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Literature
Reflections
                                                                A Boy
                                             Who breaks               Who breathes
                          Into a thousand slices of       
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Sullen Prayers by SlippingHalo Sullen Prayers :iconslippinghalo:SlippingHalo 3 9 Beggar 3 by SlippingHalo Beggar 3 :iconslippinghalo:SlippingHalo 4 3 Wheels 5 by SlippingHalo Wheels 5 :iconslippinghalo:SlippingHalo 2 3
Literature
Lull the Lily
Autumn wind, like apparitions
Haunting the messes that we've made
Leaves tinged red with violence
Dulled brown with deadness
Rustle and scatter in the wake of earth's breath
So sleep the beauty and cull the song
Bring rises to the ground with the pulling of the young
We tread so loudly we can't hear the weeping
The grunt of the horizon as it seeps endlessly into the sky
Winter
Cold and coy and slow like progress
Holds an icy grip on the throat of the fall
It's colder in our houses than in the world we've made
And we know.
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Literature
A Dollar
"Happy face or sad face?"
A blurry lunch lady impatiently hovers over me. Dirty blond curls ripple up and away from her scalp, making a half halo around her head. In her latex-gloved hand is a long red plastic bottle filled with ketchup. She points its snout just over my hamburger and waits for my answer.
I pause for a moment before I reply, mulling it over as though my decision will significantly change the way the food will taste. Then, as though it came to me as a vision from on high, my head darts up from looking at my lunch tray and I shout at her.
"Happy face!"
She nods and squeezes ketchup out of the red plastic bottle onto my burger. Just three quick movements of her arm, and suddenly there is a bright red grin on an overcooked brown face looking up at me from my lunch tray. I admire it for a few seconds before grabbing the top bun and squishing the ketchup down to spread it evenly across the meat. I take a bite and taste the smile.
My preschool was right across the street from
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Literature
Glow, Flicker, Glow
Casting waves of light and shade through a dervish of emotion
Pawning hope and faith in retrograde towards purchasing devotion
The sand stops draining through the confines of its aperture
Opens wide inviting all but smiles into its rapture
We feign and spin away the tiny details of our mixture
The wings of faults we ride onto nine clouds of restless weather
We stay
We whimper
Subtly tempt the ember
And a rush of fire sets alight the lightest of our whispers
Exposed
Enveloped in the chills of self-made winter
We see a flicker in the waking of our future
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Literature
Sow
I'll till this land 'til I become it
In ashes.
I plant rows of roses for my mother-
        A featherweight unfurling of clichés
        Wedding thorns to keep them closer

I'll sow random seeds for both my brothers-
        Mysteries unraveling under cover
        Out blooms infinity with a drop of water

And then come all the weeds to be my father-
        Drawing light to slowly suffer
        He grows and spreads from out of nowhere

