In my dream,
I can see every word she speaks,
Roll off her lips like a syrup.

In my dream,
When something inside breaks,
Everyone knows and claps,
Because you're closer then.

In my dream,
I'm laced at the shoulder,
And we're one, brothers in sway,
And we're One against Many,
As the clouds roll in.

In my dream,
I don't have a bubble,
And everything flows,
So much I can't move.

In my dream,
The dark women dance,
With eyes that pull and dare,
Deep tanned calves slope and lead,
Both hands in the fire in the back of my head.

In my dream,
The bullet wound yells through my fingers,
And the sky finally answers when I look,
Unleashing a smile to beat everything you ever saw.

In my dream,
The mountains are almost here,
In the front window of our quiet car,
Everyone else asleep,
They whisper secrets I catch and keep,
In the dashboard compartment.

In my dream,
It's very black,
It's very thick,
But I'm very wrapped and warm,
And Benevolence pushes back,
Bringing the sleep of the innocent.

In my dream,
You're reading on the couch,
But I know you've just taken a shower,
Because you never dry your hair on weekends,
And the ways it feels just now,
Is why we're married.

In my dream,
It's an explosion,
And we're all firing through,
Always new and always more,
No one can really complain about anything,
We just laugh and laugh and laugh.

In my dream,
I can't spell,
I can't count,
I am of no use,
And someone picks me up,
And spins me around,
And I know love.



The rich brown of arms,
Dark Grecian hair,
Dark spiritual eyes.

Ra walked through the garden,
Children played at her feet,
Sensual calmness braided her hair,
Like a ladder towards heaven.



Before the bomb hit the shelter,
Before everything was white,
Before everything was screaming,
Twelve years old he wrote,
In frantic unschooled hand,
And thought of the blonde girl he met,
In the brickyard behind the schoolhouse,
They played hide and seek,
He hid in the butcher's shop,
And watched with heart pounding as she passed by,
Cupping her hands to her eyes to see in,
He remembered her eyes then,
How he had forsook hiding to stare directly into them,
And how grey and full and knowing they had been,
Before the bomb hit he unknowingly wrote:

I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.

Then the white asked him how he felt,
And he told her of the grey eyes and the blonde girl he'd met,
And she listened.

Houses with Lights

Dominique shuffled down 4th street. Or up 4th street, or across 4th street. He hadn't been in the city for over a week yet and figured that was good enough reason not to know what direction he was currently walking. He just knew it was towards home. A house that would have lights on over the stoop and a lock that his key slid nicely into. He'd stopped making his foster parents uncomfortable by calling it a house rather than a home, and seeing the color drain out of their faces as their eyes dropped to the floor. They really were caring people, and who had that other kind of home anyway? It was just a thing some kids came up with because it made them sound rebellious and the girls who still regularly attended class were into that. The ones that put out anyway (followed by howling laughter from the rest of the boys, like jackals around the corner). Dominique went through that phase, and felt he'd come out pretty intact. He scaled the five wet red brick steps of the stoop in two bounds, fished the key out of his sweatshirt pocket and unlocked the door. While the lights outside were on, the rest of the house slept quietly on, welcoming and empty at the same time. He quietly maneuvered through the creaky floorboards as quietly as he could until he reached the plain white door leading to his room. He collapsed on the twin bed and tried not to think. He tried to first block out the past day, then the past week, then the whole past month. He pictured a miniature Dominique going through endless file cabinets in his brain, carefully examining each folder before tossing it onto the floor. Pretty soon he was dreaming, and it was no longer a miniature Dominique tossing out the files, but his hands and eyes thumbing through the tabs and looking at the labels. He found the file detailing his birth, and how the absence of a father was distinctly noted in thick red pen. He saw a note at the bottom of the file, referencing another file in another cabinet. Eventually he found the cabinet and file, and flipped through everything about his father he'd wanted to know, and one by one his fears came true. 
He was never wanted.
His father didn't even know he existed, didn't even remember his mother's name.
He was just there, product of biology and nature and cold scientific fact.
The ink began to run off the pages of the file, which seemed to grow thicker with every page he threw out. It ran up his forearms and under his shirt sleeves, tattooing him with the knowledge. He began to scream as the rest of the drawers began to slide free one by one, the files opening like hungry mouths...

