Riddle.

Riddle 
One day, when she's old, 
she'll tell you the answer to the riddle 
that has been tormenting you for years. 
I have heard this one before; the words
curve like a spider's silky web, they are 
put on the shelf in the wine cellar 
before being released to the public 
If poems beat on the back door,
would you think to answer it? 
Would you know, quickly now, 
how to explain the ending to every story?
Metaphors drop out of the sky like clouds;
they land on your doorstep, 
shaking and shivering in the cold. 
Will you take them in? 
They are orphans, you know;
they have nowhere 
else to go.

-published in "Chantarelle's Notebook."

On the Eve of War.

On the Eve of War

Throwing        fistfuls
        of      flowers into dark
        nothing
eagles  with    broken          wings
        s  ing
destruction
    war rever      berates
    knowledge
nothing


    but
        time
ever    speaks
    and nothing but        destruction
        is ever      noticed.

Copyright © 2003 by Apryl Fox

---

Where they Buried George Washington.

Where They Buried George Washington

You who came from Washington, tell me,
where did they bury General Washington?
Was it in the District of Columbia where they buried him,
with his toes pointed towards the George Washington River,
or was it underneath a cherry tree in Rosa Park's Park?

There is a clothes store named after him, a library,
and a school, all within a twenty mile radius.
Further down,

a laundry mat that is selling
detergent for half-price off. Today is Abe Lincoln's birthday,
and the candy store is selling bubble gum for a penny.

Copyright © 2003 by Apryl Fox 

Shaking Hands With a Rose.

SHAKING HANDS WITH A ROSE

You stand at the base of the tree,
mouth slackened, eating a rose.
I have not seen you in ages.
The acorns are ripe. I hear them
plop to the ground, they are littering the world.
Oh, you litterbugs! How dear you are 
to me, I have been waiting for you
to burrow yourself into the earth
and rise in a song. Little sapling,
my dear litterbug, you have been
reborn.

Five fingers on a single hand.
Skin as red as a northern rose.
Pock-marks, blisters of the sun,
the sapling is as hard as rock. 
Here is my hand for someone to shake. 
Here is my voice, speaking so quietly, 
telling you which hands to draw with.
I've shaken so many roses that I've
lost touch with pantomime.

-published in "The Argotist Online"

Counting Sheep.

Counting Sheep


It is night and I am counting sheep backwards
from zero to infinity, how high can I go?
Can't you hear their bleating out my window,
they found out I got another mattress,
the mattresses you see on those commercials with
the counting sheep, who are out of jobs
and end up in a jail cell because they broke the law
they are lonely and alone because
they have no one to confide to, no one to tell them
that beds are things made by man,
that they are sheep and have no place in this world--
maybe their only job is to be counting sheep,
and nothing else 

-published in Tryst Magazine.

Montreal.

Dreams are the waters of the city.  In pristine
whiteness, the great margins are accessible only to
the cold. We do not shout at the first enemy who
happens to come our way. But we, as a child growing,
take care of the little ones. My head
feels full of desert sand. I have been living
in a green house. We do not have an ending for the
first steps we missed, as we cross
over another bridge
into the heart of montreal.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

Fragmentations.

Fragment.
An incandescent speck of light.
Sound, noise.  The faded symmetries
of the downed hieroglyph,
another marriage on the rocks.
Forced entry.  Doomsday prophets.
How obscene is the hench thug?
Open your eyes to a new summer. Drink a little,
let down your hair, open conversation with the
water lilies about procreation.  Sing a sad
tune about the closing of another year.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

He Who is Farthest Away.

