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Winter 2012 Haiku Set12-6
cats in the hall
shifting to find
the last afternoon light

12-7
all day the old cat
follows a spot of sun
down the hall

12-8
all my raked leaves
now a pile
at the back door

12-10
cold wind
street empty
a faceless penny

12-12
a cat's balance-
if you stop petting me,
I'll fall

12/21
rusted clouds
seventy miles per hour
towards the coming dawn
I Of YouI want you to break
and never bend for me,

see my history
spiderweb your brilliance
till you belong to me
(and I, to you)
utterly and forever

and know
you cannot stop this.
IfWe can
draw lines and give them names
like elements
as they are discovered

Or etch into our skins
this soloecal desire
until it is impossible to tell
where words stop
and life begins.

I would

Find a common rhythm that includes
you in my arms, my hands
and lungs and thoughts
tracing the outline of you
entangled with me
colliding like two lost particles
locked in a shared gravity
drifting through the vacuum
of space.

  I could.

Exhale, and
remember
sentence structure.
WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate. 
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?
                 
RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.

For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.

He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I plante
Lightning Bug CosmosI lace my skin up like a corset, peel back the blinds on my eyelids, and take a step forward, waking from the poppies to the
                    lightning bug glow of truth tapping on my eardrums.

In front of the mirror I stand, but what I notice is not the awkward crook of my nose or butterfly lashes. I look into the lighted mirror as if searching for answers hidden under
Ribbon-like sets of
                         
Automatici.
"So where are you from?" The boy leans toward me, questions swimming in his eyes. I smile.

"Oh, I'm from Boston."

"No, I mean, where are you from?" My smile falters as I realize where this is going. It's an all-too familiar conversation, one I've been having since I was old enough to reply.

"Do you mean where was I born?"

"Yeah."

"I was born in China."

"Do you speak Chinese?"

"No."

"Does your family speak Chinese?"

"No."

He looks befuddled. I sigh.

"I'm adopted."

"Oh!" I see the light bulb over his head go off in a shower of sparks. "Do you know who your real parents are? Like, your real parents?" My temper flares. I stifle th
Bits of Nothing 61On paper you're perfect.

Isn't it a shame the world isn't made of origami?
Continental DriftI suppose you call this time fall.
It’s always autumn to me. Your alien mind
likes to speak in a distorted tongue.
And when we see the spinning leaves
drifting down an eggshell sky
I catch oak, and your hands are empty.
There half the houses stand empty,
you say as you watch rain fall.
There the world is bigger than the sky,
with room for my restless mind.
I know you pine for maple leaves,
for bittersweet syrup on your tongue.
The words are waiting to leave your tongue.
This land is small and your heart is empty.
That’s why everyone ups and leaves.
This place is paradise after the fall,
There you can be naked. No one would mind,
no one would see you bare yourself to the sky.
Through the window is my perfect sky,
the places that come easy to my tongue,
If we left maybe no one would mind
but me, I say. But if your land is empty
who would catch me in your wondrous fall?
If your land is perfect, wha
The Memory Of Trees- The Memory Of Trees -

Aklash crawled away from the battlefield, clawing at the earth, hurting it - hurting it as much as he hurt, a primitive, vindictive revenge against the pain that rippled from the jagged wound in his abdomen. He dragged the weight of his body, arms aching, the edges of the cut chafing against half-buried rocks, and his dark, dark blood seeping into the earth.

The cries of his brethren were dying behind him; it was good, for they served to cover his own escape. Soon they were nothing but a weak, distant wail amidst the shuffling of the vegetation. Aklash knew the name of the tall, frail and useless stems that he was cr
My Husband Tried To Make Love To Memy husband
tried to make love to me
.

he was topaz, he was
grim, he was the chalk
and smoky fire
of fear and gnawed-at
angels
-
he was the bright face of fruit.
he was horrible and strange. he stared,
licked and rolled me in his palms
like a cigarette, wordlessly

dragged me from my grassy bed
by the bones in my legs and
pinned me down in that darkly
smiling, jagged place where

he put his hands on me and dragged
the crushed moans from my chest
made me yell
like a dog

and oh how frightened
and trembling
and in awe i was of his caverns,
his black and rolling eyes

how his pomegranates bled
and stung

and trickled, bitt
for unseeing eyesladen with sky
we stumbled
and painted mockingbirds
on loveless branches
folding in our slender limbs
and ducking under our own
voices, fidgety and frail
against the wall of night.

between the dipping blades
and drawn shoulders
we learned to craft our words
steady-soft,
a drumming rain
that carved canyons
in open hearts and
drew the sunshine to
our supping lips.

keen-eyed, we watched
remembering the weight
of unseeing eyes
and scalding remarks
and we learned to slip
the noose-knots and slide
through the soul-cracks
and somehow
build kingdoms under
upturned noses.

with lyrical uncertainty
and tender determinat
This Common BloodI am young when I first hear the word 'adoption'. I am so very young, perhaps three, maybe four. I accept it easily when my mother sits me down and explains that I did not grow beneath her heart, but rather in it. I nod my head, smile big, and ask when I'm getting a little sister. My mother kisses me on the forehead and puts her hand on my head as she stands up. "If you wish on a star, Sarah, maybe she will be here very soon." I practice my wishing until night's companions wink merrily in the sky.

