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1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / love letter on: June 21, 2017, 01:17:08 PM
the hours late, the crickets outside my window add a serenading color to the ticking of my desk clock, down in front of me lays a blank page, college-ruled, with the ghosts and scraps of all the erased letters of the words i'm not quite sure how to say. my indecisive hand trembles, the dull point of my number two pencil taps anxiously on the paper leaving little spills of graphite and hesitation. how do you tell someone you love them? how do you ask for more? if only the open window behind me could gently blow in some ideas to get me started... well, she's a girl with dirt blonde hair, freckles dot just below her eyes and across the top of her nose, and a single dimple implodes on her right cheek, only noticeable when she smiles, and when she smiles; i can't help but notice. the feeling it gives races through my gut, wraps around my head, and carries me off into the light of her heavenly glow...
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / priest on: June 20, 2017, 11:26:57 AM
church is as stale as the bread of the body of christ. as a child i was forced to eat it, chew on it, pretend to like it. the one upside to the downer that was every sunday morning, was the taunting of my brother in the silent pews of the packed chamber. he, too young for the single-file orchestrated march to communion and forgiveness, was so eager to have a taste of what the divine priest held in his hands at the front of the line; i'd snicker at him and tell him it tasted like skittles, which of course would set him off in a fit of jealous rage, which then led to my father intervening and whisper-threatening to beat our asses red in front everybody. the thought alone of such an act stiffened us right up, and i'd sit there sucking on the cardboard cut-out of christ until it was soft and mushy enough to swallow. i've always loved music, but the Father whats-his-name was never much of a singer, with his two-tone jingles of prayer echoing all the way up through the rafters, literally left me feeling dead inside, unaroused, slouched in my seat, my ass numb; every time; jesus, just take me away already. as for everyone else, 'peace be with you, peace be with you, peace be with you, (smile), (smile), (wink), and also with you.'
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: change on: June 16, 2017, 09:59:24 PM
thank you!

