I Need a Drink

She poured me a cup of hot java as I poured through the files that she had brought with her. Somehow she had gotten her hands on expense accounts and meeting notes from several large companies. The coffee cooled as I poured over every detail, letting it seep into my battered brain. After reading through every scrap of paper twice I finally looked up with a sigh.

“This is huge. Where did you get your mitts on this?”

“A girl’s gotta have a few secrets. You know what this means, right?”

I looked down at my cold cup of coffee. “Yeah, I need a drink.” It was time to get some work done.

A Life of Into and Out of

Into and out of is really what it is all about, placing things into, and taking things out of, containers or their special places. Life itself begins when the penis enters the vagina, and consequently a sperm cell enters the female's egg. The fetus is housed in the uterus, until it makes its exit 9 months painfully later. To maintain this life, food must be placed into the mouth, after taking it out of its wrapper or container and involuntary biological mechanisms digest and then push the food out minus the nutrients plus the stink into the toilet and out the ass. You get into bed, you get of bed, and then maybe into the shower. Why is it we are so quick to get into our clothes when done? We want to get out of our skins. Out the door now and into your car where you take a CD out and put another CD in. You pull into your parking spot, and get out of your car and go into work where you go into your office and get into and out of your chair whilst taking pencils from pencil holders and files from file cabinets and coffee from coffee pots. You go home and put more food into your mouth and get out of your clothes and into your pajamas and bed. You fall into sleep and out of reality. Tomorrow you start over, much the same, and the next day too. This until before you know it the shuffling and sorting stops and they put you six feet under into the cold carnivorous earth. This, of course, a no-brainer, your coffin, is your final container.

Pay

When you get out of bed
In the morning or any other time,
You have to pay for it
It is not of choosing, get up
Get out and get something
You're in for the long haul
Someday, you'll have to die
Sometimes, like rain, you'll cry-
When you get out of bed
You have to pay for it

Just-

I will miss you
But I will always-
always with a smile
remember you
(this is with gestures).

Green & Blue

Windswept leaves gently brush
The obliging air as
Supple sea embraces, flowing softly on;
A shoelace above dances over a perched rock
As a camera clicks capturing sunlight
Dripping and soaking, bouncing off
The slight sound of stillness
Offered by losing the reasons why.
The green fawns over the blue

(Elsewhere

A tongue clatters the roof of a mouth as
As a brain fills with blood as an aneurism is bursting
With odd excitement like the rapist that just finished
Leaving a half-live behind heroin might work but
A first love is dissolving, insurance agents talk with
Paramedics on a state of affairs their wives don't know about and so
Some are starving for food or connection, cautiously the latter say,
"I just want you to know me!" while the former barely can gasp.)
And the blue fawns over the green (The ball bounces).

Nosferatu

Nosferatu at the site of what may be encroaching daylight on recent press perfunctory for his remade somber German Expressionist film of the same name. He had an air of disdain for the remake similiar to the notion that he was more 'keen' to the original. He passive-aggressively implied that the temperature of Hollywood bullshit was exceedingly, seemingly and sometimes invariably melting polar ice caps. He went on to say 'off-the-record', but I am not one for records, that he was sorry for being part of a so-called faux bipartisanship and that it was all one conglomerate and their job was to shuffle drama so you can watch it and teeter back and forth between the fake liberal media and the fake neo-con media and wonder which way is which while they make more money and you wonder about football and Anna Nicole. He had a moment of truth, like deer-in-the-headlights, and said something about East Timor and genocide and then he caught himself and focused on catching his orb. It was quite bouncy. The sun was rising and he had to get a little shut-eye from all the ballyhoo. They had ideas of taking over lands with new plans.

Mr. Funbags

I have a surprise for you today
Things are not as they've seemed
I was away and not taking messages
It was secret fun
Embedded deeply, seemingly, in a private
Life, away from the apparent, and
rationalized perfectly, it was dazzled
With spotty sprinkles of denial
I didn't think about it then
And I don't think about it now
I figure everyone has trysts and these same
Secret things
They are rather harmless, depending
Upon your morality or disposition, however, my
Inclination is relative to animal, primordial
Itches and urges and take-offs
It was something I fell into
So I guess you don't know me
And I don't know you either

Familia

Somewhere out there
There is a happy boy
A smile on his face
A gleam in his eye
Everything is right
Everything is good
He bust be loved
Not overly so
Or less than average
But just the right amount
He must have a good family
One that is perfect in every way

Eat A Peach

Ravenous
Famished
Just damn hungry
Its been a day
Or two maybe even three
Since my belly was last filled

The cupboards were full
And even the fridge
But there was nothing to eat
Nothing good at least

