garbage masquerade
of cattails
ancient coattails
mr. boston’s
mudlogged cocktail guide
swims beneath
a whiskey smash
goes to sleep
on grimm’s
big discount
tale

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Written by madbeyond

Smudge

The cat was bad. Badass, even. Feline makes a beeline for the trees. We are talking feral. 

I don't know, I wanted to feed it. I wanted it to come to Mama. I never had kids, so. Even though, I didn't want to be a catwoman. I was sixty-two and lived in a garret apartment. It was all very real.

Anyway, Smudge. Smudge started eating from an abandoned bowl in the backyard. It was a rental, I was on the top floor, there was a flight of heart attack inducing stairs in back, an exit less dangerous out front. But there were times I chose the back steps (don't ask), and in these times I encountered Smudge.

Smudge, so-called because, well. This cat was a strange admixture of fur and rot. This cat had scabies and also, probably, rabies. This cat was cat scratch fever hot.

One night this cat happened to sit on my lap and purr. Do not underestimate the power of a radically disgusting being that curls up on your lap needfully. Cats and other living beings are dangerous this way. 

It clawed into my dark black heart. Blue moon, I fell in love.

Smudge. I named the cat Smudge because it had a very bad bottom and an even worse nose. The cat was seriously gross.

But it cuddled. It snuggled. It sat on my lap needfully. Until Bosco (canine, apartment 2A) barked out a full moon window and it bolted.

Smudge bolted. 

Bad timing.

Cats have nine lives, they say, and this cat, Smudge, was obviously on his twelfth. Were the fence picket and not chainlink he might have lived to purr again. But the fence had ensnared several squirrels, more wily even than a badass cat.

More wily even than Smudge. 

 

 

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Written by madbeyond
Smudge
The cat was bad. Badass, even. Feline makes a beeline for the trees. We are talking feral. 
I don't know, I wanted to feed it. I wanted it to come to Mama. I never had kids, so. Even though, I didn't want to be a catwoman. I was sixty-two and lived in a garret apartment. It was all very real.
Anyway, Smudge. Smudge started eating from an abandoned bowl in the backyard. It was a rental, I was on the top floor, there was a flight of heart attack inducing stairs in back, an exit less dangerous out front. But there were times I chose the back steps (don't ask), and in these times I encountered Smudge.
Smudge, so-called because, well. This cat was a strange admixture of fur and rot. This cat had scabies and also, probably, rabies. This cat was cat scratch fever hot.
One night this cat happened to sit on my lap and purr. Do not underestimate the power of a radically disgusting being that curls up on your lap needfully. Cats and other living beings are dangerous this way. 
It clawed into my dark black heart. Blue moon, I fell in love.
Smudge. I named the cat Smudge because it had a very bad bottom and an even worse nose. The cat was seriously gross.
But it cuddled. It snuggled. It sat on my lap needfully. Until Bosco (canine, apartment 2A) barked out a full moon window and it bolted.
Smudge bolted. 
Bad timing.
Cats have nine lives, they say, and this cat, Smudge, was obviously on his twelfth. Were the fence picket and not chainlink he might have lived to purr again. But the fence had ensnared several squirrels, more wily even than a badass cat.
More wily even than Smudge. 

 


 
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Written by madbeyond

Three Colors

Yellow is an outrider

Daffodil, forsythia

Dawn

The dress that’s quick

Upon the air

Before she puts it on

Red is deeply settled

It blooms

Before the morrow

Comes across

The broad white throats

That open in the hollow

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Written by madbeyond
Three Colors
Yellow is an outrider
Daffodil, forsythia
Dawn

The dress that’s quick
Upon the air
Before she puts it on

Red is deeply settled
It blooms
Before the morrow

Comes across
The broad white throats
That open in the hollow


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Written by madbeyond

Milagro

“How are you going to get there?” Harry asked.

“I’ll drive.” Bebe was between them, on his side, panting. The ceiling fan curled the napkin edges.

