tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61662114861479066252012-02-13T01:17:02.394+01:00Entradas con "Translation" disponen de versión castellana.kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.comBlogger501100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-70811798433733474752012-01-16T19:29:00.000+01:002012-01-16T19:29:55.170+01:00

Electric Literature's year-end challenge: write a 30 to 300 word story without using any word twice. Here are the winners:  http://electricliterature.com/blog/2012/01/10/winners-holiday-restraint-contest/ (not me).  Head First During this third sleepless night, Roy stumbles toward oblivion, ineptly processing black, angry thoughts on Jack Daniel's white-water-rapids ride through addled

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-72656237432891866192011-12-01T19:03:00.000+01:002011-12-01T19:15:38.248+01:00

The Widow             “I can’t make any promises,” he said, leaning in to kiss her tentatively, unexpectedly.             “Because your wife?” she asked. Longing clouded her thoughts.             “She doesn’t want me to leave,” he said. His mouth on her neck like a hickey made her gasp.             “And your girlfriend?” The girlfriend was dust. His lips were hedonists pursuing her.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-31957911116492539822011-11-11T23:11:00.000+01:002011-11-13T00:47:57.536+01:00

I read, feeding the books to the armchair, page by page. #11words on Twitter Happy Birthday, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-25287636862306678572011-11-04T01:36:00.000+01:002011-11-04T01:36:28.237+01:00

Vacilé a orillas de la Nada, ante ese devastador sabor a deseo. Al índigo del alba me rendí. @KymmInBarcelona [Uno entre 100 tweets seleccionados en el concurso Tweek de @hipermedula 3/11/2011] http://hipermedula.org/2011/11/manana-se-conocera-al-ganador-de-tweek/ It started out as this, for #soatale: She hovered on the brink of oblivion. That taste of desire was his undoing. She clasped him

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-29159267155619709872011-09-25T19:33:00.001+02:002011-09-25T19:33:34.794+02:00

[NPR 3-Minute Fiction, round 7]    Folding attic stairs had been pulled down from the ceiling so the heavy boxes could be pushed up them one by one, then shoved across the floorboards to form a shelf against the western slope of the roof. The boxes, uniform light-brown rectangles with the weight distributed evenly among them, were full of books, but also of photo albums (the missing photos

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-52798510664024055572011-08-31T20:19:00.002+02:002011-08-31T20:19:56.097+02:00

460-character post for Three Minute Fiction warmup If Bridget’s life had been a work of fiction, she could have put someone with a lesser sense of irony in charge of plot, and she would have awarded the main character a more clever disposition. If only she had been given a minute before the staging was set, she might have formulated with greater clarity and precision those three fateful wishes.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-76551142080458547822011-07-13T20:12:00.000+02:002011-07-13T20:12:56.225+02:00

Nina Simone but also Billie Holiday sing a terrible song, Strange Fruit, as accompaniment to a grown man’s recollection of loquat trees rising up out of a church courtyard, their branches reaching out to him in his state of adolescent mothermourning and masturbation. The discussion is about loquats, and the image in my mind is of the honeysweet fruit I was eating from the potted trees on my

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-16735831688090410922011-07-04T00:17:00.000+02:002011-07-04T00:17:52.021+02:00

II premi Picasso en LletrA http://www.blogmuseupicassobcn.org/2011/06/les-obres-de-picasso-narrades-per/ The inaugural Easter Week visit was at its more lighthearted end still when they made a pilgrimage to the Picasso Museum. Carol took the baby in the lightweight stroller that could more easily be hefted up stairs; she knew the visiting Mother would not approve of strangers grabbing one

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-13315009615638735812011-04-22T13:59:00.001+02:002011-04-22T14:02:27.609+02:00

Había preparado el maletín empleando una lista mental que detallaba todo lo que pensaba no incluir. Desesperanza. El cepillo de dientes de él. La añoranza. Anticonceptivos. Impaciencia. Al sacar el pijama y dejarlo en la litera inferior, la que quedaba entre la mujer del mejor amigo y su favorita de las antiguas compañeras de clase, intentó recordar algún chiste que pudiera contar durante la cena

