Precious

It feels like tomorrow is a million miles away. I don't think I can make it until dawn. This yearning swallows me, and niggles me out of a stolen slumber. When I close my eyes, I see your face, your smile. I feel your softness next to me and right now is never soon enough to be in your arms. I fall into fitful, exhausted sleep and I dream of you. The scent of your perfume, your hair, teases my senses. I can feel you under me, on me, beside me, and I can hardly stand the images that follow without mercy... the sensation of your small, strong, velvety hands on my skin; the beckoning texture of your skin, the way that cord in your neck feels between my teeth, your breathing, your moans... the taste of you...white chocolate. I wander about the yard at 3 a.m., drawing the humid night air into my lungs and wishing it was laced with your scent. Wishing you would appear from the treeline and call to me in urgent whispers. I would run to you, escape through the darkness and lay you down upon the cool moss beneath a maple tree and love you until our bodies were limp with spent passion, weak with the intensity of our union.

Yesterday, I picked up the shirt you slept in and I held it to my face, breathing it in, hungry for you. I don't want to wash it. I don't want to forget. I don't want to stop or think or rationalize. I want only to exist with you in a vacuum, oblivious to the rest of the world, allowing the sweet, overwhelming tenderness to envelop us like all the clocks had stopped and time didn't matter anymore. I hear your voice and my heart leaps like an animal in my chest, aching; a stinging, joyous, bittersweet pain that I curse and embrace in the same breath like some beloved demon. And I am captive, unable to explain the quick power that has permeated my heart and my brain and my skin. I long to hold you...to whisper sweet somethings in your ear and feel your answering moan, the tightening of your arms around me, the feel of your fingers over my face and lips.

You, woman, are a drug that I cannot stop taking....a forbidden fruit which I would pluck again and again and pull into my mouth, with no regard for the rules of Eden, no thought for the punishment I might face when the mist rises. You, woman, have my heart in your hands...and I want you to squeeze it, press it to your chest as I do with yours, and let the tears come. And I will kiss them dry and pull you close enough so that our bodies merge, and we never have to feel alone again..

Precious

Punkin's Big Adventure

PUNKIN'S BIG ADVENTURE

It was a beautiful day outside, and Punkin decided she would try to ride her bike again. The last time she had tried to ride her bike, she had to ride it on two flat tires for miles and miles. The bike only had two tires, and so it was a very flat ride. And Punkin's legs got very tired, and she wanted so much to stop and smoke a cigarette. But cigarettes always turned on her--burned her when she would try to steer the bike.

But anyway, Punkin wanted very much to be outside, so she went to the three bikes at the front of her house. The blue bike had two flats. She couldn't ride that one. The yellow bike had a seat that rubbed her crotch raw. She couldn't ride that one. The green bike was ugly, but had a little air in the tires and a wider seat. Punkin decided to ride the green bike.

Making sure she had her twenty-one dollars in her pocket, she was off toward her big adventure. On the way out, she stopped at the mailbox, and there was a letter from the employment agency. The letter said she was not eligible for unemployment. Punkin put the letter back in the box.

Punkin went to the first gas station for air, and put the nozzle on the spout. The tire became flatter. She turned around and looked at the sign on the air pump. "Out of Order" the sign said. And Punkin said a curse word. So Punkin rode on her flatter tire further into town to the next gas station. An ugly lady in a station wagon tried to run Punkin off the road, but Punkin steered out of the way.

Punkin finally found some air at another gas station, and continued on her big adventure. She went to the Parkway Tennis Shop and tried to find a racquetball glove, but all they had was left-handed small. Punkin' was neither left-handed nor small. So Punkin was pissed. She saw the Bookworm up ahead, and since she loved to read, went over to it.

Punkin looked around the bookstore for an hour and bought seven books. When she took them outside in the paper sack, she realized she had no basket on her bike to put the sack of books in. That's when she saw the McCrory's store down the block. So Punkin balanced her books on the handlebars and pedalled over.

