The House and the Cafe.

The house is not my house.
This house dwells in another house.
It is the boss’s house-
he lives underneath
The stairs.  I don’t know
where I’ve run off
To, but Florida sounds
good to me right now-
All those beaches and
whales would make a good
Swim.  I’ve found myself
inside of a deadweight,
And everything seems good
to me right now.
I’m singing outloud to the
stereo, and everything
Sounds good to me right now.
The house is broken.
I broke the house.
The gods can’t help me now-
Everything is sinister, without the night.  Take me
Home, I want to go home.
I want to get out of this place.
There are too many people at this
café, I want to get out
Of here.

The Sight and the Shadow.

Shadows creep upon the blank walls.
The sunlight is dressed in white.  They throw shadows on
Torn flowers.  Sight is here, and is not.
The words are clear, and are not.  Here the river

Gurgles to itself, and falls fast asleep in its own chair.
The chair totters and spills over.

Night comes,
The stars are awake and hear the river.  The river is

All right.  The stars are the river.  Distance comes

With sight.  Take me outside of myself, and hear
The words chime with reverence.

Sanctuary, beginning.

(Kid tosses and turns in his bed all night.  A light flashes by the window.  The next morning, Saturday, he wakes up and goes into the living room to watch cartoons on the television set.  His father is talking softly on the telephone.)
Dad:  All right…yes, that’s fine…thank you…bye.
Kid:  When is Grandpa coming over, huh Dad?  Huh?  Huh?  (He jumps up and down.  He can’t help it.  He is too excited.)
Dad (laughingly):  When he comes over, son.  Actually, about a half an hour.  A lot of traffic, you know.
Kid (disappointed):  That’s a million years!
Dad:  You’re so funny.
Kid:  The answer is George Washington, Dad..
(A  half an hour later they hear a horn honking outside.  Kid runs to the door and flings it open wide.  His grandfather, Grandpa Jones, is just exiting his car.)
Grandpa:  Hello, child, hello!  I’ve missed you.  (Grabs him in a great, big bear hug.)
Kid:  I’ve missed you too, Grandpa.  Where have you been?
(Grandpa laughs.)  At home, of course!  Now that I don’t work anymore, I don’t have much to do.
Kid:  What do you do, Grandpa?
Grandpa:  Play solitaire.  It’s a helluva lot better than poker.  And more respectable-like.
Dad:  Grandpa, don’t talk about poker with the boy.
(Grandpa snorts.)  Why, I was younger than him when I started playing.  I should teach him right now.
Dad (in a warning tone.)  No poker.
Grandpa:  Fine, fine.  I didn’t bring any cards, anyway.  They’re at home.  Hey, look what I got!  (He pulls a quarter from behind Maverick’s ear.)
Dad:  No giving my kid money, either.  He has a big enough allowance as it is, anyway.  Let’s go inside.  We’re attracting the neighbors’ attention.
Kid:  Okay, Dad!
(Later that evening, they are having dinner on the back porch.  There is a pinkish light to the sky.  A soft wind is blowing.)
Dad:  It’s so peaceful out here…makes me think of Jillian.
Grandpa:  Hector.
Dad:  I’m just saying-
Grandpa (severely):  Not in front of the boy.
Dad:  You’re right.  I completely forgot.  It’s still fresh in his mind, like a growing daisy.  Kids don’t handle deaths very well.  They don’t understand it.  (He stumbles to his feet.)  Let’s go to the carnival!
(Kid jumps up and down):  Yay!  Let me get my jacket.
(Grandpa, Dad, and the kid pile into the car and drive downtown to where the carnival is being held.  The kid rides so many rides until he can’t ride anymore.  Dad goes on a few rides, but Grandpa just watches.  After riding the rides, Grandpa buys everyone ice cream, and they find a table and sit down.)
Kid:  I love ice cream.
Grandpa:  Me, too.
Dad (scolds):  You shouldn’t be eating ice cream, Pops.  It’s not healthy for you.
Grandpa:  I say what’s healthy for me.  And I put my foot down on that!
Kid:  You go, Grandpa!
(Grandpa chuckles.)
(The day ends.  Everyone piles back into the car and they drive home.  Grandpa leaves to go back to his own house.  The house is now quiet.)
(Kid stands up abruptly.)  I’m going to go watch tv.
Dad:  Okay, sport.
(The next day.)  
Teacher:  That is correct, Maverick.  You get a gold star for the day.
Kid:  Isn’t that a little babyish?
Teacher:  If it’s babyish, I don’t want to know about it.  (He smiles at the kid and turns his attention back to the chalkboard.  The kid sighs in relief.)
Kid:  Maybe he should pay more attention to his school work rather than thinking about girls, he thinks.  (The bell rings; it is time for lunch.  The kid slowly walks to his locker and thrusts his books inside.  Then, he grabs his math book and puts it in his backpack.  It is very heavy.  He has math class after lunch; he walks slowly down the hallway, grimacing at the weight of the book, and enters the lunch room.  Everyone is talking and laughing.  He gets in the lunch line and stands on tiptoe to see what they’re having for lunch-he groans.  It is sloppy joe, again.  He loves sloppy joes, but enough is enough.  He grabs a sloppy joe and puts it on his plate, then he scans the room for any signs of his friends.  He spots Joe and Aaron seated in a corner of the lunch room and hurries over to them.  He sits down.)
Kid:  Hi, guys!  How’s it going?
Aaron:  Don’t ask me that question.  Just, don’t.
Kid:  What’s the matter with you?
Joe:  He’s in love.
Kid:  Really?  With who?
Joe:  Sarah Shortt.
Kid:  He is?  Man, she’s pretty.  (Kid sighs and shakes his head then slowly consumes his sloppy joe.  Come to think of it, he loves sloppy joes!  They’re the best!)
*
(Kid shoulders his backpack.  The end of another school day.  The bells are ringing in the hallway and kids are zooming every which way, trying to get out of Berrymill Elementary School as fast as their legs can carry them.  The kid slowly drags his feet.  He didn’t want to go home, to see his sick, bed-ridden mother.  It was too scary, too real.  He shoulders his backpack again, sighs, and hurries out the double doors of the school.)
(Kid starts to walk home.  It is a pleasant day outside; the birds are singing; the sun is high in the sky.  He goes past Rite Aid, and walks two more blocks before finally reaching home.  He takes a deep breath, and opens the door.  He steps inside, his heart beating a mile a minute-will his mother be better, or worse?  His heart sinks.  He’s still laying in bed.  Kid walks over to him and kisses his cheek.  Then, he rearranges his blankets so they’re tucked under his chin.)  Hi, Dad.
Dad:  Hello, sweetie, how was school?
Kid (a bit sharply):  Fine.
Dad:  Do you have homework?
(Kid bobs his head):  Lots.
Dad:  I have an errand for you.  I need you to go to the store and help me get the groceries.  We’re almost out of everything.
Kid:  You can’t go to the store in your condition.  I’ll get Grandpa-
Dad:  No, no.  I’ll do it.  Doctor says I have to get up and about anyway.  Good, your coat is still on.  (She throws the covers off of him and drags herself off the couch.  He goes to the coat closet and puts on a blue jacket.)  Let’s go, honey.
Kid (sighs):  All right, Dad, if this is what you want.
Dad (sharply):  You’re starting to sound a lot like your Grandpa.  He always tells me to relax.
Kid:  Takes one to know one!  (He hops into the car and his father slides behind the wheel in the driver’s seat.)
(Soon, they reach the grocery store.  His father pulls the car into a parking spot-close to the door-and turns around to face her son.)  Fill it up as much as you can.  Here’s two hundred dollars.
(Kid takes the money):  All right, Dad, if you say so.
Dad:  I say so.
(Kid hurries out of the car and into the store.  It is bustling with activity.  He grabs a cart and starts going down the aisles.  Halfway down the flour aisle, a man approaches him.)
Man:  What are you doing in here, kid?
Kid:  I’m shopping for my mother.
Man:  I’m sorry I asked.
(Kid takes the cart and hurries down another aisle.)
(Kid makes his purchases and takes the groceries out to the car.  His mother gets out of the front seat and helps put the groceries in the trunk.  Then, he hops into the car again and they head home.)
*
Dad:  Thanks for helping me today, son.  It was a big help.  I haven’t been feeling myself lately.
Kid:  It was no problem.  Except this guy asked me what I was doing in the grocery store by myself.
Dad:  Just tell him the truth, son.  That’s all you can do.
Kid:  I guess so.
Dad:  Have you done your homework yet?
Kid:  No, not yet.  It’s not a lot, really.
Dad:  Get to it, son.  We want you to be a learned person, not illiterate like some folk.
Kid:  Okay, Dad, I’ll do my homework.  (Grumbling to himself, he goes upstairs, his right hand on the railing.  It takes him awhile to finish his homework; then he is called downstairs to dinner.)  What are we having, Mom?  (He is in the kitchen, trying to peer into the pots boiling on the stove.)
Dad:  We’re having spaghetti and meatballs, son.
Kid:  Oh, goodie!  You know how I love spaghetti and meatballs.
*
(The kid’s father makes dinner.  They eat quietly.  It is so quiet, you can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.  They eat all their meals at the kitchen table.  Suddenly, his father groans and slides to the floor.  The kid jumps up from his seat, alarmed.)  Dad!
Dad:  Call an ambulance, son.  I think I’m having a heart attack.
Kid:  Okay, Dad.  Relax.  I’ll get you a pillow from the living room.  (He races into the living room and comes back, carrying a couch pillow.  He puts it under the man’s head.)
Dad:  Thank you, son.  Now go call the ambulance.
(The kid rushes to the phone and picks it up.  He dials 911.)  Hello…yes…come right away.  My father passed out on the floor.  Yes, he’s talking.  (He hangs up and turns to his father.)  They’re coming right away.
Dad:  Thank you, son.  You just may have saved my life.
Kid (savagely):  Don’t talk like that.  You’ll be fine.
Dad:  I suppose you’re right.
(Fifteen minutes later a knock sounds on the door.  The kid rushes to open it.  The police rushes in as well as the paramedics.)
Police officer:  Where is he?
(The kid points):  In the kitchen, on the floor.
Police officer:  You did the right thing, son.
Kid:  Is he going to be all right?
(The police officers glance at each other.)
Police officer #1:  He’ll be just fine, thanks to you.
Kid:  Aw, I have to help my paw.
Dad:  Can my son come to the hospital with me?  There’s no one here to watch him.
Paramedic #1:  Most certainly.  Get your jacket, son.  It’s pretty cold out there.
Kid:  Okay.
(Two more paramedics enter the house with a stretcher.  The kid’s father climbs on slowly and lays his head down on the pillow.  The kid follows them outside to the ambulance and he shuts the front door.  It’s as if he’s shutting the door on something final as the wind and the grass growing far and wide.  The drive to the hospital doesn’t take long.  The paramedics unload the stretcher and wheel it inside the hospital.  People are rushing around, both staff and patients and visitors.  Suddenly, Dad starts to vomit, and his body jumps up and down.)
Paramedic:  Code blue, code blue!
Kid:  Dad!
(Dad gives a weak smile):  I’ll be fine, son.  Don’t worry.
Kid:  Maybe I should call Grandpa.
(A doctor comes rushing up to the stretcher.)  Here’s a throw up bucket.  (Dad takes the throw up bucket and starts retching up blood.)
Kid (gasps):  Dad!
Doctor (severely):  He shouldn’t be seeing this.  Take the kid somewhere else.
Kid:  No, I’m fine.  I want to stay.
Doctor:  Okay, you can stay.  We have to figure out what’s wrong with your father, first of all.
Kid:  Okay.  Is there anything I can do?
Doctor:  Can you get me a cup of coffee?  (He pats the kid on the back.)  Sorry, just a little joke.  I don’t drink coffee, myself.
Kid:  Me, either.
(A nurse hurries over and starts pushing the stretcher into ICU.  The kid follows behind, looking dazed and confused.)
Doctor:  Sir, we’re going to put an IV in your arm.  Throwing up causes you to lose body fluids.  Is that all right?
Dad (gasps):  It’s all right with me.
(A needle is inserted into his right arm.)
Dad:  Where’s my son?
Doctor:  A nurse is watching him for you.  We’re calling your father to see if he can pick him up and take him home.  He shouldn’t be in a hospital.
Dad:  You’re right.
(Doctor takes off his stethoscope off and puts it on again.  He listens to Dad’s back and heart.)
Doctor:  We’re going to run some tests and find out what’s wrong with you.  You’ve stopped shaking, that’s good news.  I wonder what caused it in the first place.
Nurse #3:  Do you know what Hector Prenelli has yet?  He keeps throwing up blood and I’m worried he might not last another week.  Or another night.
Doctor:  No, I do not, and if you keep bugging me, I’ll have you suspended for misconduct.
Nurse #3 (meekly):  Sorry, Doctor.  I was just-
Doctor:  I know what you were “just.”  Don’t do it again.
(Two weeks passed.  The doctor ran test after test, and everything came back negative.  Finally, the hospital tried running tests on rare diseases.  One came up positive.  Dad was in poor condition.  His face was a pale color and he had spots all over his back.  His breathing wasn’t very good.)
Doctor:  It’s a rare form of cancer, called ASERS.  It comes from Egypt.  This guy has never been to Egypt, so I don’t understand how he could contract it…
Nurse #3:  Maybe he has something in his house from Egypt.
Doctor:  That could be it.  I’m going to call his house and talk to Mike to see if his son has anything in his house from Egypt.  (He hurries out of the ICU and down the hallway to the telephones.  He dials the phone and someone picks it up on the first ring.)  Hello, Mike, this is Doctor Ponder.  I have some good news and bad news.
Grandpa:  What’s the good news?
Doctor:  The good news is, we found out what disease your son has.
Grandpa:  And?
Doctor:  The bad news is it is very rare and has no cure.  It is called ASERS and anyone who contracts it dies within six months.
Grandpa:  You can’t be serious.  My son is only 39-years-old.  His wife died early, too, but that’s besides the point.  What are you going to do to help my son?
Doctor:  We’ll do anything we can.
Grandpa:  I should hope so.
Doctor:  Does he have anything in his house from Egypt?
Grandpa:  N-no, not that I know of.  Why?
Doctor:  His illness comes from Egypt.  His is the first case in the US.  I checked.
Grandpa:  I had no idea it was that serious.
Doctor:  Are you going to come down and see him?  He’s still been throwing up a lot, but he can still communicate.
Grandpa:  Yes, I planned on coming to see him today.  I’ll bring the boy.
(Grandpa hangs up the phone.  He goes down the hallway and enters the boy’s bedroom.  He is laying down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.)
Grandpa:  We’re going to go see your father today.  Get ready.
Kid:  Oh, goodie!  Can we get him a card and balloons?  I love balloons.
Grandpa (chuckles):  I know you do, son.  Yes, we can get him those things, it wouldn’t be proper not to.
Kid:  I’m going to hurry up and get ready!
Grandpa:  I should say so.
(He exits.)
(Grandpa and the kid pile into the car.  The kid is wearing his windbreaker and a hat is pulled low over his ears.  They drive into town and stop at Rite Aid.  The kid goes down aisle after aisle until he finds the cards’ aisle.  He bends down to look at them.  He finds the one he wants, and goes towards the balloons.  He picks out two.  They go to the cash register and Grandpa pays for the items.  Then, they get in the car again and drives to General Hospital, where the kid’s father is staying.)
Kid:  Did they find out what he has yet?
Grandpa:  Yes, it’s called ASERS.
Kid:  ASERS?  What the heck is that?
Grandpa:  It’s a disease from Egypt.
Kid:  We learned about Egypt in school.  It’s in Africa.
Grandpa:  Very good, son.  Very good.  Let’s go inside the hospital now.
Kid:  Yes.
(Grandpa and the kid enter the hospital.  It’s bustling with activity.  Grandpa hurries to the front desk and asks the unit clerk where Hector Prenilli is.
Unit clerk:  He finally got his own room.  It was a little cramped in the ICU since there were so many people.  He’s on the third floor and his room number is 32.
Grandpa:  Thank you.
Unit clerk:  You’re welcome.
(Grandpa takes the kid’s hand and goes to the elevators.  It takes them to the third floor.  They find room #32 after a few minutes of searching.  Grandpa can hear the sound of retching all the way outside the door.  He enters it with a smile on his face-or at least, trying to smile.)
Grandpa:  Son!  How have you been?
Dad:  Not feeling too great.  I’ve been throwing up blood for the past two weeks.  And the doctor just told me I have a rare disease.  All in all, I’m feeling pretty good.
(Kid laughs.)
Grandpa:  We got you some balloons and a card, son.
Kid:  Yeah!  They’re great, too!  (He hands over the card and the balloons to his father.)
Dad:  Thank you, son.  They’re wonderful.  I’ve been getting stuff from everybody.  I even got a teddy bear-it’s yours, son, if you want it.  I’m too tough for teddy bears.
Kid:  Yeah, I want it!
Dad:  Good, you can have it.
Grandpa:  I’m sorry you’ve been suffering.
Dad:  Aw, I can handle it.  (He starts retching again.)
Grandpa:  Here, let me hold your head.  (He hurries over to his son’s bed side and holds his head while he throws up in the throw up bucket.  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles a sugary smile.)
Dad:  It’s not all bad.  I get to eat hospital food.
(Kid laughs.)
(The doctor enters the room.)
Doctor:  How’s my favorite patient doing?
Dad:  Not too bad…I threw up again, which is good news.
(The doctor laughs):  I shouldn’t be laughing.
Dad:  No, no, it’s all right.  I’m getting tired of being in this hospital day after day, though.  When can I go home?
Doctor:  We have to figure out where you got ASERS from.  Then, we can find a cure.
Dad:  I thought you had a cure.
Doctor:  No, we do not have one yet.  We have medication for similar diseases, like cancer, but ASERS is much worse.
Dad:  Ohhhhh…
Doctor:  Don’t fret.  We’ll find a cure.
Kid:  We sure will, Dad.  I’ll help.
Doctor (laughs):  I wish you could help.  You don’t have a doctor’s or a nurse’s degree, kiddo.
Kid:  I can get one.
(Everyone bursts into laughter.  The kid sulks.)
Kid:  I was just trying to help.
(The doctor ruffles his hair.
Doctor:  I know.  You’re doing a good job just being there for your father.
Kid:  Will he be all right?
Doctor:  We sure hope so.  I have to go, but a nurse will be in here shortly to give him his medication.
Dad:  Thank you, Doctor.  (weakly):  I thought it was just a heart attack.
Doctor:  You were close.
(Doctor exits.)
*

