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About Literature / Student JamesMale/United States Group :iconhearts-of-literature: Hearts-of-literature
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Deviant for 5 Years
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What did I tell you in 2007?
The celebration of time together now done,
Bent on leaving, unwilling to stay,
Behind your childish eyes.
I told you not to go.
Rhetoric patriotic riotic feud poured
From a hormone-fueled mouth,
As you promised me, the tree,
    our class, king country, and God
That you would return safely.
You promised us you would not die.
I reasoned with you, I begged you,
But you went anyway.
Maybe it was the figure you cut
    in uniform,
Maybe it was the red blood blood-red
    rhetoric already half false,
Maybe it was a mind half rotted,
    finally cracking under the pressure of a constant assault of rot,
Maybe it was the devil-deal blood money,
    for college, pickups, meth-weed, bad medicine and worse pensions.
But whatever the calling, you went.
I stayed.
We waited.
You stayed.
You waited.
Promises re
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Lemur Time by WordsOfThunder Lemur Time :iconwordsofthunder:WordsOfThunder 1 0 Childhood Mountain by WordsOfThunder Childhood Mountain :iconwordsofthunder:WordsOfThunder 2 2 Beauty by WordsOfThunder Beauty :iconwordsofthunder:WordsOfThunder 1 3 The Vortex by WordsOfThunder The Vortex :iconwordsofthunder:WordsOfThunder 0 0 New DevID by WordsOfThunder New DevID :iconwordsofthunder:WordsOfThunder 2 23
I've Been Reading a Bit Too Much Sherman Alexie
God, I've been reading
too much Sherman Alexie.
I approach the counter with a
"Ya-Hey" for the young teller
who looks at me as if I
were speaking Cantonese
or Korean.
I won't say Spanish; if I said
"Hola," she'd be the first to
ask me about my day
my job
my family.
She'd be the first to catch me
in that particular lie:
I do not speak Spanish.
God, I've been reading
too much Sherman Alexie.
At the gas station, watching
possibly the world's most
overpriced commodity drain my
pockets, a fancy-old Honda –
accessories worth more than the car –
takes the pump's backside.
There's a brotha behind the wheel
now draining his pockets;
I strike up a conversation
about cold air intakes
and exhaust.
And suddenly, an "ennit?" slips out
punctuating the end of a sentence
and his face changes. I'm not
mocking him, but he thinks
his friend thinks
his three loitering brothas think
that I am, and that's all that matters.
God, I've been reading
too much Sherman Alexie.
My faher s
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Never read your Frost,
Naked, nude for all to see.
You might get a Frostbite
You won't enjoy.
For Frost, a master of words
Cold as fire and warm as ice,
Has a power to freeze the naked
Soul, not bones
And petrify your very mind.
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In 1996, Deep Blue beat Kasparov, The Unabomber was arrested, and I was preparing to graduate high school and go on to Texas A&M when I received a phone call at three in the afternoon as my school was letting out. In the school office, my father told me what, at the time, was the worst news I had received in my young life: Jerry Carson had died.
Jerry Carson was my oldest friend. To this day, I have no idea where he and my father met, only that they did and that one of my earliest memories was of Jerry Carson and myself watching some old Western movie on the couch on the fuzzy old TV in 1981. He'd drift in and out of my memories for the next decade, always reappearing eventually until that day in early May of 1996, when I found myself standing over his simple coffin at a funeral attended by all of sixteen people: me, my father, my girlfriend, two bartenders, the pastor, seven other positively ancient men, and a three-man detachment from the Red River Army Depot there for the salute.
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This Is Baseball
There's something magical about baseball. The daylight dramas played out under the all-seeing sun – he's a baseball fan too – sitting behind home, down 3rd, by the right field foul pole, in the left-field bleachers. There's a rhythm to the game on the field and the fans in the stands and the umpire and the hot dog hawkers and the mascot cavorting like a lunatic. It's a festival, a carnival, a celebration of everything that makes America great.
Baseball is faith. Any Cubs fan can tell you that. But the faith of baseball transcends the wish in vain for a World Series or NL Pennant. Those hopes are reserved for sour old men who have lost the faith of baseball, or perhaps they never had it. Even worse than these are the men who live for the magic numbers. They've lost the faith, living for one more run, one more RBI, one more win. Baseball is the faith of taking off from third to home on the hope of a wild pitch or catching a sleeping catcher, of waving a foul ball fair, of prayi
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Main and 3rd
I like to sit at the corner of Main and 3rd Street and just watch the people. You can learn a lot by just watching how people act. They don't know that I do it, but I watch them all the time. Certain people I see daily. Others I see only once. Some I never see, like George Bush or the other men in the news. I never see them. Who knows? Maybe they don't exist in my world at Main and 3rd.
The sun rises over the Hasell Building every day, almost as if it lives there like Dr. Green. Dr. Green rises every day at six in the morning. Sometimes, he beats the sun over the building, sometimes he doesn't. I know he gets up this early because his apartment light always comes on at six, and he's downstairs by six-thirty. He tips Barry, the doorman at the Hasell building and keeps moving. I wonder what he does with his status as a doctor. It gives him a nice car, a good apartment, a nice wife (she usually stays asleep until seven,) and a pretty young girl that Dr. Green brings home while his wife is
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Cobblestones of Intentions on the Road to Destruct
     Pratfalls. Falls from grace. Destruction. Literature is filled with examples of people who went from a high place to a low place and their stories. Chaucer's Canterbury Tales contains many examples. In "The Miller's Tale," John, Absalom, and Nicholas all experience various falls. In "The Friar's Tale," the summoner experiences an immense fall. In "The Prioress's Tale," a young child and a Jewish community experience a fall. All of these examples meet the most basic definition of a fall: one character, or multiple characters, goes from a high place to a low place. But Chaucer is a master of imbuing his stories with more than the surface would show. Chaucer's stories illustrate arguments of agency in the way the characters move toward their destruction. After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and it is one's intentions that give power to an action.
     These arguments of agency develop in two directions: intention
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Until The Cows Come Home
The insanity of what men do to one another
Understood by children, underwhelmed by politicians
We grow, we live, we love, we die
Constant as sunrise, oceans and taxes
Yet in all things, we still wage war.
We all wage war, the powerful
Against the powerless, the big
Against the small.
It is what we are.
The cows observe the plows
Wings, things, or diamond rings
Chasing eternal symbiotic leaves
Leaving man to his own decrees.
Man hates himself, so much hate
Yet loves what many others may supply
So he takes, packratting it all away
For his own pleasures.
This is who we are; we cannot change
It is our fate to launch a war
To finish it all, to declare one man
A winner, one man to rule them all.
A lonely king on a lonely hill
In a lonely castle over a dead empire
Rivers running red, fields flowering ferrous
He's alone today, tomorrow will die alone
The last skeleton on an empty throne
With no men left to bury him.
Then, with all the warriors dead,
The cities gone
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There's a certain frustration
Unique to one event
With the ability to destroy
Even the most beautiful of mornings.
It's the 7 A.M. flat tire,
The means of conveyance disabled
And all the rules change.
You scramble to meet the demands of day and life
All on three wheels, almost
Like four nails on the highway of life.
But I've been a lucky man.
My flat tires always ruin days of dull grey,
Days already ruined by the mere act of leaving
The cocoon of blankets,
The warmth of a soft cotton cave,
A cave to house a hibernation.
The kind of morning not improved
By coffee or tea
(and anything else makes it worse.)
Of course it can all be fixed.
The tire, the car, the sleep.
But until the time comes
When you can return home
From the Tire Mausoleum to life beyond,
There's a metal bench or tired chair,
Dark as any tomb,
Where you can cling to the sunny days
And dream of life beyond these ways,
On Earth as it is in Heaven.
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The Dying Thoughts of Ayrton Senna
                Nada pode me separar do amor de Deus
The hand of God lifts me
As the genius of man fails.
I am carried
Lower than I expected.
A single bar, so perfect in its
Engineering one year ago.
Again, the technology robs me
Although the irony is hard to appreciate here.
The voice of God greets me
As I slump in my chair in front of the world.
Brazil is watching me
Brazil is watching me
Rubens Barrichello is watching me
Michael Schumacher is watching me.
Alain Proust is watching me
He should have been the one to kill me.
Or has he, in a way
Or is this a product of my own hubris?
The hands of men lift me
And I am stripped.
The car can no longer be pushed
To its limit: I have found it.
The helmet is a trapping of a driver:
I have no need of it.
Where I am going, I have no fear of fires
So I do not miss the fireproof suit.
Sir Watkins, cherish our memory
As I have cherished our friendship.
My breath
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All The Time In The World
                                                              "Had we but world enough and time…"
"It's 11:19 here in Denver, Colorado, and the party's still going strong!" a television downstairs blared, recounting the various New Year's parties from around the world. In that same Denver home, a grandfather clock hammered out the seconds in the front hallway: 51… 52… 53… Chicago and Dallas had celebrated the new year 19 minutes ago, so the eyes of the world were on Denver, Colorado; Juarez, Mexico; and Edmonton, Canada. The celebration of the new year is one most people associate with life, but this particular year, Carrie and Carl were celebrating death, unawa
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Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I used to be here. Now I'm back. I write poetry, short stories, and academic essays. Enjoy.

