Daily Object Writes

"You have ten minutes to write as much as you can about (insert topic here). Keep your writing a sense-bound as possible, annnnnnnd go!" --------------------------------------------- Check out songs I've written with the help of this exercise here: http://scribblingpoet.tumblr.com/ Thanks! :)

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

2.21.15 - Shark

Swiftly swimming, water passes by your torpedo nose. Closed mouth full of razor teeth, ready to grab hold of anything meaty and juicy which happens to cross its path. Blood hangs in the water in a cloud, slowly thinning. The salt is electrifying. Light filters down from above, wavering on every surface it hits. Randomized zig zags move with the waves. The water oscillates above, back an forth, pulling and releasing. Darkness below, dark shapes drift off in the distance like semi trucks on an adjacent freeway. Coming out of the water, dripping from your stomach and falling from your saturated swim trunks. You weigh more now than ever, dragging yourself to the towel, where you flop down, hot sands riding the shockwave up your feet and hands. Eyes closed. Upon opening them, all you see are the blue and yellow stripes of the towel, along with specks of white sand. Baking in the sun, back hot as the burners on a stove. Eyes sore, neck stiff, arms and legs fatigued from the swim back from the reef and all of its grandeur. Colors, little fishes dart all around, silver in the sunlight, flashing with a tinny luster. Carpet of coral spread out below in an ornate pattern, full of reds and blues like on the floor of the house of one who has rather gaudy taste. Rays 

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2.5.14

Feeling a little stupid not knowing a word, having used them my whole life. Blue flowers swirling in a tornado of what I assume are pleasant scents- the sort one could enjoy out on the back porch sipping an Arnold Palmer on a hot summers day. The humidity has been tamed by yesterday's rain, and the brightness by your sunglasses. Everything is a shade darker than it really is. The breeze comes around every now and again, moving the hair from your forehead like a loving mother, or a priest administering palm ashes, which will soon fall right off your forehead- the closest Florida will ever get to Illinois, though I think the Palm Sunday ashes come from the Holy Land, where the roads are still made of dust and no one has 3G, so says the news. Dry heat, lamb and tight, neatly organized baklava. Sugar sweet, dense, melting in your mouth, shrinking like a snail you've just poured salt all over. Sounds appetizing now, right? Paying three dollars for a tiny square, the parting pain twists at the hairs in your chest. Delicate skin under a rough T-shirt. Skinny and pale, pants falling off because he's so skinny and his hip bones are so tightly bound by ligaments and things, which have gone unused for years, sitting in a computer chair, lower back hurting, still pain that can't be popped out. You need to hang upside down, blood rushes to your head, eyeballs are dams that hold back the pressure. Bloodshot, tired, determined to finish the project. Not sleeping. The pillow won't be comfy until I'm done. Pale yellow light hold the room tight, constraining the world like prison bars, casting shadows that tower over my bed, watching me sleep. So many papers and things, not bough room for all of it. The musty scent of dirty clothes, old pieces of songs and poems litter the floor. The walls are cool as always, hand pressed against it, a shot of pain shoots through for no reason. y

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.28.15 - Cruise

Slicing through the water like a razor through a box, tearing a wake into the delicate, but self-healing surface of the ocean. The ship is heavy and stable. One can't feel its rocking while on board, except for its gentle, mother-like rocking you to sleep at night. As you shower, all sorts of curiosities fill your head about where all this water might be coming from and where the vast amount of toilet paper that must be needed for a voyage such as this must be held. The air rolls gentle and smooth over the deck. Everything is white. Other ships probably can't see you if the sun's in the correct spot. The pungent smell of sunscreen meanders by in clouds, like teenagers with nothing better to do than stand in a circle and talk about rumors that they might have heard about the one kid who couldn't make it. Fruit so fresh it's like drinking a glass of juice, soft skin, but firm at the same time. You want to stay in your cabin all day and be away from the crowds; the only time you venture up to the deck is when everyone's off exploring an island you've stopped at, feeling the sand beneath their feet, walking the cobblestone