Then my eyes laid upon
The biggest
The fattest
The roundest
Peach that I had ever seen

With one bide I was in heaven
Juices running down my chin
From my shit eating grin
By belly became full
I became happy

Death Works Overtime

Late at night
Crusing the streets
Beer in one hand
Wheel in the other
With a smoke spilling ash
I take the corner
A little closer than not
Wheels over the curb
Trashcans lay in waste behind
Death you hear me?
I should over the music
Undone seatbelt dangling along
I don’t care any more
Everything has been taken
Nothing remains
Just a disgrace
Not needed any more
Death you hear me?
You better be working overtime
By the end of tonight
My soul will be ripe
For you to reap
Off this earth

The Shelf

“Working never hurt anyone, but why take a chance,” in black lettering adorned the side of the mug. Brown coffee stains ringed the inside of the cup. Faded yellow, green, and purple stings of beads lay in a heap. Dots of clean wood are reviled in the thick layer of dust when disturbed. Decals on the three beat-up matchbox cars were pealing off and sand clogged the wheels. The cars were loved once. A graduation cap hung from a nail pounded in the side of the shelf. A picture frame laid face down, buried in the dust. Did it simply fall over, or was it set this way for a reason?

Paranoia

What is that? That bump behind my ear. Cancer? Must be cancer. I must have a brain tumor. I’m going to die… I’m going to die… I’m going to die! Not now. It’s to soon. I have to much yet to do. I have to live my life. I need to live A life. I need to enjoy myself. I don’t want to work. I can’t work any more. I need time to live… To do what I always wanted to do. Oh god. I don’t want to die!

To Entertaining Not To Do

The roar of the fog horn followed by the clanging buoy bells were the only sounds in the dark fog laden port. Shay could only see a few feet through the dense soup, but she knew her surroundings. Almost intimately. Crates waiting to be loaded as cargo surrounded her, giant airships hovered above her, waiting/wanting to take flight. And not far in front of her was her prey. She smiled to herself as she drew her dueling saber and navel revolver. Stepping slowly, softly, through the dampness.

Great Detail Description

Small, square, grey… About three inches long and wide, maybe two inches deep. Phillips head screws hold its face place on, barely. One is through the upper right corner and another through the lower left. The opposite corners were empty black eyes that unblinkingly watch me, study me… Two plastic toggles are in the middle of the exposed face. They were probably once white, but now they have been grayed by the sweat and grime of daily use. Three pipes extended from the box, two towards the ceiling and the last towards the floor. Splattering of paint was speckled on the pipes. The boxes face had also been discolored by age and use. The little metal box had seen a harsh long life and probably just as far left to go.

Broken Window

The primary windows were of the double hung style, vinyl clad, double pained with storm windows. There were visible indications of moisture on some of the window frames. The bottom weather stripping adhesive had come loose. It was noted that one of the basement windows was cracked. The windows were functional at the time of inspection. There were no major defects in the window system.

Visiting the Guilt Trip on the Square

Here I sit, at this little square table. Drinking my latte and checking my email with my laptop. Good music played on the coffee shop speakers while I’m minding my own business.

Then she appeared, standing at the edge of my table. She was talking to me and expecting replies. I glanced around the shop, looking for a rescuer but no one was coming to help, they were just watching me and her.

I smiled and nodded while she talked. What could I do? It was obvious that she was off her medication. The sounds coming from her lips were incoherent statements thrown together. I don’t want her to be here. I don’t want her to be talking to me.

But everyone was watching and listening. I can’t stand up and storm out. I can’t ask her to leave, that is just not done in this civilized society. The disdain in everyone’s eyes would kill me.

So there I sat. Trapped in a prison that had built up around me until she left.

Got Lots of Old Stuff Lying Around

“Get me another beer!” he yelled from the couch. Clumsily the old man picked up the tv remote and started flipping channels. “Why ain’t there no damn sports on?” he yelled at Bob Barker.

Frank put the beer on the coffee table and went back to the office in his home. It had been two months since his father had escaped the home. “The nurses were worse then the damn Japs,” he had said when he showed up on Frank’s doorstep with a suitcase in hand.

For two months the old man had been making Frank’s life miserable. He rarely got up from the couch and when he did it was just to berate Frank with another volley of insults and complaints. It’s no wonder as to why the nurses hated him.

“Check out the shitter on that critter!” rang from the living room. The old man was watching day-time soaps again…

Burning Grease For a Brighter Future

“No matter how bad of a cook you are eggs always taste the same.” Hank had read that once, and now was beginning to believe it.

His bloodshot eyes strained to stay open as he cracked open a pair of eggs. Orders for the two egg special had been coming through all night. It had become a local favorite for the after bar crowd. Drunks flocked to the greasy eggs and coffee en masse. The eggs worked their magic on the alcohol. At least long enough for a person to make it home with one eye closed.