I'm hoping to post at least a poem a week, and at least one essay and short story a month.
So apparently, I've been away from DA for too long. Two interesting things.

First, I had a pair of essays published. It's a new journal, so they're still getting going, but I did get published. You can read both papers by searching for The Phoenix Papers on Google.

Although my position as a graduate student pretty much requires me to seek publication, I think anyone currently in school, or with an interest in academia, should be looking to be published. The Phoenix Papers is a great journal, and they keep a rolling Call For Papers up at all times. So, you should submit if your work fits the call for papers. Even if its just a class essay, you've got nothing to lose by submitting. And even if you don't submit to a journal, post your essays here. Most people don't usually think that student essays are valuable academic sources, but they are.

And in other news, I got a Daily Deviation. Wasn't expecting that, but I want to say thanks to all my new watchers, and thanks for all the kind words. I'll start posting some new stuff for you guys!



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magic6jewls Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2013  Student Writer
Thanks for the watch! 
WordsOfThunder Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2013  Student Writer
You're welcome!
pomohippie7 Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012   Writer
Thank you very much for the watch! :)
WordsOfThunder Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012  Student Writer
You're welcome
Concora Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012   Writer
Thank you for the watch! :)
WordsOfThunder Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2012  Student Writer
You're welcome.
Hfeather53 Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you kindly for the watch.
WordsOfThunder Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2012  Student Writer
You're welcome.
Hfeather53 Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
TristanCody Featured By Owner Sep 19, 2012  Student Writer
Happy Birthday, Sir!
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