“What about your deadline?”

Kathy pushed back her chair. Bebe scrambled to his feet with an airy sneeze.

“I’ll work at night. It’s only a few days.”

“It’s money.”

“It’s a funeral, Harry.”

“For someone you hate, who you haven’t spoken to in twenty years.”

She picked up the stacked plates, eyed the empty wineglass. She’d come back for it; there would be a fight.

“I think that’s why I need to go. Why don’t you come? We could go to Chimayo.”

Before they were married they’d flown to Albuquerque, rented a car, drove around New Mexico for a week, taking in the mission architecture, the clarity, startling blue sky against white adobe. At Chimayo they’d come across a street vendor selling milagros. They bought two, a leg charm for her mother and a little silver heart, two for ten, and at the last minute, charmed by the vendor, two small glass jars of chile seasoning, one red, one green, bringing the bill to fifty. We were taken, Harry said. Ten years later, the jar of green seemed to have magically replenished itself. They had long run out of red. "Green Chimayo" had become a sort of mantra.

Harry looked up at her like he was peering over his glasses in annoyance. “Like I have the time.” 

The gravesite was backfilled, a solemn mound. She’d walked among the more settled graves the previous day, after the family gathering. She’d kept her distance then, kneeling many rows away with an awful arrangement, paying her respects to Sarah Quick, who died in 1918 at 21 (Spanish flu). 

She recognized the sister by her legs; the wife by her hair; the best friend by his voice, which had carried. There were a lot of people there. He’d had a lot of friends.

She’d gone unrecognized. She was probably the only person who would have known to look for her.

After they’d left, she walked toward him, but kept her distance. She stopped in front of one Herbert Lane, “who moulders here.”

“Hey,” she said, finally there. “I brought you some smokes.” She put down the pack of Newport Lites. “And some Swedish Fish.” She bit one in two. “And your precious key. Yes, I kept it. And a little Chimayo for the road.” She sprinkled the last of the green dust over the dirt, set down the small silver heart. “Now we're even.”

She knelt down, touched her finger to her lips and to the ground. 

On the way back to the car, her phone rang. Harry's ringtone. I'm on my way back, she said. Just gonna stop in Chimayo.

"Kath," he said. "Your mom had a fall. I've been at the hospital all day."

Kathy stopped.

"She's OK," Harry said. "She's asking for you. I told her you had a conference."

"I'm on my way. I can get there by noon if I leave now."

"Kath," he said. "There's something else. I swear I locked the door when I left but it was wide open when I got home. Bebe's gone." 

She walked back to the grave, picked up the Newport Lites and Swedish Fish. Tucked the key in her hoodie. "You always were a shit," she said. 

In the dying light, the green Chimayo was invisible. 

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Written by madbeyond
Milagro
“How are you going to get there?” Harry asked.
“I’ll drive.” Bebe was between them, on his side, panting. The ceiling fan curled the napkin edges.
“What about your deadline?”
Kathy pushed back her chair. Bebe scrambled to his feet with an airy sneeze.
“I’ll work at night. It’s only a few days.”
“It’s money.”
“It’s a funeral, Harry.”
“For someone you hate, who you haven’t spoken to in twenty years.”
She picked up the stacked plates, eyed the empty wineglass. She’d come back for it; there would be a fight.
“I think that’s why I need to go. Why don’t you come? We could go to Chimayo.”
Before they were married they’d flown to Albuquerque, rented a car, drove around New Mexico for a week, taking in the mission architecture, the clarity, startling blue sky against white adobe. At Chimayo they’d come across a street vendor selling milagros. They bought two, a leg charm for her mother and a little silver heart, two for ten, and at the last minute, charmed by the vendor, two small glass jars of chile seasoning, one red, one green, bringing the bill to fifty. We were taken, Harry said. Ten years later, the jar of green seemed to have magically replenished itself. They had long run out of red. "Green Chimayo" had become a sort of mantra.
Harry looked up at her like he was peering over his glasses in annoyance. “Like I have the time.” 