Punkin bought a small raspberry-colored plastic basket, a ceramic hand-shaped ring holder, a blue plastic coffee mug with rings all around it, a big box of Bavarian dutch style pretzels, a package of stay-tyed shoestrings, two flip-over writing pens(one yellow and one blue) and two vanilla Twookies. And she still had fifteen dollars left. She got change from the cashier to buy a classic Coke.

Taking her goodies outside, she noticed that her bike was not where she had left it. Fretting greatly, she looked down the sidewalk and realized that the bike was too where she had left it, only she had come out a different door. Who would want to steal an ugly green bike anyway? she wondered.

Punkin took all her goodies out of the two bags and dumped them on the outside sale table with ugly shoes. Punkin knew that the shoes were outside, because they hoped someone would steal them because they were so ugly. The sign on the table said "buy one, get one free," but Punkin didn't like them, so she didn't want to get two of something she didn't like.

She placed the basket on the front of the bike, but it was too big. She put it on the back, and it fit just right. So she tied the basket to the back of the bike with the shoelaces, and placed the books, the other laces, the coffee mug, the Twookies, and the ceramic ring holder inside the basket. The pretzels were too big to put in the small raspberry basket, so she poked a hole in the top of the sack and slipped it onto her right handle bar. The right one, because the brake worked only on the left side and she wanted her left hand to be free in case another ugly lady in a station wagon tried to run her off the road.

She left the extra sack on the ugly-shoe display table for the wind to have. As she began to make her way back home, stopping to get a Classic Coke out of the machine, she marveled at how perfectly everything fit into the basket. The Twookies rode happily inside the coffee mug, and the flip-over pens bounced joyfully in the bottom of the basket. At the gas station, Punkin stopped again and bought two packs of Benson & Hedges, stuffing them down in the basket beside the ceramic hand-shaped ring-holder. Then she started for home again, happy about her big adventure and how warm and beautiful the day was.

Punkin steered the bike over the railroad tracks and discovered she had put too much air in the tires, for it bounced greatly. She heard clickety-click behind her and turned around to find the two Twookies and the two flip-over pens had leaped out of plastic raspberry basket onto the road. A car came over the tracks, the people inside waved at her and smashed one of the poor Twookies.

"Goddamn it!" Punkin said.

She leaped off her bike and went to stand in front of the items, flagging down two negroes in a Lincoln, so that they wouldn't crunch the pens or re-smash the Twookies. She picked all of them up and put the pens in the bag with the books, and the Twookies in the bag with the pretzels. Then she got on the ugly green bike and made her way again.

Punkin enjoyed the ride back, except for the sticky place on her hand and arm, where the classic Coke had spilled when she went over the railroad tracks. She licked it off, but it still felt sticky.

Punkin's Big Adventure

Peso, The Wonder Runt

I tried ads in the Gazette, word of mouth, cardboard signs on the telephone posts along the road, and a great deal of pleading to friends and relatives, but no matter what I did, I could not seem to rid myself of him.

Peso was an ancient, (age undetermined) chihuahua (pronounced "cha-hooey-hooey" in the country) which I acquired quite by mistake at a garage sale, having found him cleverly hidden in
a pretty yellow breadbox with a daisy on the side, which I had purchased for the grand sum of fifty cents. All admiration for the garage seller's marketing strategy aside, I was at once dismayed by this gift, and even more overwrought when I discovered that the scrawny little dog was not only hairless, but toothless. This (down-side) was not balanced by any redeeming character traits, but rather, further compounded by the little booger's penchant for attacking innocent passers-by. This feature could have been utilized to some degree (perhaps only if the passers-by were pygmies) but the fact that Peso lacked teeth made his displays of territorial aggressoin merely an exercise in futility. He would set about snapping at and biting the heels and ankles of the aforementioned passers-by, and succeed only in gumming them to the point of irritation--somewhat
like a fly which has been caught in the house and makes its swan song a series of kamikaze attack maneuvers designed to stupefy its victims with mild distraction. Peso also suffers from the popular small dog illusion that he is a big dog. This myopic mentality led to his near demise one afternoon when he decided it his duty to attack a self-centered Chow who dared set foot on his turf. The Chow made short work of him and Peso came away from the skirmish with a lacerated neck. Since that day, he has had a bit of respiratory distress and tip-toes about the house wheezing and hacking like a great-grandfather with emphysema.