Fairies.

Two children were walking down a road.  They were not real children, of course, but if someone was looking out at them from a window, they would assume the shadows were human, because they were long and thin and one of them was talking to the other-they were fairies.

Beginning of All Alone.

(Kid tosses and turns in his bed all night.  A light flashes by the window.)
Kid:  When is Grandpa coming over, huh Dad?  Huh?  Huh?  (He jumps up and down.  He can’t help it.  He is too excited.)
Dad (laughingly):  When he comes over, son.  Actually, about a half an hour.  A lot of traffic, you know.
Kid (disappointed):  That’s a million years!
Dad:  You’re so funny.
Kid:  The answer is George Washington, Dad..
(A  half an hour later they hear a horn honking outside.  Kid runs to the door and flings it open wide.  His grandfather, Grandpa Jones, is just exiting his car.)
Grandpa:  Hello, child, hello!  I’ve missed you.  (Grabs him in a great, big bear hug.)
Kid:  I’ve missed you too, Grandpa.  Where have you been?
(Grandpa laughs.)  At home, of course!  Now that I don’t work anymore, I don’t have much to do.
Kid:  What do you do, Grandpa?
Grandpa:  Play solitaire.  It’s a helluva lot better than poker.  And more respectable-like.
Dad:  Grandpa, don’t talk about poker with the boy.
(Grandpa snorts.)  Why, I was younger than him when I started playing.  I should teach him right now.
Dad (in a warning tone.)  No poker.
Grandpa:  Fine, fine.  I didn’t bring any cards, anyway.  They’re at home.  Hey, look what I got!  (He pulls a quarter from behind Maverick’s ear.)
Dad:  No giving my kid money, either.  He has a big enough allowance as it is, anyway.  Let’s go inside.  We’re attracting the neighbors’ attention.
Kid:  Okay, Dad!
(Later that evening, they are having dinner on the back porch.  There is a pinkish light to the sky.  A soft wind is blowing.)
Dad:  It’s so peaceful out here…makes me think of Jillian.
Grandpa:  Hector.
Dad:  I’m just saying-
Grandpa (severely):  Not in front of the boy.
Dad:  You’re right.  I completely forgot.  It’s still fresh in his mind, like a growing daisy.  Kids don’t handle deaths very well.  They don’t understand it.
(Kid stands up abruptly.)  I’m going to go watch tv.
Dad:  Okay, sport.
(Grandpa stands up):  I think it’s time for me to leave now.  Agatha’s by herself and her health isn’t so great.