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.27.15 - Freshness

Pine tree hanging in the mirror, swinging like a pendulum, a green blur as we hit potholes left by an indecisive central Illinois winter. Walking slowly and carefully, carefully not to slip on the thin layer of ice that's caked itself onto the sidewalk. Smooth, dark, shimmering in the street light. The cars press through icy slush on the roads, while a thin, but stable layer of snow nestles itself into the grass. Footprints tell a story, but no one has time to hear it in its entirety, as they're all hunched over, hands in pockets, backs of hands and cheeks freezing in the frozen rain. Walking heavy-footed to gain traction, slipping every now and then, saved by some quick footwork and well-distributed weight. Staring at the ground, trying to find solid patches of ground on which to walk. Passing by the warm, darkened church, the recreation center where tank top and shorts wearing folk lift weights and compete for spots under the four basketball hoops. Walking around cars, behind the running ones, legs warmed by the exhaust, and  

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1.23.14 - Child

Singing uninhibited, youth moves freely, running quickly, immediate scenery slips by in a shaky camera shot. Tender bottoms of feet slapping against the pavement, balls of feet bounce, arms swinging across their bodies, head down, leather ball tucked into the crook of your arm. Throat dry, panting and coughing at the goal line. Sweat framing your face, clouds are blimps covering the game, advertising the rain that's been predicted. The fence is your team on the sideline, standing firm in cheering you on. You'd gotten the air knocked out of your here before in a game of soccer, nailed in the chest. Dull stinging, hardness of breath, diving for the ball that bounces gaily by, like a dog that's just been given a treat. 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.21.14 - Turtle

Bard back, shell, cracked with a spoon, solid milk chocolate flows into the cracks, delicious fudgy chunks are a goldmine of flavor buried deep within the frosty, creamy terrain. Digging without mapping technology, shoveling with your spoon until it strikes something solid, excitedly digging it out, gouging it from its habitat like a precious piece of art that needs to be put on display. Stone halls and entryway. A grand facade, curvy roof corners and shimmering windows look like the eyes of a spider, watching pensively as you cross the lawn in front of the Church, humid italian air whistling past your ears and hot, moist grass beneath you feet. The hills stretch out to your left, the sky is open and blue, habitat to a few clouds, which float, suspended like whales in the open ocean.   

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.22.15 - Telescope

Enlarging everything, nooks and crannies that are really the size of mountains come into focus. Gray rock, hot or cold? There is little to no atmosphere obscuring your vision. Chalky, freeze-dried food, crumbling and melting in your mouth as you suck merrily at your wobble little desk, wanting more, but not expressing your desire out of politeness. Pencils roll around the half centimeter deep tray in the front of the desk, and a year's worth of papers and books mingle in an unorganized manner. Digging through, pulling out dust and crumpled up notes, searching for a specific pencil. Crying like an idiot, knees sore on the linoleum tile, deceivingly flat with its puffs of color, which form smokey clouds that dot the ground as altocumulus clouds on a winter's day- gray against a very intense white that would sore one's eyes to stare at. T

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.19.15 - Bracelet

Hanging off your wrist all plastic and cool, a tunnel down your arm, nearly a sleeve of every color imaginable. Tall, high above the rest, can see the tops of heads, brown and black, like the tops of shorter trees. The cloudless sky, hazy worms and things crawling below through the soft mud that hasn't yet dried from the last rain. Tree bark moist and mossy, forest green. Bugs take their turns fluttering from one plant to the next, where water has been collected and slowly drains into the ground. Vast, green tinged environment, yellows and blues fill in the gaps where the wind brushes the branches aside high above. Jaguars prowl, snakes sit stationary, waiting for an unfortunate meal to pass by, weight bowing a thin branch.  

