saved

And maybe one day we'll all be saved.

All be able to live our lives the way our dreams tell us too

like whispers for children.

Maybe we'll fly.

or travel to countries where music is language

and rice is religion

and Peace, our pastel.

Maybe there's more.

But maybe its right in front of you.

the light in your eyes when you're driving to work.

The monotone hum of the radiator.

Maybe that's it.

Perspective is everything.

The way you brush your hair

or dot your i's.

the choices you make.

It's a matter of life and living.

We're all going to the same place

in the end

we are all alone

and all as one.

we're saved.

Bye Beast

It was coming home that felt the best.

The sound of her short and electric snorts mixed with the tap-dancing of her paws towards the door always brought me to a place of pure childhood. A place where there were no bills to pay, or jobs to hold- it was a place for a girl and her dog.

Zoe wasn't the kind of dog I had grown up with. Before her, there was Tasha, A large and calm German Sheppard. She had loved me in the way a grandmother loved the newborn that gave her that title. I would lay with her, on a fur-laden dog bed and wrap my small arms around her mane. I remember the way she smelled- like autumn and hay. It was comforting to look into her large, dark eyes, and there were many nights that I cried myself to sleep with her, because she was the one who understood.

My pup before her- my very first dog- was Fritz, a German Short-Haired Pointer. I remember that he was fast. He had a sharp, whiplike tail, and his hair was short and flat against his skin. Fritz liked to escape and roam the neighborhood, searching for squirrels, I'd imagine. We had a large, chain-link-fenced dog yard in the back for him, with a door that latched open and shut.

I remember having to lure him back into the yard with a trail of sliced bologna. He was always a sucker for deli-meat. It was like winning a gold metal in the Olympics when I had gotten him completely into the gate with me. There was a lot of jumping and shouting- if you could imagine a demin-clad, sparkled-stretch pants, 7 year old with light up shoes doing such a thing.

But Zoe was much different. She was small, and not German at all. I was 15 years old when we went to some lady's house and saw her for the first time. The tiniest Boston Terrier I had ever seen. I had sat on the foreign kitchen floor, criss-cross style, and plopped the small pup inbetween my legs. She cosied herself and looked up at me- her eyes, the biggest feature on her body.

I always adored animals, and constantly wanted to take in strays, so having an outdoor cat was the norm. When we first got Zoe, my cat Meow-Mix was not a fan. Although MM hardly came inside, he did from time to time, and it was my responsibility to watch and make sure they didn't fight.

I remember being downstairs one time, and MM swatting Zoe across the face. I yelled at him, and shoed him out of the house, instantly rushing toward Zoe to make sure she was okay. Her protruding eye had been sliced by Meow, and I knew it was bad. We had to put eye drops in her eyes multiple times a day and throughout the night. She healed, but there was always a scar to remind me of how I had been neglegant. I tried to love Zoe a hundred times better after that.

Zoe slept with me at home. She would borrow herself under the covers and sleep between my legs, or if I was in a fetal-position, behind my knees. She was a wonderful movie companion, because she never asked questions about what was going on througout the movie- though she would often fall asleep mid-way.

Zoe passed away from sudden liver failure at the age of eight. We barely had enough time to say goodbye, or realize what had gone wrong. Her snort. The way she danced on her hind legs to recieve a cookie, and her small but veracious and persistant kisses will always hold a very special place in my heart. This one goes out to Zoe, Tasha, and Fritz- for teaching me the meaning behind each smile, dance, and hug. Dee Ginicola

sky

I could look at the sky all morning, from my eighth floor cubical, overlooking the valley of Connecticut. In the distance I can see the sound-- just a foggy eclypse of a grey-blue ocean layered with trees and brush below it.

This is my window-canvas. An ever changing mix of cool colors. The blues and greens enveloping the calm outside and reflecting the sky's whipped egg whites.

Are they water-colors or sky-colors? I will wait until twilight to see fire-colors instead. The pinks and incandecent, flame-like magesty of the sun engorging the sky in passion.

Everytime, is the first time your eyes have seen this one-of-a-kind masterpiece. And if you let yourself be distracted-- if you turn your eyes, to witness the coffee pot, still full and sitting silently, you might miss it.

The paint brush has stroaked a new, darker scheme, and adjusted your view. What you once knew was washed in shades of indigo and periwinkle. The clouds dancing and dispersing into the soon-to-be night sky.

If you watch closely, scrutinizing the five-by-five section of window, you may notice each star slowly opening it's eye, and the moon, sneaking it's opular light around the skyline.

Release

You're sitting in your office downtown Chicago, and all i can think about is what it would feel like to have your lips on my neck.

I file your paperwork. You send a memo to the fax downstairs and an email that says you're the best. We talk so casually, but inside I'm sweltering- I want nothing more than to take that elevator up,

walk into your office,

slide you're wheely chair over,

and climb right on top.

I think about our eyes, locked, and our bodys girating together. Our lips, tentative and barely touching. Yours, teasing and trailing across my cheeks, down my neck and up to my ear. I want that rush through my veins and the chill on my skin.

