Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. Nolan O'Malley
  1. As I grow older, I will see my mind slip away on a youthful pier. Even now, I can create a thought and see it slip away. I can’t lasso it; I’m not even a cowboy

  2. Top of my Luck

    was standing on the shelves, attempting to reach for the candies designed for adults. I fancied the exterior design. Treats I truly would have popped into my mouth, mulled over, and spat into the walkway near the checkout counter. I begged with chattering hands, reaching in the heavens, speaking to the moment, speaking in magical tongues, attempting to make my arms stretch out like cartoon characters.

    The paling fluorescents grab color from the aisle, a stained crème, making me feel sicker, smaller even. A slow wane into pronged hooks holding cards of greeting. Like a busy street in Chicago, one goes to my shoulder, one grinds into back bones. My body stumbling like a plinko chip until I reach the end of my momentum. A neighborhood cashier recognizes the situation but works for minimum wages, so she bats her eyes and organizes the lottery tickets behind the counter. “Where were his parents?”

    A rush through the back entrance; doors swing open into an oversized van like a bank robbery gone awry. Van progresses forward but my head was spinning. How ironic is this carnival ride in the parking lot that actually houses our town’s festivities? Knife-like flashes of nausea pummel my stomach paired with an headache rocking from front to back of stage, “where is the fuse box?”

    In our mad rush, I reach for the door handle, a universal sign for parents to pull over, even in high speed traffic. I expel what was left of my day on the pavement, the portion that splits between roadway and nature — the gravel that tells two tales. In the fresh air, I spoke to my situation. “All of this for a box of chocolates that I may or may not have enjoyed.” “You know they had coconut in them,” my subtle brain twirling. I didn’t even recognize. I hate coconut.

  3. We judge the world and scurry when it judges mutually.

  4. We are most honest with ourselves when we sleep. We submit to weakness and allow particular truths to speak that we would otherwise guard. We simply enjoy, fear, run, experience and allow our nature to spill.

  5. I’m less to thought
    and more to “think”
    than you are to think.

  6. your best advice for a poet?

    Be free; be true; allow your words to speak, not the words that please others.

  7. Loops

    Breaking her heart 
    broke my bedroom collectibles within the next fifteen minutes, 
    storming through screen door, 
    rushing down the short hall, 
    blasting a radial space to pieces. 

    Sitting in my driveway 
    off to the side where the grass 
    naturally yellows, 
    pressed against the steering wheel 
    of her 1999 truck, or Buick, whatever it was. 

    Sitting at the lunchroom tables 
    deciding to start 3rd period homework the day of, 
    She needs consultation for the past 7 years, 
    when her mother died, 
    when she had to develop tendencies,
    being over it, but emotionally 
    fluttering to stay alive. 

    Breaking her father’s heart 
    when she engages everyone sexually. 
    She forgot the rules 
    that she attests to on Sundays. 

  8. She paused. She clasped my hands quietly, as if she was trying to avoid waking someone. I looked into her eyes and spoke to the moment. “Just don’t speak.” The tears swarmed. She was lighting a wick. My chest welled with disappointment; her body was failing.