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Literature
Kiss Attack
Before I moved in with Caroline, I lived with my parents in the Outer Sunset, a deceptively affluent neighborhood which existed like an afterthought on the outskirts of the city.  We were Irish and young in an implied swarm of elderly Asian families, and to a lesser extent hardcore surfers, the latter a ghost presence that stuck mostly to the beaches but inhabited the local pizzeria at night.  Our house sported a midlevel balcony between its two stories, and me and my friends sat outside and drank beer my parents bought for us, beginning in the late afternoon and continuing into the evening, but because you had to be limber and agile to hop the railing and climb back outside, we'd often get stuck there in a too-drunken state.  "Fuck," we would rather eloquently lament, and then we'd stay awake into the early morning, until we were sober enough to climb back inside.  But in the evenings, when the buzz was going, we liked to freak people's shit a l
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 1 0
Literature
The Human Hand
Imagine a human hand.  You don't have to imagine it.  It's there, barring deformity, somewhere along the length of your arm, maybe even at the end.  It can caress and choke and flex like a five-winged butterfly.  Imagine, though, a hand detached, reframed in noteworthy context.  This hand shakes itself like an Escher drawing, skittering listlessly across the street, like tumbleweed.   That one nestles its wrist under your chin, flipping up to stifle a yawn or yank your lower lip when you move in to kiss a pretty girl (bad hand!).  This one, spaced and spry, terminates in a bomb, palm veins smoothing out into the gloss of a deadly weapon, so keenly imitating the size and shape and sheen of a bowling ball.  Since we're imagining it, you're standing anywhere – a wheat field prickling with wind, a room wrapped in pudgy padding, however else you'd imagine yourself lounging around the inside of your own
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 1 2
Literature
Quaaludes
It’s when you open your mouth to kiss me that I remember what I know about Quaaludes.  The details are all knit up somewhere deep inside a ball of knowledge because I learned about them in fifth grade which seems a little too early in retrospect doesn’t it, and since then I’ve wrapped whole yards of other strands of knowledge around that ball and whenever I want to remember what I know about Quaaludes I have to unravel the whole thing just to get to it.  But it’s there.  One.  They make you tired but it is kind of a verbose tired which sinks you into that three-quarters-down state, the cliff’s edge of sleep, but refuses to push you over.  Two.  They are sort of out of fashion so to get them anymore you have to know the right somebody.  Three.   Hunter S Thompson wrote about them and he is crazy or a genius depending on who you ask but the advocates of the latter say that the fo
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 160 32
Literature
Hipsters and Ghost Love v2
Hipsters, Ghost Love, Transitory Spaces
You imagined this scenario, this "not falling in love" thing, but it came to reality a little differently than you had planned.  You’re home in Sacramento, a numb city laden with a familiar ennui, which insists upon you like a down comforter.  There is a reason you left Sacramento: when you ask a passing pedestrian what there is to do for fun around here, they say, "there's a park downtown where you can take a tour of the trees."  "Trees?"  "Yeah.  About 90 different varieties.  It’s really enthralling."  You scan their face for some physical tic which might indicate sarcasm, but you find nothing.  So when it was time to go to college you migrated to San Francisco, a place where there exists no such tour of (it turns out) 94 varieties of trees.  Instead, in San Francisco, it is socially acceptable and even normative to do something like pier
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 6 1
Literature
hipsters and ghost love
hipsters, ghost love, transitory spaces
you imagined this scenario, this "not falling in love" thing, but it came to reality a little differently than you had planned.  you're home in sacramento, a numb city laden with a familiar ennui, which insists upon you like a down blanket.  there is a reason you left sacramento: when you ask a passing pedestrian what there is to do for fun around here, they say, "there's a park downtown where you can take a tour of the trees."  "trees?"  "yeah.  about 90 different varieties.  it's really enthralling."  you scan their face for some physical tic which might indicate sarcasm, but you find nothing.  so when it was time to go to college you migrated to san francisco, a place where there exists no such tour of (it turns out) 94 varieties of trees.  instead, in san francisco, it is socially acceptable and even normative to do something like pierce your dick
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 8 8
Literature
letters out the window 4
Dear companion . . .
Faster than slang – stranger than quicksand – it will strike you, once in the gut, again in the jaw . . .
The plants in my kitchen will not grow.  I have potted them in quality soil and I water them as instructed.  And yet . . .
I telephone my friend, the botanist, and he appears in my apartment, as if a wisp . . . the botanist runs his feathery fingers under the leaves.  He presses the soil to test its dampness.  Are you watering these?  Yes, I water them . . . Do they receive sunlight?  As much as the tags declare . . .  He massages his chin in thought.  You’ve tried chemicals, of course? he asks.  Plant food?  Yes . . .
It has been years and years since I was diagnosed with a nonbeating heart and stillborn lungs . . . the doctor reported – you don’t breathe and your heart just floats – you have no pulse –
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 12 6
Literature
letters out the window 3
Dear window,
All these years and so much magic between your teeth . . . so many letters and you never failed a delivery.  I ought to kiss your face for this . . .
But oftentimes I worry for your health.  You must get lonely – always facilitating some other being’s happiness . . . yes, I understand what it is to be an echo . . .
And though I admire your morals, I wish you’d steal a letter or two . . . I do wish you’d keep a little bit of it yourself.  A window can’t just be and be and be a window, all the time.  You ought to let yourself into some other world besides your own . . . it keeps the madness out . . .
I write to make you a deal, dear friend . . . today the woman who made me widower is to visit.  (After all, she can’t play dead much longer – the neighbors ought to realize dying as a selfish thing, and then the farce will be up) . . . In any case, we are scheduled to have tea – and I would
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 4 1
Literature
letters out the window 2