The farthest away climbers are like the sun
with its song approaching daybreak.
How quickly the river flows, and it is fair,
alive as angels as they were before.
The beauty of breath taking runs like
gold and shines so disappointingly in  the dust
of the forest.  Bones churn from every path,
the living man is his appearance of a single path
before him. Without the good of the world, the river
will never run the same, and all answers will be
broken
on its journey.  Hear the artificial sound of
my painstaking grasp.  The statues of her womb
never made a man his fire; the fire of his grief
is the one I give to you, his grasp,
calm and cool as sadness creeps the white
bone moon.
Tall masts of a mirror before the breast of
daylight drive us to the ending shore.  The river
will mar my tears, I have become
the snake lolling in the brown grass.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

Writing With Your Left Hand.

Sometimes I write with my left hand
when the weather turns cold,
and my heart is pounding in my chest
like an anchored drum.
I can't seem to shake the feeling
that I am being watched
as I walk down Fifth Avenue, but
it is only a blue jay,
looking for a place to stay out of the storm.
There is no justice anymore,
when a bird cannot find a place to nest,
and the darkness is so dark I cannot see my hand
in front of my face,
even as I write, even as I imagine
places far from here,
where blue jays live in blue peace.

-published in Poetry Offerings.

The Boat.

Apryl Fox 

The Boat

He came into my life like a boat
coming into the harbor.  He lifted me 
                                     up, up above 

the land I knew,
into something else I                  
                                  did not know,
something else that was 
                
                                 beautiful.

His eyes were the color of dark timber,

sad & tired & beautiful.  His skin was the 

                              color of the rising sun,
and I slipped                               

                                    into him   
                                                     
                when dawn
came & 

we sailed out             
of shore.  Rowing, always 

rowing.

-published in A Little Poetry.

The Summertime.

It's cold at night in the summertime.
Daisies are blooming.
We go to the park and see airplanes flying
overhead, makeing a buzz buzzing sound.

In the distance, deer are grazing like cows,
going from one place to another, like a
boat on the sea.  I can't stand to see them suffer,
so I take down the fence that surrounds them,

and send them on their way, with a lunch pail
and a note from their mothers.  Everything is simply put:
don't do this, don't do that, we hear the deer chomping
on grass.  I wish I was a deer-perhaps a cow,

except I wouldn't want to get slaughtered.
No one feels like reading anymore.
It's too dark out to see.

The Hen.

Pine trees unfurl
as the dawn approaches
moonlit dew in mourning.

Shadows fall across
the grass-
a hen takes a stroll
across the lawn.

Today is tomorrow;
tomorrow is yet forsakened,
the past is not broken.

Dew is broken.
Can we hear the wind laugh?
As it moves through
the under
brush.

New poems published-link

Some of my poems published here: 

http://zombielogicreview.blogspot.com/2016/05/poetry-by-apryl-fox.html

On Eating Taco Salad.

I am overcome by your diversity.

Your literacy resides in me.  Everything I own is here-

Two stacks of chairs, a black address book, a coffee pot.

Take a drink, it hits the spot.

What are we supposed to do about the position we’re in?

It gets underneath the skin.

I swear I’m getting better at this, I’ve suffered through leprocy

And three car accidents.  Once, I saw a twister and became

A storm chaser, where I met my ex-husband.  We had three

Kids, Joan, Adam, and Wesley.  I named them all.  Did you think I

Was going to name any of them after my ex-husband?  Two of

Them are boys.  They did like their toys, I guess, but they loved

Me more.  My ex only saw the children on Saturday and Sunday,

When I went to the sauna and got my head packed in ice.

Something is wrong here.  We’re not getting along.  My grandmother

Has been dead for three long years.  I don’t understand the tears.

I never cry at funerals, but I cry after them, when I’m alone,

Holding on to myself when no one will, listening to the dogs barking

Outside my window, and thinking about when I was little, and my

Mother used to hold me on her knee.  Today we had tacos.  I wanted

A taco salad.  We headed out for the bar after dinner, and everyone was

There.  I didn’t want them to stare, so I stuck out my tongue and ate

Some bread.

My Neighbor Likes Mick Jagger.

