Voices in Space

ALL MY LIFE
I’VE KNOWN ONE THING
YOU DON’T GO ALONE
TO SLEEPY HOLLOW

“DON’T RUN YOUR RACE
WITH THOSE YOU FACE”
IT’S ONLY A
SUPPOSED FACT
BROKEN DOWN IN BACK
YOU’RE A LITTLE SLOW
IN YOUR TAKEOFF
BUT STRONG ENOUGH
TO SURVIVE

SO DON’T YOU GO ALONE
FOR I WILL FOLLOW YOU
THAT’S TRUE
I’LL FOLLOW YOU INTO
SLEEPY HOLLOW

THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT
ARE WALKING THROUGH THE FOREST
HOW WILL THEY KNOW?
THAT THE FOREST IS NEVER ENDING
HOW WILL THEY EVER KNOW?

SO DON’T YOU GO ALONE
FOR I WILL FOLLOW

BABY BABY DON’T YOU GO ALONE FOR
I WILL FOLLOW YOU THAT’S TRUE

I’LL FOLLOW YOU INTO
SLEEPY HOLLOW

I’M GOING IN

Loud town
A morbid fairy tale 
about people who could never stop talking and their deaf Queen


“So they shouted louder and slashed themselves with swords and spears, 
as was their custom, until their blood flowed.”
1 Kings 18:27-29

*****

Stream of words, pointless and jumbled, was escaping an old man's mouth. Hunched over his table in a dark tavern room he mumbled: “No, no. It's wrong. The wrong set of cutlery. Why did they give me this fork? It's for the meat and I have ordered the fish. The fish, I say! Have I not? Or maybe they want to give me meat instead of fish? Maybe they want to cheat? Oh, yes! That must be the case!”

A door opened with a bang, letting another stream of customers inside. The old man jolted in his seat. “What a hateful place! All those unsavoury peasants coming and going. I am a man of letters! What am I doing here?!”

Agitated and still muttering to himself the old man jumped from his seat and rushed out of the tavern. In his haste to be as far as possible from this place he forcefully brushed past a young beggar in the street. Young man stumbled and almost lost his balance, clutching at his walking staff.

It was difficult to ignore murmurs, talks, shouts or occasionally slurred words all around. It seemed as if the world had gone mad, making people voice out everything they saw, felt or thought ever second of their lives. The constant level of noise was maddening. Every man talked, every woman laughed, every child cried.

Even in the churches, where one was supposed to hear only the rustle of holy pages or a soft preaching voice of a priest, the halls were filled with albeit hushed but never-ending whispers.

Hem frowned. Having been confined to the hearing only, he couldn't understand what people were talking about most of the time. Their jumbled speech, how they jumped from one subject to another without finishing the thought, seemed like a never-ending stream of consciousness. It made his head hurt.

He had arrived to this land not knowing what to expect. He had heard about the land's kind ruler, who in her wisdom could look into the hearts of men, read their sins and voice the god's justice. He was told about her love to her people and how kind and forgiving she was. How every word she uttered was considered more precious than a gemstone.

And how feared and loathed the Queen was, because she was deaf to any pleadings and ignored worshipers. And how many of finest people found their death in those few words she bothered to utter.

Hem was intrigued.

***

The throne room was awash with the light of a fading sun and hushed murmurs. The windows were framed by the golden curtains, rich and decorated in thick folds. The marble floor glittered in the setting sun.

In the middle of the room stood a throne on a podium. Craftily cut from the finest wood, it looked enormous compared to a young woman occupying it. The  woman, almost a girl still, had a pale face and long white hair, which fell almost to her feet. The white dress, she was wearing, was made of the finest silk and lace. Streaming down the white folds of her dress, the hair mixed with the lace and almost completely hid two thin tubes attached to the veins on the inner side of her elbow. A black tape covered her mouth. The ethereal paleness of the skin and  the lifeless half-closed blue eyes made her look like a lost child. Or a madwoman.

But her name was Jasper, and she was the Queen of the ‘never silent’ kingdom.

***

The streams of court people came and went. Pages moved to and fro, minstrels played various tunes. Still, the Queen remained unaffected by it all. All because she couldn't hear. All the people, who never stopped talking, looked like fish to her: they opened and closed their mouths, but no sound came out.

Suddenly a new group of people came through the doors. A fat advisor and two old council members with long grey beards went in, followed by a shabbily dressed young man. He was walking slowly, leaning slightly on his staff. He went with the unsure step of an old man, as if expecting to fall ever second. Obviously, the court men walked too fast for him, so he managed to catch up with them only when they reached up the throne.

He almost went into the fat man's back, while the other one was bowing ceremoniously to their Queen. That received him a glare and a curse, which he ignored.

“The greatest Queen Jasper, this man has come to seek justice from you. Please, honour us, your humble servants, with the wisdom of your Word,” said one of the old men.

The words were polite, but there was something mocking in the tone. Hem frowned. With beating heart he awaited the answer.

But the Queen remained silent.

***

A tentative hand brushed over her face. Cold fingers traced her white brow, moving to the forehead and hairline, and then going down the bridge of her straight nose. The fingers paused over her mouth, covering it for a moment. The lips were still.

“She doesn't talk?” asked the artist surprised. He had been given an unprecedented honour to touch the Queen’s face – he couldn’t see her, and the counsellors saw no harm in his request.

In the jumble of the hurried answers around him he heard what they were not saying – they were afraid. The Queen was deaf, but she wasn't blind or stupid. She could hear, what they said without hearing their actual words. She could read their lies in their hearts and cruelly judged those who dared to hide the truth.

Jasper was the Queen of Silence and Justice. But it was a bloody justice, for very day used to bring new executions to the court. Until her faithful servants had realized that they could not go on like that.

They couldn't kill her because the people of the land adored her. So, they had closed up her mouth with the tape, which was kept on by the spell, pumped her blood with poison and counted their blessings. The executions had stopped.

Nobody outside the Palace knew what was going on. The common folk believed that the Queen was well and ruled happily, while, in fact, every law was being passed and executed by the councillors the way that suited them. If people wanted to see the Queen, they were admitted inside and shown the royal ruler from  afar, so that nobody could reveal the wicked plan.

Inside the Palace people ignored the Queen and counted days until her demise.

Until a noisy blind artist came, asking too many questions. He was blind and couldn't see the tape or the tubes coming to and from the Queen's body, poisoning her heart.