Between order Hank stole glances at a text book splayed open under the counter, reading and re-reading the same passages over and over again. The words blurred together, moving in and out of focus. His exhausted mind couldn’t grasp the concepts of the new age economy in a post modern society any more then it could grasp the concept of fire being hot.

Driving Mr. Mossback

It was a cold winter’s night, back in 1908. I had picked up poor Mr. Mossback at the pub very late. “What have I done?” he sobbed. “I can’t believe it. I’m a failure. A complete and utter failure. I can no longer look anyone in the eye. Not my wife, not Mr. Franklin at the bank, not even you! I know what you must be thinking and the contempt that you hold for me.”

“I don’t think poorly of you Mr. Mossback,” I replied. “I never have and I never will. It doesn’t matter what you have done, you are a good god fearing man. I know this and would never look down on you Mr. Mossback.”

We drove on in silence; neither Mr. Mossback nor I spoke a word. The heavy snow fell around the automobile. I took it slow, trying to traverse the hidden path that the road had become. Each glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed what I had thought since Mr. Mossback entered the vehicle, that Mr. Mossback was defeated and reduced to a shell of a man.

We came to a halt in the driveway of Mr. Mossback’s home. The cooling engine ticked and the falling snow melted on the hood. “Mr. Mossback,” I inquired, “we’re home.” Slowly he lifted his head and took in his surroundings. He mumbled his thanks and shuffled towards his home. No longer a man, Mr. Mossback had become a shell of his previous self. The fallen snow mounted on his hunched shoulders.

It is a sad day when the weight of the world reduces a man to tears. We are all just human, you, I, and even Mr. Mossback. Maybe someday we will actually realize this.

Clowning Around

It goes with some make-up
A little costume
And odd, even stranger behavior
Isn't that what it's all about?

Sodium Pentothal

"Antics, they spin around, if not careful,
One could land on you, they were as the rain,
And collided with the puddles."
For he was the one on top, so he continued,
"Sometimes they were used as smoke screens,
Sometimes to slow, or even catalyze
Antics were jack-off-all-trades,
But you might be barter short, sometimes they're
Less than obvious and obvious fell far
One usually came after the other, and
They were closer to the paper than the distant trees."

Well, he said, he had something on his chest
He said, "Really, by now this seems best.
And they're really not always so bad."
I took a drink out of my glass, as had he,
The water, was surprisingly fresh
I agreed, and wondered if this was,
Just another one, remembering the
Film on the glass
Everyone used them, even did I?
And this, indeed yes, was one too
Antics, as he said, spin around.

The Sound of Nine Balls Breaking

Crash! An orb flew past my head and slammed into the wall. I turned and stared in disbelief.

“What the hell do you think you were doing last night?” She hollered at me as she snatched another one of my treasured snow-globes off the mantle.

“It’s ok honey-“ I tried to calm her down just as a second orb flew by me and embedded itself into the drywall beside me. “Calm down, please-“ A third and fourth came flying towards me as I dove behind the couch. Both showered broken glass, water, and a tiny house upon me. The flecks of snow slowly followed.

“I won’t calm down!” She hurled another at me, trying to arc it over the couch. “You’re the one screwing around behind my back!”

“What?” I managed to get out before the onslaught of another snow-globe and her sobbing yells.

“You know what you did last night!” Another globe crashed down. “Lipstick on your collar!” Crash! “Her scent on you!” Crash! “Your sleeping with her!” She reached for another Snow-globe but all nine had already been thrown. She collapsed to her knees sobbing.

Root-Beer Smack Down

I leapt from the top rope bringing my elbow down in an overhead smash. My swing landed squarely on his forehead, knocking him over. Before he hit the ground I was leaping from turnbuckle to turnbuckle raising my hands to the roaring crowd encouraging their cheers. They chanted my name over and over, for the mighty Root-Beer who had just put the smack down.

In Memory

'No matter how corrupt, greedy,
and heartless our government,
our corporations, media, and our religious and charitable institutions may become, the music will still be wonderful....

If I should ever die, God forbid,
let this be my epitaph:

'The Only Proof He Needed
For The Existence Of God
Was Music''

"And so it goes, and so it goes..."

Kurt Vonnegut
1922-2007

A man to be missed...

War of Words

Crash, bam, boom
Thunder and lightning
Race through the heavens
Striking all that oppose
Crushing the opposition
Nothing can stop the juggernaut
The war machine
From reeking havoc
Scalding insults
From one child to another
Can leave scars
Forever

How Green Is Your Grass

“Is it time mom? Is it? Can I? Huh? Can I?”

