writer's den week 3

Prompt: write about the person you just met

Zhili is an electrical engineer. He wears all black because his eyes don’t see color, they see the mini resistors that are in your neurons, and the capacitor in your iPhone camera flash. He wants to engineer the next Tesla coil. To make something out of nothing; power out of air, out of the charged particles in the human skin, in the fall leaves, in the blue sky. Zhili’s name means knowledge and power. That’s what electricity is to him—the most melodious intersection of knowledge and power. He chases down the electric as much as he can. Skydiving, making love, cocaine highs. Zhili looks unassuming at best, and fobby at worst. But his blood pulsates with the synchrony of electrons and protons and an abosofuckinglutely thirst for that intersection. One day, Zhili will be a household name. Actually Zhili happens to the name of the street intersection that housed the hospital he was born in. His mother was sadly uncreative, unlike her highly functioning son. Anyways back to the love-making and cocaine.

Zhili is a prolific yet jaded lover. After all, the first lesson in electrical engineering is opposites attract. It seems like Zhili just can’t find the right broad. Or maybe its because he thinks of them as broads. What kind of lover is Zhili anyways? Who even calls women “broads” anymore? Shame on you, Zhili. He has to date, wined and dined 47 different individuals, of 22 different nationalities, 15 different languages (4 of them ethnic dialects of the New Zealand coast), and 2 of the …male persuasion? 

writer's den week 2

Prompt: write a short story using monosyllabic words only

Jim is a nice guy. Jim is a great guy, in fact. Jim loves the gym, his wife, his kids, and his blonde wig. Jim wears the wig once a week. At 11 pm at night once a week, Jim goes to the Y and plays ball with his pal, Don. Or so he says. In fact, Jim is in the john at Taco Bell. He goes to the back and hides in the john and looks at his face in the screen. He loves his blonde wig just like he loves his wife. He loves his blonde wig more than he loves his wife. Jim wants to be Jane. Jane would be blonde. Jane would be hot. Jane would be what Jim is not. 

Jim saves a small piece of his check each month. It is the Jane fund. Jane was the name of his first girl. Jane was a nice girl just like Jim is a nice guy. Jim met Jane at school, in math class. Jim was just a young lad. Jim thought Jane would be his girl. Jane was his first girl. He sent her sweet treats and made love to her. He poured bleach on her plump, round breasts. He rammed a drill up her pale pink cheeks. Jane was gone and all that was left was her blonde hair. Which now hangs in the back of Jim’s shoe rack. Gone from the sight of his wife and kids, just like Jane is gone from the sight of all on Earth. And by the way, Jim just won Dad of the year at his son’s school.

Claws (an exercise)

Clickity clacketing. Raised like braille. Blind, too.
Meandering whirlpooling chug chug to a halt.
Shift shift control alt delete: end task.
Hovering flashing...poised. On pointe
Ankles straining choleric waves want to choke to kill.
Onomatopoeia and fin,
Sore throbbing but running over the hedge
running running a hero's welcome,
back in the day.
nervous system is a slanted oxymoron,
wouldn't you say so?

Call me J.

Just like that my name is now J. Surname P.

I haven't written in so long. Forever it seems like. I'm rusty. Excuse me. I haven't read for even longer. Yes, I've read. But only against the blue-white glare of my iPhone, the computer, the iPad.

Seems like the past year has been personally stagnant for me. Enter the void of i-mpersonality. Of i-nanity. I've done much for another but not much for myself. I want to embark on the quest again. A year is too long to be static radio silence.

I'm excited for this year. Nervous, excited, scared. But no matter what, still happy. Happy because I have a journey again instead of being forever stationed at the rest-stop along the way. It was a nice rest stop. There were even seat covers for the toilet! But the road beckons (see how rusty I am, resorting to sigh-inducing platitudes...). In any case, the best thing to do is do. So here's a subpar post but a post nonetheless!

Hello, you.

Bedtime Story

Nestled under the sheets, blanket molded to your body as if the finest Paris plaster cast: you sleep. You sleep peaceful, innocent, blankly. No dreams. No nightmares. Nothing. Just the sweet reprieve of a long day’s adenosine accumulation.

My adenosine receptors are blocked. Caught in an epic battle with serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine. The Great Vein of Galen. Coursing, rushing, blustering red like Rudolph (7 days till Christmas) (will you be there?)

I know what keeps us up at sleep. Worrying, waiting, wishing. W words are the Worst.

How do I explain my feelings for you? Like a knitted scarf, haphazard at best. holes and gaps every 15 knots and sometimes just too damn tight, the yarn curling over itself catching the neighbor knots and drawing them to its bosom. No—wrenching them to its bosom.

A scarf of my favorite colors, all knit together twirling and swirling together laughing and playing like dolphins in the sea. A scarf of the softest yarn, fuzzy and frayed from continuous use that tenderizes the thread even further until a veritable shearling blanket hangs around my neck.

A scarf so warm around my neck. Taming and befriending the bitter chills of the outside world into nothing but a gentle breeze like the cool caresses of mother’s hand on her fevered baby.