Everything I Touch.

Everything I touch is equally great in all its greatness-
Everything I feel is deep inside of me.  I have a little me
Growing inside.  It’s like a baby flower in bloom.  All I feel
Shatters into a million pieces of rubbery goodness.
What I see is what I am.  I make things grow.  I take things out of
Shadows.  The inferiority complex.  The great divide.
I take myself and grow outside of myself.  I am a mirror,
That looks deep within me.  I am a piece of a mirror
That has been broken into two pieces.  That’s seven years bad luck.
Tell me oh wandering one, where do you go?  I don’t see anything in shadow,
I can’t find anything in the wide wide world we live in.  Here we are,
Like two sharks doing the mating call, spouting up water.
Where is the Italian garden, its flowers grow prettily.

The Dentist, a short script

Nathan:  I am…alone.
Aunt Mindy:  Oh, sill, you’re being all dramatic again.  This time, let’s add tears to the sniffling.
Nathan:  I wasn’t sniffling.  I was yelling.
Aunt Mindy:  No way are you going to get girl by yelling.
Nathan:  Then how do you get a girl?
Aunt Mindy:  By…groveling.  That’s how my Howard and I did it.  Apparently, Sally said I was the one to grovel first.
Nathan:  That’s something to be proud of…right?
Aunt Mindy.  You’re asking a lot of questions.  If you be polite, I’ll give you some mints.  
Nathan:  I don’t want some mints…I want to know how to get a girl.
Aunt Mindy:  And then what do you plan on doing with this girl?
Nathan:  I thought I was supposed to marry her.
Aunt Mindy:  That is one way.  Or you could take her to the dentist.

All Alone, an uncompleted script.

(Kid shoulders his backpack.  The end of another school day.  The bells are ringing in the hallway and kids are zooming every which way, trying to get out of Berrymill Elementary School as fast as their legs can carry them.  The kid slowly drags his feet.  He didn’t want to go home, to see his sick, bed-ridden mother.  It was too scary, too real.  He shoulders his backpack again, sighs, and hurries out the double doors of the school.)
(Kid starts to walk home.  It is a pleasant day outside; the birds are singing; the sun is high in the sky.  He goes past Rite Aid, and walks two more blocks before finally reaching home.  He takes a deep breath, and opens the door.  He steps inside, his heart beating a mile a minute-will his mother be better, or worse?  His heart sinks.  She’s still laying in bed.  Kid walks over to her and kisses her cheek.  Then, he rearranges her blankets so they’re tucked under her chin.)  Hi, Mom.
Mom:  Hello, sweetie, how was school?
Kid (a bit sharply):  Fine.
Mom:  Do you have homework?
(Kid bobs his head):  Lots.
Mom:  I have an errand for you.  I need you to go to the store and help me get the groceries.  We’re almost out of everything.
Kid:  You can’t go to the store in your condition.  I’ll get Dad-
Mom:  No, no.  I’ll do it.  Doctor says I have to get up and about anyway.  Good, your coat is still on.  (She throws the covers off of her and drags herself off the couch.  She goes to the coat closet and puts on a blue jacket.)  Let’s go, honey.
Kid (sighs):  All right, Mom, if this is what you want.
Mom (sharply):  You’re starting to sound a lot like your dad.
Kid:  Takes one to know one!  (He hops into the car and his mother slides behind the wheel in the driver’s seat.)
(Soon, they reach the grocery store.  His mother pulls the car into a parking spot-close to the door-and turns around to face her son.)  Fill it up as much as you can.  Here’s two hundred dollars.
(Kid takes the money):  All right, Mom, if you say so.
Mom:  I say so.
(Kid hurries out of the car and into the store.  It is bustling with activity.  He grabs a cart and starts going down the aisles.  Halfway down the flour aisle, a man approaches him.)
Man:  What are you doing in here, kid?
Kid:  I’m shopping for my mother.
Man:  I’m sorry I asked.
(Kid takes the cart and hurries down another aisle.)
(Kid makes his purchases and takes the groceries out to the car.  His mother gets out of the front seat and helps put the groceries in the trunk.  Then, he hops into the car again and they head home.)
*
Dad:  Thanks for helping your mother today, son.  It was a big help.
Kid:  It was no problem.  Except this guy asked me what I was doing in the grocery store by myself.
Dad:  Just tell him the truth, son.  That’s all you can do.
Kid:  I guess so.
Dad:  Have you done your homework yet?
Kid:  No, not yet.  It’s not a lot, really.
Dad:  Get to it, son.  We want you to be a learned person, not illiterate like some folk.
Kid:  Okay, Dad.

See & Hear.

I see and hear differently.  I make my mark.
Tomorrow will be a better day than today.
Tomorrow the sky will be blue, not rainy like it is
Today.  This is what I’m doing:  fishing, hoping
To catch a whale.  They are massive in size,
And twice as hungry-maybe the whale will
Eat me instead.  I can’t think about that right now.
I have to hurry and get packing, so I will be
Ready to get on that boat that is going to launch
Soon.  Hurry, hurry, it needs to get here fast.
I hope my good times last.  This is not what I’m
Thinking.  Better days, better ways-sit now on
Sunflowers, looking at the soft rain, dreaming
Of the whale.  The boat needs to be fixed.  I’ll call
Dale and have him come fix it-he’s a master of
Fixing the broken and the sad-it’s why I love him.
Different ways, soft, caramel days.  That’s why I’m here.
The muse is clear.  Nothing but tomorrow to ease me
Forward-this is night, now, and stars fill the sky with
Barren ease, and the ease comes when I’m ready-
Nothing will last.  I hope it will.

Nowhere.

My mind is ready
To be healed
I am ready for the forlorn
Look my grandmother will give me
at the funeral

I am not steady.  My heart is not
Steady.
Where do I belong?  I have found nowhere
Will suffice.  Nowhere, nowhere,
The ground I walk upon.

Forgotten.

I share the reason beyond reason-
I take my heart with me.
Everything is bound to be something different,
Don’t take yourself to the highest point.
The highest point is ready or not,
My life has been forgotten.  Everyone is staring
At me, I don’t know what to do about it.
My life is a crowd.  People crowd in my house
And won’t let me live.  They crowd on the stairs,
In the basement-I can’t get up the stairs.  Tell me,
What is it you seek, do you wish for reasons unknown,
The breakfast bunny has come to take me home,
I have forgotten what it is I believe in.

That Girl is Poison.

a song

That girl is poison, poison, poison
She rolls around like a dice in the sky

The wind comes back and here I cry,
A warthog sings a lullabye

Do you know what time is worth?
This silly man thinks poorly of birth.

I ate a hamburger all alone,
One hand on my xylophone.

That girl is poison, poison, poison,
I see her for who she is.

She waves at me from a distance.
Her hair is in a fritz.

Say lullabye and goodnight,
We hold together all through the night.

Each of us have our own,
Her hands are still as stone.

That girl is poison, poison, poison,
That girl is poison, poison, poison.

Jasper's Place, a short play

Jasper:  How long did it take you to get here?
Sam:  About fifteen minutes.
Jasper:  That’s not too bad, is it?
Sam:  No, it’s not.
Jasper:  Do you want to go fishing?
Sam:  No, it’s freezing out there!  I wouldn’t go fishing for a million dollars in this weather.
Jasper:  You’re crazy.  It’s not cold out.  (he grabs his coat from off the coach and puts it on.)  There.  Now, I’m ready.
Sam:  I thought we were going to hang out, not go ice fishing?
Jasper:  I’m not going ice fishing, I’m going regular fishing.
Sam:  Oh, that makes a big difference.  Let’s have some beers.
Jasper:  Okay, but going ice fishing is better than a beer.
(Sam gaasps.):  Oh, no, you did not just say that!
Jasper:  I did and I mean every word of it.
Sam:  You take that back!
Jasper:  I will not.
Sam:  Yes, you will.  Take it back, I said!
(The front door opens and closes.  A teenager steps inside the house.  She has long, dark hair and blue eyes.)  Hi, Dad.
Jasper:  Hi, pumpkin.
Sara:  Don’t call me pumpkin, you know I hate that.
Jasper:  None of your friends are around.
Sara:  That’s true, that’s true…why do you have your coat on, are you going somewhere?
Jasper:  I was going to go ice fishing, but Sam wouldn’t let me.
Sam:  It’s for your own good.

Where Was I?

March is settling in.  There is still snow on
The ground.  I am the cheese and macaroni you have for dinner.
I am the great Ghandi.  Don’t tell me March isn’t settling in,

I didn’t know it the first time before we woke at dawn
And the world came crashing down on our heads.  Sometimes,
I wait for you in the middle of the night, dreaming of your soft,

Silken hands and nose.  This is what I see:  a guy belonging
To me, seeing me for who I am, not what I can do for him.

I look outside the window and see the rain falling on the windowpane,
Rain scares me like violence scares others.  The patter of rain is like
Gunshots going off.  The patter of rain is like birds’ wings flying

North to Florida or Alabama.  I see better now.  I seek better resolutions.
I see myself crying.  It is what it is, born before us of greatness,

And words, round and clear as glass.