I think about your fingertips through my hair; you grasping me greadily and your tongue on my tongue. the stifled breathing. the hurried shuffling to remove our jackets and the sound of release- of pure pleasure and lust. the sound of finally giving in to the feelings we hold and stifle. the feelings we write but wont share. the thoughts the seep through our bedsheets and land on our fingertips that trail our bodies, pretending, needing, wanting- release.

her lips

Her lips parted and the sky grew still

She wet them with her tongue as the first drop fell

her eyes clear and radiant. A piercing grey that matched the clouds.

It's cold up there, she thought

and another drop penetrated her skin,

seeping, seemlessly into her shoulder

And sliding down her bra strap.

She leant, long legged, against the tree, which stood looming, it's body built to protect.

She ran her fingers gently down the rigid trunk, scarred with fragments of lost love

and lovers who couldnt erase

The hearts they drew long ago.

She heard it quicken, and shower, then pour

clean, clear, streams of crisp water.

She stepped out into the rain, from beneath the tree

so the rain could take her.

Her skin tightened, arroused by the cold.

Alive with sensation.

it prickled tight as she shivered and smiled.

her clothing, just an extra layer of soft, wet, skin.

Silent

silent sauntering silos stand stable at sickles in the lawn. Their staring insinuates their starchy whites of their eyes- scared to blink, they stand alone, sarenading the stars and sipping at the milky-ways sweet syrup.

Someplace beautiful

I want to live someplace beautiful. A wide-windowed bedroom with white, wispy curtains, that open to fields of lavendar. I want the sweet smells to sift in through the breeze and perfume my linens or wrap their fingers in my hair.

I want mountains. Lots of mountains.

Thick and lustrous greens spreading from their arms and legs, welcoming me home; Their peaks a graying white: wise, gentle and even more beautiful with age. And pools of soothing reflection that rest between their knees.

I want to

We were Storms

We were storms Illuminating the night sky like free falling volcanos Sharp, pungent, flame-like creatures galloping through the city streets. We were too busy to notice The eminating truth. Too blind to see the silence Emerge from behind the grey ferm and snatch us deep into it's cave. It swallowed us whole Licking it's finters of our remains the sweet and sour sauce of life itself. We lived within it's belly playing table tennis in silence's stomach as the acids broke down our identities and quitted our hungry words.

What Holds Me Back?

It's the daily shuffle. The dual monitors and non-descript commenting on stranger's photographs that stands in front of my motivation like a small Tophatted-Monkey with cymbals. I wonder what Emerson's life was like without an iPhone buzzing calendar reminders; without the buzzing of nearby highways.

Noise. Perhaps it all boils down to noise.

My cravings for more are intense. I mutter time and again how I yearn for the chance to write. To one day write a novel of my own and share them with the world. But then, we all make excuses- or perhaps it's just me.

If I wanted to write--really write. I would sit down and do it. Perhaps we all just want to run away from our lives. Start anew. Move somewhere with mountains and fields of wild flowers. We all know there is more out there, outside of our small and confined worlds. Our busy lives consume us whole, licking their fingers of the sweet and sour sauce that remains.

We sit dazed in our cubicals, staring at our empty staplers and wonder why we just can't get out. What happened to our childhood dreams?

Someone once told me that our creativity dies somwhere around the age of ten. We are taught--wittled down with extreme scrutiny-- to believe that the only way to succeed in life is to follow the rules:

1. Step in line.

2. Be quiet.

3. Do as you are told.

4. Repeat.

We measure success by the amount of dollars we hold in our pockets our bank accounts, rather than the joy in our hearts.

But maybe that's too cheesy right now. Don't get too emotional- we wouldn't want that. After all, we are taught to be strong, confident, and sexy. Be appealing.

1. Work out.

2. Do your hair.

3. Buy nice clothes.

I wonder again, if Emerson had to live by all of these expectations. Perhaps the walls were smaller; perhaps they were more open. I picture him sitting on a rock in the middle of a wooded pasture. I picture himself, as I was at about eight years old-- a notebook in my hand, observing our natural world.

We might take it for granted. No. We do. We take for granted the sun rises. The shade from a tree. The sounds of the birds cawing, peeping, squeaking, squaking. We take for granted the soothing sound of the ocean waves, or the endless flow of a riverbed. We take for granted our air, water, the warmth of the sun, the lushness of the grass after a good, long, rain.

It's all around us, and yet it's so subtle. In truth, it's subsidiary to the technology around us. Our need to be in control. Our fear of not being communicated to and connected. But the truth that we all fail to see, is that being "connected" is what leaves us unplugged.

We have plugged into our cellphones, and out of the world around us, and in turn, we cannot understand why we seem to have this overwhelming looming feeling of saddness and disconnect. The answer is clear- we have to rewind. We have to unplug, disconnect from our control, and take a walk in the world around us- or what is left of it.

Perhaps then, we may find the peace we are looking for, and be able to finally sit down... and write.