Identity

I usually post about objects, but I just recently published a piece with Skirt Collective on identity.

If you’re interested in reading, here’s the link:

http://www.skirtcollective.com/why-my-self-expression-shouldnt-concern-you/

If you’d like to leave comments, I ask that you do so on the site. Thanks guys!

Soles

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Leather souls clink like ear drums. They beat on the pavement of a sound mind. Worn out, as if souls could get tangled in the washing machine next to gray stringy lingerie. It’s what’s underneath that counts.

The Coffee Mug

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I pick up the mug carefully. The coffee cup fits perfectly between my fingers. I press its rubber lip against mine and think back to what it was like holding her for the first time.

So soft and perfect. Just like silk, she unraveled in my arms.

The coffee is hot to the touch. The second it hits my tongue, I feel the burn.

Her eyes were shifty. Should I have known then? What could I have done? What could I have said?

The steam rises into my nostrils and I’m steeped. Stumped. Stirring in thought.

I didn’t have to catch her. I knew she was away even when she was home. The way she kept checking her phone. Her wedding ring, conveniently left on the counter.

The coffee is too hot. It’s too much. It’s spilling over before I can contain it.  I feel it boiling the sides of my fingers. I’m startled. Jumping. Rattled to the core.

“It’s just not going to work out.” She said it before I could. “I’ve met someone else.” Her words echo.

I jump back and watch. I can’t grab it. I can’t hold on.  The cup smashes against the floor and pieces of a whole are now splitting. Fragmented and broken, it’s hard edges shatter.

The Radio

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Your voice wants to be held. Close tucked into the palm of my ear and bent like crooked fingers curling, you smolder. Burnt notes crackle. You are the tip of an unfiltered cigarette. You ash where others breathe. When my hand opens, you’re caught, finger fried in the molding of what wants to be said and what slips behind. Forever binding, you fall in between the cracks of my hearing. Softer words were never said.

Mad Men

I published this on Skirt Collective and I thought I’d share it here. It’s not an object piece, but I hope you enjoy! If you have comments, I’d love to read them, but if you could post them on the skirt collective site that would be a huge help. Thanks!

http://www.skirtcollective.com/cool-girls-and-romance-on-the-mad-men-season-finale/

Policeman Statue

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Photo by: Tom Haynes

http://www.TheDrabble.wordpress.com

There was once a man who had all the authority in the world, but no one to talk to. He traveled far and wide across the country in search of a friend, but to his despair, found none.

He talked to the woman with the pretty green and white skirt. But when she saw him, done up in his police outfit, she was too scared to say hello.

He talked to the children sitting outside of a school playground. But when they saw his erect posture, they knew he was no one to mess around with. They too were too scared to say hello.

Finally one afternoon the man with authority talked to a salesman at a corner market off the side of a busy road.

“Would you like these magical beads? If you rub them between your fingers and make a wish, it will come true.”

“How much are they?” The man asked skeptically.

“Twenty dollars. They are good luck.”

Reluctantly, the man paid for the beads and rolled them across his fingers one at a time. I wish I had friends. I wish I had friends. I wish I had friends. He chanted silently. Ten minutes passed and nothing happened. Fifteen minutes passed and still nothing. After a half hour, the man felt stupid waiting on the side of the road.

After forty five minutes, the salesman smiled and asked him if he would like to go for a walk.

“It’s such a beautiful day out. We must enjoy it.”

“No, no,” the man said quickly. “You cheated me with these faulty beads. I have no choice but to arrest you.”

The man’s authority rang loud and clear until all he could hear was the silence around him.

The Straw

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Photograph by Tom Haynes

http://www.TheDrabble.wordpress.com

Dear Potential Date,

I will let you know how I feel at all times. I’m very up front. I’m attracted to naturally red, full lips. No lipstick, please. I also prefer real beauty. I’m very picky when it comes to looks. If you’re older than thirty, please don’t reply.

I’m not the kind to call back right away. If we have a good time, I’ll let you know, but I’m not into that whole clingy thing. My idea of a perfect date is hanging out in bars that serve Belgian beer in a glass. No bottles for me. If you’re too cheap to buy your own drinks, please, don’t respond to this ad.

I’m looking for a carefree type. Not the kind that’s going to hold me down. Not the kind that’s going to get mad every time I’m with another. I can’t be tied down right now. I prefer more of the Bohemian lifestyle.

In short, shoot me an email if you don’t suck. (I already do that well enough on my own)

– The Straw