It is for these reasons that I wish to find a sympathetic soul who will take Peso off my hands.
And kill him.

Peso, The Wonder Runt

Gonna Kiss Your Forehead

I was a manager at this tiny burger joint and was told that we would have a new crew member. Through careful conversation, I discovered that this employee was mentally challenged, and would be accompanied by a “coach” who would serve as trainer and chaperon while the young woman learned her duties. My first reaction was, “Oh, no. I don’t have time to baby-sit. I’m busy. How are we going to manage an employee like that in such close quarters?” I could never have imagined the impact that Emma would have on us all.

Emma was introduced to the crew, and began her first day of training with her coach, while the rest of us rolled our eyes or exchanged euphemistic expressions which stood for, “She doesn’t belong here.” We noticed immediately those things which made her different from the rest of us: she had the mind of a six year old, it seemed, and a few strange habits which were disconcerting to some of us. Emma stuttered in such a way that you could almost see the words come up her throat and catch on something just before they came out, snagged by some obscure hook that caused her to stand in spasmodic silence as she struggled to get the words out. Often, we became impatient with her. We were busy people, doncha know. Emma was forever hovering a hand toward our heads, announcing, “I’m gonna kiss your forehead. . .toooooooo. . .” (This last word was always elongated, and she ended almost every sentence with it). That hovering hand of hers would try to push the hair back so that she could plant a wet kiss. We usually leaned away, saying, “Emma, don’t do that.” It wasn’t until much later, that we learned why she wanted to do this all the time to people she seemed fond of.

Her Mother had abandoned her at a very young age in a children’s home, and the only memory—the last—she had of her Mother was a gentle hand brushing her bangs away from her forehead, and the kiss her Mother planted there before she walked out of her life forever. This action was symbolic for Emma. It was her way of telling you she loved you. As time went on, then, we realized that Emma had a rather pleasing personality, even though she was unaware of the invisible lines of our personal spaces.

She grew more comfortable with the rest of the crew. At one point, our playful banter during the day resulted in my calling her ‘Emma-Sue-Joe-Bob’, and she seemed to derive so much joy from it, that the nickname stuck. She would flounce in the back door for her shift, and I would say in feigned shock, “Well! There’s Emma-Sue-Joe-Bob!” and she would laugh and wave me away with, “Oh, Jae Baeli, you’re so silly!”

Her skill at the fry station progressed as well, but we had to stress certain rules to her which would have gone without saying to anyone else: Don’t put your face near the vat, don’t let a customer see you eating fries, and don’t kiss foreheads during rush hour. When it was time for Emma to do the dishes in the afternoon, everyone learned to steer clear of the sink. Emma was so cavalier with the sprayer that dangled from a spring-supported hose, that she was unaware of the unexpected showers she gave to many of us. But we overlooked it. She was doing her job, and putting everything she had into it, and this was our idea of the perfect employee. Sure, she talked to the ketchup bottles; she loved to pile 27 onions on her burger; she often sassed crew and management with stuff like, “Mind your business,” but she was an original, and I think all of us were enriched by her presence.

Once, when Crew Leader Robert was filtering the fryer, he leaned over the boiling grease pan and lost his plastic name tag in the oil. When I fished it out with metal tongs, it was gnarled and distorted. The next day I posted the stricken name tag on the wall with a eulogy that announced “the unfortunate demise of one Robert Kennedy who fell into the fry vat” and that there would be “a candlelight memorial ceremony out back by the dumpster at midnight for those who wished to attend.”

When Emma came in to work that day, she asked where Robert was (it was his day off), and I told her he fell into the vat and burned up. She gasped and said, “Oh, that’s horrible!”—and then proceeded to walk in that familiar awkward gait to her post at the fryer. She seemed to forget all about it until Robert came to work the next day, and she immediately rushed to him crying, “Oh, Robert Kennedy, they told me you burned up!” He had no choice but to acquiesce to a kiss on the forehead.