I've walked the line too many times
to say I'm fine, but I'm not.  Everything is so confusing,
to say the least-I won't let it get in the way of doing
what I'm supposed to be doing, or being who I am,
or being someone else, for that matter, like my grandmother,
who drove a bus during the Vietnam War, got her hand
cut off by a sniper, and basically was a hippie.  I don't
mind hippies, they are wonderful people, full of life,
and zest, and hate violence and war.  I thought war was
violence, or maybe it was the other way around,
just like saying short is not stout, or a way to figure out
the basics of literature that just keep going and going,
until you can't stop.  Basically what I'm saying is this:
make a lot of noise, try to buy a house, be as big as you
can and reach as many people as you can.  Nothing is worse
than saying goodbye, but sometimes it happens, and you
can't explain it or predict it, but it does, and then some people
get away with killing during wartime, and sometimes I'm
a mess, I wake up too late and miss work.  The dreams are
the same, but what I'm saying is different from what other
people have said before me, and before me, and before me.
My neighbor likes Mick Jagger, but I don't mind.

On Making Bread.

Like this, your words go in and out-
flop them like a doppleganger.
Shadows move across the room because
the sun is slowly moving overhead.
I wonder about astronauts, and if they've
ever made it to the sun-the sun is a great big
iron, you said.  I don't believe it.  Something
is happening in outside space, you said.
I don't believe it, how could I, all I see is
this stupid kitchen, with the stupid tables
and chairs, and the bathtub against the far wall.
It smells like bread baking.  Everything is
changing, you said.  I agree with you on that,
but how can we change it, when we can't even
change ourselves, and the light outside is slowly
dwindling towards the Arctic Circle, and dogs
are barking happily because their masters have
come home from work, and then they enter through
the door, put down their coat, and go into
the kitchen to make some bread.
This is the rest of our lives, one loaf at a time.

WYRMWOOD: SWORD & SORCERERY.

It was in the Court of Kings that Thom Morley first heard about the dragon.  He was a small boy, short and scrawny with skinny legs, and curly black hair and black eyes.  He was going on his eighth winter, and the season had been terribly cold-so cold, in fact, that half of the Elders in the Guild had died from pneumonia-their Healer, Ravinn, had said their hearts froze stiff from inside out.  The Huntsmen in the Guild were afraid, and they were never afraid.  It was the cold that made them afraid, not the snow.  They had been out hunting the wildebeest in the High Forest, killing foxes, wolves, and badgers.  Nothing too noble, but the Gray Castle needed more food, and that was what they got.
Thom would have liked to go on a Hunt like that himself, but he was still too young to travel that far and he didn't know how to will a bow and arrow or throw a sword.  His godfather, Horace the Tall, had promised to teach him-but even now he was dead from frostbite.  He had been almost two hundred years old before he died, which was middle-age for his time. 
Horace had gone into the High Forest and had come out stiff as a corpse, and dead as a doornail. 
Thom had been without a mother and father for four years, living with his godfather and uncle, Terrance Nightdancer, a knight in the Court of Kings.  It was a great honor to be a knight and he took it seriously.  Then, Terrance had died.  Ravinn had done a Welling, and the warm water had told her that Terrance had been imprisoned by the Mad Witch, taking his soul for all Eternity.
Eternity was a long time, Thom thought.
Horace was supposed to teach him to be a blacksmith before he died.  It looked like that wasn't going to happen.
Thom was living alone in his godfather's house when the messenger came to call.  He was making lunch in the small, dusty kitchen, and a knock sounded at the door.  Surprised, Thom put down his fork, and hurried to answer it.
A man wearing a brown poncho stood on the porch. 
"What do you want?"  Thom demanded, trying to sound like his godfather.
"Are you Thomas De le Morley?"  he asked in a pleasant voice, undisturbed by the boy's rude behavior.

It Seems.

