Sam Normington
Bio
Poet, essayist, thinker, and green tea drinker!
Stories (4)
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Chasing Water
The barn burned last night. Out on Chester Hill, past Westy's lot. They swore it was an accident but I know the truth. Fire's don't start themselves. We lost a month's supply of grain and a lot of water. We'll be on rations for sure. No matter. We've felt hunger before; we'll feel it again. I did hear another shipment of rice come in last night, though, so I suppose there's some hope in that.
By Sam Normington5 years ago in Fiction
True Colors
Sharpen teeth on Absynthe and feel the white sugar melt the yellow enamel and gravel of a curb stomp. Blood red and dumb, numb, blinding sun burns the root of my existence. Blue veins and new reigns and gods or kings or killers to the first degree. Thirsty. Mud water and time lets clearness steal the brown of dirt from the crystalline dream that is clean and fresh. From the Spring I rise and mix with sulfur. Back to yellow sunflowers and hours beneath a dark light night sky. The moon shadows my sorrowful soul. I sow what's left of dandelions and lavender. Levanta las manos para rezar. Whoever in charge took the day off. I'm way off in the distance paying penance with pennies and mistimed empties. Blanks and rounds of smoke and gas and metaphors of weapons or drugs or dead mothers. She cannot die. The eternal emptiness that is darkness. Consuming. I've been ruminating in ruin. These old buildings that were homes and now are not. Not once but twice today I've thought we could stop. How foolish to look at a rainbow and only see what you see. When violet turns to violence, to ultra, and then to X and then Gamma, the Greeks are just as dead as the radio. Sell out and season the ceiling with Patron and purple peonies. Bitch I am the enemy. Claws kill children and so does the rising tide or the rising vibe to eat tide pods just to say that you tried. These colors of the soul of the soil of the moral compass that never points North. Do you taste the dead in the deaf wind? Moving deftly once again, let's begin to find true colors. Nothing rugged as stone will stand the test of time. We dissolve in the empty softness of waves and never-ending sin. Not to be biblical or typical in this terrible time but the image of internal rhyme is wonderful and meant to rob your mind of the colors in the sky and the deep sea. When coral bleaches its bony skin like girls around the world, the white of the wispy clouds is the death of us all. It's mighty fine to get high and take a nice ride before the fall. I hope y'all ready. Ready for what? Don't be aghast, they gassed women and children before. Sterile environments are good for surgery but the line blurs in a hurry when you walk away with no children. Listen, enough of this lost cause, I've been robbed by the idea of freedom. Everybody looks the same when bleeding. Everybody needs the same amount of feeding. Everybody can change when breathing. I reminisce on days spent tweaking. I could use another line of white, I know it ain't right but I want the sight of black tar. I'm at war with the colorblind in my heart. And maybe that's art. Where we start. I've seen red. Been dead. Killed kids and been happy bout it. Nowadays all I hear is clout and cap and I wanna rap about it. How profound. We all make the same sound and are made of love. Radical and magical and I fucking hate plastic. The ransom for reality is far too high. Gasoline looks like piss to me. Diesel so pretty I could drink it. What's the point though? We gotta stand tall and say it loud. Land back to where it came from. Beneath our ten toes we own nothing. Close your eyes and tell me what color do you see? What color is the air you breathe? Color this, color that, I think it's time we burn the map and celebrate when all flags shred in the wind. I'm talking revolution. Physically, it's certain, and when it occurs we're hurting for their weapons are bigger than ours. But mentally, that's where they cannot win. Live every day empty of pride. Live every day, enamored by the love at your side. Fill your heart with all the colors in the wind and let the silence of the dark be your guide.
By Sam Normington5 years ago in Poets
The Noise of Life
You've heard it all before, this much I can promise. A crack of ice, thin and subtle, building and breaking about the broken birdbath. A purr of wind in wanton trees, rushing and hushing from rustling leaves. The shuffle of squirrel toes. The hustle of hidden foes. The rumble of meekly muttered woes. And the wild rambling man whose rage fills the voided status-quo.
By Sam Normington5 years ago in Humans
