《Objections of Desire - Poems by Kat Isacson》 Poem for the Longest Night Poem for the Longest Night We sleep, digging our heads deeper into our pillows Twisting our feet into blankets, spreading our toes like new roots. In our dreams we pray to sleep through winter, You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.hoping the morning sun will open the pressed together palms of our pale, tulip hands. We turn, in restless sleep, towards the veiled warmth of winter''s languid brightness, and linger in a blanket of eyelid red light. - Kat Isacson Night Loses Memory Night Loses Memory I I am a woman without stars. Naked, I am an outlying edge of sky. These hips are the unseen seam between day and night, a lure of fading light that pulls as it sinks away and brings you closer when you might choose to swing forward, then back, with the sway of the slip-climbing sea, forgetting that the horizon exists only in distance, that what is veiled in remote perfection becomes unsettled, distinct when it is below your shifting feet. Darkness dutifully fills your steps, affords no favors, leaves stone, man and sea the same. II My love, anxiously expectant, Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.waits for the falling of flickering leaves, to catch the scraping sweep of their flight as sparks in the dark. He misses mostly, catches me instead, holds me like one about to scale a great oak trunk, rakes fingers through hair the color of dead leaves. I feel as though I should preserve my hair, my youth, this winter and pack them in wax-sealed jars. III I want my aging face to grow old like the moon, to hold a map of ancient rivers and long-gone seas. It will remind me each turn takes time, that my face has stolen light which is not mine. I will replace it when night loses its memory, when night forgets the meaning of sleep, misplaces darkness and its stumbling finger count of hours. - Kat Isacson Chicago Blues Chicago Blues Clouds ladle low, eating buildings, biting time. Between the city''s aproned knees I am told a story, told a lie. She wipes my face Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.with washcloth sky. She breathes my skin almost dry, makes me younger, younger, and so, more simple wise. - Kat Isacson Manna If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. - Kat Isacson hands/fingers/fingers/toes hands/fingers/fingers/toes snow falls like the sound of a glass bell gathering in cupped hands slowly/yet covers the melting heat of crinkled palms until cold blankets/tucks in fingertips withpinprick kisses mirror reflects strangers/horizons standing at a distance the mirror seems to move faster/to anticipate knowing/seems more like a voice than its echo float mother hand/arm reaching behind infant back wide fingers cradling head/new shoot arms move unsteadily like a voice learning a melody/descant belly a solitary moon above the bath water light Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. over-white photograph/afternoon/illuminated apron bleached bone sleeve/hand to pewter pot shaped like a head-sized mug hand open/holding back/as if catching hilltop winds fingers look (are) accidental on handle shadow-checked girl/dotted dress/fingertips on countertop nostalgia too many pockets/not enough clothes that fit pocket full/seams broken/pulling apart from top walking from room to scattered room/in search of tiny objects/picking them up/picking them up entering doorways/glancing/fingers brushing wall barely/leaving again boy behind a curtain/laughs/pulls the fabric away emerging tooth grin/curtain again forget woman/thinned beyond breath/mouth ajar waiting to be closed/eyes closed body dissolved beneath shadow blankets head in a mist of hair/everything grey and lilac pale soft/younger in stillness two feet/bottoms up/crisscrosses/Xs that spirits cannot cross/away/red bisecting/sewn in the hollow of the center of the sole - Kat Isacson Pastoral Paradelle Pastoral Paradelle A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Untitled #1 Untitled #1 The fly in our living room stays on the window facing west, watching a series of afternoons If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.turn to night. Its false-start ignition buzzing is louder than conversation, sharper than our strain of thought, stronger than the sound of traffic outside. The fly crawls upward, always toward the sky, away from the open pane below. - Kat Isacson Latter Day Letter Latter Day Letter This is a letter sent to explain everything, to divulge the changing secret of sea to air to mist to rain to sea. I Love letters are folded paper cranes which, despite exquisite design, fail to launch their own flight. Such letters should be written as flesh, Braille to be studied by cold hands in solitude, ice fingers moving slowly across a topographical map of bellies, lips, and thighs. II This heart was once a secret-sealed box that held a belled ball turned over and over by curious hands. III A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. My mind is a dime-store snow shaker in a land without true cold. Since snow is unseen, my head is thought to be scattering ashes. It has been said that it holds intact remains of the lost people of Pompeii. IV The passing of time is a diesel locomotive that leaves black in its wake, with smoke that bleeds into paper blank sky. Its clouds float lonesome high above the timberline. Air is water without lust. It erases every letter it writes. - Kat Isacson goldenrod aura light goldenrod aura light your aurora eyes scan the sky like skittish wind