I laugh because he has half a mind
to think I would be cool with what he says,
about bridges and waterways and other
cool stuff like that.  Today we went out to
brunch, and it made me think of Florence
on the Food Channel, making tea and scones
and cutting big pieces of cheddar.  What once
was lost was never found, but other things
were found indeed, we replaced the lost
telekinesis, and broke up the sod with a hoe
and rake.  The garden was soon going to be
ready, and my chef made olives and peanuts
from scratch, I guess they were from the market,
El Sol, on Broadway Street, where I used to
hang out as a teenager, asking people for money
while I sang-old songs, mind you, but they were
still sweet, as sweet as they could be, and I saw
old married couples walking hand in hand,
and singing, and a brisk puppy walking down
the sidewalk, a man holding on to his leash
with his head up high, looking straight, nor right
nor left.  Some days are better than others.

Barren.

I am barren in my calmness.
The cot is stuck in the corner at my house.
A car starts up outside, sounding like a
train.  The day has forsakened me.
Today is another day-just as yesterday,
and the day before.  Cold, broken,
and alone, I walk down the freeway of readiness,
and here I speak, here you listen, wandering
far and near in the void.  The void is blackness.
I am levitating-let the sun move in me.
Here I stand proud like a soldier about to go
into war.
Let me be barren in my readiness,
I know what comes and goes, what's fast and slow,
and hear the hollering of the wind outside my window.
Inside me, all is quiet.
The barrenness is ready.
I hear a noise outside.  The calm light is dawning.

Sunflowers and Grandmas.

The garden on my window sill is full of flowers-
lilacs, blue bells, peonies, blooming in the sun.
My grandma loves them with all her heart.
She is waiting for them to bloom.  She says one day
they'll be bigger than the sun, and her dog likes to
sit underneath them, watching them like a good
dog does.  Grandma loves her dog and her flowers
equally.  He is also soaking in rays.  Grandma
sings like the blue jays outside, and everyone is happy.
The sky is blue and full of light.  Which is like
my neighbor when she is full of smiles, and helping
each other, her rays spreading outward to the world,
one single ray at a time.  The light is my shield.
I sit in the rocking chair, and rock back and forth,
listening to the sound of my Grandma's singing.
Even the sound of the rocking chair sounds like
singing-back and forth, back and forth, I rock around
the clock.  My Grandpa made the rocking chair
back when he was a little boy in WWII, singing
songs of peace and war.  Tomorrow, he is coming
home from the hospital, carrying battle scars,
and telling us stories of times long past.

On Reading Poetry At Night.

I read poetry in the dark, scared of the monsters under
my bed.  My nightlight has been turned on, and I am
armed and ready for any noise, or suspicious activity.
The nightlight shows shadows in the darkness,
a circle of light flights my wall.

The light helps me with three things:  helps me read my poetry,
and keeps the shadows away, and the monsters stay
underneath the bed.

Stars twinkle in the sky outside my window.
A tree claws at the glass.  Tomorrow is another day.
School, and then gardening.  I wake up at the sound of my
alarm, and suddenly, the shadows disappear.
They're under my willow trees.
I go downstairs to eat breakfast,
a breakfast of champions-toast, cereal, orange juice.

Then I go outside to see the bus squealing away from the curb,
and I miss my ride to school.  I go back inside,
and tell Mama I missed the bus.  "Don't be angry,"
I say in a pleading voice.  "Please."

And with a flourish, we are out the door, and I am
the last one to arrive-but, still, I make it,
and that's one good thing about the day.

Fuel

Fuel the self-righteous lamb, and put him on a skillet.
I have conquered all sadness in my way.
Yet it tingles on the edge of my spine.  The mountains of
Tomorrow.
I lack self-reliance.  I pity the bold.  But take on regret.
My heart is on my sleeve.  Pardon my tomorrow.
I wear my life on my sleeve.
This is what I see:  an ocean outside my bedroom window
And a boat coming in to harbor.

