walk with the wind,
against the water's current.
trudge towards your gutter.
***** others in blind hope,
hope to high godless heaven,
that you're mad enough to pass as a purist.
...---...
find your gutter, close the shutters,
hide until the heavy wind deadens.
let your safe haven cave in,
bask in the mindless clutter.
become a fallen angel in your own armageddon.
-
...---...

The ***** house entryway
was lit up like Christmas Eve.
Two women lounge on stone benches
offering bored smiles between cigarettes
to each passer-by with an empty wallet.
Mosquitoes kiss stagnant water,
hover at their exposed ankles.
******* dress reflects her cellphone halo;
only ghosts of love are alive in these streets.
The Police know not to come.
For the married men
they are cheaper than divorce,
a scratch-off ticket-
like betting on a horse.

Red dress takes a stab at English
taught by her mother
to draw my attention.
Speaks just like my students
and looks no older.
Only came out for dinner
but the weekend is alive:
the sight of her lipstick and stockings
salts my hunger.
I stop in my tracks.
Sound of distant thunder,
I offer my name
and a drink;
she offers me shelter.

Leads me by the hand
beneath the fairy lights
into the dingy bar
of bad karaoke and
football on the big screen.
I order whiskey sours
and we sit at a table
playing games of conversation
over the ashtray as I stumble through
my sentences.
She plays with my fingers,
tells me I am her favourite;
that tonight
she is willing to kiss.

On the second drink
her black eyes covet mine.
Swollen in longing,
I tell her she is the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen
without a word of lie.
Though she blushes
and plays with her perfect hair
I know there is nothing I can say
she has not heard one thousand times.
Leads me by the hand,
places mine on her hips
as she turns to face me
in the half-lit room.


We hesitate.
I kiss her collarbones, her neck,
work my way to her lipstick;
kiss her ******* the mouth.
She deadens in my grip,
begins to work at my belt.
In the half-light we close our eyes-
she becomes flesh,
I become paper,
knowing these were the cards we were dealt.
She pulls on my hair,
when I finally surrender
she speaks softly in English;
she moans in Thai.

Laid exposed in the aftermath
she draws her painted fingernail
across the outline of my tattoo.
Asks for the meaning
but does not understand the answer.
We linger for a moment
before reality resumes
and the illusion is over.
She leads me by the hand
to the funeral wake of the weekend streets.
The storm is over.


Pollution blots out the stars.
She says farewell.
I say

see you next week.

This white has been beautiful.
Sometimes so much so that I would say
I have never seen anything so pristine.
The way it drifts down from the sky,
Coasting lightly down to the already snow-covered ground.
It might land upon the branch of a tree
Or possibly on a nearly covered bush.
And the way it deadens sound,
How it eliminates all the extraneous,
Adds to the aura of perfection.

But I'm ready to go home.
I have had enough.
I'm ready for all of the smog, traffic, congestion and sound,
And I'm ready for my ***** sand beaches.
Those cold, dark waters provide
Stark Contrast
To those endless slopes of the purest white.

But I am ready to go home.
I'm ready to go back where I belong.
Home.

The scent of your elegant body deadens my mind and leaves it imprecise
I want nor wine nor ****; your resuscitative breath alone shall suffice
I cannot say what loves have come and gone, but in your arms I come alive
There is a sacred sign in your silent sight, which bring forth the scent of paradise

I don't go outside often.
I avoid the sunlight,
And sleep in a coffin.

Your stereotypical vampire,
This is another sob story
For a ritual campfire.
Not an individual
To be admired,

But how I long to be
Blown into the nose
Of fame like *******
With no shame.

I'd be another meteorite
To crack under the spotlight,
Diagnosed with blocked sight

At a dead end
As inspiration deadens
And the debt of regret sets in.
Nothing would be more pleasant.

(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith

Tonight was staged a great decoy,
The festive focus of our joy.

Men set aside the hostile ax,
And all obeyed the solstice pact.

I sought warmth from that common hearth.
To briefly stir my sorrow still heart.

I drank, I feasted, and I carried on.
Am I still here with Christmas gone?


I am contained on a white blank page;
With all things finished, no thing obtained.

Clouds surround and weather worsens,
Love, for warding, draws the curtains.

Coldness deadens my silent shout.
There's warmth within, but I'm without.

The Great Game is played; I a pawn.
Am I still here with Christmas gone?


I knew I'd have to pay my debt,
In bleeding either clear or red.

I chose to weigh with crystal tears,
An empty penance, they appeared.

But selfish flesh cannot continue.
Life's a stage; Death's a change in venue.

I flee from fate, myself withdrawn.
Am I still here with Christmas gone?


As if by some celestial force,
My choice seems bound to run its course.

I'll let my form be dashed and skewed,
Ere' ever I yield my love untrue.

From first breath I knew my part.
Child with a candle in the stormy dark.

Now Ravens crow the silver dawn.
Am I still here with Christmas gone?