Emma always talked too loud, had frequent bouts with depression, and occasional episodes of downright orneriness, but it wasn’t long before she was part of our little burger family, warts and all. Everyone teased her as if they were playing with a child, and she enjoyed the feeling of inclusion, the security of belonging. Those who didn’t or wouldn’t get along with Emma were usually escorted to the door. We learned a very valuable lesson working with Emma: differences are not always inherently bad. She reminded us of our blessings, and became a new blessing at the same time.

Gonna Kiss Your Forehead

The Real War

It was a true act of courage to walk into that store without a pair of dark sunglasses to hide my swollen, red eyes-- with my guts hanging out, all naked and fragile. But there were no red badges to be had. No brass bands or pats on the back or welcome home parades for someone fighting the real war of surviving in this place where freedom means payment. Everyone would look up from their perusal of jacket covers for Robin Hood and Sleeping With The Enemy, and know that I was having a personal crisis, and they would wonder what it was, and if it would make a good movie, and then tear their eyes away from me when they realized they were staring.

I told myself I didn't care what anyone thought... that it was the very least of my worries. So was the fact that I was returning a mangled tape-- the one I threw at you out of desperate rage and frustration, knowing you would step out of the line of fire because you've come to expect reactions like that from a manic-depressive-sensitive-artist type like me-- and I told the clerk it got caught in my machine and I had to break it to get it out, and besides, it was Madonna's, Truth or Dare, and everyone and his dog had seen it and it was worn out. I mumbled something about the insurance I bought when I rented the tapes, and she was very obliging, didn't even offer to engage in fisticuffs at all, and slightly disappointed, I left that store to go back home to you.

The Real War

Reproach Beyond a Dog (poem)

A soothing ritual, nightly enacted;
a process habitual, rightly exacted:
book on her chest, rum tea on the table a cigarette lit,
it was then she was able to settle and rest
but for the test of patience she faced the mealy-mouthed mutt
with it's yap all agape
she fancied the sight of its muzzle in tape
and conceived small devices with electrical plugs
that would silence the cur-- (but never worked out the bugs);
and so left with her slow-burning rage for this hound
she resolved to take no more of this lying down
she had squirmed and turned and yearned to be free
of the maddening burn in her breast
brought on by the pest
of the dog.
A fog of anger had welled heated, bubbled, swelled
'til all her thoughts were zeroed in
on when the dog would begin again.
she had tried to fashion it into a game two beats,
four beats pitch change and range
but the idea that merely a leaf in the wind
could let loose barrages of barking again
was too much to bear.
she saw the man there
through the window upstairs
loading useless antiques at the back of his truck
oblivious, deaf and what the fuck
is so tough about hushing the noise
made by Toby or Fido or little McGruff
(or whatever the hell his name was)
she wondered what his game was?
did he wish to drive his neighbors half insane
(perhaps that was his stealth: he wanted the street to himself)
like the bother of a grain of sand in one's shoe?
she wondered who would blame her for muting the mutt forevermore?

snatching a jacket donning her sneaks
she left on a mission resisted for weeks
and weeks without end: to stifle the vocals of man's best friend.
down the drive and across the street
crept she on her rubber-soled feet
back to the cage where the wretched dog dwell
heart thumping wildly hoping like hell
he was ugly and mean
or a sick shade of green
to make the task easier
so to walk away clean
and there stood the mongrel his black soupy eyes
in question upon her
and a dubious wag of a bobbed-off tail
betraying a trust in the hand that could fail
to halt before it struck him
low creature meets high and the two stare awhile
the dog finally sitting with an ignorant smile
upon his black-furred lips brown fur at the tips
of its ears cocking its head and waiting.

hesitating, she squatted down to study the nemesis closely
and found the hound was mostly
quite cute and had ceased its cries
since eyes met eyes
and ribs protruding from meatless sides
its bowl overturned in the cage empty
the water basin dry
and she knew why her anger grew so great
for dumb creatures have not the power to care for themselves
while captive but man in his mindless state
cares for nothing save himself and this was worthy of her anger.

