alice-butlerWhisper

English

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Grocery Store EroticaThere's a funny sort of emptiness / that passes over me / as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away

Nov 1, 2013

Because You Ruined Jupiter For MeIt's so trite. / Premeditated and concise. / Too much like something that you would like.

Feb 28, 2013

(Gothic) Valentine PoemRoses are dead / Violets are few / Sugar is bland

Feb 28, 2013

UntitledOn the street / by a crumbling grey tenement / of old white sneakers and coffee pots,

Jan 2, 2013

Dessert for the Olde ManChocolate-covered old man / sits behind an oak desk / brittle quill in shaking hand

Jan 2, 2013

War PoemDawn slipped through the dusty blinds / of the chipping white condo / in the middle of the city

Jan 1, 2013

Nabakov Fan-girlSitting there / plumping up your Russian-red lips / around a straw that is

Jan 1, 2013

Sob Story of a Jack-o-Lantern (short story)I. The lifespan of a pumpkin is incredibly short. Considering the rapid pace in which a pumpkin goes from flower to fruition, it is quite literally a blink of an eye. And there is no nobility in a pumpkin death. No, it is a long and grueling process. From the beginning, the pumpkin patch is like Wall Street, 1763. Being poked and prodded, weighed, gawked at and compared to my brothers and sisters. I was chosen earlier than the rest for my robust size, even ridges, and vivid colour. I remember being severed from the vine- I know that humans don’t remember being cut from the umbilical cord, but it’s the only human experience I can compare it to. I imagine that if I had lungs I would scream or eyes I would cry, but I suppose the lack of these organs is what makes it so easy for humans to humiliate us as they do. We have no voice of our own- and who would stand up for us? Possibly vegans, but I digress. / Once inside the human home, I’m set on a “tiled countertop,” as they call it. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it’s polished and hard and artificial. The coldness of it makes my skin stiffen. And then, as if overcome by brain fever, the smaller humans rush about their living space grabbing up “newspapers” and “paper towels” (no doubt made from abused trees) and just as I had feared, knives. More polished coldness. I know what is to come- I’ve heard the cautionary tales. When my siblings and I hung on the vine as buds, we’d swap horror stories. Of course, we didn’t think that they were real then. Though we had seen older pumpkins snatched up, we were too young to understand. And now that I know it’s all true, my fear isn’t for myself but for my kin. I know that it isn’t normal for humans to hope for their loved ones to rot, but it is for pumpkins. I hope that they will grow old, old, old until the day comes that they quietly fall off the vine and become food for the animals and the soil and their seeds impregnate the earth. And though I may be faced with this violent fate, I am not going to be afraid. I shall not sweat, nor make my skin tough to their blades. No, I will be soft as butter and dry as the sky. As the humans pick up their tools of operation and discuss what kinds of sweet treats they’ll be making with my “guts,” I yield to the steel and dare them to do their worst… / II. They’re finished now, and I’ve been gutted to within an inch of my life. My insides are piled in a white bowl beside me, my seeds rest on a tin sheet, dried of juice and covered in salt. Their skin is transparent and flaky like fish scales and the flesh underneath is toasted brown. They baked my babies! They baked my babies and now they’re popping them into their pudgy, glistening mouths like the giant who used bones to bake his bread. It occurs to me that I can see more of the room than I originally could. It makes sense… now that half my skin is gone that I should have a clearer view of the world. The oldest human walks over to the small ones.

Jan 1, 2013

I Want to Write a PoemI want to write a poem / about the state of things / with sharp wit and criticism

Jan 1, 2013