Dear stranger . . .
A man with a torch – that’s you – comes into my house and says, I'm here, I ought to burn your house down . . .
But will you let me collect my hospitalities, and present them to you, all lined up in a row?  There are so many!  First, I ought to offer you a drink . . . then I ought to ask you to sit . . . then I ought to ask about the wife and kids . . .
But you say, it’s best if I don’t stay long – I ought to just torch your house and be on my way – I don’t want the mind to demand other things from me . . .
Start here, I say, gesturing towards the bedroom.  It seems most flammable . . .
And a woman with eyes – that’s you, also – comes inside.  I heard someone was about to burn this house down, you say.  I nod.  I ought to be in love, soon.  I’d like to just stand in this house a while.  I ou
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 170 27
Literature
letters out the window 1
Dear neighbor . . .
I have witnessed you gaze petulantly out your kitchen window and into mine, under the pretense of washing your dinner dishes . . . this is an act, you see, as we are both aware you consume your meals straight from the floor, as a wild barbarian . . .
You stare at the letters piled against my house, crawling up the side wall like ivy – you are aware of my only hobby, passing slips of magic across my sill to float away in the world – you are jealous these letters are not for you . . .
I am keen to your affair with several medicines; those which treat depression, and high cholesterol, and erectile dysfunction, while your wife slings through the world like a sexy rampage.
I have witnessed this, through my window and into yours, under the pretense of washing my dinner dishes . . .
I believe we are not so different.  Sometimes I get so lonely, when the windows open up and all the air rushes out like slaves to freedom . . . I have not had a lady on my fingertips
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 18 10
Literature
Five Versions of Sadness
One
There are two types of murderers. The simple murderer knifes his ex-girlfriend roughly two to five days after the break-up. The complex murderer leaves a mark. Perhaps they murder only between the hours of 10-11pm, within a one-mile radius of a church, and only on Sundays. This leaves the police maddeningly close. They guard the nearby park, the local school. They set up checkpoints at every third street corner and rotate at random, avoiding patterns. A quarter of their force is undercover. And yet the complex murderer takes two polaroids: one with the victim alive, with vigilant police in the background (labeled 10:22); another with the victim limp, bloody (labeled 10:26), the same five officers and three squad cars framed through a window. A day later the polaroids and the corpse are discovered on that corner, exactly where a cop stood lookout the night before. This is the mark of the complex murderer. A slim man, now, in his angled room, wonders which he would become if t
:iconwildoats:wildoats
:iconwildoats:wildoats 16 7
Literature
Love Story
He develops the habit of always facing backwards on trains.  It's not a matter of preference but the intentional development of what he believes to be a character quirk.  She is accustomed to red wines lighter than clay and white wines darker than pearls.  He eats shark for dinner, as a delicacy.  She is vegetarian as a fashion statement.  She shot heroin in a past lifetime.  He cleans his gutters regularly – is so enamored with the act that he letters it neatly in his planner, every Saturday of the week, six months in advance.  He smokes marijuana.  He owns a leather couch.  She is 26 today.  She prefers gin and tonic and prepares one now in celebration.  He once gave an ex-girlfriend a fashionable purse made of tree bark.  He once broke up with an ex-girlfriend by taping a "fuck you" sign on her window (facing in).  She was once broken up with under a brid
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 18 12
Literature
Definitions 1-6
Home
He has taken his nail and split a cigarette in two, lengthwise.  Its guts are light, curled, a mirror of hair after months of pressure.  He taps the strands to cement and presses his thumbprint to them.  Jerked once, the pressure leaves a tobacco smear on the sidewalk.  In this manner he forms a map of the city.  He labels a park, a square building – "coffee" – in cornered handwriting.  These are the only words on the map; the rest is lines.  When you were seven, you wedged a crayon between your toes and attempted to write a note on a sheet of paper.  The result was jittery, necessary – "deer mom i love you on your birthday smile! phillip" – and you recognize that writing now on the sidewalk before you.  For him, his thumb stripped to smoke – this is a reminder, an achievement.  You drop your change in his can.  Until you know them, you care about these people.
W
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 4 3
Literature
Monologue: People and Walls
(At rise: Jason is in car with four friends, hotboxing.  His speech patterns are erratic as he talks.)
JASON: I'm fine, I'm fine, shut the hell up and I'm fine.  Give me a minute and everything will stop pulsing.  Ah-haaa, hell.  Shit.  (Pause.)  Uh, is the heat natural?  I've never done this before.  The heat is natural?  (Pause.)  I feel like a damn power source.  Is the pulsing natural?  (Pause.)  The pulsing is natural.  The heat and the pulsing are natural.  You know what it's like?  Every three seconds I don't exist again, I forget what I'm made of.  Then it's like, somewhere inside me, this explosion, like Eden…it's too much power for one body.  (Pause.)  Is the pulsing going to stop?  (Pause.)  Here's what else it feels like.
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 2 18
Nobody Likes a Writer by wildoats Nobody Likes a Writer :iconwildoats:wildoats 125 101
Literature
collisions
oh you are naked oh you are saved!
your legs from new york two trains to fold like accordions upon impact,
     collapse with bones of bricks a reddening sag the weight will trace it,
     trace our collisions, leave traces of
your fingers ugly and metal in the screeching machinery of sunlight, bent
     crooked with the tired glow of reflection, a past that expels from your
     knuckles to the shaky dead of
your throat, a midnight buzzsaw in a paper garage, how: there is no noise
     unfit for us, no noise we do not deserve like wolves, our decibels a
     demolition to balance a destructive whisper, straining to define
your voice the friction of electricity and oceans that explode into view, oh you
     are naked oh you are charged with skin like the hiss of an old cassette,
     a ham
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 3 5
Literature
no nest
-
cum
min
gs
plea
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ad
m
   ire
my
grea    
    (t)s
         y
son
net
-
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:iconwildoats:wildoats 0 29

