Old Discarded Feminist Magazine

Laying haphazardly on top of the little stack of collage fodder, an old discarded feminist magazine lays back-up.
The back cover's chic shampoo ad boasts and promises of "sleek, shiny health for your strands."
A cool-looking woman with a punky-brunette-haircut smiled up towards the ceiling.
Even feminists buy beauty products.
So long as they are marketed right.
So longs as they are seen right.
So long as they are positioned on the back glossy covers of feminist magazines
that lay haphazardly on top of some woman's little stack of collage fodder.

Surreal/Dream Variation

My eyelids felt heavy. My mind felt light. I don’t think I belonged here.

This was confusing.

The restaurant was foggy, as if Mario’s was full of cloud-smoke-haze. The red and white squares on the tablecloth were bolder and brighter than what I remembered. They looked like they belonged on one of those fakey-3-D holographic trading cards or maybe from a scene behind paper and colored-cellophane 3-D glasses. The candle flickered flatly in a bright yellow resonance. I suddenly felt the heaviness of my wristwatch, so I picked up my hand to check the time. A tiny white rabbit was running around the inside circumference of the face. And the six various-sized hands continued a-ticking in a manner that translated nonsensical to me. I stared at it, puzzled, somehow understanding that someone was late. My watch suddenly felt slime-y against the feel of my wrist skin. I watched it melt into a wet liquid, a watery puddle that slipped off my body and onto the floor. I stared at the tiny scattered droplets adhering to cohesion. Until, sticky strands of my hair rushed into my face, obstructing my view because a dusty-gray ship had blew into the restaurant, letting in a fury of blizzard.

Bodily/Visceral

Melted snow dripped and trickled off of her light blonde eyebrow follicles. It slid in tiny wet rivers down smooth, pinky cellular epidermis. Once it slid past her cheek freckle, she reached up and wiped it away.

Her stomach produced a quiet gurgling noise in response to her not having eaten since 11:23am.

She was a capsulated wreck of chaos.

Her mind was light due to low blood sugar and worry. Richard was 6 minutes late; he was never late. The furious winter storm outside the thick glass window pane matched her internal state of rushing, raging adrenaline.

Her stomach growled again, louder, matching its empty, acidic-hungry-feel.

She crossed her arms over her complaining organ and filled her lungs with air to sigh.

 

Waiter Variation

 

A young man, about twenty-three years and four months, entered the back door of Mario’s Authentic Italian Restaurant. Once through the chunky, white back kitchen door, he removed his fur-lined hat and rubbed his bony temples. He was overtired, overworked, and over everything. He had just come from his second job, a dusty pet shop on Pilgrim Street. He was really dreading this shift because it generally featured an overabundance of wealthy snobs. Sure, these nights usually produced larger-than-usual tips, but he hated their elitist demeanor and ability to buy whatever they damn well wanted. The intense weather gave him hope that it would be a little less busy tonight. He tied the black cotton apron around his tired waist and committed the night’s specials to memory.  

A Late (and Passive) Richard Variation

 

Martha is going to be so upset with me! I’m so late! I knew that I should have left earlier! And I just had to leave my wallet on my office desk! Ugh! Why am I so damn forgetful?...All the way to the damn bus stop and I forget my bloody wallet so I have to walk all the way back in the bloody blizzard…I shouldn’t tell her that I was late due to my forgetting my wallet…..I’ll tell her a meeting ran late….yes, I’ll say that the meeting about the merger went very well, but ran late….she’ll still complain…still scold that I should have left early to meet her on time; “Aren’t I important to you, Richard?” she’ll whine…..But it’ll be much more bearable than her lecture regarding my wallet….”You’re so damn forgetful, Richard!”, “You’ll send us to the cleaners, if you’re not more careful, Richard!”, “Is that what you want, Richard?”….

Sci Fi Variation

 

The numb buzz and flicker of the sign above Mario’s Italian Restaurant was marginally suppressed by the snowy storm that was currently assaulting the city. Snow accumulated as tiny, clumpy drifts upon bumpers, gutters, and window ledges. Passersby gripped leverage on their fashionable hoods with their fashionable gloves, a trendy East Towne Chicago in flustered chaos. It was just after 5, and most respectable suits were rushing home to their expensive condos.

Martha Stalthorpe entered the thick, bulky door of the deserted Italian restaurant. She was set to meet her husband here for dinner. Albeit short, her journey here induced second thoughts concerning keeping this week’s dinner date. However, as she removed the chunky purple scarf from her thin, lined neck, the cold chapping of her cheeks began to warm and she became comfortable at the little intimate table.

She checked her watch; a present from her husband, the gold timepiece accentuated her thin wrist and boasted of apparent status. Richard was 6 minutes late; not like him, but the weather was definitely providing unusual circumstance. She adjusted her baby pink cashmere sweater and ordered a bottle of fine Chianti from the waiter.

The waiter made her uneasy. His height and lanky limbs somehow produced an air of unease for her. Not that he looked foreboding or intimidating in any way, he just looked very…different. He abnormally effectuated a habit of licking his lips. His dark, pinky tongue would dart out of his mouth, glistening a thin slobber, quickly circle his thin lips, and then slide back into his mouth.

She noticed that as he pitter-pattered away to fetch the Chianti, the kitchen door seemed to be leaking a glassy wet. Was there a large water spill? She was halfway through making a mental note to ask the skinny waiter about the spill when Richard boomed through the heavy door.

....

so sequentially Stein
our thoughts of
independence, intricacy, and ignorance intertwine;
there is a fine line.
light or dark
the soul must embark
prodding, prying
into the depths unknown.
now, clipped wings
only memory of having flown
all that life has sown.

Today I feel:

Titles are for the birds....
Actually not really. I quite enjoy titles, but I am having difficulty with them today.

...

Frowning, drowning
browning as if baked,
caked
to the roof of my mouth
like peanut butter
and jealousy spread
cursing, calling to bed.
The restless remain unwed
instead, I sink, slink into slumber
after nights of consumption
with the aim of getting dumber
I wise, rise
lies.

...I dont know a title yet....

I grow older
if not old already;
considered by most
childish man
mannish child,
contradicted by most
I grew.
At times, I envy
their bumbling buffoonery,
drunken with glee:
free.
I shrunk
shrugged, slugged
home;
Friday evenin' in
chains sprouted,
planted deep within,
my buried, burdened brain.
Rooted, I remain
reluctant to act
animally, clinically insane.
Though, wisdom grows
god only knows
melancholy moans;
Just get stoned.
Growing, going, gone
Grown.

...

The parts that want to
live
and the parts that want to
die
live
side by side.
This is what keeps us strong.
Once, on TV
                     I watched a show about bones,
                                                                       how they are made and unmade
                                                                       at the same time.
                                                                       How are they made and unmade at the same time?
                                                                       They are made and unmade
                                                                                      made and unmade
                                                                                      made and unmade
                                                                                    
at the same time.
This is what keeps us strong.
Cells called osteoblasts
create bone
as others, osteoclasts
dissolve bone.
This is what keeps us strong:
This merciless roller coaster of destruction and renewal.