Out of the wake
and into
the everlasting dawn
where the sky sinks low
and the earth goes on
and on
for miles upon endless miles
of plastic bottles
and scattered pills.


This
is the paradise you
hoped for -
the hidden heaven
you were told to dream of;
but the promised land
came with a price,
    and the gardener
only has
two hands.

Writers


Writers are people who feel deeply. Their skin tingles at a drop of rain, their hands soak up texture like a sponge to moisture. A meaningless moment can be the brink of a story, or a springboard for reckless abandon. And so the mundane becomes the spectacular and the real remains surreal. A writer does not walk but press forward, neither do they desire but hope, breathing the world in more deeply, their lungs filling with inspiration. Yet, on their brow lingers perspiration - a writer's constant companion.


Is this why we are so troubled? Do we feel where others cannot? Do our genes contain more sensory receptors than the rest of the population? Are we translators for the people? If these things are so, then perhaps we did not choose to write, but were born to.

The Fear of the Fire

“I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance; to live so that which comes to me as seed goes to the next as blossom and that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit.”
-Dawna Markova


There is infinity in our waking hearts. Draw me from the dream which traps my eyes. Enlighten the blissful slumber of my youth so I may sleep no more and yet while unsleeping remain young forever, and exceedingly wise from infinite observation and rendering. To loosen the heart until it alights as a torch and flies upon the wing of ultimate Desire, is to choose to risk our own significance. To dare to humble ourselves when we, above all, deserve the credit. To desire to let the Other be first. To remain last and to truly believe that last is never least.


Let us live as seeds and blossoms and fruit, in many harmonies, yet one in sound. Without the one, there is no other. Let seeds be seeds, and they will blossom, let blossoms be blossoms and soon they shall bear fruit. For though the tree has lost its leaves, its fruit will return in season. Do not lose hope, my beloved. Rain will come again.

Drawing Lines


The dust unsettled; banners drawn.
Spaces taken; pace predicted -
Some may never make it past the start.


Hooves are stamping, aligning with the dawn.


Bridles clink as riders mount to check their tack;
Each stall is set and narrow,
Booths for bets and brawls.


Their movements swift,
Their breathing hard and hot.
He who comes last shall forever lose.


Anticipation is an open gate.

I am your rebellion:

A single step beyond the fence,

Two inches past the starting line
Is ample grounds for gunshot.

Someone Saved

A short story by Kimber London

     >for your reading enjoyment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDeCSIfW2TU

“LIKE Chuck Smith,” she had said to him earlier that
afternoon, smiling.

Though the downpour outside had caused him much
anxiety as he’d waited for the bus in the rain, upon arriving
to the restaurant he felt warm and collected – two words
which those who knew Lane Johnson would hardly use to
describe him.

Lane couldn’t remember who “Chuck” was, or what
they’d been talking about, but he remembered the way she
had smiled when she said it, which seemed vaguely out of
place in contrast to the other images which had filled his
mind since: the flashing lights of the aid car, the broken
glass on the asphalt, the blood stains on his newly-pressed
blouse. He held the shirt in his hands now as delicately as
he’d held his only child on the day of her birth.

Lane’s lips quivered and his eyes wandered about
the room, never really focusing on anything. He mumbled
when the nurse came by asking for photo identification and
a signature. After shuffling through his pockets, Lane
apologized that he’d left his wallet at home. Licking her
lower lip, the nurse shifted her weight from one stocky
ankle to the other. Could he call someone to retrieve it?
Yes, he probably could figure it out, but did it matter that
he himself was not family? After an almost unnoticeable
pause, the nurse pressed her lips into something like a
smile. She retrieved a small stack of paperwork
labeled “WITNESS” in bold letters at the top, proceeding
to instruct Lane in a robotic tone that non-family members
would have to wait for written consent from a blood
relative in order to interact with the patient or make any
medical decisions on their behalf. And he would still need
valid proof of identification for the witness forms to be
processed. Eyes blurry, Lane fumbled for his phone, which
clattered to the floor startling the two other people in the
waiting room who momentarily broke their gazes from the
outdated tabloids in their laps.

His wife did not pick up at work, and he was sure
she wouldn’t be home for at least a few hours since she
usually stayed late on Wednesdays. He didn’t bother
phoning his neighbor as the man had a strict policy of only
taking business calls on weekdays, and when he reached
his daughter’s voice mail Lane tossed the phone onto a
stack of crinkled newspapers on the table beside him.
Pressing his fingers through his thinning hair, he massaged
his temples. Just three hours ago he had been shaving his
overgrown shadow of a beard, and attempting to comb the
nearly gray tuft atop his head which he refused to cut
despite the many protests of his wife. He picked out a shirt
to match his tie, a custom on which he seldom spent any
extra effort. But today was different. Today he had felt like
a man escaping from a domestic cell, yearning to embrace
freedom from confinement with limbs lifted liberally like a
young school boy sledding down a hill when class has been
canceled due to an unexpected snowfall. Lane had even
taken care to polish his badly streaked loafers (he’d been
meaning to buy new pair for some while,) and so he had
left the house with little concern for anything, save the
time. As he passed through the front door, he’d
remembered to wipe off any traces of his muddy footprints
in the hallway. Lane made sure to place the spare key back
beneath its potted hiding place, and he took particular
concern to put it exactly in the same position which had
marked its spot over the years in dirt. He checked his watch
again – 4:00pm sharp – and, pulling his coat collar up to his
chin he had braced himself against the tempestuous
weather and jogged to the bus stop. Catching his breath on
board, he had felt for the small parcel in his breast pocket,
eager to reassure himself of its presence.

As the florescent light bulbs flickered overhead,
Lane could feel the weight of the thing pressing against his
chest. He stuffed it into the front pocket of his pants where
it knocked against his loose wedding ring. Lane tapped the
small parcel back and forth repeatedly on the surface of his
thigh. Twisting it around in his hands, he wished he’d
never bought the damn thing. He wished that he hadn’t left
work early, or bothered about the neck tie which now held
him together like a man waiting for the gallows. Lane
scratched at his neck, pulling the tie in violent tugs away
from his throat. A button from his collar dropped to the
floor and as he reached to pick it up, he met the gaze of a
man seated across from him. Lane hadn’t noticed him
before and wondered how long the man had been staring at
him. However, instead of turning away, Lane stared back
and, in barely a depictable moment, the two shared a
second of humanity. The stranger’s eyes were gray and
watery; the rims of his red eyelids contrasted the olive hues
of his skin. Beneath the eyes were signs of exhaustion,
fatigue, and depression, yet in them Lane could see
something like the twinkling of empathy. It was as if the
man knew him, and in knowing, was not afraid.
Breaking eye contact, Lane quickly looked down
as if to check his watch. He had spent nearly two hours
waiting and there was still no word from anyone. The
vibration of his phone on the table may as well have been
the shock of a defibrillator paddle for the start it gave him.

Looking at the picture of his wife smiling which glowed on
the phone’s face, Lane picked it up as one would a ticking
detonator.

“Honey, where are you?” came the frantic voice. “I
left my phone at the house today so when I got home
early and you weren’t here and I saw the missed calls, I
panicked. Are you okay?”

Lane’s fingers slipped as he transferred the phone to
his other ear. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay. Hey, listen,
do you think you could pick me up at the hospital when you
get the chance?”

“Oh, my god, Lane, what’s going on? Are you
hurt?”

Lane glanced down at his left shoe which was
slashed open at the toe. The sole was beginning to peel
away from the cheap leather and he scuffed it against the
dirty tile floor. “No, I’m fine,” he said.