Of Doubt

I once said that I could not be privy to the lonely
Flower that crawls up the walls of decay-
Remembrance is a forsaken Poet that dusts reason

From the rhyme.  I have forsaken the lonely flower
And he has forsakened me
We have yet given up dust to dust
Why?  I don't know of virtue, whatever will
Be impressed upon me.  I eat the wall of decay-

Just like a corpse that swallows the rim of doubt.

The Painter.

I am troubled by these new designs
that flock my patterned walls with straight arrows.
The painter has to come and finish this mess.
He has big, flabby arms, a pointed nose,
and beady eyes like a wolf.
I couldn't see myself marrying him,
or anyone else for that matter.
My mother, she was such a saint,
she did all the painting herself on the old house-
the one with the faded wallpaper that made
me think of the houses in the 80's,
you know what I'm talking about,
the ones where the construction builders
don't paint the house for you.  You have to hire
someone else.  And now, as I am standing here,
watching the painter work with the walls,
I think again of how lucky I am to have a house
at all-I thought about this before, and before,
and before.

What It Is Not.

The dancer stares at me from beyond his sight.
I am worthless and in flight.
The dust to dark has returned-
my aunt is still dead in her urn.

The tables and chairs are still on the stairs,
and the woman in white is about to take flight.
Here is the worthless coin at the fair,
and I hope to go out with my lass tonight.

The dancer moves with the grace of a lamb,
and shadows the floor with her body.
The cook has sent out another ham,
and the maid is scurrying in the lobby.

The Sweetheart's Revenge.

I live in water.
I dwell in winter.
Inside the heart, I am plenty.
Nothing is safe within me.
Grass grows like pretty flowers,
and bells are distant
to my ears.  Strangeness hears.
The wind blows through me.
I am quiet with my readiness.

The road is less traveled.
Lend me your ears.
Strangeness is around me.
I see nothing and hear nothing.
My love comes from afar to see me,
and I sing like the greatness is coming.
Words befall me.

The Beach.

The sea is bright and calm.
I walk out on the dusty beach.
It is so far, I cannot reach-
but the night is cool and warm.
I am safe from harm.
Here the air smells of salty spray,
the beach is in disarray.
Here we come, walking along,
cooler than the coolest dawn.
Merchants call us from the streets,
they are not strong; yet, they are weak.
I try to speak gently in the good night air,
all the dolphins do is stare.
Here are the fish, I throw them back in,
life is gone; it will not come in.

This Past September.

My heart fell apart, and now my car won't start-
it's hurting and falling apart.
I don't know where now and never is,
I'm lonely and I won't become dead.
I just shaved my head.
Take me now and wait for tomorrow;
this good luck is what I'll borrow.
Watch for the rain and then the sun,
our light is what will become one.
Take me now, fast as I am,
my heart is gentle, and will be gone.
Life is not over and done.
Take myself as myself, and be done with my
mourning.
A new dawn is dawning.
I swung with him this past September,
and my love for him is never....

The Page.

I am careful because I am ready.
My inner thoughts are steady.
Here is where I stand; my inner thoughts
collide.  The rain is falling with the tide.
My dreams are forced realizations.
I don't know what I am able.
A turkey sits at my dinner table.
Hope floats in the garden.  My arm hurts
after it rains.  There is nothing on the plains.
Take myself from myself, there is nothing
else but pain.  I walk forward and backwards,
and my inner sides hurt and swell.  Gas bubbles
burst.
My life is the worst.
What did I capture?  Was it rain, or was it
snow?  I want to be with you now,
don't you know?  Here is where I am.
My life is on the brink of extinction.
I try to create less suffering, but it doesn't work
for me.
I hide my inner glee from you, don't you know it is true?
Words are captured on a blank page.

Change.

