Creative Work Sample

Dario Sanchez

About--Somebody, she once told me Buried beneath the white luster of a page That there was another vocabulary Another hoard of words for that Love, was it? Humiliation? Rage? Whispers in a persons ear, was it? Incomprehensible through the fat Building up in my neck. I guess there was just a need to peck At our language; a trainwreck (They say that the meaning is free, In the wind, ruffling its feathers) The passenger car careens Off of the rocks, and into the churning sea. Not a man survived that day. But a frail girl can be seen perched atop The frothy remains, clutching a Small purse, satin, and slopping With coin. Her hair purses the lips of the Heliotropic sky. No, there is no more richness in the word Nothing more to that The most wondrous or crippling or fearsome thing Than any other, For as a bird must, they all will settle, rapt with fascination at the cringing of their bruised mother for a broken, burst spine.

Reflection
Home is where the heart is. Home is where theres a little sienna rug-or-mat-type-thing out front. Forget to clean your shoes off before you step in. Home has a storm door. Home has these big mahogany-colored wooden walls to keep out and keep well. Honey, Im Home is where you pushed a broken paper clip into your pale wrist Home is where you tried not to stain your crisp sheets, your empty shelves, your fresh shoes with your dripping fingers, dripping eyes, dripping sarcasm Watch out or youll slip Watch the TV, Watch the clock Look at my face when I speak to you, Your Full Name For Dramatic Effect Watch it unfold like clean shirts and linens in your body-odored closet Dripping out of place; Droplets in your sink that Honey never got around to. A heart-shaped box half-filled with burnt marshmallows and deck splinters. But Home is also where you just rest your tired eyes insist theyre still trained on the monitor. And Home is where you pretend to be asleep when they get home because I-and-you-and-they dont know why. And its a fine thing, to not know at Home. To sleep earlier than you would At Home That aging, oaken door youve slammed and locked; Those blinds youve shut because you just wont open those eyes to that sun; Those hand-me-down, beige brown khakis from an unknown brother that are so wide youve felt your flesh freely rippling and shaking inside them; Take your hands off of your face. Pay no attention to your mirror. Stare at your hearts hard work till it sets into your fading porcelain. Forever tarnish your tub with your muddy, coagulated memory When bombs drop, you know thats the best place to be.

Our Rusty Cage

A rusty cage filled with bingo balls Drops the little white spheres One by one. Down the foxhole cracks in the floor they go And fall further, faster and faster flying by their fleeting surroundings Decaying like flesh Till they land with manful impact upon the black keys below. One first, then another, another, a fifth, a flat third Some are blue, most are not, Somehow missing their targets pearlescent brethren These newfound sounds push into crumbling wallpaper Harsh tones, long out of tune They beat the dust out of the walls and into the air Like landmines tearing apart an ancient dune Spectres coughing and choking on the dirty suspension; Silken shadows burned into the broken facades by shame and mistrust Softly, watch them pass as the sun sets, Flatten themselves into nothing as the great orb sinks into darkness And the pale white moon shines bright, insufficient to sustain their corporealities And they are dead and gone, forever, until the insects and wraith-birds begin to thrum and sing in discordant unison And the fire gently rises over the mountain; Scores of trees and beetlebacks Titanic lakes and flitting feathers All bathed by the golden mist of unsettled dew floating into The crater, A craggy, flaking scar set deep into the raw and meaty loam