Cacti Chp. 4-5

The men that nobody saw began infiltrating the Cosavo borders in ever-increasing numbers. They began reading the paper, ordering the special, and acquiring bumper stickers doting on exceptional children that they didn't have. Not all of them wore a suit, but all of them owned one. And nobody noticed them at all, except for Vincent, and only because he had had a very warped week and was on edge about anything and everything. Tommy's warnings still echoed as last words in his mind, and Vincent began to entertain paranoias that were not far from the truth. He began to spy at them in bookstores, and enjoyed the idea of being some type of agent, even if it was asinine. It gave a sort of comfort, to be in a world that made sense because you made the rules.

But we don't.
We don't make the rules and we don't get to say when the action starts and stops. We don't get to say how long the opposition is kept in the dark, or how they will react. And we don't get to have a preplanned suave remark for when they come up behind us.
"Excuse me," a friendly voice and a single tap on his shoulder. Vincent turned around. "Hi, my name's Claude and I was wondering if--if you could tell me where the restrooms are. Is something wrong?"
Vincent's eyes had inadvertently gone wide. Claude was dressed in khaki shorts with a blue button up shirt, no suit, no tie, no wire to his ear. Yet Vincent knew that at any other time it would be.
"Actually, we don't use earpieces. That's just the CIA, " he smirked and Vincent thought he saw nothing behind those lips, then teeth. Rows of teeth. No, razors.
His head was swimming. He spun back around and stared at the cashier with pleading eyes. He began looking to all the other customers, violently spinning his head from right to left to right.
"Uh, could someone help me! I think he's going to faint!" Claude again. Claude with the razors in his mouth. Claude the man that nobody would remember. Claude the-
And he was out.

---

He woke up to the scent of lemons. He was lying on his stomach and shifted to his back, squinting out a window with telephone poles scrolling lazily across it like an old filmstrip. Then he heard a grunt and turned to the front of the car.
"This town is so fucking stupid. I mean we could come in guns blazing and no news crew would waste the helicopter fuel to cover it. Oh, well! Hello there trooper!"
Vincent had been staring at the charm dangling from the rear view mirror. It was yellow, so he figured it was the source of the lemons. Now his eyes traced back to the man in the passenger seat. His head throbbed. His eyes ached. Still, he tried to focus on whoever had called him 'trooper'.
Then it was like being his by a wave. Vincent doubled back into the cushion, writhing in pain but unable to verbalize it outside of an intense hissing through clenched teeth. His hands began to claw at his hair. I'm going to die if this doesn't stop. I'm going to claw out my eyes and I'm going to die.
The Trooper man let out a chuckle and turned back to the driver, resuming their conversation. The driver seemed disinterested in pursuing whatever they were talking about, and turned around to have his own fun with Vincent.
"Hullo, sir! Could you -uh- help point me in the right direction of -uh, the restroom there please? Thank-ya!" He was faking an accent that no one spoke in the entire West, and Trooper man was snickering in his seat. "Aw, don't be like that, sir! Help a brutha out!"
Claude. Vincent remembered, even through the accent, that this one was Claude.
"That's right! I'm Claude and I still have to piss! You never did tell me where those restrooms were, no sir, you were too busy thinking about those plastic coily earpieces!"
So they read minds.
"Yep!"

That was going to get annoying fast.
"Hey now! Don't get all aggressive on us now, or else 'Trooper' here will have to give you another hit." Trooper waved. "Now you just sit there all quiet like. Sleep if you want. We're going to your little excuse for an airport and catching the first flight out. If you try anything, N-ee-thing, bam!" Trooper pointed to his temple and nodded. "Don't worry about packing or anything, we'll take care of all that. And if you play your cards right and survive long enough, I'll even try and see if I can't bring you a slipping saying how you took your life in despair because of that Womack kid."
"Tragedy," Trooper chirped.
Vincent's head still hurt. Why hadn't the cashier done anything? Did all the customers just watch them load him into this car?
"Actually, they helped, " Trooper. " All Claude had to do was say he knew where the hospital was and that it would be faster than an ambulance, and I come up and agree and start helping move you, and there you go! One of the easiest lifts we've ever done."
Vincent sat up, and let his head collapse into the rest as he watched Cosavo go by through tinted windows. He wished Tommy had told him to pack some Advil.
Perhaps if Trooper hadn't been so hard on Vincent's first real Wave, he would've been away enough to see the Red Buick LaSabre going much too fast to not be in a hurry, and then running the busiest light in all of downtown. As it happened, when the car hit Vincent was just as surprised as the other two. Thankfully the point of contact shattered all hopes of opening the front passenger door, buckling it at such an angle that Trooper had to be dead.

There are angels.
Vincent opened the door even while his ears were still ringing. He saw people standing on the street corner. One woman with a baby carriage was pointing with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. A man who had been running was actually still jogging in place, his body not yet caught up with his head. Vincent bolted down Main, and hadn't gone a block before he had to turn around and see. Claude had wrenched free of the mass of buckled metal and was limping at a pace that would be brisk for most people.

There are demons too.
He was yelling and pointing at Vincent to solicit support from the onlookers. One man actually took a step towards Vincent, and that set him loose. He bounded down the sidewalk, then turned at the next corner. There were no alleys in Cosavo, so he didn't have to worry about getting stuck. He just had to make sure not to backtrack. His lungs began to heave with every step, but he had gained nothing on Claude and began to wonder if Trooper really was incapacitated. Finally his hands fell to his knees in exasperation as he turned another corner.
"Got a light?"
If Vincent hadn't been raised a good Christian boy, or if he had had any air in his body, he would've found the most vile string of explicatives known to man and brandished them upon the stranger in a heartbeat.
"You know, a flame? A lighter? A match? Hell, a bundle of sticks?"

