We were
Silent
In a sea of your hair,
Soft like leaves from grape vines,
Sweet like the smell
Of pulpy fig flesh.
Secreted away, nestled
In labyrinthine embraces
Of pomegranate rind
I found your fingers
In the vast orchard
That felt no warmth
Before your heat
With August's final hellish bellows, I found you,
Fingernails thicks with loam, hands and knees strained and filthy
With answers to neglected questions she left in your untended fields.
We spent the night searching the cool air for its sweetest scents.
I remained
In harsh Midwestern winter we tread clumsily,
Like feet asleep, across each other's tender knuckles.
In the field we dug trenches just to smell fresh earth.
At night I washed our hands in bleach to watch the stains fade.
We continued
Filling our trench with smoke and silence,
I unwrapped your bandages for months, scraping away old blood
As I swelled with my own forgotten cells until my cracked hands grew blurry
And in the harsh white light of your dim room I screamed at your nakedness.
Part of why I want to leave....from Slate:
Comparatively speaking, Americans are winning the time-clock Olympics. The typical U.S. worker puts in 1,804 hours at work each year, 135 hours more than the typical British worker, 240 hours (or six full-time weeks) more than the average French worker, and 370 hours (or nine full-time weeks) more than the typical German. The Conference Board's magazine points out that the trend toward increased work demands "has begun to reverse the two-century-old industrial paradigm of equating progress with increased leisure." None of this is good for our family relations. Middle-class couples in the United States, taking both spouses together, are working 520 hours (13 full-time weeks) more a year than such couples worked in the 1980s. Little wonder that the Families and Work Institute found in 2004 that 67 percent of working parents say they don't have enough time with their children, and 62 percent say they don't have enough time with their spouses.
The Envy Corps - Party Dress
Whatcha gonna do when the walls burn down?
Whatcha gonna do when the black ash flies from your mouth?
My head had forgotten what my hand had done,
But I could not imagine such frightening fun as dying.
Try as we might, this is a waste of time.
Tongues of hell drip with a four beat count
Fizzing up the sedatives that flew into my mouth like locusts.
You could see the flames if they weren't so colorless.
You could feel the heat from my silk sharp dress as it flowed on and on and on.
If you weren't so precious, I'd have said "Off with your head"
