hotel carpet, orderly tables adorned with matching cloths paper napkins, heavy metal silverware people wasting away a Thursday morning. thermostat is set much too high a sign: ‘no smoking’ another: ‘no slavery’ a hostess not attractive enough to be successful a waitress far too beautiful not to be extra large portions, one runny egg, one perfect a field of dry potatoes, speckled with green crisp...
a dirty penny blissfully glistening painfully scratched rolling on the dirty pavement heads or tails. can fate really be this simple?
naked trees are caskets of memories crispy leaves lay fallen on the frozen ground scattered ashes of summer ashes of things we can’t hold onto buried when they’re carried off in the cold there is no closure when we don’t control the wind
blue, white, green, yellow are all so different against the backdrop of faded brick they are all so blurry through dirty windows
connecting the dots quickly and haphazardly is almost always better than not doing it at all says the dots. the picture underneath is less sure
first day of snowfall
quickly falling snow sidewalks covered in grey slush painfully wet shoes
the streetlights are almost as muted as the stars they cast a faded amber glow over the bleakness a red stoplight cuts through the landscape almost as aggressively as the headlights racing by the windows aren’t as vibrant as the stories they tell in the streetlights
justice the gavel smashes the sound block a woman in the parlor shrieks eighteen to life; closure; sort of hell screams lost in a blistering wind shattered mirrors stained with blood smoking coals erupt in flame and dust beauty step – step – step – turn – step – step – step “I think that we really need to focus on hunger.” Second runner up. First runner up. “Screams.” different grapefruit ...
I wish I could remember these houses they have a beautiful story to tell the skyscrapers across the night sky make me forget
when it's grey outside
trees aren’t as vibrant when it’s grey outside they blend in with power lines, with stoplights, with street signs the western mountains are lost in the hazy clouds and smog this landscape would be deafening if it weren’t so muted the wind picks up to scatter dust and leaves and memories and newspaper over the beaten down cement footsteps are harder to discern, harder to remember, harder to...