Vincent looked up, losing what little breath he had regained.
It was James Dean reborn. Only he had dark hair, not long but not kept in strict regulation. His aviators reflected the street and opposite brick wall. He was swaying back and forth with his hands in the pockets of a canvas green jacket, and an unlit cigarette dangled out of his mouth. His smile touched ears when he saw Vincent's reaction, then jerked his head to a car parked on the curb.
"Hurry, Paco."
Vincent shut the door to the lowrider and they were going 60. He saw Claude turn the corner and his face flash red. He remembered the razors.
"We have to go to the airport. You have to leave."
"What?"
"You go to sleep again in this town and you die."
"Who are you?"
"You have to earn that."
"What?"
He answered no more questions and Vincent had no chance of surviving if he bailed out of the car at that speed.

---

They pulled up to the airport when night had fully set in. Mr. Dean handed him a ticket for a flight that left in ten minutes.
"There's no way I'm going to make that."
He flashed his teeth and Vincent noticed he still had those glasses on. But at least there were no razors. He was holding another ticket.
"Have faith, my son."
They were in the doors, through the checkpoint, and waiting for the last of the line to get through the tunnel when Vincent got a chance to stop. But it wasn't until he had actually fallen into his seat that he realized what he was doing. He put both hands on their rests and started to get up. His escort forced him back with one palm.
"Nuh-uh, Paco, We're about to taxi. Besides, you can relax a bit. You're among friends." He walked past him and came back with a Sprite. "Serving carts don't come 'round for another three hours, but I'm a paying customer, right?"
Vincent didn't want to talk. He didn't want to think. Hell, this guy was probably reading his thoughts too.

...
Well, at least he wasn't reminding him of it.
Vincent would've screamed as the plane flew through into the crisp night air, if that wouldn't have gotten them grounded and him killed.



Chapter Five

Even if you aren't particularly fond of your parents, there is still an unexpected tug of the heart the first time you are really and definitely separated from them. There is a sense of open vulnerability, which no son will admit but all feel from time to time for the first few days. It was this feeling that Vincent alone was shaking because of at 25,000 feet in the air somewhere above the continental U.S., and the same feeling his partner had shook from years ago. Pure empathy aroused him, though he would open his eye with no idea of his counterparts condition until he looked over.
"Oh, hey, you're up. Uh, sorry if I forgot, but you can sleep here and not die. None of them can fly that I'm aware of."
"No it's okay. I just wish I knew what was going on, why my friend was killed, and why the hell I'm on a plane with a guy who never takes his glasses off."
And then they were off, and Vincent was staring at circles of hazel. Then a hand.
"First thing's first. I'm Nathan, go by Nate, and in this one place I'm Reverend. Not Reverend Nathan or Reverend Nate, just Reverend. But don't worry about that place, you'll probably never see it anyway. As for what we're doing, it's really not mine to explain, but the short version is...well...shoot, there really isn't a short version. " His forehead crumpled down.
"Where are we going?"
"First? Detroit, then you're off to Europe. "
"I'm pretty sure I'd have to have a passport for that."
"I'm completely sure you would. And you do. Please give me more credit than that. If people can read your mind, can't I plan ahead?" he played being offended.
"Can you read my mind?"
"Nope."
"How can they?"
"Darkkkk Magicccc," Nate began to wave his hands in Vincent's face.
"And what exactly is that?"
"Voodoo fingers."
"No, 'Dark Magic' "
"Pig-fucked if I know. I don't even think magic is the right thing for it. Just wait a bit longer. Trust me, I'm in about the same amount of light on the subject as y- "
"No."
"No what?"
"You don't put someone on a plane and then tell them to just be patient."
Nate sighed and slumped back in his chair, then looked back at Vincent.
"You really wanna know?"
"Spill."
He looked around to make sure everyone else was asleep, then leaned over into Vincent's personal space bubble.
"Everyone is supposed to do something. At the beginning, people took the world they were given and built it into this lovely mess we contend with every minute. Now, most people dance around for a couple of decades or so, and pass on through. But there is also another group of people who feel it is their duty to end things. They would just as soon destroy beauty as admire it. At the top is this man -entity might be a better choice- who we know next to nothing about. But I can tell you for certain from all that I've experienced he is hell bent on seeing everything burn -even himself at the end." Nate was down to a whisper. Vincent mulled it over for a moment.
"And why am I on a plane?"
Nate perked up.
"Because we're the last group. No, you don't have a dormant superpower like laser-heat-vision or anything, it's just your- "
"Destiny."
"Yeah. Basically, you're just deranged enough to go through what you're going to and not claw your eyes out."
Vincent remember the first car ride.
"I thought this was Tommy's destiny. He was the one with the calling from birth, not me."
"Tommy did serve destiny, you just have to see it play out. "
"So how much aren't you telling me?"
Nate twinkled.
"Loads."