Dear Anna,
I turned seventeen just recently. I thought of you when I woke up, and I wondered if you were thinking of me. I like to think that you
we should celebratei.
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms

  and then

  it wilts away.

but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,

i won't
give you that.

(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).

ii.
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it

with a song,

it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".

  you've always used my scars
  as a calendar,

  as a way to remind yourself

  "today is tuesday

  and i still exist".

iii.
(it's morning now because
i can see
the sunlight

through my eyelids

and imagine
Hubris.today
we're younger
than we're ever gonna
be.

i. and we finally did it,
drove to the mountains
watched meteors
and let the mattress
grow damp
under our love
under the stars

ii. there are things to
be reconciled

iii. my eyes sting like
chlorine, but from
crying,

I finally disappointed
them;
the highest order of shame

iv. but you cannot put
people into pockets;
good, bad
don't mix
with them

v. and I cannot choose
who I love

vi. your lenses are straight,
elite and proud
mine, open and accumulating
filth

vii. maybe
I should run away more often,
we never talk like this

viii. and you have to realise
that I live in
Browse More Like This

More from ~wh0rem0ans

self taught manA self taught man is like a self caught pitcher.
It can be done, it's as hard as it looks,
And you gotta have the balls for it.
PathsI rarely followed the tame path.  
I saw it.  At times I envied it.  
I stepped on it occasionally.
It always burned my feet.

Then I wanted something so big
I believed a sacrifice was needed.
I traded my dancing slippers
For lead lined asbestos boots

My entire body rebelled.
I twisted and spasmed.
Out of the corner of my eye
I could see the other paths.

I could see herb flowers
Along my crooked paths.
How I missed the warm air
Stream of being my Self.

My entire mind rebelled.
I dreamt while awake
I dreamt while asleep.
My life was a nightmare.

I looked for the Child.
I hid from the Mother
I
for DW, wherever you areAnd the pain
was the finest
   portal
I ever knew.

And the fear
was the gravest
  death
I ever died.

When I see a
fearful portal
   again
I will run to it.

For that was where hard beautiful life began.

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Six Word Story

:iconwh0rem0ans:

my mother kept smiles in bottles

4,565

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:iconwh0rem0ans:

Six Word Storyby ~wh0rem0ans

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©2012-2013 ~wh0rem0ans
Category: Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Biography & Memoir / Stories & Vignettes

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August 8, 2012
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-12-09
Six Word Story by ~wh0rem0ans ( Suggested by $wreckling and Featured by ^Beccalicious )
:iconsoulstar427:
~Soulstar427 Mar 27, 2013  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
X3 LOL
Reply
:iconwh0rem0ans:
~wh0rem0ans Mar 28, 2013
:frail:
Reply
:iconsoulstar427:
~Soulstar427 Mar 28, 2013  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
lul
Reply
:icondajono:
Mood: Compassion ~dajono Feb 28, 2013   Digital Artist
s t r o n g ...
l i g h t h e a r t e d ... and sad
m e m o r y f i l l e d ...
e m o t i o n a l ... to the brim ...
and then some!
Thank You K!
Reply
:iconwh0rem0ans:
~wh0rem0ans Mar 1, 2013
:frail:
Reply
:iconthemadmulatto:
*TheMadMulatto Dec 28, 2012
Woweee... :O_o:

Seems your piece affected some people SO deeply here with this 6-word wonder, that it sent them into an introspective tizzy of their own,
where they decided to carry on talking ABOUT you to other people as though you were not in the room.

Rude shit.

Furthermore, I'd like to thank the supportive people here who responded to your personal "DD advisor", FlawlessFailure,
by stating this DD was not your doing and that their comment was unhelpful.
Perhaps if there are negative feelings towards who gets a DD and why, the administrators of dA should be address,
leaving the artist free to receive comments and critiques about their work, not circumstances beyond their control.

I've been lucky enough that 6-words have quite often made more of an impact on me as a child, an intern, a medical professional and as an artist
then an hour long lecture I actually paid to attend while getting nothing soul-stirring from it.

Meanwhile there are artistic projects out there that call to the minds who wish to stretch their boundaries, or even create restrictions so that they see what they are made of... what they'll narrow themselves down to when its a matter of what counts; i.e: less rope-slack, higher impact...

Is it wrong to get recognition for being the one person who can tell a story with a facial gesture?
No, I suppose everything created must be laborious war or commercially acceptable before it's "okay" to pin a metal on.

Congrats on the recognition of your work.
Sometimes drama is the only tree that makes a sound, but it will never be confused with artistic merit and humble integrity.
Reply
:iconwh0rem0ans:
~wh0rem0ans Dec 28, 2012
in my mind, my work became controversial;
in the midst of reading about John Cage,
this just felt like exponential encouragement.
Reply
:iconthemadmulatto:
*TheMadMulatto Dec 28, 2012
GLAD to hear that! :highfive:
"May the Road Rise With You..."

:bulletred: [link] :bulletorange:
Reply
:iconwh0rem0ans:
~wh0rem0ans Dec 28, 2012
Yeah. I could be either.
Actually, I am usually.
Either at the same time.
Reply
:iconthemadmulatto:
*TheMadMulatto Dec 28, 2012
You are the Mad Hatter-ess. ;)
Reply
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