The gravesite was backfilled, a solemn mound. She’d walked among the more settled graves the previous day, after the family gathering. She’d kept her distance then, kneeling many rows away with an awful arrangement, paying her respects to Sarah Quick, who died in 1918 at 21 (Spanish flu). 
She recognized the sister by her legs; the wife by her hair; the best friend by his voice, which had carried. There were a lot of people there. He’d had a lot of friends.
She’d gone unrecognized. She was probably the only person who would have known to look for her.
After they’d left, she walked toward him, but kept her distance. She stopped in front of one Herbert Lane, “who moulders here.”

“Hey,” she said, finally there. “I brought you some smokes.” She put down the pack of Newport Lites. “And some Swedish Fish.” She bit one in two. “And your precious key. Yes, I kept it. And a little Chimayo for the road.” She sprinkled the last of the green dust over the dirt, set down the small silver heart. “Now we're even.”
She knelt down, touched her finger to her lips and to the ground. 

On the way back to the car, her phone rang. Harry's ringtone. I'm on my way back, she said. Just gonna stop in Chimayo.
"Kath," he said. "Your mom had a fall. I've been at the hospital all day."
Kathy stopped.
"She's OK," Harry said. "She's asking for you. I told her you had a conference."
"I'm on my way. I can get there by noon if I leave now."
"Kath," he said. "There's something else. I swear I locked the door when I left but it was wide open when I got home. Bebe's gone." 

She walked back to the grave, picked up the Newport Lites and Swedish Fish. Tucked the key in her hoodie. "You always were a shit," she said. 

In the dying light, the green Chimayo was invisible. 




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Written by madbeyond

She

Shhh, she said

it’s time for bed –

so go now, quiet, quiet

If bedbugs bite,

What do we do?

We pray they’re on a diet

And what of ghosts

and trolls, and hags

and things that hang from ceilings?

They’re after you, for sure,

she said

So keep in mind their feelings

And you, we’re sorry

can you stay?

It’s like you came from heaven

Pray now

she said before lights out

that everything’s forgiven

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Written by madbeyond
She
Shhh, she said
it’s time for bed –
so go now, quiet, quiet

If bedbugs bite,
What do we do?
We pray they’re on a diet

And what of ghosts
and trolls, and hags
and things that hang from ceilings?

They’re after you, for sure,
she said
So keep in mind their feelings

And you, we’re sorry
can you stay?
It’s like you came from heaven

Pray now
she said before lights out
that everything’s forgiven

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Written by madbeyond in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Hair

She mused as Rapunzel

Lost in the fire

Twirled her

Silver curls

The same had bewitched her --

Bewitched the witch --

The night she’d watched her mother

From the wall

Like moonlight it was

And in Miranda’s mind

It grew to mad lengths

And met her there

Extending through meadow

And over hedgerow

She heard it grow

Penetrating tangles

Navigating possums

Commanding the attention of Fox

Scaling rock to where she stood

Until it prodded tentatively

And when she moved not

Climbed unnatural legs

Covering her

Clinging like a gown

Looking down,

The tresses were at once

All the dresses she had lost

Settling around her shoulders

Continuing, in one swift shoot,

Overhead

A cloak, magnificent and rich

She was caught in it

She could not move

But only attend to

Where it issued from

The one who turned

And waved and called to her

Beautiful night!