---

They were landing.
"Shit! -" Nate was on a cell phone Vincent hadn't noticed before. "Well what was I supposed to do? Wait for the next flight! Okay, okay, so are they at the gate yet? Good, good. Yeah, I'll call you if we make it to Meg's. When we make it." Nate plucked his glasses from their pocket and was ice.
"Get ready to shove it, Paco." He was beaming.
They were up before the seatbelt light was off, and managed to make it through half the plane before bodies began blocking their route.
" 'Scuse me, pardon, he's expecting and we have to hurry! Sorry, oops! Here we go now."
They were in the terminal and running. Vincent could feel specific eyes on him, then motion to his fading left. Nate was on the phone again.
"Forty-five seconds, Meg."
Click.
They flat out sprinted the next hallway. An old woman's Pomeranian began jolting at them as they whisked by, then it only growled.
The men were close.
People were shouting now. Ordinary people, if there was such a thing anymore. Vincent saw the doors just as they hit them.
Then he was faced with another set of doors, this time a bit lower.

Open. Close. Lock.

Vincent found that he had actually lunged into the car, and was splayed across the entire back seat. Nate was seated comfortably next to a woman with swirling brown hair.

Meg apparently.

---

At not as much length as Vincent would've been comfortable with, they pulled into a driveway. The house was small and white, with blue shudders. It had a one car garage, and when the door closed you couldn't tell if anyone was home or not. At least there was that.
Both the other passengers had already disembarked and Nate was waiting at the door to the house.
"Don't worry, you'll get faster, " he said as they crossed the threshold.
Both the boys tested the endurance of the couch as they fell into it. Sounds came from a room in which Vincent could see half a refrigerator completely covered with pictures, magnets, and sticky-notes. Then the noises ceased. Silence.
"Phhhhh, Nate! Introduce me!"
"Oh! Uh, Vincent, please meet Megan Donnivan."
At cue she swept from around the corner and into the room. She wore a long fading jean skirt with a cream yellow top. She had dark skin, but not enough to be considered very tan, just a healthy brown. Her lips were full and sweet, and her eyes a compassionate but piercing green. He could tell she was a natural brunette, with only small hints of blond woven into what looked like the smoothest hair he had every seen. He restrained his hand from reaching out like a child to a wild rabbit.
She handed him a glass of water and smiled.
"Meg's also been convicted of arson three times!"
In a flash she was over and raining hell on Nathan.
"They were accidents! And it was a brushfire! It's not like anyone got hurt!" Nathan tried his best to protect his face. Vincent just tried to take it all in. In time both of them returned their focus.
"So, welcome to Detroit. I hear you've had a bit of an eventful few days."
"He hasn't seen half of it, " remarked Nathan.
"Well, from what I hear you've been taking it all like a real trooper."
Vincent cringed and felt his temple.
"Please don't say that."
"But you have- "
"No, I mean don't say 'trooper'. "
"Oh, okay. Sorry, " she shied away.
"It's no big deal, really, but thanks. And...well, would it be possible to- "
"Banish the manners, Paco, Meg here's like family. Ask her anything and she'll be happy to burn it for you."
She glared but smiled again.
"Okay, well- is there a bed I can get into? The airplane really didn't do much."
"Of course! I'll show you the guest room."
"Get some good hours in! Tomorrow we ride at dawn! Er...probably around eleven!" Nate yelled as the two went up the stairs.
When they were out of sight Nathan removed his aviators and rubbed his eyes. He was tired too, but he had to stand guard. They were awfully close to a whole lotta hell, and it would take Megan and him both to get Vincent to the Doctor.

(apologies for the transfer errors, all the Paco's are in italics as well as a good bit of Claude's dialogue, and some other stuff. The pardon has an accent on the o (yea, that French word), and hopefully you'll get the paragraph changes. Enjoy.)

Cacti Chapter Three

The clouds finally open up on Odessa, Texas, releasing thousands if not millions of tiny kamikaze droplets hurtling to the parched ground below. This is rain. Not a shower or a drizzle, but the rain that Odessa waits for every year. It will continue to fall for hours to come, and once back in '96 it lasted days. That was a particularly bad year. This year is a bit more mild, so people only expect about 10 to 15 hours of downpour. The amazing part is, as soon as you step out your door and open your screen, you would swear it hadn't bled an ounce.

The ground eats it all.

The Old Man sat and listened to the rain, even though there was no window to hear it fall against. There was no ventilation shaft through which any outside event could echo in. There was no orifice in the entire room, save for the door, which remained closed and did not even come close to fresh air when opened. The only piece of furniture was the chair, occupied by it's final resident. It was an old featherback chair, but no singular detail would constitute its age. There were no tears, and no patches. It did not complain when the Old Man shifted. The chair simply maintained its place and duty in the universe, not uttering a sound. Yet after constant exposure the chair seemed to almost scream old, and then drive whatever connoisseur that happened to be inspecting it mad from lack of reason.

But no one inspected the chair.

It was the Old Man's chair.

Ya dig?

White spotted fur from some larger feline ran up the sloping sides. Perhaps some barbarous caveman had slain its original owner high up on a mountain people now climbed for fun. Perhaps the caveman wasn't killing for food or defending himself either. Perhaps every other caveman, cavewoman, and cavechild had either left the mountain or starved. And perhaps this one man was left, blind by bloodlust, killing his opponent only to stand over the body and savor the steam rising from it.
The Old Man leaned forward. The red cushion underneath him bulged back but gave no sound. He rested his elbows just above his knees. and for but a moment froze. At only a glance it could have been possible that the end of those armrests were skulls and the Old Man some horrid cannibal king, but of course not. This is the new millennium, we have the Food Network to tell us what to eat. His left hand twitched once. Still.

Twice. Still.

Slowly his left hand glides through nothingness to his right, and begins to lightly trace the veins under the skin on top of his hand. His eyes begin to lose focus, and he feels every curve and rise. Back and forth his left hand scans the other. Up and down, back and forth. Eventually he turns his right hand over and begins tracing the veins under his forearm. Up and down. Back and forth.