Where was I?

Left Me.

He left me like a warthog leaves a sunrise
He left me in the middle of the purple night
He left me like flowers growing
He left me
He left me
Still I see him standing near the sea shore,
Smiling at the open sky
He left me unattended
He left me without my purse and nakedness

Again.

He told me he didn’t want to see me again;
that that was the end of our romance.
Out of place in the restaurant,
I began to cry-the words silently rolled down my cheeks.
Everything was falling apart, including my dress.
I accidently tore it on the way inside the restaurant,
my knee caps showing.  Anyway, he left me for a girl
I didn’t like.  I pray  he will return to me.
We are meant to be together.
The flowers he gave me for last Valentine’s Day
are still sitting on my dresser in my bedroom.
I can’t stand crying in public.
I gave up everything for us to be together,
it wasn’t worth it now, I see it now,
standing in front of me like a tidal wave
climbing up into the burnt brown sky.
His eyes are brown.
He gets up, throws money on the table, and leaves,
with me crying after him-”Don’t go.”

I move to the ocean to get away from memories
of him-he left his clothes there, in our old apartment, and I picture him
wandering around naked somewhere, and my eyes smile a bit.
Not too much.  This is what it feels like to have a heart broken-
I never had one before, this is my first time.
I capture the image of him in my mind,
the way his hair wove about his head,
the way he smiled, and his laughter that was like the trill of a bird.
 I seek him in my mind.
This is what I seek.

Time and Song, etc.

In the steel mines, the birds are singing with upturned throats-
They see the importance of being important.

I follow my heart with a recorder, life bangs on steel drums.
What I said was, “I can’t take the heat,” to the ballpark manager

And everyone else was fitted for a dress-to me, everything was simple
And workable.  I couldn’t place my agony today.  Where was I?

Time flies by.  Birds make time sing a double note.
I can’t find myself in a mirror, these words I hold dear to me.

With every living thing, I sing a simple song.  My work here is done.
I move on.  With a ratio.  Time stands still.  Everything is workable,

Plus food is needed for the stomach-
I heart today and yesterday-

I know no bounds.  What did I do?  To make time go more slowly.
What did I do to make you go away.  My heart aches for a sticky bun.

I wish I were far from here, a place where I could sing my all,
A place where time is entwined in my own hands.

The Park

Walking in the park on a lazy day afternoon-
Ducks swim in the pond, and I watch them carefully,
To make sure they don’t drown.  Willows whisper
To me excitedly-
I can’t stand them!  They annoy me!  The park is bright
With sunshine,
And I smell honeysuckle on each side of the sidewalk.
The honeysuckle makes me think of home,
For my mother used to grow them in her yard.
Honeysuckles rule the flowers, they are the queen of
The roses and daisies.  It’s the poet in me, I guess,
To know the names of flowers in my head-
I watch them move back and forth in the breeze,
Then I watch the ducks again, the tiniest one makes
Me think “Awww, how cute,” and I smile prettily.

The River.

The clouds come in from the west-it is bitterly cold.
The wolf is laying in his den; icy coldness made from silk
Pours from his nostrils.  The sun is icy, too.  Everything is covered
In ice.  The wolf’s stomach growls.  He wants some food.  He gets up,
And goes for the hunt-a lone rabbit nestled between a tree and a blade
Of grass is his target.  The rabbit sees and bounds into the forest.  The forest
Is practically empty, except for houses on either side.  No one is home,
But they, too, know about the wolf.  Who knows about the wolf?  It asks itself.
Everyone!  That’s why there are so few of them left.  The wolf goes about,
Looking for food.  It sees a river.  What is a river?  Rivers are wide,
And haunt humans.  Humans know nothing but fear.  The joy is in the fear.
The wolf dunks his paw into the river, trying to catch a fish-he tries again,
And again.  His stomach growls.  The wolf comes in threes, and the river
Comes in threes, over and over again, climbing higher into the sky,
The trees see everything, but the wind does not..

In Paris

The night falls on me mercilessly.
My eyes open and close like shades.
I went to the harbor and watched the boats
come in-there are lights flickering
In the windows of the boats.
I turned my eyes away.
It’s hard to watch this all day.
I start walking, my head bent forward,
and the wind flicks my hair every which way.
There are the sounds of boats on the harbor.
Some boats are big; others are small
As cars.  The little boats speed along like nobody’s business.
I walk down the street,
People scream my name-now, how would they know that,
I think to myself, they couldn’t
Know my name, for certain-I don’t know any
of these people!  I am an American, not
French, not European.  In the back of my mind,
I sense danger-the danger of an oncoming
Storm.  The storm of my youth.
Words come from my lips:  “I need to eat.”
So I go into a little café on the end of
Bridge Road.  Bridge Road has a lot of shops.

What the Eagle

The eagle soars with its limbs-I have not been outside today.
The hearts of dreams that I play, are withered in shades of gray.
Everyone says I should be a serpent, quick and loud-
But all I am is a toad.

Where are all the people, I ask.
I found my nerves at last.

I shoulder fortune like a lamb,
For lunch I want a ham.

I’m not an eagle, but I take flight.
In the dark of the bitter, and cold, night.

The snow is falling and the eagle is at rest-
Snow falls upon his nest.

To the middle, to the middle

Of it all.  He catches me while I fall.  

I can’t find myself
Behind the tree-delicious cakes in a cake shop, I have fallen
In love with baking.  

The old mother tells me she has a book of cakes,

And do I want to look at them.  

I said no, I shouldn’t be thinking 
about
Cakes at this time of night, or day, 

I should say, it’s only 4pm.  I have fallen
Off a cliff into an abyss, the abyss is in my garage, 

wrapped in tar paper.
Sometimes I watch tv at night.  

There’s nothing on.  
So I make up stories to myself,
That sound just about right.  

The middle is not about right.  It’s the middle, I said!
The middle!

I stare straight at the sun.  I’m not the only one.  

The Street, the Street

Where am I?  Why am I here?  My words are crystal clear.
The cowboy walks with his head held high.  I couldn’t find a way down
The dark street.

A man follows behind me, quickly-where can I go?
I am lost on the hill below.
Take me to a different place that is far from here,
Where I can be safe from harm.  Take me to a place that is forever warm.
The old man wants icecream.
His name is Seth.  Seth, call to me,
my beloved

Brother, call to me in the depths of the
night, night as dark as sin.  I might win.
I have no idea, nothing to contemplate.
Where did reason run off to?  I like to run
With the wind blowing my hair back.
It’s simple as this:  I have a boat,
I offered my maiden fair to ride it with me,
she said no,

she was afraid of the wind
And dogs.  There are no dogs in the water, I whisper to her.
There are no dogs anywhere!
My shout was lost in the wind.  The sun glares down.
I can’t see past my forehead,
I can’t see for anything.
I walk away from the boat and go down town.

The Key

The key was in my hand,
I walked through town-
My mind was thrown like a rubber band,
I have called my own.

Dreams are plenty here on earth,
Yet I have seen it for myself,
There goes a flower giving birth,
I hope his baby is in good health.

Old lady, what do you plead,
Your skirt hangs around your knees.
You’re the only one who can lead,
A convention just like these.

Take me higher than a bird,
This place is not for me.
I speak in hushed voices for the word,
I wish to God I were free.

Don’t drown in doubt,
We need to be paying attention now.
I know you can go without,
Another forbidden show.

The Corridor

The corridor was brown and thin,
This was the mess I was in-
Taken by so many glares,
My foot hit the stairs.

The dark was in the dark,
I could barely see-
My lighter lit a single spark,
And it was in front of me.

Take me outside, where it was warm,
The sun is like a hearth.
I have seen through the storm,
I have seen a mother give birth.

Tell me words that are spoken,
The bird has been flying east-
The vase I have broken,
The work was not my best.

The Eyes, Stares

The eye stares at me from a great abyss.

It is neither thin nor glowing.
In time, the eye will stop staring, but for now it is staring-straight at me.

The strange shadows of oneness have come back.  There is nothing that I lack.
Take me outside, and bring yourself into myself like a bitter rose rising from

The ashes.  I am rising.  I find myself glaring back at people.  I don’t like people

As much as animals.  Animals are properly trained-humans are not.  I have begun

My training in the springtime-there’s nothing else for me to do.  I am learning kung fu.

Japan is the place where I have made my home.  I love their food, their music,
And their dance.

What can I show you that won’t make you bothered by me?  What can I show you that will
Bend myself backwards outside of war?  I have helped myself by becoming something other
Than myself, I have become someone else’s property.  There is a sign in my yard, saying
For Smalls.”  I would, but I can’t.  It’s dinnertime anad I’m hungry.  Make me dinner.

Night comes, and I am sleepy.  People target me.  The hole keeps getting bigger, and bigger.
Light flashes in my vision.  I try to sleep.  Sleep will not come.  Help me dream.
In the morning, I take a ride on the train and return back home.

Bleed Me Dry

In London, I found myself huddled in the rain, wishing I were somewhere else-
A dog barks in someone’s yard, and I looked at him, all wide-eyed and wondering.
The cold spread through my body.  My coat was soaked wet,
My hair was matted.

I didn’t know where my home was, or where I was going.  The war had been going on for hours,
And the bitter cold left me shivering-in fear or coldness, I wonder if it’s both.  Time will tell.

Yes, time.  I have learned about time as a little child, sitting on my grandfather’s lap.  He said
I shouldn’t be there, I should be with my family in this time of war-time is a funny thing,
All numbers and circles.  Yes.  Time is hidden inside of me, like a small bird trying to break free.
I don’t understand this parable.  I don’t understand anything unless it is told by my grandfather,
I am but a child, trying to break free.  I never knew anything about metaphors,
I never knew anything about no words.

Sometimes the spectacles of life frighten me like a forbidden object trapped in the sand.  The sand of time.
There’s time again, I can’t find time anymore.  It washed away in the ocean, where the sharks are,
Sharks I am afraid of, just like time and all other things.  Where do I belong?  I don’t know, it hurts
To think about it.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  It’s nothing to fear.  I am poor.  The poorness continues
To bleed me dry.  I am going to find a warm place.

