Motel Window. A Story.
Author: G Beckman
Writer.
Just when you thought life was over, …
Gibran on defeat
“Speechless”
How do I sift history into sound
cut pain into letters
spell you with words
that cleave night from day
right from wrong
lie from truth?
No.
Awe floats —
leaf in windless landscape
breathless birdsong
your heat —
and so I burn my noisy nets,
kiss my love,
praise
silent hands.
More here.
Max Bell on books
“Upstairs Elk”
There’s an elk living upstairs.
I can tell by the lumbering.
Hard-crusted hooves
crash against the straining floor,
drunk, ungainly;
I’m sure his thighs —
they ripple with fat-stores
as he smashes from room to room,
not sure why he’s there.
Still…
when he makes love,
grunts around each night
mounts the elk-lette,
even his strange body
fades into power
and little elks.
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Drinks
I studied the bar for possible moods — what was the one I felt yesterday, right after the Manhattan? Was that CareFreeMelancholy? or CitySad mixed with WindSweptLoneliness? WoeIsMe? No. Wait. I sent that first one back, got a TallBud and rode AwesomeConvo and his wingman, BroLove into the land of FuckAin’tItSolid! Or was that the AMF?
More moods? Click here.
“Conversation”
That ladybug sits on that green leaf before its silken buzzy wings remind me I was somewhere too. — “What were you saying?”
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“Better”
“You want me to stay?” The beginning that unfolds to an end I won’t like. Kill that tale now, before it becomes our story. “No. But thank you.” “Really?” he says, eyebrows newly engaged, the way they rose before, before this had to mean. “Yes.” Then he kissed my hand like a man does a magistrate. Got dressed fast — maybe I’d change my mind. One last glance back as we began better.
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