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.18.15 - Spiral

The G forces on your upper body and neck, gliding of the coaster car, gentle roaring of the tracks. Clickity clack goes the chain lift. A humid day, Dip n Dots stick to the roof of your mouth and slowly melt, rainbow precipitation.A gentle rain thomps the top of the umbrella. Kids in brightly colored shirts. A giant tree sustains the plastic ecosystem. Blue sky, stone buildings, concrete stones, cotton candy, hot dog smell radiates from a stand, mixing with the bathroom smell that is ejaculated by the toilets, like they're throwing up at the amount that they've sucked down. Dimly lit shelter, anxiety just looking at the rides. Pressure to go on, pulling in your chest toward the massive steel structure. Jolly music plays from the rocks on every corner, organs and the like. Sunscreen glimmers on your flesh, an opaque shield from the sun and her rays, deflected into people's eyes. Tired, ready for the bus ride home. 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.17.15 - Clam

Open clam, closed clam. Rust- colored disk in shin-deep water, having drifted in from who knows how far out. The water gets cold and dark past ten feet, though some rock poke through the surface, around which bass and bluegills can be seen in their swerving form. Pushing water out behind them like little submarines. The sound of water churning up agains the bottom of the boat is a constant giant licking sound, like the gleaming bottom half of the vessel is a lollipop for the lake to casually lap at as it does lake things. Soft mud at the bottom. A rusting garbage truck that'd fallen through the ice slowly decays. Little fish glitter in and out of sight as you snorkel, Darth Vader-esque breathing the only thing you can really hear. He kind of hears his family playing up above as the water rocks down below his ears. Weeds of forest green drift idly in the slow moving current. The rocks get bigger and bigger as you go out, their tops jagged peaks in a range that lasts for about fifteen feet, then it's back to the black mud, littered with crayfish and minnows, which travel in schools up toward the shore. Your toes are cold when they leave the water, licking and smacking, kicking and smacking. Your arms are just there to keep you stable, like the tail on a dog or something, more like wings on one of the seagulls which is badgering everyone on the beached pontoon boat for lunch. 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.16.15 - Stepping Stone

I step on my shoe to loose the stitching That's biting at my foot.  It's been like this with every pair, My foot's just been no good.  Thinning out with every walk To work where I walk all day And walk back home and sleep again, Then daylight brings the same.  I try to alter the routine, But can't get out of bed. The morning crust has sealed my eyes, My sheets have sealed me in their ties, My limbs remain outspread.  It feels like daylight's come to soon. The red behind my eyelids Says it's time to open up, And let the train come through. A train graffiti'd with every color You could ever imagine.  A train so heavy and so fast- It'd be pointless to try and dodge it. 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.15.15 - Blanket

Light fuzz, warm, weaved together in double layers on a pool table, stacked high in a clear blue plastic bin. The lip pops off, a low, plastic thud. Latches letting go, surrendering to your pull. Bottles of water accumulate in the recycling, laughter breaks out from all corners of the basement, and chit chat floats its way up the stairs and into the main sitting area, which shoots the sound all throughout the clean, bright house. Getting tired and hungry, tying knot after knot, knuckles growing hot from the excess of friction and overuse, but quietly holding back any objection, knowing that there are children dying in the hospital, losing their hair, skin being drained of color. White, sterile conditions, fluorescent lights and the smell of bleach. Off white, singed nose hairs. Open pores, bland food. Vaguely chocolaty pudding, kinda flavorful bread. Slimy meats and crumbly cheese. Contrast this with the happy little workshop. 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.14.15 - Ribbon

Long, thin ribbons handed out for running counter-clockwise from tee- to -tee. Rubber baseballs, softer than their leather counterparts, rolling lazily over the brown gravel and sand infield, initiated by an all-arms swing- the sort of swing that works just fine in street ball, but won't quite cut it in the real thing. I watch my hits skyrocket up some ten years later, and get caught by every outfielder in the league. Hours in the batting cage, smacking balls into the three imposing walls which hold me in until I've emptied and refilled the bucket three times. Lifting your hat off your head and putting it back down, the sweat cools your brow, and your heart rises and falls with it in your chest with a light, airy moment of weightlessness, Little black bugs always seem to find you out in the field, one flies down your throat every now and then, but they're so small that no amount of gagging and coughing can bring it back up; then you just look silly. The leather glove causes your hand to sweat, wetting the padding within, which has hardened from years of use in this very scenario. The three-o-clock sun is beating down, heat pulsing over the back of your neck, where a thin layer of 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.13.15 - Carton