you are pollen in an arctic land wrinkle embraces smile lost white comes uncertainly there is a clear heaven scent so cold so February so grave it muffles dawn I am ice that will never be water burning cold, like an opposite sun This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.too bright to focus on I wish to warm your hands before the wealth of spring to melt winter into fire whistling tea to warm your sore throat to immerse your unmarked skin to pour over glowing coals almost gone but steam never illuminates the burns it leaves as deep as any flame it has no calligraphic sharp tongue to write the words all lovers want to wear - Kat Isacson Cemetery Honeymoon Cemetery Honeymoon Pere LaChaise, Paris, 11.96 Taking the underground route to the city of the dead, passing by billboard ads, we watch map sellers watch us while the devil beats his wife in the rain. The air lacks jazz. It''s filled with the absent sound of strings and accordion wind winding with slow train motion. We join the lost roamers in silence. Words on tombstones overcrowd the silence, clamoring recognition for names of the dead. Flowers try to escape statue embraces with restless child motion and run along streets that cover every corner of the map that doesn''t explain where the hidden violin players play their endless music to the applause of rain. Old women huddle out of the rain inside open mausoleums in silence, remembering when they were shaped like violins. They reminisce of old, devilish lovers and admire the dead. Puzzling, one flicks drizzle off her map with a quick, dismissing motion. Our eyes remain in motion A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.under the angel rain. We have no map and search in silence for famous artists, all dead, who wait for sympathetic, serenading violins. But I no longer play the violin; my hands have learned a different type of motion. I think that we are the least tragic of lovers, not being dead and whose only hardship is to walk in the rain, happily, under an umbrella of silence, using each other as a map. We lack the performer''s right to bow. Death is an invisible bow that plays the fifth fiddle string. Death is the blackest silence that obscures all motion. Through it you saw the fire behind the rain, saw the day render itself dead. We use the dead as an outdated map of our success and use rain as the saddest violin song to keep us in motion and save us from silence. - Kat Isacson A Season of WInd A Season of Wind. This house is painted one color of heaven, is filled with clouds of circle-dust heat. My grandmother''s face is a reflection of sky, an omen of coming rains despite clear blue eyes, eyes that are two eclipsing moons that change like light passing through water. We come from a people who move water, who tell rivers where to run with a voice like heaven and where they should become lakes with the girth of the moon. We carry their memories on our heads in the midday heat as heavy jugs kept steady on our heads, above our eyes, balanced as mysteriously as planes in the sky. The calmness of the arbitrary sky watches the earth drink people like glasses of water, regardless of whose name makes them lower their eyes. God is the only dictator in heaven, God, who gives our spirits life with palm-friction heat, looks at all through a microscope moon. Nothing on this island is as cool as the moon Stolen novel; please report.and only our neighbors are darker than the sky. We, who have fought against god''s heat, try to give this place a new face of water, to make lakes that refuse to mirror heaven and only hold the image of man in their eyes. Man-gods eat children like apples before their mother''s eyes. Memory of the dead hangs above each head, a relentless moon. Prayers plead that there won''t be victims in heaven, that Eden isn''t just another regime in the sky. Undisputed power burns like stove hot water boiling scolded skin with its heat. My grandmother is a child of that dancing heat, the only cold she has, she carries in her eyes. Eyes can move in tides like water, for they, too, are governed by the moon. No one can choreograph the crowning sky, not even ghosts who engineer the walls of heaven. In the dam that is heaven, there is no heat. God holds back the sky from overflowing into our eyes, from flooding the basin moon with holy water. - Kat Isacson A Lonesome Song Sung Through Little Cat Teeth by a Young Girl Who is Turning Thirteen Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! - Kat Isacson To Braid Ones Hair Slowly To Braid One''s Hair Slowly This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. and The Sleepless Sun The Sleepless Sun An Inuit Tale by her all-inclusive stare. those The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.before she finally dreamed of Tha perennial half-seed. -Kat Isacson The Disruption of Wind Beneath Mountain The trees walk at night, Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. - Kat Isacson Approaching City Limits Approaching City Limits Good Friday, Cincinnati Driving East on 74, we are winding down, tired of motion. Driving has become a force like gravity, pulling us with tireless hands, setting our pace with invisibly fast Mercury feet. In the back seat, our only son sleeps past towns and the lack of towns. Deep in his dreams, Ohio is a distant moon he sees between changing seasons. We pass a white-steepled church shepherding a flock of nearby houses haphazard in their placement, They appear to be wandering in their small valley, looking for a nook in the hills, a way out. I