a hand reached out to pat the pooch through chain-link fence
the change of heart making sudden sense
and she stood, her heart full of something foreign and sad
a feeling she knew she should have had
long ago. a flick of a finger released the gate
the pup cocked its head confused at his fate
and she smooched at the pooch
and offered a hand. it came over to greet her
entreat her to be kind
and in her mind
she knew what to do to solve the dilemma
and reached for the mutt and held him still it licked her face as puppies will

and turning she made off with mongrel in hand
back to her house for a nice juicy can
of stew and some water it's all he needed she thought,
and he oughta be much calmer next door
on a rug on the floor
with a master who loves and adores
and the puppy was quiet forevermore

Reproach Beyond a Dog (poem)

Call of the Biled (poem)

I ignored the call

But alas, my bladder

Does not believe

In mind over matter.

Call of the Biled (poem)

Dirty Laundry with a Dash of Madness

It's cold out tonight. Cold, like it was that night in 1980. If I stand really still, it all comes back to me, I am there again: questioning the sky with an upraised fist-- the air icy against my face where the tears dry and are replenished over and over. Here and there, my memory pulls back-- unwilling to let me see what had happened... where those two days had gone... it is a void in my mind. Those two days are lost. And yet, I can recall enough of what happened before, and enough of what happened after, to know that nothing is the same because of it. I can see my mother throwing me out of her house, my wet laundry being pulled from the washer and thrown out the door after me. There was something about seeing my clothes fall in a sodden heap in the dirt, that made me scream inside. I wanted to hurt her. My own mother-- and I wanted to see her in pain. I didn't see it then, but she WAS is pain. I saw only hate and anger. She stepped outside and started screaming at me like a mad woman. I felt like I was a six year old again. An ugly step-child. I couldn't understand why her face was so red, or even what she was saying. I turned to pick up my clothes to put them back in the basket. No sooner had I done it, than she came up behind me and knocked it out of my hands. The clothes went back into the dirt. She called me a tramp.To this day, I have no idea why. I was a virgin then. I had never been on a date. But she said I was a sad excuse for a daughter. She said I had caused her nothing but trouble and disappointment. In hindsight i know this was absurd. I never got in trouble, never touched drugs or alcohol. I was the kind of kid most parents would love to have. But then, all i could say in response was that every time I tried to do something right, she'd call it wrong. She said I never did anything right, and that I was useless. I screamed at her that someday I'd be somebody and she'd never say that to me again. She said that first I had to grow up; that I was nothing, a nobody-- that I'd never be anybody. I felt myself start to bleed inside. Then I got angry and the two of us stood there on the pebble-filled concrete patio, screaming at one another. She told me to keep my voice down or the neighbors would hear. My response came at the top of my lungs, "I don't give a damn what the neighbors think!" "Shut your mouth!" she screamed, and started toward me.

I backed away, screaming, "Hear that, neighbors?! I don't give a damn!" That's when her hand shot out and stung me across my cheek. I don't think I've ever felt anything like it. I've been in fights. A few years later, I'd even been beaten and cut by two drugged-up hoodlums and left for dead. But there's something about getting hit by a parent. It hurts twice as much. I tasted something warm and sweet in my mouth and reached up to touch my lip. Blood. I looked at her and tried to catch my breath. She just stood there--she didn't even look sorry she'd done it. I said quietly, "I hate you." This time she struck me next to my eye, and I don't know if her hand was open or fisted. But it turned to a black eye later. I just turned around and started walking toward my car. She said with caustic sarcasm, "You forgot your laundry."

At that moment, I really did hate her. I started crying. Great torrents down my face. I told her to go to hell. I didn't see her for six months after that. I stayed with a friend and her family for two weeks. I was like a zombie. I finally had to be asked to leave. To me it only seemed a few days. So I slept in my car for a week or two--(or three?) and a friend in a neighboring town offered me a room in her trailer. Lots of things happened after that. I started cruising around with "the gang"--drinking all the time, just to dull the ache in me, smoking cigarettes and dope. I got into several fights with girls who were bigger and tougher. Had to be taken to the hospital one night, but I was so drunk, I didn't feel a thing. I started fooling around with a married man. He was 27 and I was eighteen. We never actually had sex, but that's the direction it was heading. Ironically, I had started going to church, hoping to get my life in a better direction, and had met him there. He was married to my Youth Group teacher. I began to feel so guilty, that I had decided to break it off.