Jasper was dying. She couldn't hear or talk. The poison made her almost completely lose her powers, made it difficult for her to think, although she could still feel. And a sudden feel of cold fingers on her cheek woke her up.

Opening her eyes, she saw a young man standing right in front of her. He was tall and had a wondrously tanned skin. Dark dirty hair and torn clothes spoke of him as a poor man who travelled a lot. The young man was leaning on a walking staff, and a worn blindfold covered his eyes. He was a traveling artist, she realized, someone who came from far away and didn't know anything about their land or their suffering Queen.

And he made her counsellors damn nervous. They stood behind the young man, their mouths opening and closing like that of fish. She could hear nothing though. The poison made her sleepy. She wanted the artist to stay. So she glared at her court. And they understood.

The artist stayed.

He slept at her feet and ate the food, the pages brought for the Queen. Jasper didn't need food, but the artist couldn't know that. So he ate little from the plate, leaving the rest for the Queen.

Everyday he drew pictures, moving pencils gracefully over the paper as if he wasn't blind. He drew colourful flowers and pretty birds of paradise. And Jasper could swear, she smelled their fragrance and heard birds chirp. She also saw the looks the court members gave her artist. He was a foreigner, who came from the land of dead; a Pandora box; a strange, filthy and, what's more important, quite dangerous thing. He was a new Queen's toy that gave her enough reason to open her eyes a bit earlier each day.

The poison's effect was fading.

Still Jasper was very weak. She almost didn't move. And even if she could, it wouldn't help communicating with the artist. She could only glare at her furious  vassals and hope that on next morning, when she woke up, the artist would be still alive.

The advisor cleared his throat and launched again into his tirade about how inappropriate it was for a poor beggar like him to sit daily at the feet of the Queen. And to lean back to the leg of her throne – unforgiving!

Hem knew that he was lying. The man was scared of him and wanted him dead. That didn't scare the beggar himself; he just hoped that the advisor would tire soon of his tirades and leave him alone. The man sounded like a toad and most probably looked like one as well. Hem envisioned him as a bloated middle-sized man with a red face and sparse hair. Croak-croak, said Toad the Advisor, and finally left.

Grasping his easel tighter, Hem leaned over the paper and let his fingers move. He was drawing something from his past, something he didn't want to remember but desperately wanted to share with the Queen. She might want him dead afterwards, but he didn't want to hide his sins.

That's what he had come here for.

So he drew and drew, until his wrist hurt and his fingers cramped. He drew small houses, little gardens, and empty streets with a wild forest in the background. He painted everything black, except for a lone figure in the middle of the picture. The figure was drawn in red, as if completely covered in blood, with the streams of red rivers flowing from his fingers in all directions.

Hem was painting his past.

“I could see their sins, every one of them,” he said quietly. “How men cheated on their wives, and wives stole their husbands' money, and kids who would throw stones at stray dogs. I was blessed with this gift of knowing their sins and with the ability to remedy them.” Moving the painting so that the Queen could see it, Hem continued, “I killed them all. Because none of them regretted what they had done.” He sounded sad but not disturbed by his words. “I'm blind because I cut my eyes out. I didn't want to see other people's sins anymore.”

He paused. “I heard of you, the Great Queen Jasper. Heard of your gift to read into the minds of people and voice the judgment.”

Then he added smiling slightly, “I only wish I could see you.” A small exhale behind him made him turn his head to look at Jasper with his blind eyes.

“I wish I knew what you are feeling.”

Using his stick to rise, Hem leaned closer to the Queen, and reached out to touch her. His fingers missed her face and landed on her shoulder. Tracing thin bones with his fingers up to her jaw, Hem wished she would talk. Wished she would tell him truth about his sins. Whether he deserved the right to walk under the sun or not.

The cheek under his fingers was wet. Jasper was crying.

“Hush, hush, my love. The murderer like me does not deserve your tears,” whispered Hem.

Overwhelmed and surprised that anyone, let alone the Queen, would feel enough sorry for him to shed a tear, he leaned in and whispered, “I know I'm not worthy of your presence or your pity, and I will probably die for what I'm going to do. But let it be this way.”

Caressing her cheek, his fingers encountered something they hadn’t felt before – the edge of the tape covering her mouth. Tugging at it and pealing away the tape, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss ended, and Hem stepped away.

“Don't go,” were the first words uttered by the Queen after ten years of forced silence. Her voice was hoarse albeit surprisingly strong.

“You are talking!” breathed out Hem, amazed and surprised. But with the sudden happiness came another thought – he was going to hear his own sentence.

Kneeling awkwardly on the steps to the throne, Hem bowed his head and said, “Forgive me, my Queen, for such rudeness. What I came here for was your wisdom and your judgment. But instead I stole your kiss.”

“What is your name, artist?” asked the Queen.

“My name is Hematite, my fair Queen,” answered the artist promptly. But it received no reaction from Jasper. Immediately realizing his mistake, for the Queen couldn’t read his lips and he dared not to look up at her face, Hem felt around for his fallen pencil and paper. Hastily, he drew a picture symbolizing his name.

“You bear the name of the Black Stone, which was created to contain all the sins of the mankind,” said finally Jasper. Hem bowed his head in acknowledgement.

The Queen was thoughtful. “It was said to be white as a milk. But then it went black with all the people's misdoings,” she said sadly.

Pausing in her speech she stirred her gaze away from the kneeling man to look at her court.

Meanwhile the throne room seemed to have been filled in with all inhabitants of the royal castle. Councillors and pages, maids and cooks, musicians and other servants were present there. They all came to look at the Queen. The Queen, who could see and could talk.

“You told me about your past, my artist. But I want to know more about you. For you have captured my heart with your drawings.”

Bowing his head even lower to hide a smile threatening to burst on his lips, Hem drew a black eye and a dagger on paper. Aloud he said, “I was the Eyes of the god. I could see all the people's sins. But I am blind now, therefore I can't see what crimes you or your people have committed.”

Jasper's eyes filled with tears.

“And you came seeking my judgment?” she whispered.

The artist just smiled. He was still kneeing near her throne, dirty and ragged, but beautiful in his wildness and his sin.

Finally the Queen said, “I am the Mouth of the god. But I was mute, when you asked for my Word; therefore I couldn't condemn you for your sins. Although there is nothing to condemn you for. You have judged yourself guilty and executed the sentence. I have nothing against you.”

The people around them were whispering to each other, disgust and fear evident in their voices. How dared they condemn this brave young man to speak out aloud about his misdoings while they hid in dark corners hoping to fool their Queen with meaningless words and fake smiles.