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-38385741080500787902011-03-27T23:05:00.001+02:002011-03-27T23:07:17.614+02:00

Inspiró un lustro de rosas rojas, hinchándose trágicamente, y desapareció entre las nubes del desfiladero un domingo de junio.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-36309556538029910532011-01-23T23:20:00.001+01:002011-01-23T23:25:43.911+01:00

She had packed the overnight bag using a mental checklist of all she meant to leave behind. Despair. His toothbrush. Longing. Birth control. Impatience. As she unpacked her pajamas and laid them on the bottom bunk, the one between his best friend’s wife and her favorite of his female classmates, she tried to think of a joke to tell at the anniversary supper. Her daughter leaned down from the top

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-29983191991956295262010-12-29T20:14:00.003+01:002011-01-23T23:26:45.357+01:00

The landlady stepped carefully around the puddles on the dirt road as she lead the granddaughter by the hand. “Be careful not to muddy your school shoes,” she said. The sensible black shoes were worn over dark blue wool socks, each pulled to precisely the same height just below the knee. “Where are we going, grandmother?” Never before had the child accompanied the old

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-11806848291344508672010-09-29T01:15:00.002+02:002010-09-29T01:24:11.006+02:00

(NPR 3-minute fiction: 600 words max., first and last lines given by Michael Cunningham)26 Bryant Park PlaceSome people swore that the house was haunted.Many people, being oblivious or contemptuous of the consequences, are given to swearing about anything; yet not one person on the street could provide concrete evidence or personal experience to bolster this claim. The only one who might have

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-12922644624503436142010-07-27T15:11:00.001+02:002010-07-27T15:14:42.243+02:00

A las tres de la mañana despiertan a la viuda una tercera picada y un zumbido en el oído. Sabe que nadie va a prender la luz y dar caza al mosquito. Sabe que nadie irá al día siguiente a encargar maderas y tela mosquitera con las medidas exactas de las ventanas. Pero lo que más sabe es que tampoco volverá nadie a la cama, entre matar el mosquito y encargar las maderas, con otro tipo de zumbido,

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-64560852323604130802010-04-13T19:41:00.003+02:002010-04-13T20:02:33.170+02:00

Mom swears it was the one and only time she was ever late meeting Papa. I find that hard to believe -Mom was always yelling that I was going to be late for school, then used to keep me waiting for her to go back up for an umbrella or the phone or her purse. (I’m just like Papa, always exactly on time.) Now I understand that she meant it was the only time she was carelessly late. She claims it's

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-45627232813771738352009-12-03T01:03:00.005+01:002009-12-03T01:18:29.229+01:00

The Other Kid My parents fell in love on their first date, and it wasn’t even a date. It was like they were in love before they met, but had to be pushed up together a few times before they realized it. It’s hard for me to imagine them together, and it used to drive me crazy that I hadn’t been born yet, that Tata was already there although she wasn’t even Papa’s kid. I never saw the

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-22834690964131903332009-10-29T23:07:00.006+01:002009-10-30T16:18:33.948+01:00

Fucking StairsPigheadedness may well be the cause, but the one thing I do not feel is regret. Often I feel angry. Sadness I commune with daily. Lonely is my middle name. Regret? That is probably for the less pigheaded, those who leave room for doubt, attrition and fresh starts. I, in my pigheadedness, admit unapologetically to none of these. My doubts are more along the lines of what to make for

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-40974065909356647942009-04-14T22:25:00.007+02:002009-07-17T20:01:11.564+02:00

…And there, there overhead, there, there hung overThose thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,There in the sudden blackness the black pallOf nothing, nothing, nothing --- nothing at all.- Archibald MacLeish (from The End of the World, 1928)You go once a week to tai chi class and send your weight

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-80100345993401766122009-03-28T23:22:00.004+01:002009-04-07T14:36:42.444+02:00

Every little girl believes she is royalty misplaced, and even after she grows up she never really shakes off the feeling that somewhere out there is a prince and a castle with her name on them. This particular princess was not only misplaced, she also carried with her a small child and a string of alliances that had brought her before the sacrificial altar of resentment. On the brink of absolute

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-64406169591105483152009-03-05T23:55:00.002+01:002009-03-06T00:03:07.392+01:00