Staring, Wrote.

The staring of the stranger is what I wrote about a winter morning.
Winter mornings are cold and bitter.  The sea of time stands open.
I am the hash of secrets; the secrets of all secrets.  I am torn between two worlds-
The worlds that drip like unforgotten eyes in the middle of the sea of ghosts.
I don’t remember ghosts.  I remember my mother, like a great ship on the sea.
I remember things shouldn’t come between me and the riddles…me and the rocking
Boat.  A boat is not a smile, I learned in school-I also learned I am nothing but a lamp
Post, a dragon who isn’t remembering anything but herself.  I am not myself.  I am the
Dream within the dream.  Shadows rise out of nothing and the dreaming is warranted.
I sweep the hair out of my eyes and gaze at the stillness around me, in the classroom-
My teacher is sweeping words across a chalkboard, and somewhere far away a child sneezes, in some other classroom like in Jamaica or Spain or Guam and I think to myself
What has become my life and why am I here, the great question, the question of all questions, and the thought of my mother comes into my mind and she is like the stillness of autumn, or like I said before, a ship rising out of the water-and then there are the actors
And they are better than me and there are actors who are taller than me and try to scream obscene words in my ear, above all else, the sound of the cars on the street, and lamps shutting on and off, and my screams ripping through the ear and no one can hear me-
No one will see. 
The staring of strangers exhausts me.  I am bothered by the cold.

Mouth.

The planet is an open mouth.
It yawns and rests-shaking and shivering in the cold.
Your life is not my life.  Your life is a life that is begone,
And not forgotten-your life is written in the pages of the unforeseen,
The computers that do not compute anything but of mice and men.
People are shocked by the sea of faces that span out before us by
Thousands of flowers opening, yawning-you think you know, but you were
One of the first, the first of thousands, of millions that spread before us like
Unforgotten eyes, the eyes of the untold.  I am not who I am.
My mother is a bittersweet taste in the eyes of sight, and the world is like me-
I am trapped in the world that is cold and dark, it is like a cage of nothing.
Where is the old world?  Why are people staring, glaring at me-like the night I can’t see. 
I am shadowy river, I am the dim and the dark and the clouds.  Clouds scurry
Behind me, before me.  My father is not here-he was never here, he was a shadow of himself, a glimmering cloud. 
The dream was something else that glimmers in the dark.  You don’t know that these trees
Are bending,
You don’t know that eyes are staring, like dim forgotten eyes that are breathing and distant as time is distant in this nothingness that I am or what I shall be.  The wind is not my breath; the eyes that will not see.
I am the dark, and the waves are bending…
My mother does not share the same sentiment, and she is lost in the shadow of herself,
Lost as if the tides are lost. 
This is not my life.   

Between the Flame.

Between the sand and sea and sky,
I take the eve and make them dry-
I try to find the past and fame,
And put them out to sea again.
In my heart, and in my eyes,
I make them take me by surprise.
And all the shadows that turn me bare,
Are forgotten for the want and wear-

In the dark, and in the eyes,
My fire shines upon surprise.
From where I am, and where I’ll be,
The night is here and we are free. 

From all the world, and back again,
The leaves turn colors and then they bend-
I don’t know when or where I am,
As I walk this forgotten land-

The trees are bare, the eve is cold,
And in your eyes we are not old,
In this land when we are free,
From where I am, and where I’ll be. 
I’ll sit upon a rock and gaze at sea. 

Walking in Space.

We are not whirling through space. We are space trapped inside of itself. We are space that is calm, that lingers in time- The rewards are like shadows climbing on walls. Hate is a word wrapped in the dark-it is a hand that shakes my hand. I am not the death that is seen inbetween, and the darkness that seeps Within- When I am at home, I am like a mountain that rises up out of the ashes. I am the night that folds down, down into the nothingness of time. Down into the nothingness of space. I see fame, and it is how I am-it is the space opera of tomorrow, the shadow In the dimness, the dark, the seeing… We have nothing, we see nothing. We are nothing like a light that goes on and off In an empty room. You think you care but you don’t care. You think you see but you can’t see. You trap me like a lion-a lion in the dim and dark and unseen shadows, And we are red flowers, folding like roses…you are greed, and I am not. I am the mountain. I am an empty room.

COMPUTERS AND MONKEYS.

COMPUTERS AND MONKEYS The monkey likes to type on computers-maybe he will turn into someone Important, a unified person that lives outside. In the night, the light shines down on you-in the shadow of itself, we are afraid to Be afraid. The night is not dim. I don’t know what will come from this, I don’t know if we will learn. I thought maybe We could learn to be a people. That the heart of the people is missing inside of us, That we are not dim, that things are not warranted-you call people losers, you call them And dismiss them, and the light is dim and you will keep him. Night is remained unseen. That chaos is not what it is, or how we are-and the night is left alone. The monkey is typing on a keyboard, all thoughts are dim. The cops try to pry me from myself, and the insides of myself are born of nothing. Nothing is nothing, and the shallowness…we feel, In the light, we are alone. The monkey types on his computer.

THIS TIME.

In this time, I won’t find myself looking outside of myself- In the doorway of our lives, my heart rests in my mouth. Inside and outside of time, the birds chirp in their nests- I discovered a way outside the glance of sight. In the inner mind, We weave words of wisdom. Clouds are shot down like a balloon. The words are rhythmic like meadows. I tell people good luck on Their destruction, that the easing of time is many-that the darkness Is not night, and my eyes are not dim-I see the monkeys around me, And thoughts are inside me, glaring like a forest fire, shooting outside of ears. I know some people have to be told to do things, to believe in something They don’t know. This is the willow, the willow is behind the willow. I am inside the ears that are not mine, and we do not speak, we do not find- I wish someone would come along and talk to me, and talk like shadows do. In the nights, the woods are dim, and in the night, creatures hear them… I am willing to do things for money, I am willing to walk home. Time has come without knowing; shadows fade without fear; the hunger inside is growing, And the light is drawing near. The willows are dim and unseeing-the eyes are unseen in dreams. White clouds drift by and I can’t find my way. But the way is not outside of the way. It is here we do not know.

Face In the Water Chapter 1.

1 1600 The assassin stared at King George, his expression stern. “Why do you want me to do that again?” he questioned. King George sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was very tired. He had stayed up all night, drinking, and he didn't want to be bothered by this man-he was paying him to do the job, and he had to do it, without complaining. He didn't like all the complaining, and he especially didn't like explaining things he didn't understand. “Because they haven't been paying their taxes. I have no choice but to exile them.” King George rose and stretched, letting his hands dangle at his sides. He shook his shaggy, brown head. He wished he was a blonde. He should steal money from the next blonde guy he saw. It would be interesting. “Do we have a deal?” he demanded. He shrugged tiredly; he was very hungry, and his eyes were sagging, and his skin was sagging, also; he was not a spring chicken any longer. He hadn't even bed a wife; he had many lovers, oh how many there were, he had lovers and he had beautiful maids and servants. None of them were powerful enough for him to wed. None of them were nearly close enough. And then, he realized he was getting low on cash, and left his home-he had to eat, or else he would die. He thought he had enough money saved. All he had was his mother's diamonds, and he didn't want to sell it. It was the only thing in the world. “Okay, we have a deal-now, where's my money?” The king couldn't help but laugh; laughter fell from his lips like waves. * * * “What's wrong with your eyes?” The knight almost wet himself. He stared at the assassin, wearing black clothes, a black hood over his face. “Nothing's wrong with my eyes, boy,” he hissed. “You know you go to give me your treasure.” He looked down at the assassin's hands, and realized they were furry. He was terrified, in shock. His mouth hanging open. “What did you say you're from again?” The assassin gave a shuddery laugh. “Didn't. I'm part Anglo-Saxon, part Spanish.” “Do...most of the Spanish look like you?” He shrugged. He was playing with a blade, wielding it around like it was a toy. Dangling it from his hands. “I was inside a lot. I didn't notice much of the other kids. My mother didn't like talking to strangers.” He scowled. “I'll say,” he replied. “What are you doing in my house?” “I didn't want you to wake up. I thought I could get away getting in and out without you hearing me. I guess I'm not as old as I used to be.” Breaking and entering didn't seem to bother him. Bellinmore Reed wondered if he was a pirate. The knight ran through the trees-his breathing was labored. He looked behind him; the stranger in the shadows was still pursuing him, even though he couldn't see him. “Where'd he go?” he asked himself. He knew the man was somewhere, running along behind him. He could sense him. His extra sensitivity was something he didn't tell a lot of people about, but he still had it, stick as stone, and it was in his mind and heart and body. He was a man, but no one who had to go through something like this. He hadn't done anything wrong. The assassin said it was because he didn't pay his taxes. He was a weird man, and had whiskers, and eyes black as night. The eyes followed him wherever he went, and it made him scream and cry and squirm. It made him shiver. He wanted to go home...no home had he. It was gone. They'd destroyed it, taken everything, and had even taken his family's servants. How could his family owe taxes? He didn't understand any of it. But they blamed him, the last living heir, even though they were the ones who had probably killed them, and blamed the robbery on him, and he was due in court. “I don't know why we have to leave home,” Allister Spencer sniffed. He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to blot out the images of the fire in his mind. The smoldering smoke; the darkness; and the ashes. Bellinmore Reed shook his head. “It seems like the King of Scotland has gone mad,” he answered. “He says the English are fighting farther east-he says we have no way out.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking morose. He didn't know how to tell Allister there were knights in the forest beyond the fortress. “Maybe it has something to do with Church vs. State,” Bellinmore suggested, making a face at him. He hated history stuff; and school. He hadn't been to school in years. He remembered very little about it. “Get your stuff together-we'll be leaving shortly.” He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could cry openly like Allister; he couldn't, and he held still, and he ran back to the campground, and set up a fire. The cook's name was Meadow; he had scraggly blonde hair and blue eyes. His face was longish, and he had a long nose. “What are we having for dinner tonight?” he demanded of the cook. He had found the cook several months ago, wandering alone in the marshes-it seems he had misplaced his home. The knight took him under his wing, and bred him and fed him, and he turned into the glorious creature standing before him. He was learning, oh, how he was learning. The cook hated learning just like Bellinmore, and it suited them both fancy. They were great allies in times of trouble, and good conversationalists.

