allthingsarcane

tonight the world tips
as i burn this stick
it cools my mouth
then the lights turn to diamonds

i wait for the end
inside this square green
while the rain cools my back
i am a captive... of life

the spins make me sing in my head
as we do things for the last time
the stripes cool my gaze
each pair of eyes is a sad story

The cynic hauls his limbs,
His tongue to a lazy stupor, and
Everything else to a frozen dimension

Where only the eyelids and the
Gentle heaving-tummy speak
Where Tourettes don’t exist
And things thirst for motion
Where writing a comma is a feat
His troubled rhymes, a devotion

Because the cynic is tired
Of the sunny side downs
And skulls a-cracking, tears a-flowing

I forget the way of the words
the line breaks the bylines
Finger tips, still as the tip of the tongue,
Accuse the cogless clock that governs my mind

The ghostly efforts of stairway wit Haunts
my room of seafoam Dunks
me on the bed Blisters
the other heart Thoroughly consumed

Fame was at stake. Money was at stake. My one-year preparation was at stake. The long hours at building body power and mental toughness couldn’t go to waste. Everything boiled down to the 26 seconds on the lane.

The starter’s gun fired.

Eight silhouettes leapt from the starting blocks, released like a pack of wild dogs, stunning the huge crowd with their sudden burst of energy. A steady rhythm curving the lanes commenced.

Each of us glided along our respective tracks, aiming for the most energy efficient limbic movement needed to run a good bend. We were all focused on only one thing: breasting the tape—aiming for the first, not the second, nor the third. We all wanted to win the final heat. But I wanted to win this most.

Then under my panting breath, amid a misplaced impulse, I conveniently said, “If I don’t win this, it will happen”—an unjust trade-off in exchange for a sick psychological motivation. The profanity was a logical leap. Nonetheless, it was enough to give me that extra energy, that extra push that pulled my hamstrings and my glutes. Involving this unthinkable event as an irrational disincentive was necessary, and it took its toll on my muscle power. My legs were tired, but I kept on running without restraint. I just did not want it to happen.

With a few meters from the finishing line, I was neck and neck with my fastest competitor. I poured all my energy into my last strides. Alas I finished second, just a few milliseconds away from getting the fame and money, just a few inches from achieving my lifelong dream. And perhaps losing my brother.

After the ceremonies, I took a long drive to the hospital, another race against time. I hurried to my brother’s room while the lost race and rewards still smothered my thoughts.

But I was stirred from my stupor when I saw only Mama was there. She sat on the green upholstery, head bowed and shoulders sunk. Her seemingly lifeless eyes were red and tired from crying. I’d never seen her look so empty until now.

My forgotten utterance echoed. My face twitched with shame and guilt.

Finness Calacal asked me to make a few illustrations for her thesis.

( So she stirred up the sea until it threw its waters against the sky )

     1, 5, 14 Dorothy’s Ruby Slippers spared again
         8, 9 Because tonight: none of the three taps crap
              But an hour and fifteen in road and then
7, 11, 15, 16 Her dead paper and pen of bliss will clap

              Dorothy pays out three tens and a five
            2 To the Driver with lovely auburn nails
            3 Her arms brushing others’ arms strive
    12, 17, 5 No holy commuters’ kiss in Wales

    8, 10, 18 Dorothy hisses, “fuck ass ang init”
         3, 6 Yet Smelly Man quivers within earshot
            6 Macho Driver turns fan on in cockpit
     3, 4, 19 Aircon purrs loudly; still it’s spicy hot

           13 She falls asleep growing a dorsal fin
           20 With a pen in hand, the verses unfin
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Twenty little poetry projects by Jim Simmerman

Whistling girl, stop the stall
Shun your feigned languor ‘cause
Thesis reigns above all

Literature you snowball
While your eagerness thaws
Whistling girl, stop the stall

Lift your lids on a fall
To rest is a sinful pause
Thesis reigns above all

GDP and its downfall
You can’t write into a clause
Whistling girl, stop the stall

You took a drag on a menthol
What undeserved applause
Thesis reigns above all

Deadline after this nightfall
Your sobriety withdraws
Whistling girl, start the scrawl
Thesis reigns above all

Lines frolic in the sheets, share
Shattered breaths. No room for
Distance. Not the villainous clock that
Sings can cut them to segments. The

Lines fold. She bends. He curves.
Too masterful, their art, that the
Arms of bridges almost shatter, and the
Sky falls silent with a deep hue. But

Too soon their arcs straighten and their
Eyes avert to an angry shadow. So the
Lines perforate, detach; she flees.
Her winged grace flies off the window,

Her form vanishes fully, leaving him a
Pasture of mourning he so well deserves.
Her scent was spent and the shadow of
Me, looms: a crisis of troth. The

Distance widens as I come close. Whereas
Her spirit clings nearer as
Her voyage matures, leaving
Me a pasture of mourning I don’t deserve. The

Trees empathize, sing the
Same serenades in sharp minor.
Her absence is presence. I block my
Hearing, and turn away my gaze

before I drown in his poison of
Eyes and letters, and die under
Her piercing spell. The
Long silence persists, his 

Arms akimbo, apathetic. And like
Her, I jump out the window to
Suffer my wingless fate,
Her winged joy.

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Another product of CW100: take the last word of every line from Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines by Neruda, and make it the first word of your every line. Fun homework!