Job: work done for money,
to pay the mortgage,
to keep the wife and kids happy.

Vocation: what sustains you,
done for the love of it,
the pure craft of the doing.

Job: external, coercive,
necessary only for lucre,
status, accumulation, dross.

Vocation: internal, freely chosen,
necessary for your heart,
creative, affirming, alive.

The singer who sings
freely and from the soul
creates beauty
and informs the world;
the drudge who labors
for sustenance and stuff
murders time
and deadens reality.

What we do
paints the portrait
of who we are.

Real work brightens being;
useless work darkens the heart.

Choose carefully.
- mce

The nights are kind
For they let me drift off
Into a deep slumber
In pitiless daylight
I ponder on the not happened yet

The flood of thought
Deadens my soul
Envy taints it
I Linger in the shadows
Perpetuating the stain
Of my ascendants
Volition is an illusion

The silence of my own silence
savagely cuts like a warrior’s machete
Dismembering the remnants
of my authentic self
The design of my misfortune
Was perfectly orchestrated by the ingenuity of diablo

Distress inhabits the catacombs of my mind
Strangling on the lasso of consequence
Perpetually atoning for unknown sins
From another lifetime.

Thunderous footsteps of wolves
Gathering at my feet
Nourish my fear
The demons of recent past are screeching
Outside my door

That which plagues, devours
The blood I lost grew cold
As have I.

Another day of never sun, a leaden heap that frowns above
Whilst the few tangled answers quiver rhymelessly as it trifles
In other ways, however done, instead, a sleep encrowns its love
And the dew-spangled branches shiver timelessly as the sky falls

The paper lanterns on the wall betray the leaves’ seat in the dark
And the cool ochre gloaming spurs a telling and frail ardour
Now vapour cantons over all display the eve’s sweet watermark
And a cruel joking moan occurs, impelling the rainfall harder

I linger by my window pane as twilight reddens every mote
And I stay, candid; I pass days compliantly standing upright
My finger spry discinds the rain and yea, night deadens every note
And a stray strand of ryegrass sways defiantly in the half-light

by Ryan P. Kinney and Dawn Richardson

Created from prompts by J.M. Romig, Dawn Richardson, and Ryan P. Kinney

She loves him like a fire,
Enveloping, holding, and caressing the wood,
While slowly consuming every part of him

Shaking off clothes like the leaves in autumn
Their bodies exposed,
Changing from a wan pallor
To a flushed crimson hue

Their bodies burn,
Breathe drifts like smoke into the skyline
The mountains **** their horizons

The dragon flies and dragonflies in the dusking night
The snow blanketed world deadens the sound of his beating heart
Her tide slowly recedes into him
The delicate wax of his heart melts under her fury
She swallows his cries

Babies sleep soundly


Created at the Winter Writing Workshop (Dec. 27, 2015),
HEYMAN! Productions

I'm in a special chamber which deadens every sound,
I began to grow more anxious with no decibels around.
I've spent my life connected, on the web and on the phone.
to be cut off without a dial tone; I've seldom felt this all alone.
I am lost, without a signal, uneasy in my skin.
I'm wanting to be anywhere except the place I'm in.
Was it like this for my mother? she lived stone deaf for years.
I was foolish to think blindness worse than deafness in my fears.
There are places were a body floats without the sense of touch.
The tests' subjects hallucinate,I wouldn't like that much.
Noise is fun, noise is good, I need noise, it appears,
to distract me from those whispered truths I do not wish to hear.

the king's heart sliced by a knife
the queen's dreams torn at the seams
waking a widow who wanders the halls
painting in black with skulls and thorns
in strokes of a thousand tears on walls
devotion that aches of poetry in songs

the swallows circle the tower's nests
as a river's rage deadens into streams
of sorrow swirling under spanning arches
the bridge of grief holding the beams
  a fortified prison of pain,
the chapel for a lasting memory
    to a phantom soul
its dark spires piercing the grayest clouds
like the knife that created the hole

words echoing within aimless chambers
"ma mie, priez Dieu pour moi, et ne bougez de la"
in perpetual mass, pious devotion in prayers
  ne bougez de la, ne bougez pas ...
ghostly queen and saintly sane
    Louise de Lorraine

I wish I lived in a world without heartache, again.
this isn’t some wish that love conquered all,
or that pain didn’t persist,
but a plea to whatever gods exist
to help me forget the last two years,
replace loss with wonder
a hope that I’ll be loved
and an inability to comprehend  heartache

Before her I thought the term was poetic
I thought it spoke of pain and lost love
that it was a symbol of what happens when something beautiful has ended
I didn’t realize it was an actual feeling
Being stabbed is sudden and sharp,
being shot is quick and violent
but being broken?
its unique, because it shouldn’t actually hurt
emotions aren’t supposed to hurt.

