The door is barred.The windows are all boarded up.There is moss on the steps.The grass is knee high and yellow.The roof is caving in.There are two old tire rims rusting away by the porch.The dusty driveway is choked with wandering weeds. This is the place we grew into.This is the place we shrank fromwhen ourContinue reading “This Is The Place”
Author Archives: Mark Alden
Opening Day
From where I sit it doesn’t feel much like baseball,but its opening anthems playwhile the slushy remains of a dark cold seasonseep into storm drains. This soaking rain, when will it ever end?Meanwhile, in distant stadiumshope has been born again.Somewhere where the sun is mocking us,people are basking in its warmth, gathered in grandstands inContinue reading “Opening Day”
The Threshold
As you approach the threshold of letting go,you hear the faintest of whispers from somewhere in the back rowof your minds little theaterwhile the projection room abovereels out another cold memorythrough the flickering dusty light onto the screen. It’s a scene you’ve forced yourself to sit through countless times before. And like many old films,Continue reading “The Threshold”
Your Letter
If it wasn’t for that letter you wrote,typewritten with a purple cat sticker on the front of the envelope,I might have lost hope in small miracles,might have forgotten the feeling of receivingsomething other than sales flyers or bills.Of course, you could’ve sent a plain old email instead,but that wouldn’t do because it wouldn’t be you.ThenContinue reading “Your Letter”
Ode To The Plastic World
This one’s for all the plastic cups that have parted my lips,the plastic forks I used to stab the pasta salad with.For all the plastic buds I’ve jammed in my ears just so I could hearthose countless playlists that have sustained me throughout the years.For the little plastic card in my wallet.What’s in yours? Don’tContinue reading “Ode To The Plastic World”
6 A.M.
Even the most terrible truthisn’t so terrible at 6 A.M.Your eyes squint opento the little thumbnail moonframed between two naked treesoutside your windowas a seam of pale orange lightis flaring out in the eastand your mind like the early skyis a clean empty canvas, untouched and untarnishedby the imminent eruption of memory.
What Will Never Be
What would I be doing today if I’d stopped, just once, all those years agoto glance back at my burning city?Where would I have been yesterday?Where would I be tomorrow?Whose story would I be writing now?Whose life might I be living?Would I still be living at all?I’m powerless to stop these questionsfrom sparking up andContinue reading “What Will Never Be”
Stained Glass
Where as once a childnow sits the old man, lifting his headfrom a Sunday morning doze,heavy-lidded eyes cracking opento a kaleidoscope of bleeding colorsslowly swimming into focus. Now as then, the old familiar longingto launch himself up and out of his seatto join the rising dust moatsas they sail high above the choirinto the streamingContinue reading “Stained Glass”
Where Loneliness Gathers
I’ll bet there’s a little karaoke bar on some remote cornerof some godforsaken one stop light townthat looks a lot like the edge of the world,and that there are desperate people gathered there at this very moment, some sitting alone, quietly sipping their foamy beers,contemplating why they are there.Perhaps it’s because they are tired ofContinue reading “Where Loneliness Gathers”
Tell Me
Tell me what you saw,tell me what you know,tell me which way you came,tell me which way to go,tell me there’s nothing to fear,tell me everything’s the same,tell me it was all just a dream,tell me it was all just a game. Tell me, tell me, tell me!it was all in my head.
Intuition
It may be nothing.It may be somethingmore than just an irritating itchcrawling around your brain.Something unsettling.Something chilling.Something off from the start.You can’t put your finger on it.Can’t quite nail it down.Can’t assign it a name.But you know what you know, and so,silently slip away.
Bullets For Breakfast
Bullets are flying. Again. Early and everywhere.Bullets in your ear at seven a.m. as you turn on the television.Bullets on the screen while you make your coffee.Bullets in the news. Bullets in your social media feed.Bullets in America. Bullets in Darfur. Bullets in Kyiv.More than enough bullets are produced in a single year to killContinue reading “Bullets For Breakfast”
Haunted Avenues 