“Ugh, let mommy get a cup of coffee first.”

Jack plopped himself down on the couch as his mother dragged herself to the kitchen. He always loved Easter. It was the one time of year that he got to tear apart the home and not get in trouble. In fact, if he destroyed enough of the home and actually found all of the brightly painted eggs his mom and dad would reward him with a basket filled with jellybeans, assorted candies, and the brightest colored green grass that he had ever seen.

At least that is how it was in the old days. When they lived in the house. When mom and dad were still together.

Jack’s mom emerged from the kitchen with a steaming mug in her hand. A smile crept across her face. Jack was patiently waiting for her go ahead. “Alright Jack,” she said, “you know the rules. The eggs are anywhere in this apartment.”

He dashed from the couch looking everywhere for the eggs. Behind the TV, in the bathroom, he even found one in the egg carton in the fridge. In no time he was finished, the hunt was over. Back in the house he had to look for ever to find all the eggs. The search was always the best part.

His mom gave him a bear hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Good job Jack. I love you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Ear Wax

You feel so good
When I stick you in
And twirl you about
You give me the pleasures
That no one else can
My double ended
Soft touch
Q-tip of love

Epiphany

The garage door slowly opened as the home came alive. Hall and kitchen lights flipped on, the stove warmed up, and the gas fireplace ignited. Lina wearily dragged herself from her car. The cold concrete on her bare feet jolted her awake. She grabbed her boots and bolted for the warm confines of her home.

Soft plushy carpet welcomed her bare feet. Abandoning her boots at the door she made her way through the house. She tugged at the straps and clasps of her clothing and left it where it fell.

Slipping into a pair of flannel pajamas Lina made her way to the kitchen. Her left over lasagna in the oven was hot. She ate dinner, grabbed her copy of Macbeth, and curled up on the couch in front of the fire. Her eyes scanned the page. She threw the book down in disgust. “I can’t stand Shakespeare!”

Into Lina's Mind

Lina took one long stride after another into the middle of the stage. Into the middle of an entropic mess. Music blared over the sound system, DJ White Noise was throwing down. Roaring cheers emanated from the ungulating mass in the confined space. All eyes were focused on the lone figure in the middle of the stage.

Lina took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Her nerves only settled down as much as her restricting corset would allow her to breath.

“You guys ready for a show!” she yelled into her microphone. The crowd erupted. “I said, are you ready for a show!” Roars from the throng were deafening.

The girl skipped across the stage. Her feet ached in their tight confines. She just wanted to be at home in her pink fuzzy bunny slippers, not in the middle of the stage in black thigh high leather boots. No price would be to great for her to pay to get off that stage.

“I don’t think you guys are ready!” her booming voice echoed over the speakers. The crowd boiled over. Cat calls rang out from veterans of the show, they knew what was going to happen next.

Lina jumped up and down clapping her hands giddy laughter escaped from her lips. Her short plaid school girl skirt flapped with her movement exposing her long legs and beyond. She closed her eyes as she jumped, time slowed down to a standstill, and she was mentally transported back home. No loud music. No groping eyes. Only peace and quiet. Wrapped up in a heavy blanket in front of the fireplace with a literary classic in her hands.

Retmusch

It was a feud that went back many years. For it to be pin-pointed to a specific year was less than easy and exact to do. Both sides most would say had their good and bad points, but neither side ever seemed to look beyond this and reason some kind of agreement or truce. All attempts, did in fact, go up in smoke. Moderators were brought in from a few underground groups set out to try and quell the ever-perpetual decline in the feuding parties' ability to reason and simply work things out to a sappy medium. This frustrated, in addition, many others outside the aforementioned underground who also tired of hearing about it when so many other problems seemed abound in their lives. If things continued the way they were presently going, lives would be lost. Homes would be burnt down. Disease would spread undoubtedly. The quality of the air would be depleted. People would cry.

Conversely, if things changed, freedoms would indeed be lost. All persons would be manipulated into paying another replacement tax (because things that are taxed never go away, and if they do, the elders that be, find another, a most often more ridiculous thing to tax. One such proposed surrogate tax, if the other side won, was being labeled the Sex Tax, and already people were burning up about it) that only one side had paid before. Furthermore, a loss of one personal freedom surely would lead to another, and so on. Although some of the moderators found this to be an invalid slippery slope argument, chances were that further subjugations wouldn't subscribe to subsiding. The personal freedom camp claimed with vehemence that people died for their freedoms all the time, and that's why life is so expensive in the first place and inflation is always gaining. Some saw this as very flawed.