Breezy is the way you want to keep it when you move in for the kill. He did call, even if it was on official business, so the opportunity presents itself and you take it: I’m in town on Friday, how about lunch? You have to hold your breath a bit, which makes everything that much less breezy, but he doesn’t wait too many beats before saying, Great, see you Friday. You do not, repeat, do not jump

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-18215975494333994352009-02-27T02:00:00.003+01:002009-03-06T00:00:08.069+01:00

Instinct is what makes you go out on the prowl when the March wind warms up and then dies down to make way for Spring and her possibilities. The prowl does not necessarily mean skulking around in alleyways waiting to jump the first available set of bones that ambles by, as it can also mean staking out the one set of bones that something way down deep inside tells you is going to be worth whatever

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-54524390641773653982009-02-12T23:43:00.005+01:002009-02-15T22:54:41.324+01:00

Her fatal flaw shows nothing triteShe is not proud, nor always rightShe does not need to have her wayNor does she want to have her sayAnd yet she is closed-up, uptightShe snorts and grinds her teeth at nightand thinks grim thoughts of waste and blightnot knowing how to send awayHer fatal flawIt plagues her, morning, noon and nightThere is no respite from her plightProcrastination fills her dayIt

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-42876382812944637622009-01-26T23:32:00.002+01:002009-01-26T23:35:29.722+01:00

They meet: two fragile, ungainly strangers who have in common complexions that are pale. One is tall and rail-thin, almost ephemeral. The other is big-boned and fills up her allotted space. When these strangers meet, they look hard and long into each others’ eyes – one set hazel and the other green – searching for whatever it is that they have recognized in each other. They are familiar. There is

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-3785027898018042312009-01-15T19:22:00.001+01:002009-01-15T19:25:20.763+01:00

Driving the car to the airport in the predawn non-light with Dad at my side saying how nice it was to be here, I tick off the check list of things not done, primary of which is the talk we always have. Dad says, “we never got around to the heart-to-heart we always seem to have” and I say, “that’s what I was just thinking”. I say, “I never got to grill you about financial

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-81523601935972715392008-12-11T23:35:00.001+01:002008-12-11T23:37:51.589+01:00

Waking up as a widow is similar to waking up married, except when you stretch your foot over onto his side of the bed, you meet no resistance. It is completely dissimilar to waking up divorced or single, where all sides are your side of the bed. Bereavement is similar to the frustration of having misplaced an out-of-print novel you left off at page 264, especially in the way you keep

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-66504224520401593702008-12-04T23:56:00.007+01:002008-12-06T00:07:25.662+01:00

Grammy was the exotic one, the first generation American, the one with the secretive past. She taught us how to swear in Italian without telling us what it meant, thereby outwitting the Catholic guilt she had renounced in favor of her upstanding Protestant home. She told us she used to sing all the popular Italian songs –we begged her to sing O Sole Mio- but that Mom the kid would roll her eyes

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-4004525434055996762008-11-27T16:06:00.007+01:002008-11-28T15:21:52.288+01:00

Hay un hombre, seguro que le has visto, que anda por allí con una camisa naranja algo desataviada. Vive como despeinado, al borde de una apoplejía, tanto que se le ha vuelto verdosa la tez. Lo que no puedes saber es cómo llegó a estar allí parado bajo una nube revuelta, deshilachada, como anudada, que le quita hasta las ideas.El pobre iba por la calle un buen día, tan tranquilo, sin molestar a

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-47848492129827428342008-11-20T23:48:00.002+01:002008-11-21T23:08:46.638+01:00

Despite stepping optimistically into the shower, Karen was immediately disappointed. She’d been focussed on the decorating aspect of the missing shower curtain, and had entirely forgotten that it also served to keep water inside the shower area and, more importantly, off the bathroom floor. There would be no head-soaking, water-massaging shower such as she had anticipated. Relegated to

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-30829099208211362802008-11-13T23:37:00.003+01:002008-11-13T23:42:08.178+01:00