“Could you take these tubes out of my veins, my beloved? They are hurting me,” said Jasper.

Hem leaned close to his Queen, obeying her request. His fingers found the offensive plastic and tore it away. The blood from torn flesh flowed freely down the pale skin and white lace.

Suddenly there was a deafening silence in the throne room – everyone at once stopped talking, as the Queen, now free from the spell, regained her powers. And in this silence everyone heard their Queen's next words: “And kill them all, my love. For they have sinned.”

Hem smiled and turned away from the Queen to face the waiting crowd.

//

Written: February 28th – March 1st, 2011.
Revised: June 15, 2013

Throw down the guiding light
down here messiahs are scarce
I see the smoke and all the liars

reverse moments are hiding places
for critics and interpreters

Terribly divine
we’re all naked out in the open

and I’m going to take it out on you

Failing devices
flying high in a light machine

Strut your stuff or push away the ache
frequency crossovers
a jumble of ideas

One more major revelation
rivers of excitement
miles of empty soundtracks
sexual infernos
crying in cremation

Bouncing about on the pavement
poems that don’t rhyme make me smile
redo a sign
watch the innuendo
kept hanging and waiting
juiced up and lied to

only for retro
then they were typical
I need to brace against it
reality makes my grade
to them it’s blind anyway
 a midget’s shoes on the evening news
a pleasure trip through the Big Dipper
dancing to the rhythm of the apocalypse
surfing the casual destruction
sit through this nakedness

A firing squad of Love
trapped in a plastic groove
Acid Radicals adjust the forces
while love is falling from the trees
her supple universe shines at midnight

The Italian lady winks and returns to her sewing

A clay lady clings down the hall
staying sick is a crime
the characters sit in chairs
watching us screw each other
looking for inspiration
rewriting all my ideas
critics decide
gathered opinions flowing
thoughts misplaced among tired dreams
our stereo world wiped out
don’t get caught in mirrors
the parallel is too confusing
don’t let it take you under
don’t be buried again

CHAPTER 1-PERFICIO

            This is the story of Acutus, a sea cucumber who lived at the bottom of the sea.  Acutus lived in a small but beautiful city called Perficio.  The border of the city had been built with colorful seaweeds, and even the houses with Perficio added to its splendor.   Some of the houses had been built using seashells and sunken debris, while other had bee built with sea moss and coral.  Perficio was a very desirable place to live.

            Only those who were descendants of the original builders of Perficio were considered true citizens of Perficio.  These came to be known as Insiders, and anyone else became the Outsiders.  So the line of the belonging was drawn between the Insiders and the Outsiders.  Life was difficult for the Outsiders, and they began to fight amongst themselves.  The weaker creatures moved from the outskirts to the city, seeking solace and safety in numbers.  Unfortunately, this meant that the city of Perficio was getting overcrowded.

            With more creatures came more problems, and something had to be done.  In Perficio, whenever a problem had to be dealt with, it was a job for the Elders.  The Elders were a group of the oldest and wisest citizens of Perficio; so they were highly respected.  All of the Insiders listened when the Elders spoke. 

            The Elders gathered at the town circle to decide what to do about the increasing number of Outsiders and the problems they brought with them.  So they created the first laws of Perficio, which were meant to protect those that followed them.  They still had to figure out what to do about the dwindling food supply.  There were too many creatures, and not enough food to provide for all of them.

 CHAPTER 2 - SPINELLA AND ACUTUS

            One of the friendliest Insiders in Perficio was Acutus, a sea cucumber.  Acutus’ name meant Spike and it fit him well, since he had little spikes in his skin.  His skin was green and he had eyes like too tiny buttons.  He may have looked fierce, but inside, Acutus was actually very kind, gently and clever.  He loved his family more than anything in the world.

            His family included his beloved wife Spinella, his son Nota, and his daughter Cano.  Nota had green skin, like his father, with black spot.   Cario looked like her mother.  She had sparkling skin and a beautiful voice.  Spinella was a loving mom and wife.  She was also a talented beautician, the owner of Perficio’s finest beauty salon.  All the creatures that had the pleasure of meeting her respected her. 

Spinella spent much of her time with her two children, whenever she got a chance.  Often, she would take them to the neighborhood park, a popular place to play.  One day as Nota and Cario were building a sand castle near the coral in the center of the park, Spinella was captured by the Piscatores (otherwise known as fishermen).  She was snatched suddenly from their midst by a large iron hook and was never seen again. 

Acutus was heartbroken, but he still wanted to be sure his children were safe, secure, and provided for.  After Spinella’s disappearance, he sold her salon and began to look for a job of his own.  The Elders of Perficio moved the park inside a cave to prevent anyone else from disappearing, and they kept it lit all day for safety.  Even so, Acutus refused to take Nota and Cario back to the park and he forbid them to go to the par on their own.  He was not about to lose his children the same way he lost his wife.

            Without Spinella, Acutus need to find a way to take care of his family.  He applied for a job at Ceres, the local supermarket.  Mr. Erus, the old (fish) who owned the store was grateful for his help in running the store.  Acutus proved to be hard working and dependable and Mr. Erus came to rely on him for much of the work at the store.  This was fine with Acutus, because it gave him the ability to provide for his children and the freedom to spend time with them as well.  His job at the store solved many of his problems, but Acutus still had one thing to worry about: Bellator.

 CHAPTER 3 – ENEMIES AT BAY

            Bellator was a large, menacing barracuda and Acutus’ biggest enemy.  One night Acutus was on his way home from visiting Spinella.  He decided to swim a different path to go home.  As he was going around the bend by a border of trees he heard lots of voices.  He swam closer and hid behind a large rock.  He saw many Outsiders coming through a small opening from the border that separated Perficio from the rest of the sea community.  To his surprise, Bellator was assisting them by holding the flap of a piece of the debris open to make it easier for them to enter.  Acutus decided that he would follow them instead of confronting them.

            They were ten of them including Bellator.  They swam to the neighborhood park.  When they got there they formed a tight circle and began talking secretively.  Acutus could not hear them because he was not close enough to where they had gathered.  A few minutes later they disband the circle and began swimming towards the neighborhood houses.  They split up into groups of twos and they entered the houses unknowingly to the owners. They raided the houses by stealing food and household items.  They were careful not to disrupt too many things in the houses.  After they finished they swam back and exit through the same opening they entered. The owners did not know that they were robbed.  They thought that they had misplaced or eaten their items.   