The two sides were the smokers and the non-smokers of the land Retmusch in the territory of Pholoxix. The smokers said the non-smokers were uptight and elitist hogs...the non-smokers said the smokers were stained yellow and blinded like moonstruck cows. Both were right. Both were wrong. Both were Pholoxixians of Retmusch. Many moderators and underground Pholoxixians had set up a contest for the sides to compete in a test of wills, with a possibility of triumph and glory. Moreover, contractually they were both obligated to come to a truce agreement of some sort guided by the outline in the contract's small print- as it always is. In a game played on a shiny court that only the most gifted of Retmusch's zesty inhabitants could participate, it all came down to this. This game symbolically representing years of struggle, now, possibly coming together in accord. However, there still was a chance the Retmusch body of elders could veto the proposed bill regarding the game and its out coming agreement proposed by the Pholoxixians, although it was thought unlikely by the general populace.

As the three moons of the land set, game time was set to start one day in late summer. The non-smokers planned to wear yellow jerseys and just as fitting the non-smokers planned on the white jerseys. They trained and consumed hearty healthy diets. The smokers still smoked, but swore by its enhancing capacities. New research in fact coming away from the smokers' camp was that smoke may actually be good for you. Not surprisingly, the nons thought this to be a jaded and biased study, straddling badly the line of ethics and the whole scientific process. It wasn't known then exactly why, but the smokers kept up with the nons just as well on the running track. In addition, in all other physical facets of and relating to preparation, the smokers always kept up and sometimes they far outdid their counterparts. In fact, some nons converted and started smoking, but were not near as good at blowing those smoke ring things. Whether the former nons performance improved it is not known as the empirical process was sabotaged, leaving behind only unsupported hypothesis and opinion. The nons denied any knowledge of this on any level what-so-ever.

As it always does, the time came before they knew it. Fall was approaching soon, indicated by the three moons' positions in the high sky. Pregame warm-ups were taking place. The smokers coughed. The non-smokers scoffed. The moderators were proud. Years and years of a divided society teetering towards inevitable destruction and chaos would all be stomped out tonight. The stadium was filling up more than was to be expected.The organizers and moderators were worried the stadium's capacity wouldn't suffice the interest and monumentality of the event. The line went up off into the distance over a nearby grassy hill. Sure, some off the incoming didn't have tickets and were crossing their toes on the chances of coming across a scalper. It was said the tickets were insanely priced, but the money was put back into social welfare programs benefiting Pholoxixian youth (although, it was thought filtered and some elders seemed to take a little off the top).

Before the giant game was played the crowd was on its feet clapping insistently, waiting and watching just as intently. It was told later the roar of the crowd was almost unbearable, albeit the anticipation delightfully distracting them. They played the Retmusch anthem and some cheered and some hollered. Then a representative from each of Retmusch's territories, including one proud Pholoxixian, strutted the Colors of the Territories quite gloriously. A noticed lift in decibels arose as they paraded...for the Retmusch people were proud of their Colors and what they stood for, irrespective of what said territory or if they really meant anything at all anyway. Anticipation continued to build, as echoes continued to bounce, and the contestants (combatants) were full of smiles and pride.

Obviously both sides had something to prove. Some seemed nervous, some seemed happy, and finally some felt relieved that the day was here (there). The whistle went off. It was as if time had stopped as everything went really fast. The sound of the crowd continued to crescendo, as the tension of the warring teams reached ultimate gamely conflict. There was concession stand; however, no one had time nor attention for such insignificant buttery or sticky details. What they were watching unfold in front of them was all at that time they really cared about at all. Even the usually staunch upper-administrative elders seemed to be enjoying themselves. Some of the elders were smokers, but their position(s) of power made the issue of smoking or not smoking outside the proverbial ashtray, so to speak. Players in both teams dropped out from unrelated events having none to do with their smoking or non-smoking. By games end the floor was less than shiny, littered with blood, sweat, tears and cigarette butts.

In the end the smoking or the non-smoking was of no consequence what-so-ever to anyone. The game's outcome only the participants and the crowd truly knew and saw (although it was rumored still years later, that the smokers had won). The smokers and non-smokers had spent so much time together training, sweating and sharing with one another that they actually took the time to get to know one another, and from getting to know one another, began to understand and see where each were coming from. The social problems associated with smoking actually had nothing to do with smoking at all--it was said and proven due empirically later that smoking was only not bad for you, but was actually good for you. Certain molecules of the smoke were found to repair and strengthen the mitochondria of the cell and further the biochemical process of things such as muscle contraction and energy storage (by better hydrolysis of adenosine triphosphate to adenosine diphosphate in the cytoplasm of the cell and vice-versa) (and this is a biological facet and not a social-biographical one, or are they the one and same?).

