With fingers each as thick as a bratwurst he awkwardly typed using his index fingers. The sound of keys being punched was enough to elicit stares.
"Shh, we're trying to study over here," I reminded my fellow classmate.
Rick peered up from his laptop to see Navy ROTC Midshipmen Jamison standing by his table. "Sorry, man, I'm emailing my rep about my Montgomery GI Bill payment. I'm sick and tired of this stalemate."
"I feel you," commented Jamison as he pulled out a chair and sat opposite the Marine Corps veteran. "Last week's training event was put on hold. Don't know if I'll get my NROTC stipend or not. The support staff has been furloughed."
"After 16 years in the Corps, I'm glad to be out," Rick drawled. "But, this wait and see crap is hurting all of us."
"Instead of emailing the military tuition assistance program, you need to email your elected officials," Jamison said. "We, the people deserve better than this."
if i ran,would you run with me?
leave everything behind just for the night
so that maybe we could just be
Because the city lights are far too bright
and i can hardly sleep
My bloods gotten colder
so would you please take the leap
and give me your shoulder
for a night we can do it like we do
Sunlight dances on her face and the shade fights for her attention, the concrete lifts into a smile when she delights it with every delicate step, she breaths out the sensation of eating ice-cream in the summer and she breaths in the wounds and the scars of everyone around her. Smile bright but her eyes are faded to grey, skin flawless but her cheeks have hollowed inwards, her footsteps grow heavy as the ground shakes beneath her, the shadows creep up her neck as the pavement drags her to the ground. Enduring the agony of breathing in took away the sunlights daughter to the shadows
No comprehension came from the white eyes before me. But it was not that hard to grasp. It was as simple as a green ghost floating out of the blades of grass as we inhale them, or as the subtle chimes one can listen to as butterflies rise and fall through porcelain pirouettes, and leave the air with the shape and color of a Han masterpiece. Nonetheless, the bears will not sleep until my umbrella can cover them all. But it is so small, the aluminum skeleton of a spider. Dead spider and crying flea, jumping through the cracks of my darkened wall, burnt by incense and cigarettes. Pale blue light remains through my fingers as I try to guess the screams of your figure under these cold, soft silk robes. it will fall and whistle towards the floor. But your body will always stay still, my young marble soul.
An intellectual party must never miss two things. First, communist propoaganda. Second, paintings. Violent paintings, traces that can be seen, like the marks a whale leaves over the water. Night will never fall if we can see the oil of the stars and feel the waves of the dying sea, the blood of the Saint Sebastian in pain, or the skin of the ronin who burns in his armor. The people will laugh for a while, talk about how art is bourgeois an discuss Breton's radical absurdism. They will always miss a few points about color in the middle of their exquisite corpses, and will struggle not to notice how they all have the same baroque and needlessly showy style. That is no style. It is as stylish as the complex tunnels ants build, when they have enough space to live and simply want to keep invaders thinking. The smart ones should fill the holes with silver and copper. Then they would unearth the blazing bush Moses saw when he fled the void within.