I found this a great way to provide more exposure to some great pieces, hope you enjoy them as much as I did.
HOW IT WORKS
Go to your favourites and share...
The first deviation on page 1 of your Favourites:
Blue sky thinkingMy parents always knew I’d be a salesman. I can sell ice to the Eskimos and do them a pretty good deal on four years’ interest-free credit for a low low deposit. Oil to the Arabs, I could do that too.
I’m doing alright in here. It was more of an adjustment in scale than attitude. Some could see it as a comedown, going from brokering multi-million deals to haggling over the price of an ounce of snout. The stakes are, if anything, higher. When it’s you, personally, that’s on the line, there’s more excitement. It’s all about risk.
I am not a fundamentally dishonest person, contrary to popular belief. I sell stories. I believe wholeheartedly in my version of events and, if that version of events diverges somewhat from accepted wisdom, well, I’m sure I can swing accepted wisdom around to my way of thinking eventually.
I started selling land; tiny worthless parcels of greenbelt land t
The second deviation on page 2 of your Favourites:
i am made of nights like theseativan boy, you cannot empty out this skull -
not with a pen nor with a bullet. you can
be my hallowed head(case) for spitting out
words like teeth; oh, but i will only love you
when you're weary. i will keep crows caged
between your lungs like veins, like palpitations.
i will rot you through bones & car radios,
but i will never get (you) out of your skin.
The third deviation on page 3 of your Favourites:
Day 210i'm caught between the cliff and sea
listening to the shuffle of boxcars, roads tangling up like veins, the fire-snap-and-crackle of sleep-stiffened hips, spines and a jigsaw of limbs clinking like wine glasses.
i'm watching the glacial sheets lap between the tips of your ivory fingers reaching for an indigo-stained ceiling, the bow of your broken lips, the sea salt marbling your eyes.
you’re crumpled in half like a comma while you hold my heartbeats and type out a pulse, swallowing a tide of heretics and venture capitalists and and cliches and Shakespearean quotations and psychology textbooks and forgotten laundry, just for the two of us
and i wonder if we’re all not just pulled out to sea in the end.
The fourth deviation on page 4 of your Favourites:
GangrenousThe bloated tongue full of helium
that escapes the ephemeral and lifts up, skyward –
is stuck in a congealed throat
draped with the closed curtains of bile and blood
souping a dam across her vocal chords. No more words.
The hair is brushed, later, out of its nooseloops
until it is straight and lies flush with the velvet,
in a box only just big enough to bury the dreams of a life
lived without pain
bubbling out of the now dead lips with each breath.
Skin soft turns hard – in the way that all girls do as they age
but she does not age.
She couples only with the wooden box, painted falsely white,
that covers her body and face.
It is the concealer, the mascara, the war paint never worn.
The chemicals of her unusually sewn-together body,
combine in a way geneticists cannot explain
to exude the only smell it can. Of her –
but it is not the familiar any longer. Not the smell of milk and dust.
Now, the acids boil together, to purge her of her pain.
The familiarity of her fades
The fifth deviation on page 5 of your Favourites:
Untitled Spur of the MomentNo matter when she got there or how, at any point in time a stray might have thought her dead from a distance and never bothered to go up and see the cause. She was a pale-milk color, skeleton like already, not a scrap of hair on her head but lovely enough to be known as a young girl on first sight. Like an unfinished China doll, painted and glossed, waiting for finishing touches, she lay breathing slow, shallow puffs. Her arms stuck out from her sides palms-up, her legs barely apart, not so much like she had dropped out of the sky, but that she had been gently placed there by some mystical hand.
I should say that she was very peculiar indeed—in this world of such hungry, boney few—to have a healthy frame and glow. Stranger still, her arms up and down seemed to be carved with the writing of either gibberish or some language long destroyed…but only her arms and no other part of her. These carvings on a