Smiley
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / change on: June 15, 2017, 02:46:20 PM
needing my fix and desperate for a mixed-candy grab-bag from the local country store, i set on a mission to scrounge up any loose change i could get my little paws on, the gold mine, and always the first place i look, was into the caves beneath the cushions of the couch; the place my pop always kicked his feet up to eventually snooze on through the evening news. he was a hot shot in my eyes, always carried the good stuff; only silver coins lined his pockets. he must have had shallow slippery pockets last night, cause as i lifted the old cushion, three shiny george washington's sat staring back at me, i could have sworn his balding metallic head was smiling back. swiping em up they began to sweat in my eager hands. my second go-to spot had me trekking the winding trails of coffee tables and countertops, my bare feet dancing across the frozen tiles of the kitchen floor into the room that always seemed to have heavy traffic. into the bathroom, i curiously noticed something in the dryer was making a stir, clinking around and around as the clothes toppled over one another....
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / supermarket on: June 14, 2017, 10:21:30 AM
the parking lot was a zoo, a thick mix of people and automobiles, fully loaded with brown paper bags up to their neck, it was comical, i thought to myself; 'this could actually pass for a circus.' i've seen this mess before, but i never learn from it, just become part of it. thanksgiving is the worst day to do your feastly shopping. most of the time, your stuck improvising with what few scraps remain in the looted aisles of the supermarket. paper turkeys decorate the entrance, pumpkins remain unsmashed at the sliding doors, isn't that nice? my girl was on a mission, suited up in her team colors for the big game later, to get in and get out. it was our duty to provide the cranberry sauce, often overlooked on the thanksgiving table, but adds a sweetness to the turkey that will have you cock-a-doodling out your pie-hole the whole way home. the weather was perfect for some backyard games, and my mind wandered off to holding an ice-cold beer, sweating in my hand under the last rays of the autumn sun. dashing over to the beer aisle,  the selection was insane, every seasonal brew you could imagine, stacked high and plentiful...
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / bikini on: June 08, 2017, 04:11:53 PM
the bikini wrapped around her chest like christmas lights, my eyes lit up with delight, my groin stiffened, she turned her head toward me and I quickly spotted the imaginary seagull flapping its wings across the beach. she lay belly-down on the the hot sand, the summer sun felt like the inside of an oven set to 375. my wandering eyes made their way back to glow of her golden skin, i could smell the banana of her tanning oil downwind. the back straps of her top hung carelessly to her sides, one strong gust of wind might wisp it away all together. i put my aviators on to give me the illusion of shelter, shade that otherwise couldn't be found, the constant breathing of the ocean waves was tranquil, the great navy ships dotted across the distant horizon...
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / nose on: June 06, 2017, 10:30:58 AM
look at her strut as if every pair of eyes is itchin' for a taste, in six inch heels with black stalkings to tint the paleness of her legs, ruby red lipstick caked on her face and fresh curls her maid spent most of the morning twirling, she walks around with her nose up in the air, she's got no time for you or your nonsense and is the type who is always right. she's been groomed by a family of the finer things in life; shiny cars, exclusive country clubs, arranged marriages, only the best cuts of meat. she has no head for the common folk; the street sweepers, the store clerks, the unprivileged. i'd like to pinch that snooty nose right off her face and sweep the floor with it; give her a little sniff of what the real world is like....
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / ant on: June 05, 2017, 10:50:31 AM
mom's voice buzzed up through the floor from downstairs, not like dads which rumbled like thunder beneath my feet whenever he called, his voice had the type of weight that you didn't want to hear twice when he called. to save mom from straining her throat, i darted from the tv in the corner of my room toward my bedroom door, slipping in my socks on the way, diving forward and sliding my elbows across the carpet, searing the skin almost to the bone, the burn was familiar, sure to scab, tender to touch, but being the resilient kid i am, i hopped up and made my way down the stairs--skipping the last few steps with a monstrous jump that upon landing, shook the chandelier up on the ceiling of the dining room. rounding the corner to the kitchen, mom stood there in a blue-dotted apron with a plate in her hands, holding it just high enough that i couldn't quite see what she had prepared for me. reaching up with a curious smile, i pulled her arms down revealing the surprise. my eyes lit up at the sight of my favorite snack, green crunchy celery sticks stuffed with creamy peanut butter and on top raison ants in line-formation. ants on a log, she called it. grabbing a stick of it i took a bite, snapping the twig beneath my teeth, the peanut butter was thick and tough for my tongue...
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / knight on: June 03, 2017, 02:04:57 PM
he must have stood seven feet tall, towering over me in his steel plated suit, his coat of arms decorated his polished shield with swirling dragons crisscrossing at the neck, both breathing a furious heavy fire. the steel clinked around like falling chains with each slow step he took. i could see my reflection in his fresh-forged sword, glossy and new, i wondered if it had seen the inside of a man's body; slicing flesh with ease like a hot knife through butter i'd imagine. the horses gathered 'round, roman-eske helmets carved out to protect their elongated faces, dark eyes hidden behind two slits in the armor, breathing heavily through their snouts on this scorcher of a day, flexing their bulky breasts as they step in front of me, shiny combed fur, a leather saddle over the back, the knight through one leg over...
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / plastic bag on: June 02, 2017, 10:51:10 AM
'paper or plastic?' i swear if i have to ask that one more time i might just fill to the brim; fed up, and pop all over these people; what a mess that would make! a never-ending line of customers stretch out from my register all the way through the canyons of aisle eleven; sugars and various baking goods, but i assure you, in no way is any of this sweet. small children play with the wrapped-up over-priced candy bars their mothers won't buy, the heat from their tiny, curious hands melting the chocolate into mud on the inside. their strung-out mothers have already blown their fuses ten-times over and refuse to scold their children anymore; not even a stiff, waving finger to the face. maybe they'll give the misbehaved little-ones a stiff pinch on the leg when they get settled into the car; a reminder to shut the fuck up for the next time around; or maybe there won't BE a next time around!. i'm not typically this bitter, but this minimum wage job is really taking its toll on my lower-back, the aches and pains of swiping and scanning have set up a busy camp of strung out nerves, jabbing me with tent-stakes and pine needles, yet i'm paid to force a smile. a grey, sagging elderly woman creates an eiffel tower of canned-cat food on the conveyer belt, it sways and wobbles as it inches my way....
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / strawberry on: June 01, 2017, 12:06:08 PM
she spins elegantly in her ruby slippers
her dirty blonde hair dancing in the breeze
a smile cracks the expression of joy
delicately lifting her strawberry cheeks