Dominique woke up in a film of sweat. For a moment he hated his father, hated everything about him, but recognized that hot, dark feeling in his heart and quickly subdued it, falling back onto his bed. There wasn't a point. It didn't matter. He thought of Queen, and how nothing really mattered.


Jordan caught herself staring out the window above the kitchen sink at the sunset just about to really take on it's last gleam. She shook her head and finished with the dishes, then made some instant lemonade and went back out onto the whitewashed porch. 
The Lakeside Retirement Home was one of the better in Maine, one of the few that no one mistook for a modified detention center, and Jordan actually enjoyed her job. Most of the patients were nice enough, there were always the bitter ones but she figured she saw less here than Sheila did working night shifts at Denny's. It also gave her ample time and stimulus to think about the big things. She could almost here the existentialist conversations buzzing around in everyone's individual mind in the common room, and seemed to breathe it in until it buzzed inside her too.
As she carried the tray outside she caught sight of Mr. Avery and sighed. There were also tedious parts of the job that never really stopped being tedious. His sunglasses (the black plastic bigger-than-aviator kind they got shipped in bulk) had fallen off again and were resting on his lap. Resting defiantly, Jordan mused (after all, she was going to school to be an english major, it was only right to put a little flavor on her thoughts). Mr. Avery was more or less catatonic, less because all the doctors said it was by choice. He could very well respond if he wanted to, they said. Since coming to work at Lakeside Jordan felt the sorriest for Mr. Avery. He had no background other than what she could draw from his features. She guessed he had had some troubles as a young man, and made some choices that didn't mesh with the modern world and her unforgiving methodology. Sometimes she occupied herself coming up with pasts for Mr. Avery, though she never told him what they were. 
She gave the lemonade to the rest of the men and women sitting outside, and with two glasses left proceeded towards Mr. Avery at the end of the porch. She sat the tray on the banister, and reached down to grab the sunglasses. Jordan absentmindedly put the glasses back on Mr. Avery's eyes, already being drawn in again by the particularly magnificent sunset. What did finally bring her back was when Mr. Avery slapped the glasses off his face, sending them clattering across the porch and off the side of the house.
Tears poured down the edges of Mr. Avery's fully dilated eyes. His lips trembled and his hands shook against the arms of the rocking chair. Jordan quickly looked down the line of empty chairs and past the front door, but only fellow retirees moved passively back and forth. She felt the call for help rising in her throat when she realized his eyes were focused on her, his lips still trembling.
"Are you God?" he whispered.
In her head she told him to calm down. In her head she knew exactly what medicine to administer and what therapy to consider post-event. Her lips remained closed. Mr. Avery continued:
"I...had a son" he said passively, no longer looking more through her than at her now. "Maybe...He was beautiful. Was my son beautiful?"
"Yes." Jordan answered, having no idea who Mr. Avery's son was, and wondering if she should start taking medication. Still she felt something like that buzz in the commons room, some irresistible force coming from Mr. Avery and whatever he was seeing. 
"Are you God?"
His hand reached out (shaking, no tremoring) and grasped her smooth wrist. Jordan reached behind her with her free hand, and taking a glass of lemonade brought it around and offered it to Mr. Avery. He relaxed a bit, his other hand holding the glass without spilling a drop. He brought the purple bendy straw to his lips, and his hand slid from around her wrist. Jordan let out a sigh, grabbed the other glass and collapsed in the chair next to his. 
"I would've named him Stephen. I was scared," he said, tears still flowing.
Ignoring all the texts she had ever read, Jordan asked, "Is this the end, Mr. Avery?" He turned to her, a faint smile tracing his tired face.
"May just be, gotta ride it out though. So much."
"What do you feel?"
"It's leaving my legs, my hands now," he looked down. His hands lay motionless against the wood.
Jordan sipped at her lemonade and watched the sunset.
Eventually Mr. Avery looked out and asked, "Are you God?"

It was an easy burial. There was no family to notify.

A.N.- This is a really shortened, rough version of something I've had in my head for a bit but I think it goes into something much longer and bigger, particularly the last scene. Hope this version's acceptable too though, because I have no idea when the other one will come around.

Admittance #46

What it is to feel the same,
The exact same rapid pumping of blood,
In the veins striking out from your neck.

I'm afraid of forgetting.


Some Words to Get You Started

A.N.- I was asked to write something holistically happy and bright. This is what I gots.