Useful programs were created in preventing homes from burning down. The non-causal relationship between smoke and disease, led to a new law regulating the fuel and lighting-devices in Retmusch. Fumes inhaled from these fuels within lighters and such were the causes of imperialist cancer cells, and citizens of Retmusch were done with colonialism so microcosmic holocausts were slowly ushered out as ignorance associated with such words were becoming quite antiquated. Diseases dropped and the conflict eventually dissolved (the Sex Tax was created as a new paradigm in the land's evolution of taxation, but was dissolved after riots and social uprising ensued. It was also pretty costly to regulate). Smokers became non-smokers and a fair opposite just the other way. From the understanding garnered through spending the time together (some joked it was a case of the Stockholmlox Syndrome, and that the non-smokers simply led the smokers to identify with them by mentally being taken hostage), the land had become more peaceful and enjoyable for all. The moderators' years later were placed on the commonly crinkled currency spent all over. Ultimately, it was understood that it took all kinds to make the land of Retmusch go 'round (actually, up then down, and then again). Silly something so simple took so long to figure out.

Where are the Missing Spoons

“Spoon!” the disheveled youth yelled from the top of the parking ramp. It was his call, his warning, to the downtown jungle that he had arrived. Friends had been notified of his presence and his foes had been warned by the holler.

He took the stairs two at a time at first. As his pace quickened he started taking them in threes, then fours, then all at once. Grabbing the railings he could vault himself down a flight of stairs at a time. His black trench coat flapped behind him in his decent like a cape in a super hero comic.

Blood rushed through his veins as he neared the street below. The excitement of the city, the urban jungle, is what drove him. Nothing could stop him as he prowled the city streets, the jungle, his jungle.

Standing tall he made his way down the bustling street. He was on a hunt and everyone could sense it. Like frightened gazelles the throngs of pedestrians parted to let him through. No one wanted to get in his way.

The hunt would have to be put on hold until after he had feasted. A sprint and a chase for some action is no good on an empty stomach.

He strutted into one of the many restaurants along the street. With a nod one of the members of his pack scurried off when the youth walked through the door. The pack mate knew the hierarchy of the jungle and soon returned with a stake cooked rare. A junior always ensures the senior is well taken care of.

The youth ravenously devoured his bloody meat. With a grunt he got up from the feast and entered back into the jungle. Leaving behind his calling card, a single silver spoon with a smile scrawled on in sharpie.

In Case of Rapture

Ever want life to be like a trip on a major airline? I want someone to stand at the end of the aisle and preach the rules and instructions of life to me. Of course, unfortunately, if life was that simple then I, and all of the mindless drones around me, would not pay any attention. Blah, blah, blah. Year, I know. I can figure it out if the worse case happens.

I’ve always prepared myself for the worst case. My life is nothing but doldrums. They take a hold of me and ERGGG!!! Life sucks! School sucks! Work sucks!

Can you believe what happened after third period today? I was at my locker exchanging the books from my backpack to my locker. Well, some jock slammed my locker shut behind my back. What an asshole. Why do people have to be so mean?

But then, after fifth period, Shannon said “hi” to me in the hallway. Shannon said hi to me! I can’t believe it.

Now if only I knew what to do now. If only I had paid attention when the stewardess gave instructions at the beginning of this flight I call life. What am I supposed to do in the case of rapture? Am I supposed to reach for the oxygen masks or just sit back and enjoy the ride?

A pair of Shoes

Big ass, thigh high, black leather boots. I feel so alive as I slip them on, caressing each silver buckle as a past lover. The two inch thick rubber soles are perfect for clubbing, allowing me to dance the night away in style. Speaking of style, my precious boots have a look that is only good on jet black hotrods and my fabulous shit kickers. Gorgeous bright red flames. The flames rise from my sole and flicker in the dance floor strobe lights. While wearing my boots, and the right slinky little number, I rule the dance floor. It is my domain, until I stomp off in my big ass, thigh high, black leather boots.

House

I’m burnt out. I’m sick of this shit. One more week and I’m going to kill myself. Anything would be better than going there week after week. Anything at all.

I don’t know what’s worse; going there week after week or keeping it from everybody. It’s just way to much fucking work to come up with a story and making sure that it sticks. I can only say that I’m staying late at work so many times before people get suspicious.

I swear to god, if I have to go to that god forsaken house one more time I’m going to kill someone. You hear that mother? Next week it’s either you or me.

Someone Smoked a Joint

Mike nudged the body with his shoe, “What do we got here boys?”

A young lieutenant, still fresh faced and out of the academy, read out of his note book. “Frank Ferriday, age 36, gunshot wound to the head. There was a Colt .45 in his hand when we got here. The boys downtown are already checking on its registration. No signs of a struggle or forced entry. Looks to be a suicide.”