A scarf like a noose that—oh gulp, can’t breathe. Wheeze panic eyes bug out.

This is not a sex poem, not even a sensual narrative.

We don’t do much of that anyways and it hasn’t felt great for a while. Because I’ve been wearing the noose for a while.

Friends? Lies. Effort. Defeat. I don’t know. I’m not sure. You used the word dinky. And I heard dagger.

Is that the best I can do. friends?

Foreigner

Friends and family stand by your side, for better or for worse.

But the thing is, sometimes you need an outsider: a vagrant yet beautifully irrelevant perspective.

To make all that had seemed likewise hopelessly irrelevant to you--relevant. And hopeful. 

Sometimes you need that lightning bolt shock of revelation. (sorry, religion is inapplicable here)

Maybe shock isn't the most apt word. After all, these things you saw irrevocably beyond your reach, were at your fingertips all along.

Its a jolt. Zing. Wowee. Tingle. Shiver. Slap. Caress. Flick.

Its someone with foreign skin, touching your life and changing it forever.

Thank you.

So this is not love

“Love is never having to say you’re sorry.”

Well I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for you. I’m sorry that all I can offer you is sex. I’m sorry that I think that way. But you sure don’t stop me from it. I’m sorry that I intrude upon your life. I’m sorry that I try to care about you. I’m sorry that you let me.  I’m sorry that you use me, I’m sorry that I let it happen. I’m sorry that I can’t let go. I’m sorry that I have to. I see no end in sight. Just to be sorry forever. I’m sorry I think that this is the best I will ever have. I’m sorry to think this is what I deserve. I’m sorry that I’m scared to be alone. I’m sorry for everything.

Acrostic

False. hope that sighs from your hot breath, in out in out into my ear. forearms encircled around my chest, fingernails I claw your smooth skin.
Up. down the mattress bounces to your heartbeat. a rhythm to accompany my moaning melody.
Contours. run your hand over my hip. scintillating shivers dance up my spine. Reflexive arch, I turn my head to
Kiss your slightly parted lips. forget the past, bleak future ignored. unwrap the present with the tip of my tongue. they always said I was a talented one.
Mixed. lines, friend, foe, lover, but where to draw? moments of each in disarray. confusion and anger, pain and pleasure, lost to be found, all silenced by the
Earthquake between my thighs.

H2O

He once told me a story of Greek mythology. Aries, the god of War entwined in the embrace of Aphrodite, the god of Love. War and love, in bed together. The greater the strife, burned brighter the passion. Blazing and blistering like irate pink pustules that surge to the skin after scalding one’s palm.

I found the comparison apt. When we used to kiss, I’d feel the heat of my desire sear my lips into charred ashes. Fire cackling peals of laughter would scorch my being. Everything dry so dry unbearably dry. Choking on our thirst, to be quenched by the other's lips. Our kisses weren’t sweet. Our kisses were infuriated by desperation. The need to abate the flames that seethed within us.

But I kissed him today and all was quiet. Perhaps itd been so long, I’d forgotten how. Nothing, not even a shy ember. I still tremble at his touch, at the sight of his taut shoulders. But when I opened my mouth to taste the delectable cool relief, I found that

actually, 
I wasn't
thirsty. 
Why?

The Quest of Humanity

to many, it is of utmost importance to “make a difference.” to bring about change. to leave one’s ever elusive yet definitive mark on the world. the flesh is fleetingly mortal, but the actions executed by the limber tendons of man are forever crystallized in permanent immortality. when we are young—barely grasping the mechanics of reality—we dream of grandiose impossibilities made plainly possible. precisely, we dream of easily found and unreservedly granted happiness. thrust upon the fickle teenage years, we skip lightly upon the path of illusion and disillusion; the heady scent of fame (more aptly, infamy), success, and popular acceptance quickly consumes and replaces the childish (literally) notions of when-I-grow-up-Im-gonna-fly-to-the-moon. yet, still the veil of idealism shrouds the eyes and from the set trail, we wander askance: this one on a journey to the Ivy League, another on a journey to catch the girl out of his league. happiness is recalibrated and reapportioned to worldly desires. as it is, we enter the prime of our lives and the procedure is augmented, the pace accelerates uncontrollably.

years pass, and finally the machine jams. for some, it is only a minor malfunction. to most, it catalyzes the proverbial “opening” of one’s eyes and the return of the infantile wish for content complacency. the soul grasps blindly in the pursuit of happiness, and for the lucky select, it is able to fill its hands with this magical substance. in truth, it is within the capability of everyone to acquire this elixir.

how does one elucidate the composition of happiness? simply. I believe happiness is the sum of the uplifting impact we effect upon others: friends, families, a random stranger. in times of despair and desperation; in times of lazy pleasure; we must never cease to empathize with our fellow brethren, for surely this ability has established the evolutionary superiority of our species. it is the only way to “make a difference”, it is the only means by which our posterity can recall their ancestors, it is the only panacea to the cruel and somber realities exacted by the commanding mistress Life.

it is the duty of man