            The following day Acutus approached Bellator to tell him what he had seen and ask him why he did it.  Bellator was astonished and angry because he felt that Acutus should not have spied on him and his friends.  Bellator asked him if he would be reporting him to the elders.  Acutus told him that he would not, if he promised not to do it again.  Bellator agreed but he was still feeling uncomfortable being that someone knew his secret.  Acutus felt guilty because he was betraying everyone in the neighborhood by keeping Bellator’s secret.

            The incident ended their friendship; they began to develop resentment for each other, which later turned into feelings of hatred.  Acutus felt that he did not have a best friend anymore and Bellator felt that he had to get Acutus banished from Perficio because he may change his mind and tell the Elders his secret.  What made him even more scared was that his father was one of the elders. 

 CHAPTER 4 –THE FRIENDSHIP

            Acutus and Bellator had not always been enemies.  At one time, they were friends. The friendship started when Bellator was nearly eaten by Pristis.  Pristis was a gray colored shark that bullied the children of Perficio.   One day Bellator was swimming leisurely along the coral reef and, he did not see Pristis who was hiding in the seaweeds.  He was waiting to attack Bellator. However, Acutus saw Pristis hiding and he knew that Bellator was in danger.  He decided to distract Pristis by appearing unexpectedly in front of Bellator before he passed the spot where Pristis was hiding.

When Pristis saw what Acutus did he swam away quickly.  He knew that he could not bully both of them at the same time.  A few minutes later to Acutus’ surprise Bellator started to chase him to eat him.  Acutus quickly swam away and hid himself in a small opening on the side of a cave.  Bellator could not get to him because he was too big to fit through the opening.  The longer Bellator waited outside the cave for Acutus to come out the more he became frustrated.  Finally, he yelled at him to get out.  Acutus started to shake with fear, but then he realized that Bellator could not harm him because he was too large to enter the cave. ………………

I write these verses while coming down from a once-in-a-lifetime high composed 

of dark ancient rum and Mayan rays of sun and at least six or seven strips of bacon if not more

after several months of abstinence therefrom among other more illicit substances

while leaning up against a wall that hasn't stood in centuries  I linger like a ladder of wisteria there 

cup my palms to catch the rain and squint and stare at the whorls of iridescence in the wannabe rivers that stream

and bleed along the roadside  down the drive  I stare and squint and center

everything on summoning something unseen in the surface of that murky wake and ripple and break 

my gaze on the smile of an omber man who appears at my side to remark upon the waters on their essence and effect

they are undoubtedly Art he says

both Tragedy and Beauty at once he says

and I say hmmmmmm

I don't disagree but now is not the time for talk and the man moves on and women circle and mill

but I just focus on the rain and on my blood and on my bones and they're all made of mercury 

it swills beneath my skin and runs all roughshod through my veins and raises chills

along the miles of self that lie between the blades of my back at the touch of a sepia breeze and I

feel seamless which is a nice way to feel since most of the time how I feel is a lot like a patchwork quilt all cut 

from different cloths and torn apart and sewn together and beautiful in the way that things with a story tend to be 

(which is to say exhaustingly so) though of course it's not all bad as you know there are benefits too like those moments

experienced as images captured by poems written in trees  which are Everything and exquisite as the Mother of Ten Thousand Things

and now the omber man has come upon a woman who is young and who wears her body like a crown and he whispers in her ear 

and she smiles and blinks quickly three or four times and falls just the littlest bit in love and he and she are seamless and the circle

of their arms is undoubtedly Art

Lemon balm grows dense
as its first line of defense.
Nearly every seed germinates- 
escalating the invasive offense.
Roots travel slowly, aging woody and thick;
but it's never enough to suppress
that rogue peppermint sprig 
from sprouting in the midst.
The mentha strategically grows
twice as high thrice as fast- 
decisively C O l l a p s ing 
to shade its shorter cousin into oblivion.
 
To the winner goes the soils.

A dark dirty alley smelled of dampness and cat piss. Street lamps in this part of the city were dead. Their light must have gone out back then, when the electricity still had been a part of everybody’s lives and not the privilege of the rich, as it was now. It was mostly silent except for occasional rustle of rats in the dark and snoring of a tramp, who was lying in a nest of dirty rags and old newspapers nearby.

Windows of the house in question were equally dark. If it wasn’t for the scheduled appointment one might have thought that it was abandoned like the majority of the houses in the area. A sharp rap on the door brought no reaction  whatsoever. Although an attentive person would have noticed a slight movement in the house through dark glass.

Silence at first. Then the door was opened wide enough to reveal an eye and a crooked nose of its curious owner. A quick glance around was enough to confirm that his visitor had come alone. The door swung open to let the man inside.

Few steps up into the house and the door was quickly shut and bolted.

The owner of this house was as old and shabby looking as its dwelling. Little old man was vastly bold, spotting only one or two flocks of grey hair. His left arm was unnaturally small and withered. He cradled it to his chest with his other hand, taking time to look at his customer.

The visitor was a middle aged moustached man. Looking neither too rich nor too poor, judging from the state of his well tailored, but already showing signs of wear a coat and a hat. This befitted the collector well.

“I believe you came here with a purpose of a certain purchase,” he croaked.

The man shrugged. “You may say so. But it’s too early to say since I’m only about to see what you can offer.”

“True, true. ” The old man nodded his bald head and looked at the customer inquiringly: “You are Mister?..”

“Mister Smith.”

The old man bared his yellow teeth. “Right. Then you can call me Mister Jones,” he said.

Mister Smith shrugged again, showing agreement with this.

With a jerky nod the old man led his customer through the dark foyer, past the staircase to the living room. It was not illuminated, which made the customer hover uncertainly at its doorway.  The old man took his time shuffling around and cursing, until, finally, an oil lamp on the table blossomed into life. Moving a pile of books to one edge, the collector removed a cloth that covered a small chest.

A key to the chest was safely stored on a string around the collector’s neck. He turned around to look at his customer, who was glancing curiously around the room from where he was standing. Impatient the old man beckoned him closer with a twist of his healthy hand. Smith trod carefully to the table through various pieces of furniture and stocks of books.

“I admit that when I came across such a unique specimen I couldn’t believe my eyes at first!” The collector’s healthy hand rested possessively on the lid. “Not a usual type, you see, but such a rare one!” The old man spoke without looking at his customer. He was obviously waiting for a reaction or a prompt.

