•November 17, 2015 • Leave a Comment

If I had a house, I would write on the roof – I love you – in Christmas lights. I would leave them up all night long.

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•October 29, 2015 • Leave a Comment

The Amazon in the night: Deep, is the feeling here. The air is hot, thick, like moving through mud. Spiders are shifting the shadows – the shadows are never still here. Jaguars, with shoulder blades that slice slice back and forth – Prowling – that is how things move in the jungle. Packs of people, wild dog ghosts, moving between the jungle fires. Everything shrouded in trees and smoke. There is constant thunder, the sky has a heartbeat of rythmic lightening. Fireworks are exploding the darkness, people are shooting lighting from their mud huts as they weld jungle machienes in the rain. Eating strange fruits. Sweating. Searching for leaves big enough to wrap my whole body inside. Insects taking tiny bits of my blood back to the trees – paying the jungle tax.

My Dear, Act of God

•May 27, 2015 • Leave a Comment

When I was small,

There was a great storm,

A whole tree fell on to my neighbor’s house.

Her insurance company called this

“An Act of God”

Something for which there is no insurance,

There is no protection, no payback,

Only shambles

In its wake.

~

I thought one day

Back when you were still new

And shining

And foreboding

And soft

That I would like to give you

A nicname

But the only thing that came to mind

Was that memory

Of a house crumbling

Beneath a heavy weight.

•May 20, 2015 • Leave a Comment

cori storb

fluids that do not move turn to poison

water that sits stagnant rots

blood browns and loses all life

unshed tears harden in the throat

feelings sit in the chest and press and press

feelings that do not move turn poison

•March 24, 2015 • Leave a Comment

I’m very bad at goodbyes, I rarely read the ending of the story, I often fail to finish the things I start, So you and I shall just have to love one another forever. Ok? Because I don’t shall never be done with you.

•March 24, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Sometimes I try to write something good, but all the words come out as pretzels, all twisted and brittle.

Writing feels like my most tenuous talent. Not something I can summon, but more like a spark I wait patiently and impatiently for. Scribbling pretzels page to page, waiting for a full fledged meal to come out, something to nourish and satisfy.

What is the goddess of eloquence? The deity of perfect word placement? I will pray to you. Bleed my ink at your alter. I’ll burn my best letters for you.

I would like to say something meaningful. I would like to mean something. I would like someone else to feel a feeling from something I have made. I can not yell very loud. I can not sing. I can only hope to quietly cast the perfect words forth and hope these ordinary words, in such arrangement, form a magic spell.

I would like to catch the precious thoughts before they pop like soap bubbles. Just now, I felt one, a good one, a good idea brush past my forehead, I felt the flutter of its wispy fabric. It is gone now. This is all I have.

cori storb photography

•February 27, 2015 • Leave a Comment

you-took-this-from-cori-storb-moss-nap

Do you know what the difference between humans and animals is? Animals can sleep anywhere on the earth they please, they just fold their wings and tuck their tails and away they go; but when I try to find a little patch of earth to lay my head, there is inevitably some person with the authority of a flashlight (or an occasional badge) that says, “You can not sleep here.” And me and my teddy bear look forlorn, and it still doesn’t matter.

Oh humans, why have we grabbed all the horizontal surfaces and covered them with flags and fences and concrete? I would like to sleep on this earth but you won’t let me. I cannot think of a less offensive, bothersome act than sleeping – yet we shoo away all the people without beds from this firm ground that no one else was using anyway.

“I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.” here here, Sylvia Plath, I want that too. For everyone who still has a bit of animal in them and dreams their best dreams upon the moss.

 
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