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You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.
tlp
I GUESS YOU DIDNT MEAN ALL THE SOBER WORDS BECAUSE THE TRUTH CAME OUT WITH THE ***** AND MAYBE I WOULD'VE LEFT YOU IF I COULD STAND ON MY OWN WITHOUT FALLING OVER
BUT IM FILLED WITH THIS EMPTY BURNING WARM FEELING WHERE YOU SHOULD BE
I SWEAR YOU NEVER LOVED ME SOBER BUT MAYBE THATS JUST ME
 Jan 2015 Emma Pickwick
Nina
5:36 pm
 Jan 2015 Emma Pickwick
Nina
Cold hands
Shaking lips
Burning eyes
Stinging cheeks
I'm haunted by
Your memory
And I have lost
My sanity
And in everything
I think I see
You
 Dec 2014 Emma Pickwick
r
ants lean left more than right
it's true, it must be

i read it in Fox News

especially the red ones
that wear berets
like Che

the impertinent invertebrate
arsonist fire ants

who tend to get stepped on
by the man
who exterminates

according to anthropologists.

:)
r ~ 12/30/14
She applied the latest fashion tips to her lips
and put on the newest dress to cover the mess.
I held her as she swayed in front of the mirror.
"I want to get away from here," she cooes in my ear.

It rains ridicule as she tries to be classic cool;
storms that brew from within-
and there's no way of knowing how it'll begin.
She'll say that she's a succubus
but I promise that she's a star and thus
destined to implode but shine beautiful before death.
And I await to be burnt by her deathly breath.

She says that she feels detached,
I read the message that has hatched
from ten eggs thrown from a wrist.
Her lips are mine but all I do is miss.
Her lips aren't mine and all I do is this.

I **** time with new noise and old sights.
She asks if I'll be home tonight
and I wish I could because I'd clearly sway thee,
macabre debutante lover baby.

Her name is Tricia and as I whisper,
her cheeks blush.
"Don't break hearts or mine too much."
I could say the say the same for you, my Josh.
Couldn't we all break broken signs
with the love we reallign?

I tantalize her lullabies with eager hands
and lethargic eyes.
I shoulder her and press her near,
and kiss her from neck to each ear.
She slides hands and traces each crease.
She runs her hands as soft as fleece.
My hands hide in her underwear
and she says,
"How did you remove all of my air?"
She fixes her hands and grabs my base,
I kiss each corner of her face.
Stroking, stoking my desire,
I ask her to lay naked by the fire.

I disrobe and throw each cloth on ground.
Tricia takes off her bra and there is no sound.
Her ******* make me eagersome
and, suddenly, I'm no longer numb .
I tell her that if it doesn't feel right
that we don't have to make love tonight.
She walks and her feet kiss the tile.
She says she wants to stay for a while.

We get lost in blanket and the cloth is soft,
as we move from the fire to a loft.
I tell her that her lips are silk,
her chest plays songs,
and her taste is milk.

Her feet appear behind my head,
and she bites her lip until I feel dead.
I place my hand between her thighs
and listen to each moan and sigh.

I hear her shudder as I break her soil
and I feel my body start to boil,
as I push in and kiss her nose.
She throws back her head
as her mouth can't close.

I wake up and she's next to me.
I kiss her forehead to thank for harmony.
I pick her up and let her bloom in my arms like a flower.
And then I walk her to the shower.
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