The Old Man sat in the darkness, listening to the rain.

And waited.

---
The smell prevailed over all of Vincent's thoughts, and he barely made it through 2nd Period before he hung up on learning for the day. He cut out through the double doors with the crash bars in the back and halfway expected to see Tommy standing (or levitating) there like some cheap action movie scene where the gun-toting hero finds just the subtly-powerful monk he needs to stop the bald antagonist with all the financial connections.
Instead he found Todd. Again.
Todd Asnew had invited himself to replace Tommy after his disappearance. After all, their names were almost alike, right? That was his introduction. Vincent found that to be a profoundly rude thing to do, but discovered that in addition to a lack of manners, Todd also possessed an indefatigable will and refused to leave any situation he found himself a part in. He let Vincent by only to bounce around and badger him from every other direction as they strided down the sidewalk.
"Didja hear? Tommy's back! Can you believe it?"
"Yes."
"Well aren't you going to go see him?"
"That's just what I was getting around to."
"Oh, well I heard he was wearing some Dali-Llama cloak thing."
"Yep."
"What would he be doing with a cloak like that?"
"Wearing it I guess."
"Very funny. So, do you know where he is?"
"I figured he was still at Avery's."
"Yeah of course! You all used to go there almost every day! Good thinking!" Todd broke off into a run, his busted Keds creating little clouds on the ground like an astronaut with each landing.
That was a lie.
Vincent knew Tommy wasn't still at Mr. Avery's, he had visual proof of the fact. He didn't know where Tommy actually was, but felt confident that he had sent Todd to the one place he wasn't. Vincent thought that bringing Todd to Tommy might make him disappear again.

So he walked.
He walked up the main street in Cosavo with his hands in his pockets, departing only so he wouldn't pass in front of Avery's. As he left the store behind, he thought he saw Todd sitting on a stool drinking a chocolate shake. He knew he would not be bothered again.
His confidence in Tommy's locating powers began to waver once school let out and was almost gone around the time every other Cosavo family was sitting down to a Cosavo dinner of Hungry Man and the Wheel. The first stars were appearing in the pale sky when Vincent finally found Tommy not ten steps behind him, walking in his footprints.
"Did you find it?" Vincent heard himself ask almost involuntarily. He hadn't been thinking about it, but now the question seemed to seethe and writhe around in his mind as if he had been calculating it for years.
A smile began to spread across Tommy's face, one so obvious Vincent thought for an instant that Tommy may have returned crazier than before. Then:
"Yes."

---
The light continued to fade as the two friends stood like gunslingers at showdown. Slowly the smile left Tommy's face. What replaced it was a look of dawning urgency, and as he drew Vincent through the night his eyes began to betray the same darting attention field rabbits exhibit all their short lives. Vincent hoped that all the random directions would eventually lead them to one of their homes. Instead what came up before him in a surprising shaft of open moonlight where they stopped was another flat patch that would normally be passed over like every other square inch of public Cosavo, save for the little white flag flapping with the night breeze.
It was the place where they had buried the bird all those seasons back. It seemed impossible that the little white marker Vincent had stolen from someone's property line was still in the ground, but there it was, shooting back and forth in it's small patch of free motion with the speed of a hummingbird. Tommy seemed to wait for the location to drip its meaning into Vincent's mind, then pulled him down to sit opposite him a little ways away from the flag.
He hadn't noticed just how haggard Tommy had become until they both sat Indian-style on the hard earth. There were lines on his face that should not predominate so much on someone his age. His eyes still had that genius gleam and secrecy, but now they were laced with an expression of unwinding, of pushing a degree that you can't keep up and know you won't have to. If only he had stuck with the oboe.
"Clarence."
"Clarence?"
"The bird. I forgot to tell you but I named him Clarence before I killed him. I don't know if he had a bird name among his bird friends, but I called him Clarence. It would've been a terrible thing to die without having a name, don't you think?"
"Terrible thing, " was all Vincent could reply. Now Tommy's whole body seemed to shake with its condition.
"You...You have to go to. You have to s-. You have to see it, " sweat began to trickle down his cheeks but his eyes never left Vincent's face, save one glance into the night. Then his next train of thought came to him, " I don't mean to say that you have a choice really, that I'm asking you to go wondering into the desert and disappear like I did. No, no, I highly doubt yours will be the same as mine."
"My what?"
"-All I'm saying is that you need to get ready. Prepared, mentally. I'd wager that some pretty messed up stuff is going to happen soon, and I-" again a glance over his shoulder, outside their oval of communication, "You just need to be ready. For anything." Something from his unknown past reawakened in Tommy, and his face cracked a wry smile. "Just remember, 'At the end of the world is a bundle of sticks.' "
"What?"
"A bundle of sticks."
Tommy let his body relax and fall back a bit, and even let out a few chirps of laughter. Vincent was, like most of his recent history, at a loss. At least one of them got it.
"Okay, can you find your way home from here?"
"Yeah. Remember, I've had another three years in this town while you've been off destinying or whatever."
"Very true. " He smiled, and they parted.