Wise is choosing to bite your tongue rather than speak your mindwhen no one is listening anyway.Es de sabios elegir morderte la lengua antes que decir lo que piensascuando de todas formas nadie te está escuchando.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-68986483870734911222008-11-06T23:59:00.004+01:002008-11-07T14:45:48.625+01:00

Vacant is the place the tip of my tongue constantly seeks out, the ragged hole that is so much deeper than seems necessary or possible to exist at the end of the row of molars on the right side of my mouth, up near where my tongue scratches when I’m about to get a cold, where it can almost feel sometimes like I’ll gag or puke if I keep at it, but I keep at it.My wisdom tooth was there. It was the

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-53735412934409887502008-10-30T23:59:00.005+01:002008-11-03T11:15:40.385+01:00

CHILD REPAIR MANUALFemale Model, “Classic” make (15-25 yrs.)Part IV - Inner MechanismsAlways take care when handling damaged or broken children.Spare parts are not available and replacement cannot be guaranteed. Before undertaking any repairs, please check the child to make sure it has proper feed and lube. Give it a thorough cleaning before visual inspection. WARNING:AN OVERHEATED CHILD CAN

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-16161055143410915172008-10-24T02:38:00.005+02:002008-10-24T23:43:55.334+02:00

The lesson here, I say to myself, head spinning and gut churning from a bad mix of cocktails and embarrassment, is that you can’t go home again.I’ve thrown myself across the bed, wondering how a simple evening out could end up being such an ungodly waste of time. Even worse, never having had a reputation for anything, I feel like mine’s been ruined in so many shades of gray that I will never rise

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-63281960788543469242008-10-17T00:08:00.003+02:002008-10-17T00:47:53.976+02:00

It is hard to keep the edges of my life from fraying. When the edges begin to fray, that can only lead to unravelling and breaking, like the strings I weave through the broken spots in the bamboo that shades the terrace and which the wind chastizes and leaves frayed and broken, like the strings that I replace almost always at the very last minute, until at last the bamboo itself must be replaced.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-7020953485749899252008-10-07T19:41:00.001+02:002008-10-07T19:44:37.207+02:00

Mirad el ochotumbado, infinitoen lontananza

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-32651424653144486262008-10-02T23:42:00.001+02:002008-10-03T02:15:32.173+02:00

A suitcase isn't difficult to fill. Knowledge of certain facts are required - destination, duration and season - and certain abilities are handy - placing bubble-wrapped breakables in the middle and shoes sole-side out in the corners. Yet when venturing out into the world -summer camp, college or a home of one's own- it would seem more expedient to pack intangibles. Forethought, hindsight, a

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-24492452405468036482008-09-25T01:08:00.003+02:002008-09-29T22:47:06.847+02:00

Culled from depths I heldlong forgotten, thorns appear toinsinuate themselves,questioning my sense of selfuntil that schoolgirl hurtendured, not overcome, returns.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-50768678784815516862008-09-18T23:36:00.003+02:002008-09-19T00:44:24.601+02:00

IslandHad I ever thought of the words island and us, there would have been beaches and streams, lush woods and tiny, hidden coves, a bungalow in a climate that was never harsh. We would have picked fruit from the trees, and prepared roasts over a fire in the sand. We would have worn light clothing that parted with a breath of air, and we would have gone barefoot, always. Caresses would have been

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-388980685271326732008-09-11T23:59:00.005+02:002008-09-29T23:00:02.194+02:00

There is no tabula rasa.Even in the womb you hear voices that as a newborn you later recognize. The voices acquire faces, forms and gestures to become Mom, Dad and Uncle Joe. There might even be a great-grandmother who hangs around just long enough to bounce you on her wrinkled knee before turning into an old photograph in a stuffy frame at Uncle Joe’s house. Old-lady babysitters (Mom won’t trust

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-80157580188853296012008-09-04T23:49:00.003+02:002008-09-18T23:49:25.222+02:00

Memories don’t get parking ticketsand they don’t play music you hate after a long day at work.Memories don’t leave the toilet seat upand they don’t snore.Memories don’t make you walk all the way home after the late showrather than hail a cab.Memories make saints and martyrsbut not great disciplinarians.Memories don’t give in and buy the playstation you refused, but neither do they haul anyone up