I went to the basketball game at school and ran into the girl I'd stayed with for those two foggy weeks. We weren't really friends anymore. But she got me to talking about things, and I confided to her I had been seeing a married man and wanted out. She asked who, and I didn't want to say, but it felt so great that we were speaking again, so I told her she probably didn't know him. "Danny." She asked for his last name and I told her. She knew him. Then she clammed up and wouldn't even look at me. The game was over and people were starting to leave. I asked her why she was giving me a dirty look and she said, "I think you're a liar." I was hurt and angry. So I shoved her. I just wanted to hurt her. She had betrayed my confidence in her about something very personal. They say that I tried to push her down the staircase. I didn't. They say she almost fell all the way, but a guy caught her. I wonder if i did do it, but was sure that it wasn't my intention if i did. I was just blind with rage. I lost friends that night. On the way home I cried and cried and cried. How could she think I had lied about my relationship with Danny? She thought I had made it all up.

I agonized over this during the drive down the dirt road to my trailer and these headlights appeared behind me--flashing off and on, and I heard the horn honking. I was sure it was her. She had gathered a posse and they were going to beat me up. I floored the pedal and raced to my trailer. Jumping out of the car I ran to my door and fumbled with my keys. I heard steps behind me. Hands grabbed me and whirled me around.

It was Danny. He asked me what was going on. I told him to go away. That I couldn't see him anymore. He didn't take me seriously. I begged him to go, but he wanted to come inside for a minute. I said no, and closed the door. In his usual method of persuasion, he clawed on the door making whining noises like a dog and said, "You know, leaving me out in the cold is not a good idea...ever since i had polio, the cold is bad for me." The humor was charming, and I was too tired to argue. He held me for a few hours and we kissed and petted each other. I just needed it. It didn't matter that he was married. I just didn't want to be alone. I refused his further advances, and he finally left and I was alone with my thoughts. All my stupid mistakes, my bitterness, my hurt, confusion, hatred. I just didn't want to be alive anymore. It wasn't worth it. No direction. No goals. No future. No one to talk to. What was I going to do? What did this mean for my life? I got in the car and drove. For hours. I didn't take anything with me. No driver's license or anything. I found that out later. It started to rain and I kept driving. My head was swimming. I felt like I was escaping to a place that didn't exist, but that if i just kept driving, it would appear somehow. Or that I could just run until I fell off the edge of the earth. I stopped the car and got out, walking through the pouring rain for miles. I don't know how far. I was just walking. I sat down under some trees by the road and watched cars go by. They were moving fast enough to kill me if I could just step out in front of them. I got up and ran into the road--screaming. It was like someone else screaming. I felt things so deeply back then. I was a disembodied spirit, tortured and pathetic. But it was me, and I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop because I had never screamed. I had kept it all inside too long; re-routing the pain into anger. All those horrible fights with mother. All the things we picked up and threw across the room at each other. All those bandages I had to buy to cover the bleeding knuckles of my hands when I had punched the walls because I couldn't punch her--all of it came back--everything she ever said to me. Like how she wished I'd never been born.

A few cars went around me, and one had to slam on the brakes because I tried to put myself in front of him. It was strangely exhilarating, to see the car coming closer and closer at such a speed...waiting for that blessed impact that would take the pain away. I don't know how long I made myself a target on that road, but a man had come from one of the houses and pulled me away from the traffic. I couldn't stop screaming. He took me to the hospital. I remember doctors and nurses all around me. I kicked and took swings at them so that they couldn't come near. A huddle of them descended upon me and secured my arms and legs to the bed. I was laughing and screaming and crying all at once. My mind was a jumble and it was all pouring out at once, like stale cereal onto a table with no bowl. I had no control. I felt I was speaking in tongues, because words came out but I didn't understand them and couldn't stop. I would calm down until a nurse or doctor would come near and then I'd struggle and scream. I felt a small pin prick in my arm and then everything just melted away.

