carperawr

I tell you I don't know her when you ask if I've seen her around. I tell you I've never gone out of the country, when you ask if I've been to Saigon. I met her in India, watching a snake handler charm an albino cobra in the middle of a dank alley that stank of unwashed men. She told me he used a trombone to put the snake in such a trance. I tell you I've never been when you ask about the egg rolls from the Chinese place across the street. She and I ate lunch there. Everyday we sat in the corner booth, where the broom handle once fell from the supply closet and into her rice scattering it across the porcelain counter top. I

Put that in the boot she says while I manhandle her overstuffed suitcase into my car You need a lift to your flat she says while we climb six flights of stairs to my apartment Bin this she says Handing me a moldy block of cheese Pass the crisps she says and the biscuits She takes the pringles from my hand Reaches to the shelf above my head for the box of oreos I love you she mumbles Half asleep, head resting on my shoulder.

 The tennis ball hits the door.  Back and forth, an unfaltering rhythm beats consistently against chaotic thoughts.  Emma sits; denim clad legs, one bent at the knee, stretch along cold tile floor. Short blond hair falls in her face, she is long past trying to keep it pushed away from the light brown eyes currently fixed on the returning tennis ball. Each time the ball hits the tile on its way to the door, a pair of blue eyes blaze before her; and each time it clunks solidly against the metal she feels the open hand hot against her cheek. When the worn felt covering hits her hand and she hurls the ball back with all the force she can muster

Winchester .22, bolt action rifle Steel and wood, hammer and trigger, barrel and bullet. Older than my father, an ancient himself. Josephine went from my grandmother's hands—to mine. My grandfather pulled her from the closet, shook the cobwebs from her, as grandmother fell back to dust. Handed her to me, told me she was mine. She'd hidden there, behind flannel and denim Since the first tremors shook my grandmother's hands. Stood on a whitewashed porch, grandmother's mutt dog at our feet sunrise smell cut with the bitter tang of oil and grease Tightness of the trigger foreign against my finger. Lined up the sights, coarse

Your love is like a toaster Hard metal surface reflecting everything, keeping yourself hidden behind cool steel. I am raw soft bread sneaking past defenses finding sight past your polished outside. I see the rusty coils of your love as they turn dull orange and heat us both. I come out burned, soul blackened—harder and more fragile than I went in. You remain the same, coils go back to dull scrap yard brown shined surface hiding you from the world. Your love is like a toaster, it burns my outside in.

I can't help but see your eyes when I look at hers and sometimes when she touches me I feel your hands again She is not you—she does not hold curiosity in her glance She cannot spark wonder in a jaded heart But fire burns the wake of her caress Fingers branding where they land on skin that has not yet shed your mark We sat one day—she and I, under a blanket soft as her skin while Orion led Taurus across the canvas of the sky we sat—whispering the nightsong to each other Later on I thought of you—how we would sit on the grass—legs tangled, dark hair flowing into light—and listen to that same nightson

Sam is five years old, standing in a cold waiting room. A nurse walks by and asks where her mommy and daddy are. Sam tells her mommy is in heaven and daddy went to work. Sam is thirteen and today is her birthday.  Her dad paid for the best party of anyone in her class—but Sam knows it was his assistant that did it—her dad didn't even remember it was her birthday. Sam is eighteen and graduating high school today.  Her dad isn't in the audience. He hasn't spoken to her since the night she told him to go to Hell. Sam is twenty three when her father makes a surprise visit to her apartment and finds her with Karen.

“Could be worse I guess.  At least it's not Ulysses.  But Cary would have been pretty awesome.” “You would want to be named Cary Grant.  Bur Kara is perfect for you.  To bad it's not Kara Thrace.” At this, Kara breaks into a grin that makes her deep brown eyes twinkle in a way most find irresistible.  It's something about the expressive eyes and rakish smile on a pretty young girl that drives them to distraction.  Lanie Charles is no exception, she too has fallen for Kara's roguish charm and quick wit.  But that doesn't mean Kara needs to know the effect she has on Lanie, in fact the blonde carefully schools her features

A little boy ran by with a glove and bat, calling backwards for his dad to hurry up.  His step bounced—didn't seem to touch the earth—his dad smiled as he followed. A young man brings a girl here one night.  They sit side by side and talk, she shows him Orion, the big dipper.  His hand slides over hers—and they don't talk again for a while. A young couple laugh as they walk by, hand-in-hand.  A little boy clings to his mother, while a little girl sits on her father's shoulders, giggling as they go. An old man limps past, one leg heavy, holding tightly to a cane.  The child with him laughs and runs ahead, calling for his gran

When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other. From : I Sing The Body Electric  by Walt Whitman I see her in the midst of youthful beauties Dark hair turning light with age Among them all I pick her out Her, with intense laughing eyes amplified by tiny wrinkles surrounding them Her, of the serious smiling mouth That time has only bettered She exudes such appeal In the slow, confident walk The high tilt