Lunchtime

Sometimes,
on rainy Tuesdays,
when the sun deserts the earth
and all that is left of joy
resides in an empty kitchen,
unused and unloved
for as long as an un-lifetime,
I remember you
as you were
here.

Or,
on jovial Saturdays,
you still play your father’s records
loud enough to wake me
and the dead
before noon comes.

And I still yawn and grouse
as I watch you hum and sing,
dancing and smiling
for Miles.

And,
on these days,
you still talk to me
and we still argue.
You still love me and still laugh.
You still cook
and

you still eat
away
at me.

-Raphael Armand

The Library

From time to time I'll post some of my writing. Short stories. Poetry.
Much of it stuff I'm still working on. I put it out for the sake of input and constructive criticisms, so feel free to comment.

Here's a piece I just came across. I think I wrote it when I was supposed to be studying for something or other.

"The Library"

It’s an upturned cheek that kills me.
That hurts and steels.
Presses my ass into the seat.
My feet grab, desperately, the firmament.
I keep from falling.

The crimson carpet starts beneath me,
extending infinitely away.
Dozens of computers, meter evenly about,
while quietly humming their anthems.
Crisp-quiet sentinels.
They frenzy into the cyber-vast,
With stillness.

Three little robots spew artificial life from their jaws.
Printed pages for lifeless lives
Fitfully stationed in front of their drones.
The room winks and puzzles in constant spurts,
Bordering on regularity, on organism.

My breath is here, too.

My body plays just
As still and lifeless as the rest
While beneath my skin flex muscles and corpuscles.
Tics of nerve and elation alternate
With pulls and tugs of stress,
Of release,
Of hurt so good.

My heart beats.

The walls tell the story.
The ebb of life is bounded
In 'lefts' and 'leaves'.
The mere hint of blush colors its white,
Running out towards a horizon
hidden by the oblique.
It too blushes.
It too keeps flow close.

And there she is killing me
With upturned cheeks.

-Raphael Armand