Stars N Islands

Stars and Islands

I am walking in the morning. The wind moves against the back of my
Neck. I am a habitat, I am moving-I think of all the animals of the world.
Tomorrow is like it is in the morning-and the night is sweet with its song,
Always moving, always in mourning. I don’t have enough money to get what I want to
Get, new clothes, or going on a trip to Ireland.

The airplane flies through the air;
And lands on a runway.
Night is calm, and burdened are we-
I see your face in my dreams.

Finches are on the island where Michaelangelo once lived, moving like shadows
In the dark. Stars come out to play. It is night, and the stars shine down.
It is darkness, and we are in the darkness, and we are like shadows in the dark.
That is glowing.

I want to go on a trip to see my friend. I want to see his silhouette marching down
The dark street, eyes like sparklers, moving in the dark.
The streets are lined with both darkness and sorrow; the street lights are lit with bright stars.

Stranger Things.

Stranger Things

He asked me why I didn’t come.
He didn’t see me walking ahead, my eyes looking backwards.
Some people claim they don’t know what I’m talking
About; I am a stranger in the mist.

We are a lot like apes in the jungle. We are clouds
In the mist of time. Some things are better than in your eyes.
We are like the lions that roar down the mountains.

I think, therefore, I am. I am missing, I wander down the road,
And look right and left for things unheard. This is destiny,
It is not my friend. I try to be friends. No one wants to be friends.

I try to turn things around. I look up and down. The snakes
Are curled in their dens. Most animals are hibernating, now.
I am not hibernating. I am new, as stuck as glue. Some people wake up
Much too late. Some people see what they want in their dreams.

There’s a child who doesn’t understand what we see. Who aches to be someone
In his dreams. He dreams of tall buildings, and time that marches on,
Up and over waters. And still as stone.

When Lightning Flashed.

Lightning flashed through the midnight sky-
On the evening I called you my love.
Against the fall of midnight eyes,
I dreamt of me and you in distant skies.

In dawn, I woke up to the sound,
Of heathen and the curled dreams,
And burdened of monkeys and other things,
I wake and see you in my dreams.

The dawn has come, and we are gone-
And night is over and time is done.
We are going upward to the sun-
But, this time, I went alone.

On the season of the sin,
We’ve known to become one within,
Our heart and mind that beats like rain,
And tender we move over the bend-

In this season, that does not end,
We are not burdened by the sky-
In our heart, we have not won,
But I see the passion in his eyes.

Today is Charles Darwin’s Birthday, and I am walking-

Kroger’s stands tall like a sentinel in the distance.
The yellow sun rises.
It is morning and I am walking to work, my hands swaying
At my sides-they sway to everything, the rising sun, the moon,
And I think about the distance from here to there.

I think about bacteria and how it was formed. I think about Charles Darwin on his
Birthday, he was born over three hundred years ago, and how he recorded
A sparrow’s song.

This song is for Charles Darwin, and his fascination, and his notes that he left
On his mother’s dresser. She was the one who found them, you know, not
The sailors, or the ones who seemed to think they were his colleagues.

I am walking, and thinking, and I think when I walk and the thinking is in the grandness of walking,
And I think about all the people who have work, and who walk, and who think great things
And change the sorrows of the world. This is more for Charles Darwin, because it is his birthday,

And I am waiting for my birthday to arrive and how the flowers bloom on walls-
And how the bacteria moves, and how poetry is moving, and finches are singing.

The Face In the Water-CHAPTER 1.

1
John Shubbard remembered the first time he saw someone else’s face in the water. It was nearing the end of August in 1978, and he was out fishing with some friends. He had just caught the end of a net and was bragging to James how many trout he was going to catch-James, getting angry as he always did, almost pushed him into the water; he stumbled, and righted himself; his ankle throbbed with pain. He twirled around to face him, his expression one of anger-the anger on his face was intense, and it made John cringe inside. He wasn’t used to the anger he saw on his face. James was usually a very mellow guy.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” he spluttered. “I could have fallen into the water! Don’t push me in!”
James Wilcox laughed-he guffawed and slapped his leg. “You’re such a wuss, sprout!” he declared. His grandma always called him sprout. John shoved him. James glared at him, his nostrils flared.
He looked like a fish who had jumped out of water and was having trouble breathing.
“Don’t talk like that about me!” he exclaimed. “I don’t know why you’re being so rude! We’re supposed to be friends!”
“Friends is as friends does.”
“What are you talking about?”
James winked at him. “You know what I’m talking about,” he gloated.
He glanced down into the water. He thought he saw the shimmer of something just beyond his reach, but he wasn’t sure. He shook his head, and frowned. Maybe it was nothing. John had a tendency to turn a lot of nothings into something. Scott Morrow put a hand on John’s shoulder, as if to steady him.
“It’s how he is,” Scott said softly. “Remember his sister? He ain’t right adder the car addident.” Scott had a little lisp and didn’t pronounce certain words correctly-d’s, and f’s, were always difficult for him. Jim’s parents abandoned him when he was a baby. John got a feeling it traumatized him to this day and he didn’t like to talk about it, but he knew how to relate.
Scott was lucky. His aunt took him in. John had gone to his cousin and then to foster care. It was a tricky passage. His relatives didn’t like him and he didn’t want to sound like a baby and ask for help. He had been homeless as a teenager. John’s parents used to hate him to death, and wish he were dead-they’d said so on many occasions. John nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
He narrowed his eyes, in remembrance. He didn’t like it, though. He especially hated the remembering part. How he was always to blame for the problems. How his parents hated him and wanted money to go on a vacation and how they didn’t have enough money and this and that.
He glanced into the water again-something strange shimmered on the surface of the ocean, then it was gone, like a flash of lightning or a piece of string that had drowned. He needed to get laid, but his mind was playing tricks on him again-he must be tired because it looked like a woman’s face had been in the water.
He was thirsty. He needed to get something to drink.
He said goodbye to his friends-they were fishing again, and James had calmed himself down, that’s how it always happened and James was calm again and able to think rationally.
James didn’t have any problems in his family and John wondered why he acted like that but he did anyway and it wasn’t anybody’s fault but his own-he jumped into his car and drove downtown to a bar called Sherman’s. It was an Irish/Country bar. He didn’t have many friends there, but there was a woman named Hope Peppersen who was always flirting with him and he enjoyed the attention. He wanted to sleep with her, but she confessed she was married and although she liked John, she thought it was unnecessary.
“Maybe I’ll see you outside of the bar,” he’d said, winking at her.
She’d nodded happily, laughed and tossed her hair in his direction. He’d winked back. That was how it always was when they were in the bar together. The bartender laughed at him about it. John’s mind drifted back to reality. He had walked at the bar and was sitting down at the booth and looking at a large menu. The stools were red and brown. He pushed his hair back behind his face and sighed. He was tired. He didn’t realize how late it was. He should have gone home, but he wanted to see if there were any women tonight and to get a few drinks inside him. Maybe he would get laid tonight. Maybe he wouldn’t. He was hoping for the best. He looked around for Hope. He didn’t see her at the bar tonight. At least not yet. It was still early. He thought she said she still worked, but he wasn’t sure. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers and the bartender waddled over happily. He was an overweight, balding man and had beady eyes and curly hair. He was married.
John sneered at him. The man was pitiful. He needed a weight loss program and some dentures-his teeth were yellow and crooked. John knew he was married because he had a ring on his finger. He thought the woman must be very fat and desperate in order to marry someone like that. John fantasized about marrying for money, but it didn’t please him. He could make his own money. He was going to marry a supermodel and live in a large house and have 12 sports cars. He wanted 12 sports cars because he saw a comedian with 12 sports cars on television and thought it might please him if he had some, too.
“What do you want, man?” the bartender asked him in a slow, slurred speech. John thought he had learning problems.
“I want a slice of pizza and a glass of Diet soda,” he told him.
The bartender raised his eyebrow. “Soda? In a bar?” he said.
“I’m waiting for someone. I can’t drink when I’m irritated.”
“Irritated?” he’d said, and laughed.
John didn’t know the bartender’s name and wasn’t about to ask-he just called him the bartender. John waited, tapping his hands on the table. It was brown and made from plastic. The chairs were plastic, too. This was a high-scale place.
Hope came in and sat down next to him. “Hey, guy,” she said pleasantly. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” John replied. He eyed her skimpy pink dress. “You’re wearing pink.” He sounded sarcastic but he was pleased.
She tossed her hair in his direction. “Yeah, so?”
“I thought you hated pink.”
“I like it, now,” she laughed.
“Why?”
“Because my husband and I are going on our second honeymoon.” She winked at him. “No imaginary sex for awhile, I’m afraid.”
John smiled at her and didn’t respond. That was when John realized he didn’t like Hope anymore. But, he still wanted her and it made him even more angry than he was before and he didn’t know why. He suddenly realized he got angry-a lot. And he liked it. He put her out of his mind and decided to concentrate on work. Work didn’t have heartache in it. Work didn’t have pain. He barely glanced at his female coworkers. It was for the best. He was going to have to get used to it.
* * *

The Singing Woman.

The woman sings in an open doorway.
Jealous is round like a key. The skeleton clatters to the floor;
A clock chimes. The government is shaken about anything.
We don’t know where we will go. Only that some houses
Have stairs, and others don’t. I thought everything was round
In the middle, and sometimes, the yellow daisy breathes-
I don’t care about the gentleness. I only care about the stiffness,
And the shadow that crawls on the table. She thinks she owns everything,
The world, and her children are in moldy, brown colors.
The rules are made from everything. She loses sight of everything.

She sings in an open doorway. Her hand is rotted, like flesh. She thinks
Things are getting broken again; and a man is walking on a roof. There are windows
In the house, and the house folds over, down-like caskets falling from the sky,
And landing on a blade of grass. The grass is like the cold in winter. The winter
Is swift. Everything is dry.

