At Half-past Four in the Afternoon

Half under the bed, arm askew
The ceiling fan wobbles aimlessly

A brain full of fragmented thoughts
A heart full of nothing but numbness

Laying on the floor, staring up
The ceiling fan wobbles aimlessly

Dust glitters in the sunlight
Dead skin cells swirling bright

Half under the bed, arm askew
A brain full of fragmented thoughts

Books unread, and cluttered trash
A heart full of nothing but numbness

The ceiling fan wobbles unbalanced
And a disembodied anxiety sinks in

End

A Little House on the Prairie

It was a startling change of pace; from the rapacious, always-awake city of taxicabs and three-story billboards, to the absolute silence and openness of the new small town. Brick buildings and empty storefronts replaced the token homeless people, and the endless subway which made everyone feel like sardines. Here was an endless sea of corn, blowing in the wind. Here, the nights were infinitely dark; and the brilliance of the milky way wheeled in the night sky, displayed in its full majesty.

He traded in his Lexus for a red Ford truck, with rust and a bench seat. He first saw her walking home from the general store, groceries under her arm, long blond hair blowing in the wind. She wore a green plaid buttondown that day.

Time passed, and as their relationship grew, he met her family. Her dad was robust, and showed him the guns hung prominently on the  wall next to the bodies and heads of a myriad of different animals. Later, they would become good friends, and share manly, grunted conversations about politics.

He got a good job teaching, and they would spend long, breezy spring afternoons holding hands and looking at the Charlie Brown style clouds blowing by overhead. Nineteen months later, they were married, and their first baby soon followed.

The next few years were filled with happiness. Then, slowly, like a terminal illness, silence crept subtly in. His darkness lashed out every now and then, and she grew distant. They stopped holding hands at sunday socials. A steady spiral downward seemed inescapable. Their son and their daughter became the center of their lives. Separation and sadness became their nightly routine.

Several years washed over them. The small town became suffocating for him. The big problems which had caused him to flee the city somehow seemed less terrifying than a life spent in the daily grind. By now, his red truck had been replaced with a mid-sized sedan, and his teaching job became intolerably tedious.

One night, he stood holding her hands on the porch, and looking into her blue eyes which streaked with tears. The wind blew across the prairie and tousled her hair and tugged at the hem of her dress. A suitcase sat next to his feet. Someday, he assured her, she would understand. This was better for everyone. And please don’t call your dad or your brother until I am out of town. They’ll kill me, he said.

The greyhound swayed back and forth, squeaking and snorting down the highway. He laid his head against the window, and tiny drops of rain streaked the view.

End

The Heist, for Jules, 'Project 157'

Three hundredish grand in a dufflebag. A cheap hotel room with rattling air conditioner.

The bank had been chaos. Smoke and shredded paper filled the air. That one lady never stopped screaming the whole time, whether he pointed a gun at her or not.

He had floored his little hatchback all the way to Oklahoma. Now, he lay on the ratty carpet staring at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He waited for the call, nervously checking his cell every few seconds.

He replayed that fateful conversation over in his mind. “We have your daughter.” Said the raspy voice. “A quarter million and she’s yours.” No amount of screaming, pleading, or threatening could change anything. And no police, of course.

The phone rang, and he jumped out of his skin. “Yes, hel-hello?” He stuttered.

“Shit, man.. we uh, just saw the news.” Said the burly voice. “This is Dave, from shipping?” A long, breathy pause, “April fools, you poor bastard.”

End

Some Minds Hold Penguins

In the back of my mind,
there is a dark wasteland,
a metaphysical purgatory for all of the stories I've lost or forgotten.
There, malformed plot lines wander endlessly,
haunted by the disembodied ghosts of aborted protagonists.

A Moment of Contentment

Cafe' Seattle in the Veldte lounge, inkWELL, "creation" at the press, a few copies on hand. I like this place, it's delicious and dark and just pricey enough to make me feel like James Bond.

A Poem for January

Drifting, shifting snow
Bright, white tiny flakes
Swirling, blowing in the wind
Silver, soft endless waves
Deep, shimmering reflects
The moonlight's gentlest glow

We Hadn't Seen Eachother Since College

I brushed her hair out of her eyes 

And I swear I didn't mean anything by it

But a few weeks later

And a few dinks later

And we were touching eachother

It came out of nowhere

And ended before I wished it to be over

But she's married

And regret is that sinking feeling of crushing guilt

Excuses are like vagabonds

We all tolerate them

Even though they smell like shit

Because we know it's not their fault

And like I said before

It really was an accident

Even though my hands had no problem

Moving up her leg and under her skirt

I think it was her captivating eyes

Or maybe her musical laugh

And I can't stand to imagine 

The red hand on her face when she tells

Or the tears streaming her mascara

And maybe a few weeks later

And some sleepless nights later

We'll see eachother again

Standing, stammering

In a grocery store perhaps

And we'll know that it's all over

We'll see it in eachother's eyes

End