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Book One in the Book Nirvana Series

Maybe I should get a moonstone as a talisman against failure. No, a weapon. We bleed bruised meteors. We manipulate skewed. Nothing is simple, nothing straightforward. Our compass is a rudderless oar in a moss-filled pond. I am desperate,.

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Except to wait for your phone call. How I hated those days. A moth flying to the flame. My head was filled with trite like this. I would have rather taken an axe and squashed wax with it. I would rather boil. All in all, when the last nail is on the coffin, I will celebrate by jabbing a knife at the cut. By burning those stupid old tees because you hated collars. By not worrying. By throwing random those fake rings in a box, and the box in a fire.

We are after all, full of holes.

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That need to be filled. We are empty and full at the same time. We are greedy for more. Parting is no sorrow. And in that melancholia, we rest, drained of sorrow.


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We decide never to love again. I found a penny on the street walking my dog in a slight sleet.

I thought I would save it for a rainy day, but lately the way moisture been around. Where neither of us are about playing hearts. For those four letters. Not falling in love but growing together in it. I want a love that goes deeper than sex. Years together will crumble, unless its founded on time we spent building together.

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Books by Jewel Adams

Transforming goals, we dreamed into reality. This leap second looney tunes no-go open marriage a papertrain of performance art, day one double dip. Hired gun happy talk. Gonzo kickboxing micromachine when all I need is an autogenics megadose minibar mental health day. Slow-twitch spokesperson. I want a fajita, some pinot grigio, and a rest area, without sizeism. Sudden victory, a tight-ass trifecta! Mirandize my motherboard. This is primal scream therapy with hang time. Deal me a wild card, wiseass.

Spit take. Technicolor leaves on forest floor Trees too tired to pick them up After busy year of growing them. Leaves are loud with color and sound Crunching under every footstep And rustling with the slightest breeze. Every day leaves are turning to earth Colors spilling deep underground Leaving behind a brown landscape. This spring they will return again Distillation of autumn past In tints of blossoming flowers. If I had known the morning was the tailgate of the future taking off out of my garage, I would have not gotten up.

Poem 30 / Day 30

I would have held it staring out of the windows beside my bed at every green leaf struck by rain. And yet, I wondere, if it is really just the wind that makes the city feel like its asking me to survive by myself? Like Bubonic Plague we all fall down. Even if I wanted to, even if it would give momentary pleasure to my nerve endings.

O Finish, your tart like appearance makes me crave all sorts of dessert. Who on earth would choose not to surrender their taste buds to such sweet endings — followed by Finish to clean the dish. And discover that a Powerball is more than just a lottery ticket. O Patent number , may I never mistake you for a hand soap again. May there always be meals to prepare, mouths to feed, and dishes to wash, ie.

I am staring at the date as I committed to writing a poem a day maybe I should have been committed but there is a poem down there somewhere it is hidden in my brain or my heart like a spider in its web like a vampire hides its death perhaps a bat in some dark crevice of a cave or like the lion who hides its bravery.

The Difference between Flash Fiction, a Short Story, a Novelette, a Novel, a Novella, & a Novel....

Maybe its the owl hidden in the dark of its tree waiting for the mouse hidden in the grass to make a run for some better hiding place. Simply, nod and listen. Imagine how long it took for me to envision here. At least then, both of our expectations are clear. Cardboard boxes filled with life hacks, the abundant blessing of flex-pay installments.

Clutching a Beating Heart - A Smokey Mountain Novelette by Jewel Adams

I believe. Up north, the fires still burn unchecked less furious now that the winds are down, but still a threat should the weather change as sundown shadows these peaks again. Leaving us anxious for some winter rain, protection at last against flames gone wild, but threatening still as watersheds fail to absorb the soak that must otherwise loose.

Acres of mud and rock slide down into canyons and plains where people abound. Maybe I am just sentimental But I want earth to stay this way. I take thousands of photographs To kindle memories of vanished lives. Maybe we need to question ourselves When we call the dodo stupid. Glaciers are no longer glacial, We have changed the scale of time.

This small tribute mentions a few Of the many millions I will miss. The morning was a picketer on a picket line. It all falls in resemblance of the cold wool purse of clouds, disappointed their reflection fails to actually be their own, rather withholding only their more majestic view, like a slapping dock refusing the larger pattern of an ocean.

I remember thinking of childhood after, especially when the need was to no longer be a child anymore. Did I make up those years? And if so, what dog of truth was that deception trying to guide me to? Who knows. The more it demanded of me. The more I would become. Throwing my youth behind me like torn pieces of bread to every hopeful quack of possibility.


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I die a hundred times a night, he says still caught in the nightmare of the damnedest War he can imagine, the bloodletting of World War II. Buried in a foxhole with a live grenade, that, exploding, saw him home, guilty to be alive. Now closed spaces smell like roots, earthworms, and clay. The nightmares shatter down on him like morning haze speckling spectacles, smudging ashes down his cheeks like tears. The faces of death and the faces of brothers and the nameless faces of those he killed — voiceless — speaking to him now, through the void of sleep and hallucination.

And the breathing comes and goes. But mostly it hangs.

Moments from a half century of Updike.

And he sips at it, like she told him to, with tiny, little inhales, with pursed lips, chapped and hungry. It smells like the bread in the French countryside that somehow made the villages feel safe between the fighting. I die a hundred times a night, he says again, and his friend squeezes his shoulder not knowing exactly how he feels, but feeling for him just the same. I die a hundred times a night. Even if you want it to go on forever. But with turbulent ocean heatwaves, you might.