She has the pages of her book in front of her. She likes to sit still and count the craters
In her hand. Everyone stares, including the gold lion.

The woman is singing, she doesn’t sing.

The Mouths of Nothingness.

She puts words together, one by one,
In sentences brown as bone.
She goes walking, down one street, and up another-
She limps.
Her eyes are like pools of nothingness. She bends and breaks.
She opens her mouth and calls out to the morning,
In the ancient winds of time.
Burdened by the years of hard labor, she cries out to her dead lover,
The skull Hamlet left behind.
It was not hers. It was not his. They were gentle in his wake.
Death was not something to take, to bring back.
The spirits were left behind in closed doors. Someone thought she was
Wrong, that she couldn’t stay away from the broken doors.
Someone thought she was jealous, and refused to give her any bread.
The bread comes from the oven.
It is the soothing sound of her father’s voice that wakes her up, every morning,
In time for school.
She acts like she wants the world. She acts like she owns it. She knows nothing,
And pieces words together on a string-one drop after another, a pebble falls
In the water, and sounds are dripping everywhere.
It is the rain, the color of the rain, and the mood that is everywhere. She doesn’t talk
About open wounds, only the rape, that was cold, hard, bitter, and filling in her
Mouth. She doesn’t keep her promises. She is the echo of lies in the hearts of everyone,
In nothing, everywhere.
Her mother is dead, and living, breathing-
Her father gasps on a table. She is dead, and nobody moves. The lies sing like the lions.
Sometimes, things knock on the doors, like skulls, and hatred is ripped from flesh.
She hates the people who move her, and the sorrows are like tears gone dry.
She is dry as a diaper. The lion weeps from far away. A star falls from the sky.
She thinks most people are morons.

Broken Time.

The night has been broken into the minds of us.
We dismiss the shadows that move like grass.
In the wind, the whistling sound comes again-
Like a ghost that wanders in the willows.
Emotions? Are like a sieve, that waves.
A daisy is on the windowsill.
A hand taps on someone’s window glass.
The panes are like tears that come like rain.
Down the mountain, the wind comes.
Down the mountain, we don’t know anything.
My mother is a little hectic. She watches her mother
Go upstairs, falls down the stairs-one by one,
Legs twist with hands. She is like a water current.
Time goes, it slows-things move like shadows.
There is the dark place, the place we can’t go to.
The place in the heart, beyond all time.

Why is there so much hatred? Why is there so much sorrow?
I went to the library this afternoon-the woman’s eyes narrowed
At me, as if she wanted me to leave. I held out my hand,
And she took my money, but her hand was not my hand-
My hand was hers. She didn’t understand the way of the world,
How it was for young men and women in the army,
In the navy, in places that are foreign as the mind. The mind is all
We have. Like a creative fox.

WHY BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE

“You’ll get forty dollars.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “All I was doing was looking at the paper for a job-” She shook her head, dizzy and confused. She didn’t know why she was dizzy, only that she was. It irked her. The irkness was in her mind, and it quieted her.
“Shut up. You know the paper regulates those things, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re one of the few who still know about them.”
“I am one of the last,” she confessed. “That’s what they told me in fifth grade.” Her mind traveled back to the time in her real school, the real school she had before she found out about computers and what they could do. It wasn’t a good idea to talk about the aliens. How they crash-landed on earth and destroyed the dinosaurs. It was an accident, they said in the papers, long after it happened. They wanted to help fix it. Well, the wars came, and everyone knew the wars started because of the dinosaurs.
“Well?” the pimp was staring at her expectantly. “You’ll get a lot of money.”
“A lot of money,” she said. “Yeah. Forty dollars, first, then-”
“More than you have now, that’s for sure!” he said gleefully, and chuckled behind his hands.
It had always been like this. Ever since her mother had been taken away-she refused to call her mother a criminal-strange men had approached her and offered her money. She tried to go to a community college for three months, until the feds found out and took away her credit cards. She got several credit cards, and bought a small car with it-she thought she was going to get a job right away, and didn’t. She fumed at her family for forcing her to be in this situation. It was forced upon her because of the crime rate. Forced upon her, she insisted to herself. Forced upon her; it was not given to her. No, it was never that.
“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll do it. I don’t got a choice.”
“None of us do,” he said. He led her down the street and into an alley. Shadows crisscrossed across the pavement. Pain in her feet, and the painful memory of trying to block out all those other times…the times when she was weakest. She didn’t know why, even though her daughter asked her why. She thought about her daughter in a half-bored, half-amusing, distracted way, the way a neglectful mother would think of her lonely daughter while she was fucking some dumb man.
She was alone in the enormity of herself, in the largeness, the grandness of herself. She was an overly large woman. Her daughter was an almost nearly byproduct of a rape, because the man didn’t want a fat wife-he wanted a skinny wife, he put emphasis on the word, she remembered with a sneer. She wanted a daughter and had one.
She couldn’t go that one route, what’s it called, artificial insemination, she couldn’t born her baby in a test tube because that was supposed to be a secret. She knew a lot of secrets. She understood how the world worked in her own special way-the psychologist said she was special. But, she wasn’t. She was trapped. It was in the Before-Time that Reanna thought about suicide, before she was born as a Hybrid, when she was floating in space in a test tube-that was how they made humans now, in a test tube, and put them down on a manmade planet that suited the aliens purposes, to be looked upon, and studied in such a way that was credible. She didn’t know what the aliens looked like, but they planted what they looked like in her dreams. She could feel them when they did it and she was being born in a test tube, feel it creeping on the edge of her mind.
The only thing that was outside of free will was forcing their thoughts upon hers. She thought she could feel their thoughts sometimes, in the way that their thoughts moved fluidly like water, slow and unearthly like the glowing of the lights. Sometimes, she thought about It-the thing that was more horrible than actually committing suicide, the actual thinking about it. She didn’t think of suicide in a way that she was going to actually do it, but she thought of it in the way that she actually wanted to do it but wouldn’t go through with it-she thought about the how and why and the liking of it and what other people would say about her after she passed. The darkness of suicide was always there, and the anger was there, fresh in her mind.
She didn’t approve of anger. She thought it was bothersome. She remembered once, her mother said she never got angry at anything, ever, that the anger was not how she expressed herself. It was, what they called it, the Remembering, the Time that was Before-After the Before time, and how it was sequestered in the rhythm of her life, the life that was half-lived. She had a half-lived life. She knew it now, could feel it in her bones.
The taking of one hundred pills or more, and dying in the living room, was romantic to her when she was living in the cold place underneath the floor boards in the man’s house, and the man called Todd came and fed her twice a day. She soiled herself. She was his pet; he was called a pimp, and she had been fourteen when she came To the Bad Place, and would be nineteen now. She always thought of her life with her parents as Before; this was Now.
The Days passed, longer more than ever, and everything seemed like a dream, or stepping stones on top of one another. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears; her ears were covered in crusted blood. She’d had a few ticks, and a few bruises. Her eyes were blue. She stared at them in the mirror in the bathroom in the basement.
Made faces at herself in the mirror, and squinted her eyes shut tight. She knew what the days were because they had left a computer in the basement and she turned it on and watched it hum to life, and she wrote stories and played poker and War, but she could not connect to the Internet to ask for help. The Internet would have been a great deal.
She remembered, a few years before she was kidnapped, she and her classmates had been learning how to use the computer and she was a fast typer, typed almost 50 words per minute.
It was the strength, those memories of good times that kept her alive, and everything inside her mind was shut off when the kidnappers came and made her strip for money.
They let her go outside, but someone was always with her-Ronnie or Howard or Denni, she was the worst, she was always getting guys’ phone numbers and wanting to do them and she took them down to the basement and sent her, stumbling, up the stairs to the living room-Boner was there, and Clyde. Clyde wanted some, but Boner said she was too young for the job-said the cops would come and find them, cos she was missing for a long time.
“You a missing girl?” Clyde asked her.
She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.
“You wanna come home wit’ me?” he asked her. “You won’ be missin’ no mo.’” He chuckled, and Boner slapped him upside the head, and they glared at each other. Clyde snorted and stomped out of the room.
“Look, girl,” Boner told her. “I know you think I want some. You ain’t getting none from me. I’m in a committed relationship, okay? You safe wit’ me. I don’ need you, but you git some bones on you, gi’, you be a good one for my clients.” He smiled, as if proudly. “You be her dodder.” He nodded matter-of-fact like.
“What does she look like?” She sniffed, and wiped her hand on her nose.
“She real big,” he told her. “But, she pretty. She has red hair, kinda dirty, but not pimp dirty like Wanda.”
Reanna’s lips curled. She loathed Wanda; she was a terror.
She remembered Wanda, and how the woman didn’t know she was in a Dream Capsule. Stupid woman. Everyone knew that. How come she didn’t know it? She needed to talk to her counselor. She never did anything without talking to her counselor. Everyone was against her. She knew it. She couldn’t put her finger on it.
“I’ll take you, gi’,” he promised. “I gotta take somethin’ home to my wife-otherwise, I ain’t getin none o’ dat from her-nor you,” he added quickly, as an afterthought. She rolled her eyes. He grunted asset. “Get in, girl.” He shoved her in. the car sped away. She was tense. She settled against the seat and tried to enjoy the ride. The car stopped. He pushed her out and the car sped away. She watched it go and went inside the tall, nondescript building. It was a pale brown. The windows looked dirty. Everything about the place was old, drab, dirty.
“Are you Reanna Chanceitt?” the counselor woman asked.
“Yes,” she managed to whisper.
“We’ve been looking for you,” she replied.
She promptly burst into tears.
“Who was looking for me?” she asked a few minutes later. She wiped her hands on her jeans. They were dirty. Most girls didn’t wear jeans anymore, they wore the plaid dresses that were authorized by government officials-the aliens, she was told.
The woman looked surprised. “Why, your parents, of course!” she replied.
She blinked. She didn’t know what to say. No one was allowed to say parents. “What do you mean?”
She looked away, a little embarrassed. “You know. Parents. You look like you don’t know what I’m talkin about. Like it wasn’t implanted in your brain like all dem odders.” Reanna was amused. She didn’t know counselors talked in that way-most Foreigners spoke eloquently.
“I don’t. We’re not supposed to talk about that.”
“Oh, yeah, well,” she fumbled. “They changed the rules, now. We got some bad peoples coming in, the Pope had to act fast.” The pope was big and had a big chin.
She frowned. “Who’s in charge around here?” she asked. “I thought it was the Mayor, now, after the little problem at the post office.”
She nodded. “Yeah, the scientists are trying to bring the dead guys back to life-as zombies.” She shook her head and tsked. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The good lord’ll fix it, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, sure you’re sure. You were sure three thousand years ago, weren’t you, during the Civil War.”
The counselor was shocked. “You’re not supposed to talk about that!” she said in a hushed voice. “We’re not supposed to mention War-the aliens are listenin’ now, what if they do th’ hangin’?”
The girl looked down at the floor. “I forgot.”
“I figured as much. We’re going to have to fix you, girl.” She nodded her head. “We’ll take care of it, right away.” Her eyes looked distant, sad, as if she were staring at some great distance, far away. She sniffed. Reanna sniffed, too. It was going to be a long day.
The paperwork was filled out, and then the parents came and took her away-to the Dream Time, the reality that was more based on reality than actual reality, based more on a calming realization of fictional thoughts being pressed against hers. She was being brainwashed, it was certain.