Shaking his head in disbelief Mike asked, “When did you get the call?”

“At 8:35pm, about an hour ago. Mrs. Stablinsky reported hearing a gun shot. Sergeant Powell was on a beat a few blocks away from here, he’s reporting his statement now.”

“This was no suicide,” Mike said as he bent down to pick something up.

“Excuse me sir?”

“I know Frank; we shared a foxhole in the war. He would have givin his life to save mine and I would have done the same. Maybe he has hit some hard times., but he would never give in to drugs again. I helped him through rehab, dragged him kicking and screaming. Once he was clean he swore that he would never go back. Frank has never gone back on his word.”

Mike opened his hand to show the lieutenant a small roll of white paper that was burnt on one end. “Someone smoked a joint here. That someone killed Frank Ferriday. When I find out who that someone is they will wish that they never took up drugs. They will wish that they never met Frank. They will wish that Frank never met me. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do, I will get vengeance on Frank’s killer. My buddy’s killer.

Pilot

The sky was black
Pinpricks of light shone through
Wispy clouds drifted by
Red carpet of automobile tail lights
Led to the brightly lit capitol
The craft banked left
As the city sparkled by
No greater feeling was had
Then when I was at the controls

The Silence

Is there anything as beautiful
As the absence of sound
Stand in the middle of a field
Watch heavy snow fall
And muffle all sounds of silence
Its deafening bliss
Under the right circumstances
Bringing a tear to my eye
And a smile to my lips

The Opening

At the end of the hall
A rectangle of light shone through the darkness
What could be contained on the other side
What could be so great
That it could shine on this side
Doors block the opening
Keeping light from dark and dark from light
It is so comfortable
On this darkened side
My home is here
But yet
The light calls out
Wanting me to join
All that is good and wholesome
I can’t go through
The door in the opening
Is my wall

Parallel Play

There she is
On the dance floor
Just a few feet from me
A smile on her face
Gleam in her eye
And grove in her step
All illuminated by the strobe lights

With my unique brand of funk
I slide into place next to her
Flashing a smile
When ever she looks my way

But alas my efforts go unnoticed
When the music dies away
She fades away into the crowd
And I am left alone

Lamp

Dark
Alone
Afraid
I reach for you

Reassuring glow
Together
Happy
I reach for you

Intense
Blinding
No escape
I reach for you

Dark
Alone
Afraid

Untitled

A blank canvas rests before me
Icy blue lines gaze out
The piercing cold delves deep
A thin red line banks the side
Aggressions that counter balances the hate
Thoughts and images fly on by
None seem to stick to the fly paper of my mind
The page stays blank
Like a field of wind driven snow
Beautiful in the absence of form or shape
But yet craving, needing, wanting
A disturbance in the white nothingness
A thirst that needs to be quenched
By paragraphs, sentences, phrases
Or even just a title

Meet Vivid Girl

There I was, sitting in a coffee shop in the “arts district.” The wooden chair that I sat upon was growing hard. I shifted how I was sitting so that one ass cheek didn’t fall asleep before the other could.

My third cup of coffee sat before me on the wood table. Steam drifted above the rim before dissipating. Dissipating into nothingness. That’s what’s happening here.

I turned a page in my Scribner Anthology as I waited. Reading and rereading each line of poetry. Ingesting the full meaning of every line, every word.

Holding the book straight up, making sure the cover can be seen, I flip the page again. Where can she be? That girl I was supposed to meet, Vivid_Girl.

This is the last time I’ll agree to meet someone off the internet.

Antics Swirl Around

Spin, spin, spin
I whirl and twirl
In the mosey meadow
Colors swirling around
Blue sky and white clouds
Green grass and grey stones
And my lemon-chiffon sundress
All whirling and twirling
As I spin through the field
Falling on my back
With my eyes closed
A smile crosses my lips
Before it is shattered
In a hail of giggles

Night Driving

What on earth possess you to repaint your old bedroom?” The grizzled man demanded as the black sedan screamed through the darkness.

“I don’t know… I always wanted my room to be blue…” The girl replied staring out of her window.

Jack took one last long drag off his smoke before flicking it out of the window. An exploding starburst was all that remained when the sparks hit the pavement. A starburst that quickly faded.

The car was silent. Jack calculated what their next move was. His mind took each piece of the jigsaw puzzle that was laid before him and tried to fit the pieces together. Each piece seemed to belong to a different puzzle.

Beth was staring up into the night sky. A look of bewildered awe on her face shone in her reflection off the car’s window. How could something like this happen to a girl like her? She was so innocent.

A twin pair of white orbs passed the sedan in the other lane, disappearing in a red glow of the tail lights in the rear view mirror.