Plastic-y cardboard, milk resistant, like my stomach. Cold, freezing liquid that all at once soothes and shocks my throat, dropping in a waterfall of sorts from the cliff of my mouth. Add cereal and it becomes Splash Mountain, except at the end of the ride the evidence of the ride had is corroded by bitter acids that live like piranhas in the stomach, and all the bits that it doesn't want will take another ride later. A table at shoulder height, plastic tablecloth, dusty floor. Mom working at the sink, the hot dish water humidifies the room, sending curls of steam up, as the fan pushes them back down. As a result, the steam hovers and slowly falls like a misty rain all over the floor. Bubbles escape farther up, however, expelled by the slippery, electric blue dish soap bottle. The milk teeter-totters in its carton, rocking until it settles back down at its equilibrium until I disturb it again, going for my fifth glass (more like blue plastic cup) in ten minutes. The placemat is made of thin plastic, and is plastered with food puns just good enough to hold your attention as you sit at the table, eating, but not doing much else. 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.12.15 - Sting

Less like a sting, more like a punch in the chest. Her words still bother me, sitting there like a tortoise, slowly making their way through my heart and mind. Tired, not feeling it. A strange snow falls in the Indiana desert. A small cave with a chapel that I visited with my dad and brother once. A candelabra sits on the main altar, illuminating the space, setting the shadowy equator on the wall in motion. The rectory has no ceiling, just the stars. In the peninsular kitchen, then into the bedroom, which does have a ceiling. Noting the expertise of the bus driver to get right up on the cliff without sending us to our deaths. Sweet , room temperature Sierra Mist, handed out to all the first. "The first will be last", they say. Carpet mountains, blue skies of Indiana. The landscape stretches out for miles in front of us, dabbed with happy little watercolor clouds. Interstates weave up through the hills, white line down the middle fading into the horizon. Rumbling, wheels spin, hungry

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.11.15 - Cupcake

Chunk of apple, cool and crisp, teeth slicing through like scissors through wrapping paper. Juice all over your lips makes them itch and burn. The core becomes more and more brown as you approach until you uncover the thick blackness of the seeds in their cavernous holes, arranged one for every seventy or so degrees around the fruit, optimal for privacy and encouraging individuality. The stem is like a little chimney coming from the apartment complex of a core. The coloration of the fruit is predominantly red, with streaks of yellow and splotches of reddish-orange arranged artistically along the atmospheric skin. A sweet, sticky scent drifts up from your mouth, stickiness crawls up your lip, climbing the nearly microscopic whiskers of your mustache. Your nose sticks to your lip. You pace around the kitchen, reading recent postings to the fridge and examining the beaded line that turns the lamp on and off. The sun shines and retreats, shines and retreats behind the clouds, behind the wall of pine trees out back. The wind 

[dailybjectwrites-blog]

1.8.15 - Tailor

Trying on "big boy pants", and wearing them too low, according to a lady with a condescending tone. A little rage flares up in your chest, which you have to self extinguish like a candle, but just because the flame's out that doesn't mean heat doesn't still leak from the wick, and the wax doesn't solidify immediately. The rage just kinda simmers. You look at your long, unkempt hair and realize that these people see you as, essentially, an angsty little teenager. All eyes on you, mirrors exposing your every angle. The dress shoes they gave you hug your feet too tight, a seam rubs up on the vein in your right foot. With a subtle sigh of relief, you step down from the platform when asked to go put on the other suit. They said that last one was dirty, and it was, but not from lack of care, but from it being the only suit you have to wear to concerts, where you put in hours of careful rehearsal just to sing to a bored audience, who idly scans over the program again and again, counting the songs until the end. You also had to wear it to work. Well, just the pants. It was one of two pairs of pants that was the appropriate "midnight black" color. That would explain the water stains, and the strange pink ones from unknown fluids, which waterfall'd from a pan that the kitchen stacked so precariously atop a pile of other precariously stacked pans that the slightest touch sent it cascading down your front. I'd imagine it would look pretty sexy in sow motion. May