freckles dot just beneath her eyes
dimples cave in on either side
she tilts her head back, splashing the sun on her face
and sips it through her nose, fresh out the sky

a flower is tucked safely behind her ear
a stem with roots that reach down to her heart
she's a dandelion daydreamer in a meadow of wonder
she's never been so far from falling apart

a mother's echo calls out from the porch
bouncing off the now setting sun
'come on home, supper's out the oven,
tomorrow you can pick up right where you left off...'

12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / trapeze on: May 31, 2017, 01:57:06 PM
jumping from the high dive and swinging through the air
a man and a woman fall then take flight
up from the descent like a bungie of sorts
spectators gasp, in awe, at the sight

they flip up to the rafters like the tossing of a coin
theres a fifty-fifty chance they'll land this, I'm sure
beneath them, a net, the work of a giant circus spider
the crazed crowd screams for more, 'higher, higher!"

as we watch the human pendulum swing side to side
we're hypnotized by the daring human spirit
heights and speed; the thrill of the moment
it's inspiring to see what they do, what they love, and own it...







13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / kazoo on: May 30, 2017, 04:57:02 PM
the little guy stood for the very first time,
legs wobbly and wide-eyed as it looked to the sky,
the african sun heats high overhead
and turns to glass the sand below.

the stunted grey trunk stretched, till erect in the air
its big floppy ears hang like loose hair
and out pinched the sound of a wailing kazoo
the baby to its mother; monkey see, monkey do

the heard, with its swaying ivory tusks
conducted the march as the season turned rough
the african rain's well had run dry
notices the thirsty baby elephant looking up to the sky.

(sigh...)



14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / wind chime on: May 24, 2017, 11:30:27 AM
metal bars sing melodies as the wind hums through the porch,
reminding me of the nursery my mother used to run,
held in her arms; babies, blonde, blue eyes weigh heavy with each passing song,
her lullabies would send you off to dreamland and beyond,

the wind chimes; in tune, and in rhyme would tell of the coming storm,
whether it was on it's way or passing by, we'd heard it's song before
in the spaces between each passing note, i still imagine her face so pure,
looking down at me, barely whispering, 'you always have a home,'

up the stairs; wooden and frail, i stand beside her ghost,
the breeze at my back, taking me back, to the sweet smell of her homemade morning toast,
orange marmalade, yellow lemonade, mornings were the best,
the chime never failed to ring, even on the still day we lay her to rest....
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / wrinkle on: May 23, 2017, 12:10:46 PM
its sunday morning, the morning we should all be sleeping in, but no, mother barged through the door demanding i dress in my best, black slacks and collared button down, undersized and choking me at the neck like firm hands around my throat, only slightly pressing in, just enough to feel the discomfort. unsuspectingly, she creeps to the foot of my bed and swiftly rips the blankets  from my naked body, as if pulling out the cloth out from a tabletop filled of wine glasses. she's good at that. dad's too cheap for heat, and the chill from this uninsulated bedroom in the back corner of this century old house nips at every hair on my body, goose bumps rise and surface through my skin, i toss and turn trying to evenly spread the warmth that remains in the depths of my mattress against my desperate cold skin. its a losing battle, i surrender and race to the upstairs bathroom; the one with the better water pressure. the door is locked and my sister appears to have set up spa-like camp with steam leaking out from under the door. i hold my morning pee for what seems like an eternity, the streaming faucet just through the door taunts and pokes at my bladder with each passing moment. booking it down the stairs, through the nippy living room...
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