The Lexicon Artists

a splatter of empty chairs   outpace a pattern of voided steps hands hold up my head up           hold up a gaggle of gasps               grasping oily, unwashed hair I want to outpace it all      all the tremored sighs      all the wash-cloth stares      all the hands silent                 outpace the fuck of it all

Here are the three picks that AJ selected from last month's blogathon.  Enjoy: 1.  Scald   It all happened in one second.  I was getting my strainer ready to drain the pasta when the pot slipped and I got a good splash of near-boiling water on my left hand.  Funny thing is that it took me a few seconds to realize what had just happened, but once my mind wrapped itself around the pain, I immediately ran my hand under cold water.     Once I had dinner ready for Helene, I put my hand in a bowl of cool water (after reading that it was not good to ice the hand as it hinders the flow of blood).  The burn was not too bad as long as I kept it in water, but the moment I pulled it out of the water the pain kicked in.   Helene looked up from her dinner and asked, "daddy, are you going to lose your hand?"   "No, love, it'll hurt for a few days then heal up," I replied.   "Oh, if you had lost it, you could have gotten a hook like Captain Hook."

[In my Creative Writing 2 class, I had students do the Jim Simmerman's 21 Little Projects activity in class.  As they were writing, I decided to jump in and write with them.  Here's what I came up with.] folded an avalanche of angles numb to the glue smelling of shimmering shivers Betty Davis in blue unwrapped blaring over a speaker ¿Sak pase? Mailed under the table "Because he did" Sloppy brick of acceptance laying a disjointed foundation Betty Davis in blue overalls "Vitico no oye" "You're going to get lost in that mess again." squelchy pen mark ergo: all barks are just ripples "N'ap boule" the paper reclines and naps lulled by its lupine ways

Zombie Haiku 1 Crimson leaves flutter rotting flesh still walks on earth our autumn begins Zombie Haiku 2 Atlanta at dusk Their empty moans fill the streets Can't wait til winter

Press The fire burned more than anything she had ever seen, more than anything she had ever felt for him.  The metal in the aluminum barrel pinged and clanged as she tossed another book in.  She started with his collection of classics, offering Homer, Virgil, and Ovid to the flames.  How he loved his books.  He once told her that he could only ever really trust words.  She should have read more into this statement.  She leafs through Dante before tossing it into the miniature inferno.  Looking at the simple ring on her finger, she thinks of how strange it will feel not wearing it, how the pale white band of skin will eventually be fed by the sun and tan.  She grabs the Chaucer and Shakespeare and throws them into the old metal container.  As dusk settles in, she knows that he will be home soon, so she speeds up the pace, fueling the flames with Cervantes and Quiroga, with Garcia Marquez and Voltaire, with Delillo and Proust, with as many as she can.  How did he feel a