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-78286532348492215042008-08-21T23:47:00.001+02:002008-08-21T23:48:37.596+02:00

willow-nested dovewhen to let the broken branchdetach and fly off

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-53458869357076885442008-07-25T00:21:00.004+02:002008-09-18T23:50:14.138+02:00

I read to you while you sat before your tray, chewing determinedly at the leg of chicken while I carefully, lingeringly, just short of happily narrated the story of Macondo and the Buendía family. Almost always someone would come in before you were done and I would fold the book around my right index finger in the vain hope that they would hold up in the doorway, smile and back out to let you

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-89435121100318726292008-07-18T00:12:00.004+02:002008-09-02T14:27:55.521+02:00

Summer in a beach town in New England is the epitome of freedom. Long days spent biking to the beach or the harbor or to the bridge over the creek the next town over run into long evenings that are never called nights because then it would be bedtime, even for a precocious twelve-year-old. But where summer vacation is freedom, family vacation is something else entirely. Primarily, of course, the

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-9326582234273906172008-07-10T23:21:00.002+02:002008-07-10T23:44:52.079+02:00

Thin lips, painted an orange-tinged red, stretch to near oblivion before they begin their slow puckering. They pucker in, not up, and the eyes droop down, mated in disapproval.A storm has gathered. More like a squall. Guileless you in your metaphorical boat have not correctly calibrated the gathering cloud cover, and if you don’t just drop the sail and ride it out, you will be tossed and sprayed

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-6555997323687178422008-07-03T22:43:00.004+02:002008-09-18T23:50:54.385+02:00

He took my hand, leading me around the cups of beer, the elbows and knees beneath the fireworks and symphonic bursts of the pyrotechnical show at Montjüic fountain, and I would have gladly had our knuckles weld. I wanted to loose my hair in wisps of grape-vine tendrils when, later, he stretched his left arm out under my pillow.He used to say that he was the one who gave the final push when Julia

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-9183998279137235572008-06-26T23:44:00.001+02:002008-06-26T23:46:00.196+02:00

Hermione had a sharp sword,Once admired as part of a hoard.A sword, as a friend,Remains hard to defend.Dare not cross it, lest you, too, are gored.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-68054392040467460192008-06-19T23:21:00.004+02:002008-06-19T23:32:44.834+02:00

Judy sat at the top of the attic steps beside a battered old actor’s trunk, out of which spilled many colorful hats. Punch was pulling them out hand over fist, tossing them behind him with hardly a glance. A floppy, celestial blue bridesmaid’s hat caught his attention. He held it aloft as sparkly motes of dust settled along its wide brim.“Try this one on, Judy,” he said abruptly. “Maybe someone

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-20411765160828306592008-06-12T23:35:00.000+02:002008-06-12T23:47:59.099+02:00

II've been gutted.Heart, soul, guts ripped out, forgottenin the gutter.Worse yet, I'veforgotten what they feel like.Heart, soul, guts.II An absence of painAs though the wound had been healedForgotten no more.IIIA vortex is what it ends up feeling like, although in the beginning it is barely a crack, a leak, a trickle. It seems to take a very long time to begin, but once you’ve noticed it, the

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-51117612149497451832008-06-06T00:16:00.000+02:002008-06-06T00:20:17.569+02:00

Rain held forth in the jungleUnder the banana leaves,Below the persistent ferns.Bedlam seemed a more perfect answer to theEndless dripping against theRubber plants.Broken fronds lay in ruinsAcross the path laid outBy the baby elephant that ranYelping after its mother.Bogus mining carts wheeled alongUgly logging roads in the softGolden light of morning like old-fashioned buggiesGuided by

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-81875321499370380712008-05-29T23:32:00.000+02:002008-05-29T23:42:50.900+02:00

The PhotoYour cheek pressed to mineSmiling. Oh, how we did smile.No need to worry.FurryA flurryof worriestook the curryby surreyto the Murray'sin a hurry.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6166211486147906625.post-6773235709828303542008-05-23T00:33:00.000+02:002008-05-23T00:44:55.934+02:00

You filled up a roomUnhollow and unnarrowYet, uneternal.

kymmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18277722091216771412noreply@blogger.com0