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deviantID

wildoats
world dominator
Artist
United States
i was here once

Current Residence: www.myspace.com/whatever
~2008/09

When I woke up I felt something stuck to my forehead, curling with the help of perspiration.  I pulled it off.  It was a post-it note: "If you could leave when you wake up that would be great.  I don't want this to be awkward.  Love…" and then an arrow which I think was supposed to point toward his side of the bed, but faced the wrong direction.  Actually, when I looked up, he wasn't anywhere.  The room seemed impeccably clean, no clothes anywhere on the floor, not even mine.  Maybe I had kicked them off behind a bookcase, or something, or maybe he had kept them.  It was like he had cleaned the place and then left for the day, maybe hoping he'd outlast whatever resistance I'd have to the request on his note.  I made a quick calculation and determined that my clothes from the night before were worth, maybe, a hundred dollars total.  Some sweatpants, a t-shirt, the shoes comprising over half the value.  So I picked up my purse, checked it for all the essentials – keys, phone, wallet – and descended the stairs in my underwear.  It was only seven blocks to my house.  

The fog pressed down like it was losing a war with gravity.  A lanky, twenty-something man stared at me from the bus stop.  I lit a cigarette in the morning air, let my mouth hang open, re-inhaling the smoke through my nose – a trick I'd learned in high school.  He moved a few steps closer to me, and from the way his eyes shook around he was clearly drugged.  His body shook, too.  "Pretty cool," he said.  "You want to buy a Wilt Chamberlin jersey?"

