Decision Outlets: A Series of Dichotomous Images

Series 1

A flower blooms in a tar pit.

A thirsty fly drowns in paper.

A silk nightgown on rain clouds.

A carbonated flat tire.

 

Series 2

An illuminated copper shoe.

A spilling sapphire receding behind prawns.

A giraffe swimming in a shot glass.

A dichotomous hippopotamus on house arrest.

A long-sleeved homeless tape worm.

 

Series 3

Wrought run sun with veined split ends.

Picture framed water stripes.

Tattoo dust collects postage stamps.

Rewind socks chirping before sifter.

Thylacine doctor runs cling wrap sand.

Curled caverns on perpendicular charcoal.

Words knit bodies on the ends of extinguished outlets.

Who are the People that would Believe Me?

Who are the people that tell you yes?
Who are the people that tell you no?
Who are the people that tell you to be?
Who are the people that tell you to be anything but?
Who are the people that make you?
Break you?
Throw you?
Lift you?
Who are the people that are there when you are most alone?
Most alive?
Mostly living alone?
Who are the people that see you?
Who are the people that hear you?
Who are the people that understand you?
Who are the people that would believe this?

When I was a little girl, a spirit followed me to Las Vegas. Running alongside the moving truck, it’s legs twisting into wings, it howled, “write damn you!”

It slithered into the clouds as I turned to tell my mother.

“That’s a nice story sweetie, and don’t say damn.”

Where are the people who would believe this?

 

Psychopathic Passive Aggressive Notes to Myself

Two socks, neither are mine.

Your fridge approached me the other day. It was an unwelcome advance.

You conduct an abnormal amount of static electricity. I am quite tired of your electrical current.

Where did you put the key to that memory?

Fuck you brain for phantom pain!

I see that you have failed to follow instructions.

Looking for another state of consciousness again huh? Spin around and think about the taste of purple!

The fridge says hello!

Please do not buy any more journals. You are just provoking her.

You are my legacy.

You are my false god.

 

 

 

“On Written Knowledge”

a-sadeghipour-onwrittenknowledge

(Continuation of “On the Writing Process”)

Writing knowledge. Knowledge of writing. Writing about Knowledge. Knowing how to write. Wait, I think the last one is different. Knowledge: (n.) “Information and skills acquired through experience or education; the theoretical or practical understanding of a subject” (Webster’s Dictionary). Hmm, perhaps the last one is not so different. I know that I have gone through the drills and learned the skills but it didn’t teach me how to write. So what did? Who did? Is it Experience with a capital “E”? Education often fell back into the skills and drills category. So where did it come from? Did I have some kind of epiphany? No, my brain doesn’t work like that. It’s a beaten beast that acquires knowledge from hard work and aggressive determination. If some kind of holy evangelic light did appear, it would wonder where the hell it came from and whether or not a glare was a trustworthy source of information.

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