“I will believe it when I see it,” said Smith.

Instantly, the lid was lifted and the collector moved sideways to let the buyer a good view of his treasure.

In the old velvet box on the cushion laid a tiny winged creature.

“A moth-girl,” Smith breathed out in awe.

“Indeed it is,” the old man nodded, satisfied with his reaction.

“Not a fairy, which you can get from any market, but a moth!” He leaned closer to the chest and prodded the creature with his fat finger. “Look at its wings! How they glitter in the light! Ordinary fairies don’t have such wings.”

His customer nodded, although inwardly he cringed at the pitiless prodding. Suddenly nervous, Smith licked his lips preparing to ask an incredibly important question.

“Is it…” He trailed off. “Is it alive?”

“Of course!” The old man scoffed. “What do you take me for? I’m a professional! It’s only sleeping. I gave her a drop of brandy.” He giggled unpleasantly.

Smith let out a breath that he was holding and leaned to look at the creature more attentively.

It was a four-inch tall moth-girl with a tiny body and tiny limbs of a human. Greenish skin and a mop of brown hair on its head distinguished it from usual fairies, which had white skin and yellow hair. Its wings, spread out, were narrow and longer than that of its fellow specimen. While fairies looked like tiny people with butterfly wings, the moth-people were different, more insect looking than human.

In this world of darkness, where light was sacred and the mystery of electricity was known only to few dying out rich dynasties and the government, common people discovered the simple and cheap way of lighting their houses – the fairies. Tiny creatures lived for decades and were as commonplace as once pigeons had been. Beating of their beautiful, butterfly-like wings produced enough light to illuminate a room. Nobody knew where they originated from, but one day they were everywhere, and the world that had once been condemned to darkness and fear saw an unexpected hope.

Moth-people were different. Nobody saw them much, because unlike their shiny relatives, they didn’t produce light, but consumed it. They lived in the darkness and could never be caught since they were also said to possess more brains. Although nobody knew anything for sure, since there was yet a man to capture any of the moth-folk.

And yet this old half-crippled man had managed just that.

Straightening Smith looked at the collector: “I believe there’s quite a story behind this amazing capture.”

“Oh yes,” mumbled the other. Smith raised his eyebrow inquiringly, but the old man didn’t elaborate. He was biting his lips and muttering something under his breath. Finally he snapped: “Are you buying or not?”

“How much?”

“A thousand and a half.”

That made Smith’s eye twitch – the sum was more than he had expected. Not outrageous so, but more than he had on him at the moment.

“That’s a bit extreme,” his words made the old man frown, but he continued. “I understand that you have the exclusive goods, but it’s just too much even for a moth!”

Paper money, or banknotes, was no longer being printed. Most of the deals were paid through cash, various assortments of coins. But the prices for goods weren’t as high as they used to be twenty years ago. Most common folk earned about fifty-sixty a month. Or a hundred at most. A price of fifteen hundred dollars equalled a price for a small house with a patch of land.

The collector snarled: “It’s unique! I’m absolutely sure that I’m the only owner of a real moth-girl!” His eyes were moving from the chest to the customer and back. He looked more nervous by minute and was rubbing his crippled arm constantly.

Black market for fairies was vast and growing. Most people cared for their fairies well, since the fragile creatures could easily die and getting a new one wasn’t easy the legal way. So some people managed to make a fortune on dealing in this business.

“One thousand.”

“No!” The collector snarled and moved as if to close the lid of the chest. But Smith placed his hand on it to prevent the movement.

“Eleven hundred,” he said with finality in his voice. “That’s all I have got.”

The old man looked as if he was going to object, but then froze with his mouth opened, looking at the insides of the chest. Inside the moth-girl moved slightly, its wings fluttered once.

Instantly the light from the oil lamp dimmed a visible degree, casting even more shadows to dance about the room.
The reaction from the old man was unexpected – he lurched backwards, almost tumbling over the chair and upsetting a nearby stock of books. A look of deadly fear was on his face.

“Take it!” he shrieked. Waving his healthy hand frantically, as though to ward off a dark force, he looked positively mad. “Take it away!” he screeched again.

“Meaning, you are selling it after all?” Smith tried to stay calm in the face of this madness.

“Yes, yes!”

“So it’s a deal – one thousand and one hundred. Is that right?” He was reaching into his inside pocket for a neat bundle of banknotes.

“Yesss!!”

The old man seemed absolutely uninterested in the fate of its treasure. He shrivelled up into the corner, leaning forward only to grab the money from the outstretched hand, backing away almost instantly. Like a scared wild animal that refuses to come out of its lair.

The customer left the crazy cripple to thumb through the money. Carefully he lifted a cushion with still sleeping creature and put it in a glass box, which was brought for that purpose. Without as much as a nod to his seller, Mister Smith let himself out of the house, carefully cradling his purchase to his chest.

It was a real relief to be outside, even though the air in this part of the city left much to be desired. Wiping sweat of his forehead with one hand, he rounded the corner and quickly moved to the next alley, where he was greeted by the grim faces of his colleagues.

“What took you so long?” Sergeant McDonald hissed, her dark eyes glittering furiously in the light of her small torch.

Taking off his hat, Inspector Davies ignored her. Removing the fake moustache he slightly winced at the burn. “Fucking glue,” he muttered. Another officer, a redheaded Sergeant Collins, who was trying to look around the corner, turned to him: “How did it go? Did he touch the money?”

“Oh, yes. No worries here. He is probably up to his nose in the fingerprint powder now,” he nodded in the direction of the alley entrance. “You can take him now or later, but I really want to know whom he had to kill to get this treasure.” He looked down at the box in his hands.

“Oh, a murder charge besides smuggling. Sweet!” Collins whistled impressed.

“Yeah, that and the black marketing, which we already knew of”, pointed McDonald. She moved to look at the creature in question.

“So pretty,” she whispered. “And helpless.”

“Yes, but also completely unknown and thus possibly dangerous,” Inspector Davies said looking pointedly at Amanda. He tried to sound stern, but even he was confused by the situation. Fairies may have never been the smartest or the most important creatures to walk this earth, but they gave humans what nothing else except for the sun could – the light.

And this tiny moth-girl could take it away.

“The scientists will have to look at it. It’s none of our business now,” sighed the sergeant moving away.
Davies nodded. The team members around him were moving almost inaudibly, assembling their gear and waiting for an order to take the old criminal.

He looked at the creature, trying to comprehend how such a fragile looking body could hold such a power.