THE FORCE THAT MOVES.

I am not the force that moves inside of me.
The hatred flows in my heart.
It is the heart. The heart that is the word.
The love is casual as glass, like a spider when it comes down
The mountain.

No one knows about dates-this date, that date, everything is about reason.
The reason that is the wind, that blows in imagination down the mountain.
We talk about pine apples into the night. You steal kisses with a glass eye.
Shadows are dark, steeples are dark, darkness is dark in everything.

She is going to be fullgrown. She is going to be a lion.
Those are my predictions, I wrap them in soft hands.

Metaphors In Clouds.

He thinks she is the woman in the tomb.
I don't know the name of the tomb.
Someone brought me a newspaper and stuck it in the mailbox.
The wildflower lays broken on the sidewalk; people tiptoe through these lies.
I have ideas, they whisper in my head. Some people think they know what they don't
know, that their wives and husbands adore them. Then, changes shift forms,
things are moved to change-someone gets a job; someone loses a friend; a new one comes
into focus, comes into the picture. This is the picture I didn't know about,
I couldn't understand about that was looking back at me right from the start.

All of these people are like lawn gnomes. Things are gifts in the dark. I am not
a miracle worker, a slave, a Barbie; I am not your politician, someone to strike the dragon in the throat-
I am the one who saves the dragon, I am the shadow in the gust of wind that moves
through the trees, the apes are free, they have come to seek their revenge.

I don't know where my father puts his glass towns. I don't know where the light
is as it shines through the trees.

I know the forgiveness, in my mind. It is not in my heart. My anger is vast,
like the ocean, the night sky is flung away from me.

I look out of my window. My hair is flung back from my face. I close my eyes,
and think soft things. Sometimes, I think about what it would be like,
if the government actually fixed things, read metaphors in the clouds
and the sidewalks of the world. How large the world is. How real. It is not safe from my father, my lover, my enemy. Some people are enemies. Usually, they are small like bulbs of flowers.

Sometimes, a person jumps out from a bush to scare school children.

Life mocks everyone.

Then, the tomb is brought back out again. My mother is no longer here to take my hand. I don't remember her hand. I remember a blank wall, staring time, memories are latched to ghosts. Ghosts that I have not seen, the tomb is like a word.

I don't want people to talk about me behind my back, to fuel hunger in my veins-
these veins are red, distorted as time. Time comes back.

IN-BETWEEN DREAMING.

And then, people like me, are thrown from dust,
to dust-and then crows are called in for a murder trial.
I am awake to the sound of the trilling of birds out my window.
Destruction is like misery. It is hard to see, to hear-
a telephone rings, and begs goodbye to me. He is a wanderer,
the sound of summer in darkness, the sound of hands moving back to me.
The ghosts are woven in strands of summer magic, as if I believed in magic at all.
I am nowehere, Ohio, I am the state that drifts outside of who I am. My mother
ignores me. My father is distant in my mind.

Time does not become me. It is not who I am. My friends are not my friends. My friends are set in stone statues. It is the sadness that brings me. It is the rape
that is fresh in my mind, how tired I am. Some people read and speak in English,
other people eat their daily supply of bread. He was not my friend. He is the betrayer. The speaker of solemn words. Of pretend condolences. He is equipped with
nothing. His mind dreams about nothing. I wake up and the birds chirp in my window. Everything is like it was. He has his children. I have my bread. It is supposed to be okay, I am not reminded of anything in between dreaming.
From my father, I forget, from my father, I have forgotten. The shadow lies in the windows of time. The windows of destiny.

It is what it is what it is. It is from a far off state I have never heard of,
the place that is wrapped in paper chains. The sky that is colored and dipped
in red, the sky that is translucent in its wake. We are woken. All things are woven,
including despair, and the darkness that lingers here is strong like lions,
and beauty is written away with a colored marker. I am accused; I am the accuser.
I stand before the trials of the court, and shadows whisper to me like spiders,
in broken things.

Different things in the news tremble like a collage of voices.
I don't spit. I move like wind and tears.

The voices of the wind
call through the trees-this is the memory, this is the yesterday.
This is the time that isn't mine.
Sometimes, I think about when I was little,
and I was fishing with my father. My father, with the big blue eyes,
and face stained with tobacco and tears.
He spat on and on about the war,

how stories were woven from stars, and musicians sang for their food only.
That they never had any families, or spoke their minds freely.
War is not
free. It stems from the dinosaurs,
from science, from the act of being alone. I am alone in my grief, alone in the way I look at things.

From seventeen years ago,
I let you go, and my basket dropped in the snow.
I ran, looking ahead,
backwards again, and forwards-then, I was in prison, and my neighbor with the flaming
red hair set me free through his destruction.

He went on, and the memories of pain screamed in my mind,
I was like ghosts, and truth was destroyed.
Marriage destroys things.
It destroys whole families.
It turns humans into balls of mistrust, lies, hatred.
No one can see my pain, see my memories, my tears, or why people want me dead. They ignore me. I am homeless, the one whose innocence was kept silent. She moves on, in her grief, and doesn't know me, wants to steal my things. She has everything. I am a ghost, I fall in myself. People will never fix their problems. They will always enhance them, become them, and the dying will be sent to the scavengers.

Bad Behavior.

I tried not to be in love with lightning-
the way it tiptoes across the sky, and dashes into the clouds.
The clouds are angry, like lions, they are selfish and unnerving.
They are not petrified. I think our ancestors were petrified,
that they were unified in the realizations that all things are kept unturned.

My words are not my sorrows. They are not thrown into the piles of rocks
on the ground, they are not the brokneness that my life has become.
I try to make up new things for children to play with, and keep the thoughts to myself.
A young girl in Spain tries to take my boyfriend; tries to open a can of worms.
She is selfish in her reasons, as planes fly into buildings and heads are buried
in the sand. She moves like lightning, her thoughts are fluid as water running through
the stream. She thinks she is home. She writes fake letters and puts them in jars
and sends them out to the ocean, hoping to find some peace, some serenity, some inner
home.

She is turmoil. She is the sound of the ocean that rings with the voice, the sound of
summer.

This is summer. Things are in summer. A man and a tan and a pile of rocks-
he jumps on his engine, and turns it on, it sounds like firecrackers in the stillness.
She says goodbye to her words, to the night that is dark. She is like a ghost.

Apes Are Angry, Jealous-

I am a ghost that moves in a mountain.
No one speaks and no one is heard…
All around me are the shades of colors,
Locked in a dream. This is like my nightmare.
I type and I type and the words are thrown like shadows
Across an empty page-this is war, the war of temptation.
I spoke of yesterdays. They are like golden days,
My father is in Canada, my mother is far away. My wife
Doesn’t know how to talk to me anymore. My neighbor thinks
He knows me, but he doesn’t know that he makes me cry at night,
He makes me wet the bed. I look out the window and stare at a stream
Of flowers on the broken lawn. I think about our ancestors,
Who were not our friends-they are animals, and the animals speak to
The sky, the ground, the meadows filled with flowers. He doesn’t think about
Anything but his own selfish ways, the ways that are the center of the self.
He pretends he cares. He is the pretending. He makes mistakes on purpose.
He tells me lies, lies, and goodbyes. He doesn’t know anything about
The whispering of the pines, or how the ghosts of apes move through the
Mountains, through the colors and the cold and the dark and I have to tiptoe,
To try and understand, to not be in love because I am forced to.
He didn’t move on. I forgave him, but that thing is still undone. People move like
Tombstones, like shadows. He thinks he knows, he doesn’t know.
Only time will tell. Only time will move back, and forth. The reading is in the
Fire that burns selfishly. He is dead to me. Dead to my ears. My ears are
Burning as the night is burning and the lies burn in every fire place in every household
In the country. People force me to procreate, to be with nothing. Why? Why?
Why are these things happening to me, why can’t I stop them, why am I forced to write
In a diary that doesn’t understand me, that has blank pages?
You’re the ones who force me to be this way. I sit quietly in the dark and tears spill down my
Cheeks. The wind moans; no one hears me.

What Is In Riddles.

You said words are hard, they wrap around things unseen-
That distance lies in riddles, and things in between.
Nothing else will work out, quite well in the end.
This is the world we’ve been trying to mend.
I don’t know about the other ones, only we play pretend-
The flowers in the garden don’t want to grow,
Nothing is a seed that will be forced to overthrow.
I don’t understand the negativity or what we comprehend,
Why books have to have middles, or antiques are what we send-
Through the shadows, and the lies, and the hurt and goodbyes,
You tried to make me see something in a mystery.
I don’t want to go where you will go, except in time it will show,
And tomorrows are sorrows wrapped in a vine wrapped in misery.
You went to the ocean, and the ocean sent you home,
Your life was like something we weren’t even shown.
We fly like a flock of birds, and speak in sad rhymes,
The lion uses its wings to hear of unheard things.