Month: February, 2011

response to “sure” by arlene tribbia

Men will come and go. They’ve persuaded me into tugs with simple phrases. So simple how could one argue,


But arguing is my secret desire, to win or not, to add “ahhs” to the end of words for the sake of emphatic feeling, to prove the point of fire in my bones.

I have a brother who understands the boiling temperature of iron, sure, but surely not the boiling temperature of my brain, or his own.

The only man who will never leave me.

I used to cross the street with no abandon, say to be taken from this world is an injustice built for a parallel universe.

Then, as he teetered on the edge of those universes, and I scribbled my family’s last will of invincibility, donating it to those who are not quite so strong as us, this is when I pretend to give up the requirement that he never leave me.

Sure, his leg twitched when I felt his strong feet.


We are still uncertain of which realities to trust.

Nothing is for sure.

After ski and the reality of snow

Written at least three times before this point in the near closing night, I still have to confirm the exact date: February 22nd. Filtering so much through my mind has absolutely taken a hold of my energy levels, as I feed on the waves of the air which encircle me.  The peeking sun is savored like my once a month [week] [day] Lindor Truffle, bought for me by a pulsing little affair. He has been my forward thinking, my release from rigidity, deviations from and imitations of backwards design [somewhere felt before?]. My pen has run out. Pens cannot last forever, very little can. One man has constructed an emblem of the future, larger than any of us (as most of the future tends to be) which is made of rocks that at a certain moment sometime will turn into one another, a result of the ticking clock. Perhaps the sun will eat them first, but they are schedules to converse on the intertwining of things a year incomprehensible.

Now comes bodies. Who are we to perform the task of these time machine rocks. The ability to stay two solids while pressing harder towards the center is to live for, more than the machine at attractions which turns pennies into the Our Father and the Great White Tiger.

We cannot press so hard as crank and copper, so feeling inklings of thoughts fall upon the tongues held out to catch them will take the sidecar.