"No."

"Do you know who Wilt Chamberlin is?"

I took another drag from my cigarette.  "Go away," I said.

"He broke a lot of records.  Look, it's autographed."

"It's 6 a.m.  Fuck off."

"Hundred dollars.  You could make a huge profit."

"Fuck off," I said, taking a step toward him.  "I could kill you in twelve different ways if I wanted to."

This was a lie – I had taken karate, and though I could probably kick this guy's ass, I certainly couldn't kill anyone.  But it seemed to work.  He shrugged, walked off, clutching the jersey in his hand.  About half a block down, he paused and turned around.  "Eighty," he yelled.  I took off.  In half a second I was sprinting toward him as fast as I could.  The concrete slapped like a drum line under my bare feet.  But they don't call the drug "speed" for nothing – he bolted too, moving like a motherfucker, always ten feet ahead of himself in an instant.  He was twice as fast as me, maybe three times.  A couple blocks down he turned a corner and I let him go.  I slowed to a jog and stopped in front of a small driveway.  At some point I had clenched my teeth clean through the cigarette; the filter stuck to my tongue, the rest – most likely – flung over my shoulder like a small stick of dynamite while I ran.  I didn't so much spit the filter out as hang my head down, let it tumble to the curb.  

Then, from behind me, I heard a child's voice: "Can we fuck?"  He allowed space between each syllable, testing the shape of the word fuck between his lips.  I turned around.  He stood in a garage lined with what looked to be dismantled theatre sets, a horde of bicycles, and towers of impossibly balanced boxes.  Among the clutter, with old clothes draped around his shoulders and a square, flat face like a wall, the kid looked like another belonging tucked away in the storage space.  "If it's okay with you," he said, "I'd like to fuck your vagina."  He couldn't have been more than ten.  I watched him lift his arm up and scratch his back like a primate.  His teeth were square too, little white bricks inside his mouth.  I could feel a wet heat pushing against the base of my throat, the implication of tears rising.  "Go inside," I said.  Now the cold was everywhere, running along the insides of my bones, as if it had replaced the marrow.  The kid shrugged and pressed the button behind him.  He continued to stare as the panels slid down.  They dropped over his eyeline, then the rest of his face, but from his body language he still stared.  Every part of him faced me – his chest (gone), his waist (gone), thighs, knees, shins and feet (gone), falling off in sections until the door kissed the ground.

Have you ever witnessed the disappearance of a human being?  And how did it feel from his side.  A goddess out in the cold in sleek lingerie.  The final imprint before the door sweeps over her head.  A wave of hair that dips over shoulders, curls to an arrow that points toward her breasts.  You don't want those to go, but then they're gone, too, as the grinding of the door follows the sand down the hourglass.  Then legs – the kind that show up in teenage fantasies, slender and shaped.  Down to the knees and ankles, transition joints to piece her together.  Less and less of her.  It's only in the feet, apart from everything else, that you sense a sort of pain – clenching, arched against the pavement.  You wonder where those feet have been, where they're going, whether they'll ever get there.  Then she evaporates and the garage is dark.
  • Listening to: kanye

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:iconlemontea:
lemontea Featured By Owner Jan 1, 2016
:llama:
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:iconwildoats:
wildoats Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2016
look it's a delicious beverage
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:iconlexissketches:
LexisSketches Featured By Owner Apr 28, 2015
Just stopping by to say hello :hug: Have a wonderful day!
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:iconlintu47:
Lintu47 Featured By Owner Dec 26, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
Merry Christmas! :santa:
:iconbradut2::iconfur12:
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:iconnewklear:
newklear Featured By Owner Jul 26, 2012  Professional General Artist
Whoa, really :O
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:iconzungzwang:
zungzwang Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2012  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Congratulations on the Daily Deviation! :clap:
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:iconhell-on-a-stick:
hell-on-a-stick Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2011  Professional Writer
COME BACK! I CONJURE THEE!
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:iconwildoats:
wildoats Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2011
whatup.
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:iconhell-on-a-stick:
hell-on-a-stick Featured By Owner Feb 22, 2011  Professional Writer
HOLY SHIT. it worked.
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:iconshesjusthiding:
ShesJustHiding Featured By Owner Oct 11, 2010
I know you haven't been here in over a year but I wanted to say I'm madly in love your work.
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