Jack sighed then broke the silence. “I’m sorry for jumping down your throat. It’s just that I’m trying to figure out how to get you… us… out of this mess.”

The girl didn’t say anything and just kept starring out into the darkness. A single tear ran down her cheek; a tear, that to Jack, was a sign of gratitude. If nothing else he will get her out of this mess, or die trying.

The Light Switch Broke

My eyes were heavy with sleep as I stumbled through another day at work. My body was on autopilot, I no longer had any control over my actions. They days ran into weeks as my lack of sleep was mounting.

What caused this fall to a zombified state? I’m glad you asked. It’s kind of a funny story really. At least it would be if you were not me.

One night, only god knows how long ago, I reached for my light switch to turn off my lights for the evening, but nothing happened. I flipped the switch on and off, on and off; but the lights just wouldn’t go out.

I tried everything to get those lights to turn off, but nothing worked. It was like a divine curse, causing me to pay for all my sins, and all the sins of my past lives.

I pray to god that some day the lights in my house will go out. But until I am wrapped in the loving hands of darkness I am cursed to suffer in that ever illuminated hell.

Sad Clown

“What do you mean I can’t have my third cheeseburger?!?” the disheveled man yelled at the register-jockey.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t allow substitutions.” The young girl timidly replied. Her eyes darted across the restaurant, looking for help, looking for a way out. “I wish I could do it for you but this register won’t let me.”

The customer grabbed the clear plastic box of charity donations and flung it against the wall. It exploded on impact, spare change rained down in a clatter. “I want my god damn third cheeseburger!”

Practically in tears the girl gave in. She grabbed the cheeseburgers and thrust them at the customer, not even bothering to ring up the order. He grunted as he snatched the burgers out of her hands. On his way out of the restaurant he took out the last of his frustrations on the plastic clown mascot, leaving it knocked over in the bushes.

Round World

We ate Chinese

We ate Chinese
On that Christmas day
Mom was to tired to cook
Dad was to drunk to care
I had the sweet and sour shrimp
With an egg roll
We sat there in silence
In the empty restaurant
Mom and dad weren’t fighting
My sister wasn’t bitching
Inwardly I smiled
As I stabbed a battered shrimp with my chopstick
It may not seem like much
But I had just received the gift that I always wished for

Used Car

She was blue
Little
Fast
My four on the floor
Chariot of doom
With that fine European styling
That would make all other turn
Stare
And say
What a boxy piece of crap
But that little four banger could move
When prodded a bit
Prodded I did
Taking tight turns
Screaming down the highway
Hot rodding that car
Into oblivion
Enjoying the good times
And the bad
I miss her
My blue, little, fast
VW Fox

Bill Hicks and Your Heart

Standard Oil

I’ve been afraid of putting air in the tires ever since I saw a tractor tire blow up and throw Newt’s father over a Standard Oil sign. But here I was, the old station wagon had gotten a flat. I had changed the flat with a spare on the side of the highway in the blistering heat. The twins started bickering again once the car had started moving again. Adding to the cacophony of noise was my wife scolding me about taking better care of the car and the family. It was all my fault that our vacation was ruined before it even started.

Concentrating on the road ahead I tuned out my family and kept on driving. In the shimmering distance I could make out a gas station. Finally a break from it all! With a squeak the car came to a halt next to the air pump. The twins and my wife dashed into the air conditioned general store before I had the trunk open. I wheeled the tire to the pump and put the hose to it. Air rushed into its new rubberized home as I felt something ominous behind me. Slowly I turned to see a Standard Oil sign…

Seasonal Blahsphemy Syndrome (S-BS)

The Customer Service Referral Specialist transferred me to the Coordinating Member Representative's Transcontinental Telecommunication Device. I had planned and prepared well, and was ready for the Propositive Networking Conference Event, and what could spring. We were team positive rather than opponent negative, and he was Goal-Oriented and ran the Business Cooperative Association nicely. His Vocal Chord Output was Well-Versed Affirmitive Reinforcement, and the Customer Home Base Service Board Stock Holders thought this to be tres fabulous. So, I grabbed my Proficient Inking Device, and had a jolly go-go. The paper held up quite well as I took Educationally Informed, Knowledgeably Based jottings, as he spoke. Things were going positively-warm, like sunny summer. They should've, as the night before I had preprayed to the Spiritual Love Savior. However, fall fell. I spilled Mountain Grown Coffee Java all over my Executive Pro Plus Threads. Second-degree, with minor dermal damage it was. In doing so, I had Negatively-Affected his Positive Mantra Position with line and staff. We had a wintrily exchange of emotions like jagged ice. And then I was fired and burned as Support Staff Specialist Supervisor.