---
Tommy didn't linger on his way home, but his didn't sprint there either. He took time to catch a glimpse of the moon through the cloud cover, and once he paused to peek in on a family that still had their lights on. He let his hands rest in the numerous folds of his most recent attire, and anyone that saw him (though no one did) would've pegged him as content in an instant. And all the time under his breath he muttered with that same unbelieving smile, " A bundle of sticks. "
He was waiting on the steps when Tommy came in sight of his house. He had removed his sunglasses and slid them into his shirt pocket, though it was safe to assume that he had worn them until the last shed of sunlight had been phased out. Now his dust-powdered shoes kicked a bit as he sat up, for he had been laying with his upper body on the porch. Then he was fully upright, and saved Tommy the last few feet by calmly coming up to meet him.
" I'm sorry. I know people must be thrilled that I'm back, but I still don't play oboe for strangers."
"I don't want to hear you or your stinking oboe. You know good and well why I'm here."
"Nooo, I know good and well what you're going to do, but I haven't the slightest clue why you're here. Do you see the difference?"
"There is no difference."
Tommy let out a sigh and acquiesced to the moment. He lifted his hands, palm-up, in front of the man and smirked mildly.
"A bundle of sticks."
His parents found his limp body a few feet from their steps in the morning, his necked snapped. There was no trace of the man that nobody saw. When Vincent heard, because everything travels fast in a small town, he wasn't prepared. He wasn't ready. He sat and cried, and thought about Clarence.

Point.

You may think that there is something wrong with me. You may despise my attitudes, my beliefs, even my life. You may strive to have nothing to do with me, and wish I were to disappear altogether. But know this: Before all of this and forever will I be prepared to march to the gates of hell and beyond for you.

The Cacti Won't Serve Me Tequila (Con't)

He found his was to his locker, and then to the door of room 216.

Mrs. Haymaker didn't make him explain himself. Rather, she muttered a curt remark as he slipped into his seat without turning from the board. He had missed half of a lecture on the hazards and problems inherent with nuclear technology. No great loss, the subject was not new to him and Vincent thought that he should have stayed at the stoplight a little longer to see if anything else actually would occur. Invariably his eyes drew out the window.

And centered on Tommy.

Vincent didn't blink or rub his eyes in disbelief. It was perfectly possible that Mike could have gotten away from Mr. Stevens, although the need to escape was incompatible with Mr. Stevens' simplistic and kindhearted attitude towards life. Perhaps he just let him go. Was that so much of a stretch to believe? No more than Tommy being on the run from a man who's one pride in life was never having a spill on aisle 4.

Tommy hadn't changed out of his morning apparel, although the cloth was now pulled up and over his shoulder and he was no longer sweating. Vincent admired his face, particularly because it had a look of such serenity and sadness he would not have thought Tommy capable of. Then his lips pursed and he could've spoken or just mouthed the word, Vincent couldn't tell twenty feet up and a pane of glass apart, but they brought every thought back that should have stayed buried, like digging a time capsule up early only to find it infested with black widow spiders.

The word was shangri-la.

----2-----

To say that Vincent was Tommy's only friend in his early years would be a lie. Tommy had done something with every one of the Cosavo kids at least once, and most enough things to be called a friend by them, but he never spoke about shangri-la to any of them. Only to Vincent, and always to Vincent. Vincent never spoke of it to anyone else either, not feeling it his place to do so. It was just Tommy's thing, being a prodigy and having a destiny.

"No they got the name right but that's about it," he told Vincent once while out on his porch when the weather had just begun to cool off. Vincent had raised the issue that shangri-la wasn't real, and even if it was he didn't know what destiny it could offer, and Tommy had kindly pointed out that the historian's had no idea what they were talking about.

"Oh it's beautiful all right, but it's not even in the mountains! At least I don't think it is," his voice faded as he watched the moths and flies mindlessly barraging the lantern hanging just by his old screen door with the hole in the bottom mesh from his forward roll when he thought the house was on fire.

"How do you know if you've never been?"
"Because it's my destiny."
"Why can't your destiny be in the mountains?"
"It could be, but it isn't."
"How do you know it's not in the mountains then?"
"Because it's my destiny."

Frequently Vincent would just give up fishing for a deeper answer and just let Tommy watch the lantern. Other times he would go into the conversation determined to give Tommy a new destiny, one that would get him out of Cosavo and get him happy. It wouldn't be that difficult if Tommy would just play for the right people. He was a prodigy because like all good prodigies he did something easier and quicker than eveyone else who had to spend years leaning the trade. Tommy's thing turned out to be the oboe. He could do the whole playing-after-one-listen thing, and he could sight read flawlessly, but his real standout talent came out in his original pieces, which he never wrote down and never played twice. Of course his parents had pursued his gift mercilessly, but not without a staggeringly difficult problem. Tommy absolutely refused to play for any man in a suit who came by to hear him. Then, he stopped playing for any man who came by in normal clothes bought from a store Cosavo didn't have. Finally he just stopped playing for anyone who wanted him to, and every time a note sounded through the house there would be a mad scrambling to find and start taperecorders to prove his ability. And it wouldn't be hard to write his own ticket either, as apparently the last generation had produced a dazzlingly low number of professional oboists. Of course Tommy had a very simplistic reason for dashing his parents hopes of making their son and their name famous.

"That's not my destiny. You know that."
"Why can't it be your destiny though?"
"Because it isn't."
"You just don't want to succeed."
"What is success?"
"Success is doing what you love and being happy and hopefully making enough money to cover all that."
"How could I be happy if I didn't follow my destiny?"
"Well you're happy when you play, aren't you?"
"Of course."
"Then why wouldn't you be happy playing later?"
"I would be, but that's not my destiny."
"You're insufferable."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because it's my destiny."

No matter how many times Vincent ended the conversation with that, Tommy always laughed. And the laugh was always different than his laugh at other jokes, and yet consistantly different. Vincent played it as just one more mysterious facet of Tommy Womack.