A sudden commotion behind them brought his attention. A sudden yelp, then a shriek and the sounds of struggle. A moment later two police officers brought struggling old smuggler around the corner.

“Howard!” snapped Amanda, positively seething now. “What’s this all about?!”

“It’s not my fault, ma’am,” one of the officers protested, his face quite flustered. “He climbed out of the back window and landed right on me!”

The old man was struggling fruitlessly, but the officers held him fast. He was a mess, his face and hands covered in blue fingerprint powder, he was keening and muttering and drooling like a mad man.

“Well, guys, the ball comes to the player, I guess.”

Davies smirked. “Or the smuggler comes to the cop,” he said. “Good job, Howard.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Amanda rolled eyes at him. “Move it,” she snapped. “Since we got our fish in the net already, there is no need to spend the night here. We can ask him all our questions at the station.”

The police officers pushed the captured smuggler forward in the direction of their parked vehicles. Sergeant Collins grabbed the remaining gear and rounded the corner.

It must have been a movement in the corner of this vision that brought Inspector Davies’ attention to his purchase. He looked down only to see the moth-girl looking back at him with its round red eyes.

Standing on the cushion it was almost reaching the glass lid with its head. Its hands were outstretched and pressed to the glass surface. Tiny face was expressionless as that of a fairy, but when the inspector leaned closer to examine it, it was suddenly full of fear.

And intelligence.

Davies couldn’t hear the words, but he could surely read the movement of the  tiny lips.

“Let me out,” it whispered.

//

Written: February 28th – March 1st, 2010.
Revised: Sunday, 9 June, 2013

CAN YOU HEAR IT
CALLING WITH HUNDREDS
OF EYES I SEE IT

PASSING TIME
AND RISING THROUGH
THE DARKNESS

BUT IF YOU
IF YOU SEE
IT’S ALL RIGHT

I KNOW IT ISN’T
BUT IT’S ALL RIGHT
I KNOW IT ISN’T
BUT IT’S ALL RIGHT

I NEVER KNOW
THERE’S NO WAY
TO GET YOU
OUT OF MY LIFE

NO WAY

CAN YOU HEAR IT
CALLING WITH
HUNDREDS OF EYES
I SEE IT

I SEE IT

I can flip my mindset on a dime. 

Because while I’m almost always me, I’m almost always her, as well. And sometimes you’ll need her, and I’ll need reminders that it’s time to let her show. Bringing her out while I’m me is okay. We’re the same person. I can be me… laughing, a little silly, taking in the moment of you being you… and if you need her, call for her. I won’t resent her appearance, and I won’t resent you for bringing her to the surface. 

I might be surprised. I might not recognize, in that moment, that she is being summoned. I don’t always know the things that spark your desire for her. Is there something about me… the way I laugh, or roll my eyes, or take the banter just a step too far, perhaps? Something that makes you pause, and raises Him to the surface with a rush of wanting, or longing, or - God forbid - anger?

I love your laugh,  the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the sounds of your joy. But you are Him, always, to me. And I am her.

(Always.)

Let me know if you need her? If you want her, call for her. With your voice, your words, a touch or a look. She’ll know. And she may not stop laughing, but please trust that she hears you, and she is ready (and needing, and wanting) to obey. 

And she will do so without pause.

And maybe,

The reality is that none of us will ever find love.

Maybe the very truth that we have been holding

Tightly to our chests, this whole life

Is but a lie.

Maybe this scraping by on halfhearted kisses

And shadows that come and go

Will continue into infinity,

And we will die still hoping to find it all.

Dear Father,

Help us we need guidance,

None of us can see,

We’ve fallen,

At the end of our rope and slipped,  

From grace and all that we once took for granted.

But what was the liquid that forced us to take such a spill,

 From a glass container,

And what does the label say?

It has similar letters to liquid but isn’t water.

Get back up to find out were drowning in it.

Oh heavenly father can you pull us out?

The devil seems to have forced us in to thinking it’s all we deserve,

But thanks to you I know now.

Amen.       

Cosmic notions have caused corrosions,

In your mind set,

Now it’s hopeless.

So what if you can’t cope with,

Some of this alternative mess,

I sold this,

Idea to an old friend,

He said 2012 aint the time mankind’s end.

Ok I guess it’s the same old myth,

Who knows maybe the planets alien after our time.

At night we see stars,

But it takes tens of thousands of years to get here,

The world belongs to us,

I guess that’s it.

God must have pulled the plug in a fit,

But did he stop watching?

Is he still peaking for our benefit?

Galaxies seem less strange on the day that we went into the sky.

Past the hemisphere,

Are eyes can pry into our own isolation.

 Alcatraz of the Milky Way,

The Blue Rock.

Trying to find a dock in the next cape of hope on some distant moon,

Is finding life on a rock in space something we can accomplish soon.

Literally trillions of stars,

Someones got to be there watching.

Maybe god is hiding in the darkness,

Bathing in the quasars and drying off in the rays of the new stars.        

Bent knee to knee, head to head, contemplating sea glass. Taken, returned different. That shore desolation, oasis, his fine hair kin to ocean wind, throwing light back, so black it contained all radiance.

In the veins that sketched his temple blue under skin so perfect it was translucent, I saw the sister he'd have. I carried her to him in my head, and he looked up, hearing my thoughts, saying her name. Their bond was this mystery to me.

Money fuelled by liquid speed, he tilts the rear-view to appraise his investment shifting in the champagne plush.

Dark into an unlit lot, we slow to a shudder and sigh. Glove knuckles break the seal and spill me, a sweet gush of fetish into feud.

I am invocation and exorcism, enslavement and emancipation. I am procrastination and acceleration, alleviation and irritation, mother daughter sister niece, Aunt Bethel in the Home. I’m a rag to mop up cum with.

I am what tenants the trash alleys between states of consciousness, a dumb chunk in your windpipe as you struggle to reason feeling, a rib dislodged that grows, a vine, lashing you to hollow mortality, which assumes while it breaks you apart.

I am the golden serpent of a cruel wisdom, gyrating up the pillar upon which your entitlement teeters. Faster and faster and higher I wind, to elude your frantic grasp. You grovel spent into the rubble of all crumbling artifice.

Satiation, deflation: an atonal slur on some contemporary deity describes deliverance when, in sudden exhausted contrition, you coil fetal, a collage of fluids mounted on the benign anticlimax of a hotel bed.