When I woke up, I was strapped to a bed. Little white bands around my wrists and legs. A nurse came in and I told her I couldn't sleep with those straps and all. My nose itched. I guess I convinced her I was over my tirade, because she finally took them off. I thanked her and turned over and closed my eyes. When she had gone, I got up and looked for my shoes, but couldn't find them. I couldn't find my watch either, and I didn't know if I'd lost it or they had put it away somewhere. But I didn't care, except I didn't know what time it was. I just knew it was dark and quiet.

I made my way down a corridor away from the nurse's station, and as I passed another, a night nurse looked up at me as I passed. I smiled at her and she smiled back and bent back to her paperwork. I glimpsed the clock above her. It was almost 5 a.m. It was relatively easy to just walk out. I was still in my regular clothes. My sock feet were the only thing that would give me away, and at that hour, there weren't many people around to notice. I simply padded out through the automatic doors and started walking. My head was a bit woozy from whatever they had syringed into my vein. After some time, I recognized where I was and started in the direction of where I had left my car. Sometime around mid-day, I finally found it, and thankfully, my keys were still there and so was the car. One of the benefits of small-town life.

I got in and drove back to my ratty trailer. In the bathroom, I had to sit on the edge of the tub and run water on my feet to release the coagulation of blood from walking so far without shoes. I poured peroxide on my feet and put on fresh socks, throwing the other ones in the trash. I took what little money I had and bought wine and chips. That's all I had for a while. I lost 20 pounds over the next 2 1/2 weeks. I watched my soaps, smoked at least a pack a day, got drunk every night, and when someone would knock at the door, I'd turn down the TV and pretend I wasn't home.

There were many cold nights after that. Just like tonight. Only now, I've learned to harness some of those emotions. And I've learned that my mother was a stupid, pathetic woman, who would never be able to appreciate the person I've become. In spite of her. In spite of myself.

Dirty Laundry with a Dash of Madness

The Day the Sky Came Down (fiction)

The crepuscular fingers of morning stroked the horizon and fell soft upon the parchment skin of the timorous creature. A miasmatic vapor emanated at short intervals from the tiny nostrils, as the dwarfish form made its way through the brambles toward the Ancient Stone. Clutched in one crooked, spindly hand was the New Offering, The creature gurgled at the thorn which caught in the tender membrane of its belly, and plucked it out with expert fingers.

Once through the foliage, the way was not so cumbersome, and soon the task would be done.

Emerging from the tangled vines and verdure, the creature was stilled by the beauty of the Ancient Stone. Approaching, it studied the Stone with dark, appraising eyes, the smoothness, the majestic, looming height of it…the perfectly molded apex at the very top…standing before it incited was sheer veneration.

The unsteady hands placed the glistening pebbles on the earth before the Ancient Stone, the body bowing once in subservient reverence.

The silent Stone had been there always. And as many before him, the diminutive creature had brought the offerings so as not to anger the Ancient Stone. The Stone had been angered once before, and the sky had fallen beneath its rage…many generations ago…Still, there were things the creature did not know, and would thrill to learn. Had the Stone really descended from the sky to keep close watch over those who had angered it? To consider the Lore false, was enough to make the creature quiver in fear of what wrath may follow such a query.

Bulbous eyes traveled to the base of the Stone. What did those figures mean? Would the creature ever know this? The figures were so defined, so imposing…were they, perhaps, the NAME of so great an entity?

The creature resolved to utter the name of the Ancient Stone… Hoping it would give favor to him for the knowledge…

The parched lips drew back and a guttural, tremulous voice intoned the new name. " … NASA…"

The Day the Sky Came Down (fiction)

The Heart Needs a Secret (poem)

there are still things I’ve never written

and never will

because the heart needs a secret.

And anyway—

Some poems won’t fit onto a page...

No matter how short they are.

The Heart Needs a Secret (poem)