If this was all that Tommy and Vincent had said about Tommy's destiny, then there would be no jump in Vincent seeing the shape of the words again. Unfortunately, it wasn't. He quickly produced a sharpie from his backpack and scribbled a large blog, then brought the blob to his nose and stared at the preexisting blue lines on the paper.

"Excuse me, Vincent, but why is it that you simply cannot wait to get high until after my class?"

His eyes peeked over the top of the paper, then he crumpled it and stuffed it deep in his pack. The lecture resumed and the sharpie idea had failed. The forgotten smell permeated his thoughts now and forced him to remember.

He remembered the sound of powdered ground under his feet, which was unusual because he had never thought about it before. His whole life had been on dry, dead, thirsty ground. He remembered the wind forcing his hair down into his eyes, and his terrible need of a haircut, but all of his shirts were dirty and he didn't want to be itchy for an entire weekend. Tommy hadn't come to school that morning, and Vincent had been en route to see him when there he was, a full two miles from his house. He was standing with his back to Vincent, and his head was bowed. Vincent altered his course to meet him but before he did Tommy took off around a corner. Vincent ran after him, but Tommy was fast when he wanted to be. Out of breath, Vincent decided to wait for him at his house. Actually, Tommy had beaten him there and was facing his house, propped up with his forehead against the peeling siding. Vincent approached him cautiously this time, but he was stoic. He lightly touched Tommy on the shoulder, and he at first stayed as he was, then whirled around and fell with his back smacking the building. In his hand he held a dead bird. It was small enough to fit in his palm, and its head was absent. Blood filled Tommy's left hand and was now forming a small bruise on the ground. Tears were streaming down his face as he struggled to speak.

"I-it was still a-a-live when I saw you, so I had to run. I couldn't do it with you there, I couldn't!" His head fell to his chest and he lifted both of his hands up to Vincent as if offering him the dead thing. He noticed that the missing bird's head had been in Tommy's right hand, its black eyes casting no glare from the sun. He was speechless. And he couldn't look away from those eyes. So gone. So empty.

"I had to do it!" he screamed at Vincent, "I had to!"
"Wh-"
"I had to!"
"But wh-"
"I HAD TO!" his head dropped again as the sun started to drop and the first of the moths began to appear around the lantern. No one said anything. Then:

"I had to be comfortable with death. It is my destiny. I am sorry for the bird, but I have to be okay with this."

---

Vincent spent that night with Tommy. They buried the bird where he had caught it, and Tommy washed his hands and the spot by his house before his parents came home. Tommy's room was panted the shade of navy that he felt was closest to the sky at night, and for his last birthday he had requested a skylight. He almost never spoke after the night fully came down around them, and just lay listening to the stars converse. Vincent's eyes were almost permanantly shut when Tommy said to no one in particular.

"I think I killed her."
"Killed who?"
"My sister."

If the world was a perfect place full of uncrushed violets and white wedding gowns, Tommy would have been the Womack's second child. As God willed it he wasn't. Stacy Womack came out of her mother's womb and onto this earth as cold as the waiting room her father paced around and around in.

"You didn't kill her."
"Yeah, I think I did."
"How could you?"
"I think she had to die so that I could go to shangri-la."
"That doesn't make sense."
"I think God asked her if she wouldn't mind and she died."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I hope I can make it and prove her right."
"What?"

It was the first time Vincent had ever heard Tommy express anything but certainty about his destiny, and also his last because when he turned his head Tommy was fast asleep and somewhere else.

-----chapter 3 under constuction-------

Wish #388

Maybe one day

I will get to see her eyes

Up close

Before I close mine

After Rose

Take a gun,
To the battlefield,
March for fun,
Show off that gun you wield,
Take a bow,
When you are good and healed,
And for those that aren't,
And those that won't,
I will write you rose after rose,
After rose.

Waveright

Who I am,
Can't see,
Can't hear,
Can't speak,
About anything,
With and degree of certainty,
Who I am,
Has no idea,
Of even my own thought patterns,
Distrusting,
Misleading me,
Hopeful,
Cursed under a ship while the waves rock,
The lightning,
Make me rise,
Clenched willpower,
Misleading me,
To believe I am strong,
I am strong,
To take on You,
In your own ship and crew,
I'm sure you wouldn't tell me that,
We are mapless and forlorn,
Spread about but do you,
Feel,
Anything?

I imagine it,
That,
You close,
Then swept away,
Apathy spiking drinks,
Secretes up through the earth,
Her own gift to ease man with his heavens,
His passions and loves,
Misleading me,
But it's easy,
It's so easy,
To believe in it,
That,
Her,
All spent on a park bench,
Can you stand it?
Can you swim?
With the earth,
The fireflies and judges,
To make right,
Everything,
Misleading me,
To null that,
It,
Me,
Me,
Me,
Please never me,
To sink ships with deceitful lighthouses.

The Cacti Won't Serve Me Tequila Part One

There are things that are worth it. There are people to die for, and there are moments that deserve the whole of one's effort. There are times when the scales don't balance out at all, and you just go with it. Screw scales. There are things that are right. There are things that are worth it.

---

Vincent was the first one to see the new Tommy Womack. Well, there is a slight possibility that Mrs. DeVae saw him on one of her frequent peeks out into the world of the living, but one of the downsides to being a recluse is the inability to tell anyone of any perculiar findings one may happen to lay eye on. And surely animals would have had to watch the child slowly making his was towards civilization, if only for the interest in a potential feast. It's a wonder he wasn't jumped by an especially bold Diamond Currant snake or even an impatient vulture. In fact, it would be a while before anyone even had the idea to ask him where he came from or what he came out of.