Miranda recalled the

Dark craft she’d built and sailed

The simple canvas catching wind

A stranger to this gossamer wrap

The art produced an herb that was a lure

That had ensnared, sure enough

And now the girl was hers

Her mother gone

But not the hair

Well. Work with it, she’d thought

There were spells to make locks

And magic was hardly required

To keep a child such as this

The girl adored her

That was clear

She moved among the brooms

The tower would be ready soon

The girl’s coiled hair would fall

Like her mother’s had

Miranda would climb

Entwine herself therein

Between the sea and moon

A creature in a snare

It wasn’t hers

Had never been

But still she would be caught

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Written by madbeyond in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Hair
She mused as Rapunzel
Lost in the fire
Twirled her
Silver curls

The same had bewitched her --
Bewitched the witch --
The night she’d watched her mother
From the wall

Like moonlight it was
And in Miranda’s mind
It grew to mad lengths
And met her there

Extending through meadow
And over hedgerow
She heard it grow

Penetrating tangles
Navigating possums
Commanding the attention of Fox

Scaling rock to where she stood
Until it prodded tentatively
And when she moved not
Climbed unnatural legs

Covering her
Clinging like a gown
Looking down,
The tresses were at once
All the dresses she had lost

Settling around her shoulders
Continuing, in one swift shoot,
Overhead
A cloak, magnificent and rich
She was caught in it

She could not move
But only attend to
Where it issued from
The one who turned
And waved and called to her
Beautiful night!

Miranda recalled the
Dark craft she’d built and sailed
The simple canvas catching wind
A stranger to this gossamer wrap

The art produced an herb that was a lure
That had ensnared, sure enough
And now the girl was hers
Her mother gone

But not the hair
Well. Work with it, she’d thought

There were spells to make locks
And magic was hardly required
To keep a child such as this

The girl adored her
That was clear
She moved among the brooms

The tower would be ready soon
The girl’s coiled hair would fall
Like her mother’s had

Miranda would climb
Entwine herself therein
Between the sea and moon
A creature in a snare

It wasn’t hers
Had never been
But still she would be caught

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Written by madbeyond in portal Poetry & Free Verse

World Without End

Because the moon is new

Because the dark is too

Because we’re less than few

I will stay with you

Because the far is near

Because the time is here

Because there’s no all-clear

I will stay with you

Because you are to me

Because there is no lee

Because the rising sea

I will stay with you

Because the chance is shot

Because the farm is bought

Because it comes to naught

I will stay with you

Because it’s said and done

Because the bell has rung

Because the end has come

I will stay with you

Because the children bless

Because the seers guess

Because but I digress

I will stay with you

Because it wouldn’t do

Because the hours are few

Because we’re, face it, through

I will stay with you

Because you know it well

Because I made you tell

Because it’s gone to hell

I will stay with you

Because you would not see

Because I lost the key

Because you stayed with me

I will stay with you

Because I don’t love you

Because I could not do

Because the room’s a view

I will stay with you

Because the night is long

Because the light is wrong

Because the song is sung

I will stay with you

Because I cannot fly

Because the by and by

Because a lie’s a lie

I will stay with you

Because the sky is red

Because my aching head

Because you’re in my bed

I will stay with you

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Written by madbeyond in portal Poetry & Free Verse
World Without End
Because the moon is new
Because the dark is too
Because we’re less than few
I will stay with you

Because the far is near
Because the time is here
Because there’s no all-clear
I will stay with you

Because you are to me
Because there is no lee
Because the rising sea
I will stay with you

Because the chance is shot
Because the farm is bought
Because it comes to naught
I will stay with you

Because it’s said and done
Because the bell has rung
Because the end has come
I will stay with you

Because the children bless
Because the seers guess
Because but I digress
I will stay with you

Because it wouldn’t do
Because the hours are few
Because we’re, face it, through
I will stay with you

Because you know it well
Because I made you tell
Because it’s gone to hell
I will stay with you

Because you would not see
Because I lost the key
Because you stayed with me
I will stay with you

Because I don’t love you
Because I could not do
Because the room’s a view
I will stay with you

Because the night is long
Because the light is wrong
Because the song is sung
I will stay with you

Because I cannot fly
Because the by and by
Because a lie’s a lie
I will stay with you

Because the sky is red
Because my aching head
Because you’re in my bed
I will stay with you

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