Through beating sun and barren winters--through arid earth and fruitless venture
I'll till this wasteland for the future
So that my sons may know much greener pastures
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Literature
Boogiemen
It's 3 A.M. and you can't sleep 'cause the boogiemen are on the TV screen
A thousand channels, and in HD, but fear's the only frequency
You shiver, you shudder, you toss and turn under the covers
You lock the door, shut the windows and close your blinds
And then you hear a creaking in the floor
A bony finger scratching at the door
And a voice under the bed is whispering,
"Tell me is that frightening? Are you terrified yet?"
As the talking heads deliver the night news feed something's festering underneath
And then in every corner the shadows creep
Making sure you're mortified and glued to your seat
So tell me, is that frightening?
Are you terrified yet?
You won't mind your living hell because you're busy scared to death
But what should really get you petrified and pale is that the boogiemen are all just in your head
You stammer, you stutter, you can't seem to find the words to utter
You've become a slave to the shiver going up your spine
And you're so scared of what goes on outside--the
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Literature
Homeward
“I can’t see.”
She stopped abruptly, tightened her grip, and tilted her head up—eyes squinted—towards the night sky.
“Papi, no puedo ver. ¿Dónde estamos?”
I was six. We lived at 88 Wadsworth Avenue in Washington Heights, the name given to the neighborhood surrounding the George Washington Bridge in upper Manhattan, New York City. For probably two miles or more in any direction, it may as well have been called “The Little Caribbean.” The population consisted mostly of Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. Here, you could live your entire life without speaking a word of English. The supermarkets, grocery stores, restaurants, doctors, dentists, lawyers, and department stores were owned and operated by Hispanics. Even many of the signs and advertisements were in Spanish.
I had lived there for at least two years at that point, in apartment 1—right above my father’s Dental lab, which was in the basement apartment B-2. Desperately takin
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Literature
Microcasa
8:30:
I awaken to pounds and scratches. The cheap Central American labor does its job well. I can’t go back to sleep. It takes all day but when they finish the roof it’s perfect—testament to their work ethic.
Unfortunately the beams framing the house are rotting. The furniture’s collapsing. No ventilation—endless dust. Thick, musty summers, icebox winters. Something reeks like death behind the walls. Only one of our three toilets flush. By the time we get to the last thing we’ll need the first re-done.
I look at my new roof and realize this is just like voting.
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Literature
Dawns
Angels tonguing corpses
Taking Jungian shapes as they roll in their graves
Running through rivers of Freud at the end of each day
In scratches he pierces the weaves of his dreaming
Pulling scars from his shadows’ corners
Illuminating sheaths of consciousness through the mists of his disposition
Empty canvases shatter to leaves in the fall
Breezes corrupt through to ice in a storm
He becomes it all and nothing more when he treks through to dawn
And so many more will come to him when he dives in again
A forever sum of suns guides his will through his pen.
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Literature
Figure Eight
…And in a flash, I remember the racecars.
The memory was just like breathing—involuntary; taken for granted; and yet from time to time you find yourself recognizing how desperately you need it.
We lived in our little five-or-six-story walk-up somewhere between 130th and 140th Streets in Manhattan. I couldn’t have been more than three years old because I remember my third birthday party was my last in that apartment. It was crowded with my parents’ friends and their children. I wore a pair of white slacks with a polyester seam along the sides that shone in the flashes of cameras. With it I wore a white collar shirt and vest, and topped it all off with a silver glittered party hat—compliments of 1988.
There was a Dominican cake on a table decorated with balloons and party favors. Dominican cakes were thick and spongy, and sandwiched between pieces were strips of creamy fruit filling—usually pineapple—underneath a heavy layer of frosting. They were all I
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Literature
The Lefty Handshake
I’m not sure who talked me up, but before I walk into his MTV crib and shake his hand for the first time Michael has the portrait of an anti-establishment, fist-raising leftist burned into his brain about me.
He’s big, loud, imposing…and filthy rich.
The whole barbecue he’s hell-bent on convincing me the world’s a shithole; things won’t change, so go and get yours.
Fuck or get fucked.
“You won’t change anything. Keep trying and you’re gonna get a bullet in your head.”
There are times I question myself and my obstinate devotion to ideals.
This wasn’t one of them.
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Literature
Drowning in the Wolf
We that scour the earth
We that summon sunlight in the corners of the mind
Nomads of the heart who wander distance wide-eyed and etch the sights seen
Where have we gone?
...then I hear a howl
We that claw through dirt to draw that glorious gem to adorn our souls with
What have we done?
We've scorched the sun
Nested in the twilight and given up
And our jewel?
We've pawned it off
...then I hear the howl
The tide is coming in
Suffer the spawn and mourn what we've done
What of the rest when we're eating our young?
We've torn out our throats
Burned what we wrote
All of our graces are drowning in the wolf
Beware the tide--I hear the howl
Somewhere in our depths the remnants of a spirit--dead and bloated--are slowly drifting off
They congregate in droves and together nurse a stone
A calm of cannibals
They sit morose and mourn their dinner's bones
They learn to fill their bellies with the emptiness they've grown
They'll scatter out and speak in tongues without the guiding light they've known
S
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Activity


deviantID

SlippingHalo
Angel
United States
Interests
Hey all, this place is pretty much dead for me, but I've been working on a lot of stuff--namely my progressive math funk band, Blue Food: www.bluefood.com! We have our own website now and a lot of YouTube videos up, and we're going to be hitting the studio in January hopefully to start recording our debut album!

Lots of good stuff happening, I hope you check it out and dig it!

Comments


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:iconendurandon:
Endurandon Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I gave you your first llama badge.:iconhurrplz:
I'm so proud of me.
Reply
:iconslippinghalo:
SlippingHalo Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2010
Thank you, though I have no clue what a llama badge is.
Reply
:iconendurandon:
Endurandon Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2010  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Its a little llama that appears near the top right above 'more'.
:iconllamabadgeplz:< Looks like this.

Then if you get more, the llama changes into a super llama, then an albino etc. etc.
Reply
:iconthe-a-team:
the-A-team Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2010
hey its me smaki whats up i didnt know you had an account here
Reply
:iconslippinghalo:
SlippingHalo Featured By Owner Feb 19, 2010
Well, I do. :)
Reply
:iconmasked-lemon:
Masked-Lemon Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2009
I thought you should know
I joined your swanky writer forum
I think it's cozy
hope they like me
Reply
:iconslippinghalo:
SlippingHalo Featured By Owner Dec 3, 2009
Awesome! :) I look forward to your submissions!
Reply
:iconmasked-lemon:
Masked-Lemon Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2009
heyy
so I was in English class today, and upon completing my week-late assignment, I came across a bit of writing
it reminded me intensely of you
it's called "The Barrio" by a man named Ramirez
a lot of intense culture and images, very latino, and very reminiscent of you
you should look for it, if you get the chance
Reply
:iconslippinghalo:
SlippingHalo Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2009
Cool, I'll take a look!
Reply
:iconmasked-lemon:
Masked-Lemon Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2009
Robert Ramirez, that's the author's name
Reply
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