As things fell, Vincent was the first to lay eyes on the long lost prodigy of Cosavo. His jeans were blown almost entirely white from the sand his bare feet currently advanced upon, but they were about the only clothes Vincent knew. Some type of cloth was draped around his midsection, but it most certainly wasn't the cotton tee that all the Cosavo brawlers sported when it got "dog hot". Tommy was also completely bald, a less than understandable change from the unkept blonde locks he had previously sported from birth. His chest, still not fully through wrestling with the tail ends of puberty, shone with sweat like just about every other part of his exposed body. And he was marching. Not the military style, arms and legs straight march, but a flawless pace nonetheless, each step overtaking exactly the same amount of distance as the previous. If he kept up, he would walk right through a stop sign and then right through Vincent.

That was, if he kept up. It is imagineable that Tommy did not forsee Penelope Kepler screaming at the top of her 12 year old lungs and Mr. Benson shouting with his 58 year old pipes that the guru looked uncannily like that Womack boy what disappeared back then, and that Stevens should stop his sweepin for just a minute to come and see. Vincent followed the sound trail as it unfolded, all the time glancing back and finding Tommy just a few paces closer, until Stevens hoisted him up with one arm and ran back into his store with Tommy so limp over his shoulder he could have been paralyzed.

Confident that no one else would be wandering out of the abyss that morning, Vincent upped his pace so that he would just be late enough to miss all the names before his own on roll call.

I Bet You Know You Don't Know

She struts,
Alone in her room,
Back and forth,
Back and forth,
Around her twin bed,
Reeling,
At the future,
There's everything she can do,
About it.
She windowshops her dreams,
On a very crowded sidewalk,
Making it happen,
Trying it on,
Bullets don't phase,
This one,
Just One.
She is BEAUTIFUL,
And I struggle,
Hoping and not believing,
Of some weakness,
That would make her need me.
Dark hair,
Life's Eyes,
And here I shuffle,
Making sand castles on everyone's beaches.

(Dedicated to Fran for calling me up out of the blue and giving me a literal need to write something new)

Look At Me I'm So Brave!

So scared,
It was for nothing,
So scared,
It will all fall through,
So,
Scared,
It will never happen at all,
So Scared,
They were all kidding,
So scared,
The crazies aren't crazy,
So scared,
This isn't a tunnel,
So scared,
It will drag,
It will drag,
It will drag,
So scared,
And doing nothing to show it.

Round 12

Raise your hand if this weekend is throwing as many punche at you as it seems to be at me. Okay, now raise your hand if you deserve them as much as me. Sorry hands.

When I Dream

The impossible,
The irrational,
Love,
Comradery,
Destiny,
All dreamt in their own times,
So much brighter,
More guilded than what,
My eyes forsee,
But closed,
There is such a thing as hope,
A singular silhouette,
Projecting,
From a top I cannot see,
But the mound,
Man,
Slumped over himself and all history,
Look (Love) above!
Look on what has overcome!
All the years,
Centuries,
Of doubt and apathy,
Unlocked only when,
Separated from his kind,
Man drifts,
Fumbles for one of the ways,
To this creature,
Dreamer of all dreams,
Down off his mound,
(For he was formed of it)
Settled in a mammoth,
Unending observatory,
Double library,
With all the pages self-authored,
Here he tells me,
Enthralled of his life,
Takes me in,
Becoming a part,
A bird,
A pirate,
Anything imaginable,
And more,
For a time,
Before the books close,
The eyes open,
Mortal once more,
Living out the day,
Till next night,
Next unending,
Ever cherished,
Dream.

Is It Time?

Faltered,
The hesitant step,
Waiting too long,
The perfect,
Simplistic burden,
Of never giving up,
Blazing a path that isn't there,
Only seeing trees,
Tall evergreens,
Traced with falling snow,
Imagine her at the edge,
Imagine everything that keeps,
Falling,
Wanting to fall with,
Finally discovering what waits at the bottom,
Broods,
Over things dreamt in a deep sleep,
Is it time to wake up?
No, not quite yet,
Reflect,
Buried in the snow,
Nothing moves,
Speaks,
Listens,
But the sky,
Crying clean,
Growing old itself,
Thin,
Forever widowed from the earth,
The expanse,
We are doomed to inhabit,
None to low,
Nor high,
Why are we allowed to be,
Alone,
To that depth,
The Optimists are waning fast with the moon,
Is it time to wake up?

Ramblings #2

The little wisp,
Upturn of hair at the very end,
I fight with it,
Plead on mental knees,
But still it entrances,
Captivates,
Lures,
Me to a losing gamble,
I am a fool,
To be snared like this,
Foolish
Delirious boy,
Yet I sit,
Stand,
Float here,
With my knowledge,
Tending to it,
Like a windowsill fern,
With plenty of sunlight,
Bright and green and lush,
But for the wind,
Ever faithful,
Honest wind,
Will knock and shatter,
The little clay pot,
The wisp of hair,
And with my knowledge,
I wonder,
Doesn't the plant live on?

Amnesia

I have forgotten,
how complicated things are,
how hard it is to comprehend,
and how many things you could really be saying.
I am lacking,
that desire,
Need,
for fulfillment from others.
I have the sea,
the sounds of crashing waves,
hunting gulls,
blazing wind,
I have the feel of wet sand,
Sinking,
and the hard mountain rock.
I am, for lack,
simpler,
basic,
ecstatic,
at all I have to find,
and share,
if you will have it.