envision it all covered in nighttime snow, decide that is the way some areas should only If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.be seen, despite the brazen clamoring of Spring, who has taken advantage of three day''s rain to smother the highways in a hilly bosom, that is overdressed with bright, new adornments of green. Mount Airy Forest hovers on the left, and seems lower, more earthly on the right. The radio station appears and vanishes with each turn, gives us gifts of song with ghostly randomness. As my husband drives, we are constantly surprised by purple trees that seem too bright for Lent. Turning the wheel with hand-over-hand care, he counts the silent crosses on the roadside, as he names the flowers and photos which have been secured to their center points, obscuring their bare, white intersections. Soon, we will reach our destination. We are getting closer all the time. - Kat Isacson Landscape in Two Colors Landscape in Two Colors A Collage 1. Winter Breath on a window resembles a plain of snow. White is heated cold. When they moved into the A frame, she sang Take the A Train with an annoying, deep-breath beat. She pressed her face to the door glass so she could see her notes block out the open space. He painted, rearranging the faces of women, turning their bodies into wholesome prairies of brush-fire lines. She grew into a landscape woman who had no love of words and their curling-tongue torso of noise. 2. Spring Her appetite was all; encompassing her broken compass mind that waved from right to sinister left. She wanted to grow as big as the earth, to swallow it like a living aphrodisiac that would encourage her wildness and to prepare her for recreating a world without leftovers. First, she hid a lone twinkie under the bed, a goldensweet secret, then she hung licorice like bedroom vines and imagined food to be meals of planets, lakes, and mountains on her celestially blank, china plate. 3. Summer He used their full-view mirror to practice pirouettes. He considered his nightly movements as a violation in tights but, in truth, the tutu was too tiny to try on. His paintings were no longer rural, but cosmopolitan, neon scenes. The city was a woman barer than bare, he was knotted tight at the height of her hip, blinded by the glitter and feathers on her thighs. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. 4. Fall If you asked her her name before she could speak, in answer she would raise her forefinger like an accusing arrow aimed at the sky. Now, her voice is a constant harvest of terse words. She remembers when he watered her thoughts into bloom, before he cut them into even rows. This last decade recalls her lost years, pulling at her meat, first like a stubborn crow, then more softly, as an insistent, toddling tug at her sleeve. 5. Winter The evening is coffee without cream. Her black, tailored bob is the most recent descendant in a long line of hairstyles he hates. He wished her hair to be ancestral platinum snow, a glacier Marilyn Monroe, and longed her stomach to be an ice-covered lake. He thought a woman should taste like lemon sorbet. But she was closer to bubbling kettle steam, a hot chocolate Josephine. 6. Spring The sun is a brass pendulum swinging between seasons. Ice dies only to be revived. Both boots and sneakers wait by the door, taking alternate turns outside. Barefoot, indoors, She looks at his watch, waiting for warmth. By the next sun shift she has moved to a ticker-tape town full of height and haughtiness. Being a better woman has become her occupation. It becomes her. Professing nothing of her own, she is released like a balloon on inaugural day, and refuses to come back to earth like tawdry confetti. - Kat Isacson Dinner Under the Influence of Late Evening Dinner Under the Influence of Late Evening noodles slippery as sex rest exhausted from their boiling water dance tomatoes red tomatoes saucy as harlots relish their flavorful dominance and their attractiveness to both Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.eye and tongue they lure the fork first red flags to its bull horns pignoli peek out unsure of their tight nut influence still virginal in the oil - Kat Isacson Cameo, Curtain, Shoes Cameo, Curtain, Shoes She often thought that to be absolved into obliviously bright light or perfect, obsidian black would be her idea of both heaven and hell. Unlike most people she knew, she thought of them as nearly the same. To her, they were as inseparable as inhaling and exhaling. If death is the absence of breath, then, she weighed, what comes beyond that must be the terrible, sweet ache of lightheadedness. The pictures on her walls were nearly as blank as the paint. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.One favorite, a photograph entitled Weather Conditions, Antarctica, was a blur of white. In it, wisps of snow streaked along the bottom and seemed to slip under the frame. When she herself paled and greyed, she thought life was the borrowed brightness of the moon and that death was the darkness behind it. But she hoped, she hoped that it was more like a velvet curtain full with soft-bosom folds and that death was the person you most loved, hiding visibly behind them, betrayed by a pair of familiar, telltale shoes. -Kat Isacson The living yearn for eternity yet The living yearn for eternity yet to breathe fog onto glass. The dead want The dead want The dead want maraschino cherries, ice cream headaches and grapefruit sting. The dead want is open, dreaming. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. to be finalists for a sweepstakes that they may have already won. The dead want all wishky they The dead want with breathless anticipation, to be down during climax into ethereal nothingness. The dead want Corpse Redux If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Threads of Judgement, Threads of Judgement, random letters Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Letter to a Man With a Headache Letter to a Man With a Headache Dream only of locks and never of caskets. Breathe sweet, silent psalms and concentrate on the meat of Stolen story; please report. your heart beating. At worst, hide your head in a brass bound box and I''ll wrap myself around the rest as a nest made up of skin and hair and quiet, private peace. - Kat Isacson The Warmth of Ten Fingers The Warmth of Ten Fingers Dreams refuse to maneuver out of mind. I listen with ears of patience, wait until they are wheat-worn white. They are a thoughtless, tapping-temple thumb drumming while I rest with window facing chair. They occupy my space, until I lose my voice, loose my hair, become and disappear. These dreams are constant sets, Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. plays that lack memorized lines. Every room is of kitchen kind. The scenes are of unfed pets, who are domestic, resenting. The costume, a pink picked dress, pressed and each hair of mine made French, fresh, twined. This elaborate gown is not my bare, black desire. I wish for a vision of fingers to work these mean arms free and take this false skin from me. I scrape each bowl and plate chaste. My face is young peach clean. Mad beauty is an easy mother; she recalls essential sleep. -Kat Isacson Passage Passage You have seen the bumbling angels aroused in this house, my unintentional secret. Awakened by your night deep chill, they clothe themselves in our material possessions. They fashion arms from candlesticks, If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.make hands with matchstick fingers and assemble flammable, flowing, drapery wings. Their love of being seen, a longing to be consumed, is unbearable fire, but is little heat against the unmelting snow of time. Their new wings make only wind, no friction. They lack the presence of flesh, but their hands burn to rub together. All they claim is whispered passage. All they have is another''s old home. They keep our keys in their locks, keep us on our threshold, keep us from coming home. -Kat Isacson Poem for the Longest Night Poem for the Longest Night We sleep, digging our heads deeper into our pillows Twisting our feet into blankets, spreading our toes like new roots. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. In our dreams we pray to sleep through winter, hoping the morning sun will open the pressed together palms of our pale, tulip hands. We turn, in restless sleep, towards the veiled warmth of winter''s languid brightness, and linger in a blanket of eyelid red light. - Kat Isacson New Light Year New Light Year I feel premature, being awake barely before the light and feeling much farther from the day. I am deep winter, a longest night. With blown curtain touch, I trace newly made shadows which furnish the furrows of your face. I feel I should be drawing, trailing drops of water on Stolen novel; please report. a smelt-smooth summer sidewalk. I lack a pen of fool''s shard ice to fill the hollows of your brow with the calm of a pregnant pond. I wish to slip down into that moving mirror and stop descent a brush below my eyes, then rise, allow my nose to hover bare above water making breath into waves¡ªa discord in the reflected sight of sky above. And I would love to go mad, angry below the symbiotic lure of air, to secede into gilled sighs of fading light. I feel you lying, sleeping, a winter hot bath to crawl into, unnumbing my hands, my sprawling baby curled toes. - Kat Isacson Drinkin and Singin Like Jesus Drinkin'' and Singin'' Like Jesus Job whispered these ears into wings. They have flown to flipping card beat, known that God gambles and comes without knocks, that he waits for the weakness of your knees. I have spent three days on my knees drawing dirt circles, placing down ears in their safety, while Lucifer waits impatiently. He knows my honesty has flown from me and will evade me until there comes a time when its wings can no longer beat. The deity debts are great enough to beat my winner''s streak and threaten the safety of my knees. Lucifer lurks in desert hills and comes The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. with a lackluster laugh and white, whetted ears. He brags how his expense account has flown him to the best brothels, how he never waits. He wears a plastic jacket filled with dollar bills, waits for the show girls and their dime-heel clicking beat. They are strung out thin, like ostriches who have flown until the ugliness has been stripped from their knees. He whispers insane gestures into their near positioned ears, delights at their open expressions, sees who comes. Impatient night comes to trade day with neon light that waits, winks, waits. She lures men with star hung ears as she hawks the blocks on her beat. As she and Lucifer agree on a fee, he knees my groin into groans & asks, "Where have daddy''s angels flown?" My rolling eyes have flown to seven, throwing hope that luck comes to gambling souls who look for life on their knees, that the sorrowed sign of snake eyes waits to be omen for deadbeats and warns them when they refuse to use their ears. I have grown satellite ears that hear how sand has flown into patterns with a shifting beat. Each day comes, a curious better who waits for a woman''s presence between my knees. - Kat Isacson Unnumbered Psalm Unnumbered Psalm You are creation, passion, the story untold, the piercing joy of light through a window never opened. You are the final word of every prayer that waits to be said. You hold me though I cannot stretch my arms, my thoughts around you. You are closer than skin, close enough to hear the words I dare not whisper. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. You are breath. You are pause and movement, inhalation and release. You are the clock of my heart that turns with empty hands, waiting for you. You are the time it takes to fill a blank page. You are the words of this sentence. You are the languages I have not spoken, the spaces between these words, the letters, the alphabet, the ink, paper, pen. - Kat Isacson PSA: The Northfell Curse Returns! Hello all - I''ve made it back safe & sound from the holiday season, without too many scratches (or much glitter) to show for it....hope you have had a good few weeks yourselves! Thanks for reading my poetry, I really appreciate the feedback in the comments & reviews. :) In other news, I''ve entered the RR magazine contest with an artsy MC, you might like - It''s so far destined to be a shorter work, called IMMORTAL SOLD. The ongoing novel I''ve been writing is a fantasy/comedy novel. (Think: DnD on Ice) called The Northfell Curse. Thought you might enjoy a brief update on those as well... More poems soon, but in the meantime, I wanted to share with you a behind the scenes peek at the cover graphics I''ve been working on, since I''ve managed to finally add a proper drawing of Autumnus (from The Northfell Curse) to it. This drawing was hand drawn digitally, unlike much of the illustrations you''ve seen with this story so far; those are mostly all either entirely drawn on paper or sketched with pencil/ink on paper and colored digitally. Here is the new (drawn) cover for IMMORTAL SOLD & a couple of close-up snapshots mid-process and the final composition for The Northfell Curse: (Because I''m terribly old-school and actually draw stuff by hand...) Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. . Actually...I SAY final, but I noticed I''ve treated the lighting differently on Tine & Autumnus'' face, so I might add more shadows to his, but right now I''m out of spoons, as they say. Thoughts? What do you think? See you soon - thanks for sticking with Tine & Autumnus for their journey! +kat Momentum Momentum This moment is earth in your hands. Press your palms together until your life-lines show in its surface, giving your sweat to give it shape until your fingers make thoughtful furrows with their touch. Take this moment, hold it up to the sun and sculpt it until it is perfect in the light. Make this moment more than untouched soil - press it to your chest, roll it, hand to belly, This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it until it is shaped into a perfect universe. With the heat of from your skin it will change, add to it, take something away keeping it balanced, always measuring, juggling its lightness, its weight. Hold this moment only to find that you are its clay, shifting with each change. Feel the comforting presence of palms, fingers surrounding you, guiding you to new form, giving you yourself over and over again. - Kat Isacson Strip Strip To perform a spell of expulsion I would begin peeling an onion, prettily placing each skin apart like glaucoma-ed coronas or abalone shards. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.Then, sugaring the pot, I would cry tears, 96 or more, into any jug or gourd until it was just as full as not, keep it in some dry, hiding place and in the evaporating time I would place an onion layer, one each on my eyes then shuffle the rest, read them like a deck and play solitaire. - Kat Isacson Je Ne Sais Pas Je Ne Sais Pas In a room seven by ten feet, I sleep, restless and aware of the unruly red writing beneath the heavy floor stain. I wait, in brass-cradled bed, for muffled, blocked light to seep through my alley window and soak my whitewash white dresser clean of night. Eventually, it comes, crawling on faded footsteps, belly dragging over thrown clothes lying in frozen poses. I lie out of light''s reach, This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.limbs askew, flat, like some Egyptian stance. My thoughts are birds that fly in an erratic cloud from nothing, then place to place. My head, with predatory reason, slips and lisps into snake shape. I dream I remember I once had spoken French as a child with time before school. My life seemed unlit, through eyes both open and slit. My past was an egg all full, but blank and unopened, its origin so foreign to me now. - Kat Isacson Upon Leaving Upon Leaving Your littlest rib has attempted to leave. it is trying to make a new woman. More Lilith, no Eve, she will shun creation. She will become a broken bare A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.ship''s hull on a desert cliff. Her shifting weight then only recalls when all was sea. Her body will not feel the rocking needs of men, she will be no other''s lover. She will sway alone in single minded sin. -Kat Isacson Instructions on a Bedside Table Instructions on a Bedside Table ...and you will become a most beautiful dream Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.of pain and sorrow, the one I must run away from, yet always run to, and never leave behind. -Kat Isacson