Every day is not like the other one.
I see ghosts in my shoes, and what else do I see...
I see a tree outside of my window, it is waving at me.
My roommate is sleeping in her bed.  I don't remember
what  I said.  I'm waiting for him to come home
and tuck me in to bed.  She sits beside me,
and waits, as if she would not leave.  I know she is about
to grieve.  The wild, wild wind is moaning.
Everything is complex to me.  I still see the tree.
The dog is barking outside.  The night has come alive.
I whisper to her, and she whispers back that the horses
are still dead.  They died while climbing rocket science.
It's not the same thing as being an astronaut, it's more complex
than that.  I don't know where it's at.  My age is just a number.
I sit by the stream.  Everything is plentiful, and so is the
garden.
I watch tv, hoping for meditation.  I go in my backyard,
and swing on the swing.  It makes a slight whooshing sound
in my ear.  The world begins to fear.  We build a giant door,
and the cat swings and sings outward, going upward.
I wish it was me.
The cat comes back again, banging on the window, and
I don't know what to tell him.  He tells me goodbye.  I can't
ask why.
Everyone stares at me like a sweet, staring thing.  It gets in my
eyes, and makes my heart beat rapidly like a cardio workout.
I don't like getting up in the morning.  My back hurts,
and so do my shoulders.  I hate tv.

Charles.

The ghost is in my hand.  I don't speak unless I am spoken to.
Tomorrow is another day.  It doesn't come, and the trees shake and shiver.
The river is wide.  Here comes the tide.  I am a prince in my own
way; tomorrow is here like today.  My face is serene,
and calm.  I am bitter and not warm.  Work comes before
nature; everything else is in between.  Don't tell me what
you mean.  I'm gentle as a cat.  I love cats.  They love me,
too.  I see you belong in a zoo.  My computer doesn't
work very well.  As far as I could tell.
Nothing is small in this world.  Everything begins with hope.
Television is too much for me.  I wish I was somewhere
else, like Florida or Maryland, where I can give back what
I give.  I am tired and sleepy.  Which word means the most?
Charles isn't back yet; he hasn't come home.
I am more tired than alone.  I wish he wouldn't come,
but I don't want to be alone.  In the end, everything is the
same.  I read books, but I'm not to blame. 
The song comes to me.  I hear it in your voice.  You dream up
choice.  The fire hydrant is down on one knee,
let it be, let it be.

A Summer Rain.

The rain smells of wet dew.
I am quiet with realization.
The sadness is in the cold, wet grass.
I have found my vision.
We can relate to the things of this world-
and the next, and the next.
Speed comes with thinking.  I don't think without
feeling.  He comes in the night, wearing a
dark parka.  He feels me in the cool dawn.
The summer rain splatters on the ground.
It makes a soft, sweet sound.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
I think things have gone from here.
Take me or leave me, I wouldn't know.
There is a space in my arms below.
How high can I fly, these words sing to me.
I am embarrassed by hope, set on by fear.
Take me as I am, leave the rest behind you-or near.
A summer rain falls down, down.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is just another day.  Day after day, I do the same thing:
Get up, get dressed, and watch tv.  I don’t change my clothes, only
My shirt, so my pants are dirty and my underwear is not clean,
Either.  Day after day.  The light shines in through the window every
Stinkin’ day.  Every time I play.  My heart beats in my chest.
There is a test.  Tomorrow is just another day.  I like to hear what you say.
The river runs like rain.  It makes a splashing sound as I jump into it,
And swim like a fish.  The fish are plentiful.  I’d like to go fishing,
Tomorrow is just another day for fishing.  Any other day is like tomorrow.
I have found my way out of this day, and every day, I pray-I am lucky.
It’s not about luck.  It’s about tomorrow.  Tomorrow comes on skates.
Tomorrow is worrisome.  What if I get into an accident tomorrow?  What if
My man breaks up with me?  I don’t know what else to think.  Tomorrow is just
Another day.

I am alone.

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.

Worrying.