No one prepares you for the reality of a broken heart.
No one says it feels like your heart is trying to fall down your chest
all the while being twisted and pulled apart at the seams
and it seems that the pulling is forcing each beat
to last just a little too long
as it pushes your heart
a little too out of place, out of place, out of place
until it’s no longer your heart that hurts, it's your chest
each tear that falls deadens the weight
until there’s naught in your heart but a hollow filled with remorse.

Hardened hearts.
they didn’t tell us that it actually felt like stones.
someone must have stolen my soul
because it was never this heavy
and it’s sometimes worse than the breaking
breaking can be fixed
but you’re not sure anything can replace the thing that sits
on the rubble of what was once a heart.

Would we love knowing that the first crack splits into a thousand shards at the end?
That love never ends in just unhappiness, but misery?
Maybe not, but still,
someone should have told us.

Gift to me gifts, sure! not your present pleas
-If truly ****-poor posture deadens Grief.
Wish duly this, you're not sure, pressing needs
It's to me this: pure, hot, for less than these.
Which doobie hits? Forgot your lesson, Steve?
This truly is, more, (not for questioning.)
Ne'er take me for the motley foolish things
Where late thee adored me, got me by the cruelest means
-There may be morphine by the tulip leaves.
Share, make me more, free not the ghoulish wings.
Swear they need Morning Time, it's the newest tease
Where maybe pure themes rhyme with the truest ease.

You have so many petals to share
Intricate curves and edges
But they’re densely packed inside you

The bees are buzzing
Yearning for their fill
The crisp air
Waiting to flow through you

The rain didn’t replenish
The sunshine couldn’t nourish
The soil never uplifted
The child failed to pluck you

A perfect recipe with an imperfect outcome
The sunshine hits and your stems are scorched
The storm rolls and the rain turns to acid
The soil poisons your roots

What brings life to most deadens you
The strongest being couldn’t live like this
You cry out for an escape
So the shadows begin looming

The darkness ensues and the energy departs

The sunshine no longer scorches
The rain no longer corrodes
The soil no longer venom

The shadows are your refuge
Safe from the outside
The torment

But it’s lonely now
You miss what it felt like to feel

Empty

Open up little flower

Ego is the anesthesia that deadens the pain of stupidity. Pride is  the burden of a foolish person.

Me and the dog twist and jostle
a colossal cotton squawking parrot
grunt talking this is mine swine
a ****** beast at times

knees grazing, scrapping holding ground
grip slipping summon Ali-Liston thinking
win and pulverise kept creature
revel in doggy defeat

dead heat nobody gives
until the yellow slit beak does first
savvy ears hear the rip and like a tearing bear
jolts back, up, down, with owning grip and growl

Fool - hound mastered the ****
engorges full breast, rings the threaded neck
deadens its fighting squeak
amateur clings to the silly beak

Bird majority in mangy jaws
the war of parrot pull well and truly his
stopped still. in stare his eyes enlarge and glare
left-overs drop from sloppy gob -
dumb dog wants the beak.

& the seeds of apples, pears, watermelons & grapes abound in
amygdalin (vitamin B17), a substance that alleviates swell-
ing, deadens pain & destroys malignant cells.

I notice…
the allure lurking within the fires of a craving soul
concealed deep inside levels as Dante’s Inferno
scorching anyone who may enter, but helpless to leave
the scent confounds, paralyzes, and then binds...

I sniff…
the aroma submerging every follicle of nostril hairs
compelled with urgency to follow no matter the risks
enticing even the most resolute and strong-willed persona
the scent overwhelms, inhibits, and then suffocates...

I sample…
the flavor sweet as marmalade but masking a sinister
confined trap like the so-called flower named Venus
awaiting patiently for prey to pass the fringes of its domain
the scent appetizes, deadens, and then consumes...

I caress...
the phenomenon beckoning thoughts of ego and grandeur
signaled conquests as meaningless trophies for the coming of age
yearning to be taught, but at the cost of being shackled in life
the scent tingles, irritates, and then blisters...

Senses may rule human nature, but wisdom defines intellect
Senses may rule human emotions, but empathy breeds tolerance
Senses may rule human actions, but love overpowers fear
Senses may rule human existence, but faith moves mountains.

On the shoulder of I-84’s
overpass as eastbound
enters Portland,
an almond tree
lets down its fruit.

Her petals,
pink the same as preschoolers
color the sky
and white as the paper
beneath the wax,
tremble in the violence
of Internationals
and Peterbilts,
the same violence
that grabs fistfuls
of my sweater
in intervals.

Jack under, jack up,
lug nuts off after a fight
and this freeway tumbles
in a storm of those flowers
cast off in April-sun,
I am down a layer and sweaty.

Steel wire arcs where sidewall was
and rubber gralloch marks its death,
those eight seconds of braking
behind, those eleven tree species
lined as a windbreak.

      I am lucky to have stopped
      beneath this almond.
      It is the only tree in bloom
      along this stretch.
      Its softness has lessened the day.
      Her olfactory embrace deadens
      that of axle grease and sunrot.
      I am not afraid of those trucks
      passing a wrench-span away.
      This is enough, for now.