“Samitches, gettchya samitches!” I walked up to the sloppy street vendor, hungry, willing to do anything for that “Samitch”. A few flashes of the blade and done, this was the day I broke my phobia of street vendors. I bought the sub and savored the flavor; it was great, until I bit into a finger. 

the metalmen are dawn and twilight

absent from the blush or bleed of night and day

abstractions

of unraveling consciousness, stripping 

 conduit for copper barehand

they are never on horizon

they are just around the corner

having just left refuse

naked of the usable

a phantom glance that remembers me

wearing you hungry under all my clothes

wondering if somewhere in the silencing snow

the invisible would locate us

He to me:

Happy endings are also for Hollywood movies when Will Smith saves the day. I prefer disaster films, but only until roughly the 45 minute mark, when the invading alien force wipes out most of humanity with a war-like tidal wave of killer bees and green stuff. That's when I'm happiest, and turn it off. No heroes, no last line gag quotes, just a nice pretend end of the world. I always imagine it would be rebuilt better than the one we live in now.

Me to he:

Built by squirrels, out of nuts.

If we didn't like that version, we could flatten it with a planet-sized vanilla flan and try again.

Will Smith is my favourite life-size cardboard cutout. When I come home after a tiring day at the lint factory, I like to unhook my bra and drape it rakishly across his quadriceps. Often he wears nothing else.

I have the attention span of a navy bean, and am generally maxed-out on my sitting still time by the third trailer. A film's conclusion is the death of uncountable alternate endings. Attention Deficit is the clinical acceptance of this holy truth.

For every hero, someone must be made a villain. Without one, the other would be superfluous. Throw the heros in a giant Campbell's soup can, and take the villains dancing.

I think we both feed the animals when the sign says not to.

He and I continued thus for three internet years, which equals a dozen such messages, before he decided I'm "too much" and met someone "stable" for coffee instead. I think stable has equity, and too much is not enough.

A committed relationship is the circumstance of being institutionalized with another person.

The way we walk is the method,

The strategy,

The formula,

Like the cancerous florescent lit kitchen of a

Sunday school cook mixing and kneading the dough

While dragging on a cigarette.

A parallel to the more dilapidated methamphetamine lab on the alternate boulevard,

Tweaking,

Jittering,

With so little flesh left on the gum,

Not from hell fire that was the explosion,

But the constant crackle of crystalline,

Smoldering to the sound track set in desperation.

But what keeps the travels of an adolescent’s influential powers from switching avenues?

Keeping the pace toward influenza in the eyes of discord.

The shift of a deadly cycle has caused the pit of my stomach to expand,

I guess this world,

As intricate as it is,

Can be strained and snap with the rubber band.        

The essence of the strong in the eternal fire.

Black,

The thoughts that scare logic away from obscurity.

Black,

Something in our hearts that leads us home.

Black,

The origin of the majestic.

Black,

The divided, ready to claim to be united.

Black,

The struggle.          

Only now can the documents of the unknown be shown,

But we still don’t know what’s to come.

This was written through history.

From the Greeks and Romans,

With intricate philosophy.

To the Aztecs and their gods that once ruled the world.

The destructive force that may bring an end to us might lay below our vary feet

Or is it a man who leads a legacy.

The psychics that predict the ending all have dementia,

So what could it be.

I guess will never know.

The bitter sweet taste has a salty sting to it.

The bluest eyes of the youngest girl,

 stare into a void and the vision is stunning

And tragic.

It was written,

Yet the one who wrote it left the title blank,

It was written but who is the plot against.

It was written,

But no one said how the quest would end,

It was written.

                The things you loved best about a person are hard to translate into words.  Still, I sit down one night at my bedroom desk and try to write a eulogy for my grandmother, who raised me while my parents worked in Taipei.  I begin to type quickly.  I say that she wasn’t what you would call sweet, or even cheerful—and that’s the truth— but I stop because even that small description makes it feel like I’m losing her again. There are so many ways not to be sweet or cheerful.

                I hit the delete button. I type that A-Ma used to get extremely annoyed when any disturbances interrupted the Korean soap operas with Chinese subtitles (sometimes dubbed) she watched the majority of the time she was awake.  But whenever I came by, she had all the time in the world for me.     

                I stare into the hollow glow.  I’m worrying that this isn’t right.  I should have started by saying that she was the one who made me feel that I was truly home.  Maybe I didn’t because I knew that if I wrote about how she watched over me, I’d have to admit that I should have watched over her.  When she was in the early stages of her illness, I had a choice between staying in Taiwan or going back to my life in California.  The doctors said she was stable.  After two weeks, I told myself I wasn’t doing anything that was helping her, and I believed I could go.  But when I returned to her bedside, I had never seen her so weak.  I type this out, this failing, black and white lines carving themselves onto a screen in some subterranean ether.  It’s the truth, though, and it needs to breathe somewhere.

                I think of the lump on A-Ma’s back that she got wheeling stone mined from a quarry.  I think of her going to work as a maid for a wealthy Japanese family and watching their girls receive a first-class education, then promising herself that her children would have the same.  But that’s not the whole picture of her, either.  

                I put my notes on her life history in a drawer and file away the post-its that keep track of my memories of her.  I decide that I’m going to write about what A-Ma taught me.  I think that I’m about to type something about the importance of hard work or the value of family.  Instead I find myself writing that she taught me about the beauty of human complexity, which is the exact beauty that keeps a eulogy from ever becoming whole.

Dear God,

It’s empty and I’m cold.

Loud cheers foretold

I would never be alone again. 

Daughter of a saint

Was branded a witch.

They led me to a cold hard cell.

I stood tall and proud,

Not willing to show them

A sign of shame.

For I had everyone else to blame.

Knowing my name on everyone’s mouth

Will never be the same.

No one looked me in the eye,

I cried and cried

And told them the truth.

I was not a witch

And did not know why they believed this, too.

They turned their faces away,

Not willing to hear the truth.

But it was too late,

The fire in their eyes, burned right through

To see what they wanted, was for me to burn.

To be heard, to cry

Was too late.

I was ready to die.

I sit and I stare

With nothing to do,

But pray to the God

I always knew.

Even though,

They accuse me of turning

My back on you.

I cry, I plea

For someone to help me

“The fire burns,” I scream.

With a look of detest they say,

“It’s what you deserve for your deeds.”

I feel it crawling on my knees

Leaving an imprint for everyone to see.

The faces become blurry,

I cannot see the ones who detest me.

“Please,” I cry “I’m not a witch. Please, God, help me,” I scream.

