Junkyard (2)

A love so divisible numbers couldn't rationalize.

Junkyard (1) The dependencies Nemerov

Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings, Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.

This...  Something different that I'm uncomfortable with in a good way.  It's the act of discovery.  Searching for bugs beneath the sky or beneath the dirt.  The image of cutting in between the sky or carving it and uncovering makes for a mental image that can be applied for future rhetoric

Improv. 5 (Week 12)

 Back-flipping on a trampoline, feel the wind gasp at the hairs on your neck and you hit grass with your back. You pay the price whether it be through injury or sanity,  savagery or just seconds wasted, that moment when u slid down against your seat in your car just low enough so your head can poke out like that unwanted too small sweater knitted by grandma for Christmas and u cry, u cry bolts of tears and u break down enough that people thought u painted for a living and Satan even had pity for just a nanosecond.  The moment where everything just shadows in comparison of that moment when u felt like u were high off life, the bright lights of Manhattan or the smells of Italy and the tastes of Brazil. Your pheromones felt like a tribe of fireflies came together and buzzed the national anthem because of that moment.

Improv. 3 (Week 12)

Pigs flying, more like coasting along on gale winds with geese flocking from early winter migration. How does it feel to be a pig with wings staring into the Atlantic as it shoots back dark stares? Hoofs frantically shifting back and forth. Behind me is the farmer, shaking his three pronged sticks at me. There is my muddy prison, and in front of me is freedom. Can I fly, be fleet of foot and reach the land I love? He said to not aim for the sun and be too lofty. I'd be bacon.

Improv. 4 (Week 12)

He writes. Long paragraphs about how ink never seems to leave the page and how it always forms the same strides as it journeys further into the page. How with each new word a page seems to grow wider and get harder to keep going. Of course this was a story, a thinly shaped novel about how the world works. How it seems to lash out and violently caress its inhabitants with each passing revolution. It was about how the world can be viewed through such a narrow scope like a pen gauge and falls short when the nib runs out of ink.

Improv. 2 (Week 12)

A lil more of  the continuation from my first improv., warming up:

I'm trying to be more of Alissa daily and increase my love for the lord but its hard when perfection is the image and the scrimmage is no more than the devils present offensive starin me down and I scream hike...high, is how much I wish that those wings you sketched would levitate me past the bonds of a unlived life, of the life non-altered by offerings and capture a relic from my ancestors that would allow me to spit what comes natural. I will not I will not I will not I will not now be the belief that spurs my skin into disbelief that my soul is no black hole, it is a holy blackness that deserves to be preached for, reached for like aborted babies clambering their way to heaven. Or animals whose owners twist their fragility. I'm open...i will not I will not I will not I will not now this right instance be...me 

Improv. 1 (Week 12)

I find that sometimes just typing until I can't anymore helps me process a new draft, so I decided to make a new canvas

I will not I will not I will not I will now, I will not..this is how the last sentence of every poem I've ever breathed came out. I will not move, hand like bloody pomegranates struggling to paint a canvas like an etch and sketch, I will not breathe, breath the quiet martyr author asking why I covet the decodings of the bible in whisper, u mentioned that its a situation of a reoccurring rendezvous I respond that between the both of us liquor brews in the pits of our stomachs waiting to ferment all the deep shit that spit and split the canvas wide open. I will not I will not I will not I will not I will not Continue to be a mockingbird flocking to the legs of unpromised chains that bind my thoughts in inception, bullet holes worser than unfinished products and your unfinished projects are merely Mona Lisas in the making.