The sun shines down on me like rain.
I feel the beat of your heart next to mine.
Shadows fold like daffodils.
My heart is ready inside my chest.
Everything is for the best.
Let’s see your heart-at the hospital,
You are getting ready for chemotherapy.
I have found that I like to write words
Of poetry on my lawn.  I sense the coming
Dawn.  It rises in the west and settles in the east
And I don’t have any other idea to meet with you
Than to meet with you at a coffee house.
Where are you?  I can’t find you in the dark.
It is quiet here.  Our lives are quiet.  I am quiet.
Everything is quiet and more than the same
Than yesterday.  So many people.  Not enough
Time to talk to you.  I wish I could talk to you.
My tongue hangs from my mouth like a panting dog.
I am here.  I am not far.  Don’t worry, don’t worry

The Bear.

The bear rolled himself up out of the water
and waddled across the road-
he was thinking deeply, as all bears should,
about fish.
I am like a bear.  I scratch myself and yawn
loudly and make great bear-noises.
The bear was a lot like a bear.
He had nothing to hold on to-no family,
no friends, just his great big paws sifting
through the water for fish.
The fish are like all fish.  Fishing is simple.
The bear makes himself known to the local
fishermen who fear him and his  mighty gestures.
He waddles a little ways through the trees,
stops, and sniffs the air-the sky is filled with
smoke from a log house down a ways in the forest
of trees, in the forest of nights.  Nights are scary
in the woods; the bear knows this.

Eyes Of a Little.

The eyes of the fire is not the fire
it burns inside of me, charring my lungs and heart.
I have found a better way of dealing with this.
I have found different things to think about.
This life is not my life.  It is someone else's.
My life is something more important than life;
the tree is growing in the backyard.
Why is life so hard?  I try and I try and I just can't
seem to make it work.  Every little thing is difficult
for me.  It's not just what I see, but what I
experience as well.  So as far as I can tell,
this life is fit for me.  I dream little dreams.  I take
books wherever I go, especially at the library
where the lines are slow.  Don't go past go.
Give me five hundred dollars, in tens and ones.
I look like I need a shower.  My mother comes home
in three days.  I haven't seen her in ages.  Where I am
is where I ought to be, it's what I want to become
that's inside of me like a light bulb going off.  I grow and I
grow just like a little tree.  The dinosaurs have come
back.

Rainbow Storm.

A man is washed upon the shore of a beach, 
His face twisted, contorted, fighting for a breath of air. 
A starfish, sunning on the shore, lays flat on the ground nearby, 
Searching for a way back in the water. 
Sea gulls scream overhead, begging for food, 
A glimpse of foreign land. There is none on the horizon, 
Save for the salt sea air and a rainbow 
That has appeared after a storm. 

The day has just broken over the horizon; light 
Has fallen still. The man gets up, wakes up, 
His thoughts are calm, ready as anything; 
His body moves like water, as he tiptoes over the 
Hot sand, as he moves with the rhythm of the 
Crashing waves. The earth is not still; his body 
Is a movement of geometrical shapes, perfect 
In every way. The ocean sings; the rainbow dips 
Above the rocks, there is no gold at the other end, 
Save for a lone star fish who flops out of the water 
And onto the dry land. 

Metaphorical Lymericals.

You shape and mold me into a man, the son said to the father.

I am not ecstatic about your plan of annihilation.

Son, he said, we are at war, and war holds many lies-

Lies inside the government, and outside, in the farmland-

These are lies, the lies that are words, and the feelings

Held deep inside.  My mother said she is like a tiger,

That growls in the night.  My father is like a tiger,

That bounds and holds its prey.  Everything is a prey,

Even the homeless, even the words that are burned to black,

The shadows that fold like lightning.  It is the night of stars,

The crying of stars-this is the way that it goes, the way it has

Always been.  These are the rainbows, the nights that bend

And break, the sadness that is inside a man, someone with a name-

His face is a mask of broken promises, a field of roses,

Of cataclysmic proportions, trying to hold into the images that

Are fresh of his words.  His eyes meet the eyes of a wounded

Warrior, the warrior that is himself-

He is burdened by who he is, and his skin folds inside-

Cars pass by me on the highway, and this is my life,

The life that people do not understand-

I hide away, inside myself, and break out, insisting wildfires,

Insisting roses are burnt of water-

He makes the money, I make the words, it is how it goes,

He is silent, and everyone fights, misery taken flight.