But, it falls on deaf ears.

With no one willing to listen to my pleas.

Then I die for the fire had finally gotten me.

Come look

Look through

Eyes of whom

You are going to murder.

Tell me the claims

That isn’t spectral proof.

That’s not enough to

Convict me.

Don’t ask me to pray

For forgiveness,

When the Lord knows there’s

Nothing to forgive.

The crimes you throw

At me are lies

And soon

You will see

That it is you

Who needs to repent

And not the people

Who’s blood has been shed

Who are you to

Ask for repentance?

Who’s soul

Is a dark void

For I have never

Turned my back on the one

Who matters.

But, it is you who

Commits sins

Many times over.

From the proof of babes

To the killing of humans.

Come look

Look through

Eyes of whom

You are going to murder.

Fog

You are a business man. You are Milano’s representative for a lighting company. You are wealthy. However, you don’t like your job; you loathe it. A day in the office is just a day in the office; the clock vibrates the room and noises from the city below climb up to the window and this is a day in the office, every day.

You ride a motorbike to work. It is Milano, so it is not uncommon to see a suited man, clutching throttle and briefcase in one hand. Your tie flaps and slaps you in the face as you weave around banked cars. Horns blare around you and you imagine the people in their cars yelling Italian swear words and you grin.

The air is thick with fog. Not clean, pure clouds that roll off lakes in autumn, but a haze of pollution and icy water that makes you scowl. It permeates everything; people, buildings, food. You see a bald man give the finger to a tourist snapping photos of his red Ferrari. You question why you live in such a city. You can guess why. Milano is like a lure; shining and deceptive. From the outside it seems like another beautiful Italian city blended together with international business and affairs, but once you are in it, once you take that first nibble; you know it is artificial. The tourists seem oblivious. They only see the elegant architecture and not the grimacing faces of those around it. You mentally hold up your middle finger.

Your apartment overlooks il Duomo. Your outdoor recliner chair faces it and you enjoy staring at it on the occasional sunny day. The matchstick cathedral shimmers in the rays and reflects the light like a beacon. You gaze at the duomo knowingly and yet you can’t avert your eyes; much like an optical illusion that remains an illusion, despite learning how it works. You close your eyes, sighing and the afterimage burns into your brain.

Most nights you are awake. You lie across the bed diagonally, face shoved between two pillows. The traffic, even at night, is piercing but it is the voices that keep you awake. You can hear the groans of the people throughout the city; they lance out at you and you retreat further into the doona. A whisper is quiet but many whispers are not.

You contemplate leaving your job. You contemplate moving to another city, maybe Rome. You think about this outside on the deck. You can see the sauntering of the crowds in the piazza. The sun is setting and the opening to the Galleria is darkening; you watch as it swallows entering people. You decide again: you cannot leave your job. There is a certain liberty in having a successful career. You have money but the security of the job outweighs that. There is little work elsewhere and you do not want to look for it. As you stare at the ruby peak of the duomo, the last part of the edifice that still is crowned in light, you can be sure of your decision.

One morning you are late to work. You have spilt espresso over your shirt and your dignity compels you to find a new one. By the time you are in the elevator knotting you shoes, you have lost twenty minutes and run to your motorbike. There is a crippling chill in the morning air and your breath billows out like smoke. Your heartbeat does not rest; you have a creeping anxiety that you will be fired in spite of being the head of the Milano office. But you relax slightly when you see that the flow of cars is fluid for a Monday morning.

You nearly collide with the car in front as you realise that the lights are showing red. You sit there in frustration; cursing and you look down to see that you have forgotten to wear a tie. You stiffen with self-consciousness and shrug your jacket over your shoulders. You see yourself as a commoner.

You notice a driver in a black Mercedes at the front of the line of cars. He barks into his phone and spittle speckles the windscreen. He looks like you, just another business man in the city of Milano; he has that same downturned mouth and eyebrows. The car next to him edges forward and the man in the Mercedes mistakes this for a green light. The man accelerates into the intersection. A car ploughs into the Mercedes and both spiral towards the traffic lights closest to you. You grip your briefcase tightly and suddenly it feels as if there is a tie around your neck. A clicking cracks the silence and the neon man illuminates, indicating that it is safe to walk.

From your motorbike you can see the man through the shattered window of his Mercedes. Blood streams down his head and he is slumped forward onto an airbag. His wrist is bent awkwardly and you imagine it is broken. In his hand is the now crumpled phone.

You contemplate whether to help the man. You see crowds huddled together on the opposite side of the street, facing the accident but none move towards it. There are suited men and women entering nearby cafés and exiting with brioche. Drivers remain in their cars and the traffic begins to clog the road, creating a tempest of deafening horns. Never have you heard the traffic to be this loud. An inescapable fog enters your mind. It swirls around in the depths of your consciousness, constricting. You decide: you will not take time out of your morning to assist the man. He is, like yourself, a business man and evidently a wealthy one. Everyone is the same in this city and you know that the man will have too much pride and arrogance and he will not want help. You ask yourself why you should aid the man if no one else is attempting to and you begin to feel infuriated. As you glare at the people across the road, the inhabitants of Milano swathed in that jarring mist, you can be sure of your decision.  You pull out and merge into the standstill, screaming past cars and you do not want to be any later for work than necessary.

The receptionist hands you your croissant and you thank her, your smile splits your face. You focus on your work with vigour so by lunchtime you have completed a day’s worth of tasks and you are able to leave early. But you stay. You make important phone calls, you schedule meetings, you prepare notes for the presentations, you calculate figures and profits and still time drifts slowly like the slumber of winter in Milano.

You arrive home and heat up leftovers. On the couch you flick on the television and pick at pasta, tossing it around in the bowl. The seven o’clock news appears on the screen and you stare intently at the slice of bread, soggy in the sauce. You half listen. Finally, it arrives. The reporter begins to talk about a road accident involving two cars, one a black Mercedes. You look up and see the picture of a man you seem to recognize. The reporter continues. With an expressionless face, he exclaims, to his dismay, that the driver had died at the site of the accident.

The apartment suddenly darkens and the duomo seems to vanish into the shadows. You begin to cry.

I can’t fall asleep

to Leno

or get myself

on the treadmill

Thinking of

choking down tofu

makes me want to

smoke a pack of Kent 500s

in a bar with no windows

and a tooth on the floor

Fuck a stranger raw

rinse my hair

in butane and

set it aflame

while dancing to

Berry by the jukebox.