See if you agree.

"There's somewhere I'm going to,"
The man said to the sea,
To the wood wide-spacing the pier,
To the white hairs on his head and forearms.
The bright yellow sunshine,
Fell on his unhindered blue eyes,
And the Blue of the ocean answered him,
In quiet sweeps,
A smile carving and running through the wrinkles,
Mapping his brown face.

The Answer,
The Future,
The humming of his mother rocking him to sleep.

His dark, deep pupils ran over,
Growing and expanding,
Taking it all in,
The Blue. the Sun.

The sting in his lungs at the end of the street and ooh it feels good!
His father head-bent at the telescope in their front lawn.

The waves drew back,
An indention forming in the water below the planks.

The velvet smell on her neck,
As she drew away

The Blue received him wholeheartedly back,
The Sun as witness.

In it he heard,
The laugh of a woman carefree in summer,
And he met Love.

And all the words he did not have to speak filled everyone else's heads like a fever. 



My blood's pumping,
That's a good indicator that you're alive right?
Because I feel like I could explode if only,
One thing would set it off,
So don't look at me again,
Do you know what you've got there?
How quick it would be?
Blue eyes set off a galaxy,
A collection of burning stars,
Their own death an assurance,
But their beauty unimaginable,
It was necessary,
To tell it to your face,
To flare up and give you a glimpse,
There in the corner of the moment,
Bathed in red ember light,
That's what you really are,
Now excuse me won't you?
I almost enjoy the cold letdown against my face.

To the Suburbanite Next Door

You know,
It would be nice if maybe,
You could, perhaps,
Leave my head for at least a few days,
So I could get some fucking work done up there.


They pound the street,
The rain and the black men,
In black glasses and cream hats,
They carry the music in their pockets,
In their shoes,
It is on their eyelids when they close,
And it is in the room when they open the door,
Adding its own flavor to the smoke that hovers,
Around the tables and instruments.
Calloused hands,
Trained fingers take hold,
Souls rise above their hosts,
Invisible unless you know the trick:
In the reflections inside the beads of sweat on the dance floor,
The Passions twist and swirl and blaze.
Do you see?


The fiddle,
It brings that sweet nurtured drawl,
That rises from your throat,
And the acoustic bass,
Pulls and releases your hips to sway,
And the words,
Of your great-great-grandfather,
Cause your heart and mind to agree,
And to forget everything else in that unison,
In that spinning faded purple skirt,
Please Divine stay the tides of war,
Lest they find way into these hills,
And may the cider stay crisp and smart,
Off quiet, mindful tongues,
Mouthes with age to their shape and sound,
And may the women always dance like they do today,
While boots and bare feet tap along.

Delilah you were a hurricane blew into town that only I wanted to stay.


They claw,
And the hands they scrape,
Push the dirt and sod up under the nails,
Blackening as they come up from under the earth,
Before they reach the pasture animals,
The farmhands,
The cities,
Cold Night slips a cool finger under their chins,
Bids them come and do her bidding,
And she promises them not the rest they have left,
Though they still seek it,
Not the satisfaction of the life the living hoard,
Though it runs down their lips and neck,
No she--cruel and seductive--yields up only one,
Dark gift they find no pleasure in receiving,
Namely more company to their ranks,
As they amass under her watch and instruction,
And dead eyes look to the sky-if they are really looking,
And the thoughts of the dead are few and simple.

Petty Complaints, Yours Truly

I hope today you,
Walked outside with a true confidence,
Since I'm not there to see you,
In fact I have no idea where I am in relation to you,
But we're still holding out hope,
Like a child over a crowd,
Of pressing immigrants,
Dirty fingers hooked through swinging fences,
I want to,

Believe you're there.

I want to,
With crossed fingers and quick glances,
Something pounding and something processing,
I am foreign,
I am an island in revolt,
Against it's only sacrificial god,
Scouting planes in the cloud cover cannot see,
Oh they do not see the flames begin to rise!

Outside everyone's cheering,
And I can't for the life of me remember anymore how good it is,
To revel in the safety and the element of the communion of saints.

Walking Tower

If it's there,
We're losing the signal,
After broadcasting full-length I'm,
Running dry on mind reserves,
Mental rigour,
Sparing the trigger finger,
Try to make eye contact,
before we cut to


fumbled preachers save your soul-ah

-end of transmission-