This is the story of words, of plays mingled with sorrow,

And how English is my first language, and words are my second-

How the rainbow appears in the sky, over our house,

Wherever our house may happen to be, and how war takes flight

And makes us believe something that is not appeared-

And how, poetry, in motion, is not burdened by the face of poetry,

And the face of mankind is different from day and night,

And how his anger is flesh of flesh, and words of words-

Winding Down the Hours.

Like open doorways, I mix and mingle, I drive soiled tears
Through linen sheets. Peace is not with me; a heart is not open,
I quietly rekindle my tears, the heartache beats steady.
I wish I could bring myself out of this stupor, but nothing
Will relinquish this pain that is held on me, when my heart beats
Steadily, the thrum thrum of my heart. Who am I. 
Shadows are thrown on open doorways; daylight moves in through
The open window, where a flower has fallen on a cold moaning
Of wind. This life is not forbidden, this love is not forbidden,
Nor is my heart, it beats like shadows and rivers,
Words are tossed into open wounds. 
Clouds move and shift;
Secrets plummet into the world like warbled voices,
Caught in an updraft of makeshift promise. I do not know how
To say this, do not know how to speak the words that claw
Inside my chest, to say the things that must be spoken.
There is only the window, and the flower on the sill-
The darkness that thrums, and a cold winter chill.

Disappeared.

I hardly knew you, you with your brown curls and your upturned mouth,
you who shouted obscenities into space as it whirled and twirled above me.
I couldn't find you then.  You were lost to me.  We looked in the infinite
wilderness for you five days straight-all we could find were bogs and logs.
I thought you had disappeared, but there you were, still as stone, sitting
in the rocking chair on the dilapidated back porch.  I shouted at you joyfully.
I was in joyous measure.  You happened to be there.  But still, I hardly
knew you, you who do all the talking, talking about bygone days and autumn
nights, your dress whirling around your legs like a curlicue.

The Couch.

I often find myself looking out of windows.
I remember Julius Caesar liked to look out of windows.
The sun sets in the west and rises in the east; at that time,
I am sleeping, dreaming of Hamlet.  What once was now is now
before, and I don't know when I will be back.  The drawing of myself
is hanging in the living room, brought to me by Jack Hanner, the man
who stole my heart.  He didn't exactly steal it; my heart still remains
beating.  I don't know about the beating of other things in this world;
the beating of the drum on Harlan Avenue from the man in the blue hat,
the beating of the rain as it pours down onto the windows of my house.
My house is big enough to fill a hundred fig bars, they are my favorite.
I think about eating.  Eating is eating.  It fills up ten minutes out of
the day then we're back doing other things again, reading, watching
tv, fighting with our loved ones about who gets the couch.

Clean.

A deadweight paper forms on my arm
Like an igloo that stays outside-
To me, life is like a heartbeat that goes
Upside down, upside down.
Something for me to touch.
I rationalize dawn this way and something
Else in my mind comes clean:
What the day is like.
I have not seen the rest of this season riding
Like a bicycle in the park.  This is what I have:
Pens and paper and ink cartridges.  All alone
I stand, the river is red from kool-aid.
I seek help where there is none.  Tomorrow,
I will do more to help myself, help myself.
This is not my week.  Heaven has gone backwards.
The light is in my window, and I can see
A reflection in the light.  Tell me where have I been,
I have not seen anything but the light and it bugs
Me.  I wish I could fly off elsewhere, the night
Is too deep for me.  The color of the wind is short
And sweet, daybreak enters the wild wild wonder.
I am not here, so close to hear.  My ears feel like
Shadows of a broken dawn.  I am not trying to
Disappear.  I just want to be left alone for awhile.

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.