Update

Oh, and just in case anyone's wondering, the novel is NOT dead, on the contrary it has just been given a surge forward and the future seems promising! (as far as this level of writing goes of course) Unfortunately I don't plan on posting any of it so you'll have to AIM me for excerpts (all 4 people who read this, you know my AIM sillies.)
~bluez

Dropping the Ball

I love,
the failures that I find,
myself committing hourly,
daily,
annually.
they bring me closer to earth,
sinking my feet below the soil,
humbly cutting tender flesh,
on jagged rocks that have never seen,
light.
remember every mistake you committed,
when we made a decision,
firm resolution to get it right,
and we are,
getting it right,
right up to our necks in life,
choking on laughter,
breeds tears,
of experience.
I think I would like to succeed,
sometime.
now I'll play with the children,
outside accomplishments,
and wonder,
at everyone and everything,
all stars in the night sky.

Noor's Super Awesome Cloud Adventure

The following is dedicated to a fellow lover of love, liver of life, and dreamer of things far below what will be the least of her accomplishments:

This is a story,
The story.
Of a girl.
Noor.
Noor=girl.
In the middle of her sandwich,
When It called,
It
It
It called.
Time to go,
They all said "no!"
But It said "go!"

She went.

Above the sky,
She took care of the foster children there,
The stars and planets,
They were very appreciative,
Even the sun,
No longer the brightest,
Was content to foil this girl,
But It said "go!"

She went.

To the natural nature,
The green stuff,
Dirty Earth.
She put out forest fires,
Told the rest of the wildlife that in fact many people could prevent forest fires,
Revolutionizing the preservation effort,
But It said "go!"

She went.

"Under the Sea",
Gave that lobster to a Maine fisherman,
Then went under the Oceans,
Renewed the Great Barrier Reef,
Tamed the Stingray menace now friend,
But It said "go!"

She went.

To another world,
Would they like her?
Would there be a they?
There was.
A They.
They liked her and,
As before,
They loved her,
And she healed them too,
Without doing a thing,
But It said "go!"
She said "no!"
And the echo,
The chorus from behind,
Was unanimous.
All the love,
From two whole worlds,
Now lay focused onto this one girl,
Noor=girl.
She stopped listening to It,
It stopped asking,
It stopped.
Sans It.
And her wings,
Bright robin's egg blue wings,
Took her where she wanted,
To the Clouds
To the trusted,
Where there were no loud noises,
Only the sound,
That glorious sound,
Of muffins,
And their enjoyment.
And her,
And friends,
There.

~!Fin!~

Painting the Chief's Daughter

You with your ancient face,
Your artistic bent tightens your brow,
This is your element,
You are working.

And I am working,
Working this out with my eyes,
If I could paint I would paint you painting,
But God knew I could not cage birds.

You sit by the window every time,
Don't even sit but let the paint fill the stool,
And me my head rests on our old couch,
The one we willed up together when I said you really shouldn't.

I pour the last of the red wine for you,
Wrap my other hand around your waist,
Your skirt waves in the swift air,
Quietly you continue.

I love the Indian that shows in your skin,
Your mother's necklace and your sense of surrounding,
It's amazing we're together,
That the god of this world would accept that.

This one is done,
Your gentle release back to me is how I know,
I transfer the wine to your seasoned touch,
Watch the other birds on their wires.

Take up another canvas,
And I will return to my perch in the middle of the room,
You have so many ideas to get out,
So many lives to live through other means.

So.

What is this?

It's Kinda Chilly

It's so fucking cold. That is the main thought circulating around his head as he sits at the edge of the dock. He kicks his legs back and forth in an effort to keep warm, and the water has gone down too far to even worry about skimming it. He thinks about jumping down the side and walking along the newly exposed coast, but opts against it. Because it's so fucking cold. He studys the light of the moon on the water, but he never was sure what this kind of studying really entailed. He thinks he's studying the water. He wishes he could draw, but that is sadly filed under the emmense list of things he cannot do. But he has a good memory, and feels that he could recall the water quite vividly for at least a month, so he doesn't feel so bad for not being able to draw. He lays back to study the stars, and wonders what he's going to do this weekend. Adolescence is always a 5 day struggle for a 2 day pass to a fair where half the rides aren't half as impressive as the flyer hinted. But still he hopes he has something fun to do. If it were warmer he would just sleep where he was, but it's so fucking cold he thinks he should get inside while he still can. He staggers up and heads back in, taking in the night one last time. There are times when it's good to be alone. It makes him feel younger, more childlike. But as old as he was, and as old as he would get, there were things waiting to be worried about, and he would get to them. But it's so fucking cold tonight, he needs the warmth in ignoring the unimportant things.

Needy Aren't We?

I hope eventually I'm needed,
Required in even a minimal capacity,
I think that is the single greatest thing someone can be,
But maybe that's only because I haven't been yet.

I don't know how many of you I need,
I don't count because it makes me feel weak,
Knowing I depend on so much,
(it doesn't go well with the loner mentality.)

I don't know if I'm all that excited for Heaven,
What could you possibly dream for there?
And I think I hold too much onto all those lives,
I have lived so much more outside of this.

So what does that make me here?
I guess that explains the innate isolation,
But I really do want to help,
I really do love.

You.

And I always have.

It sounded more ironic in my head

This past week I have felt so worthless it verges on being written in the skyline of my mind by one of those planes normally used for cropdusting but hired for skywriting by some engaged suitor. And yet I still love every single one of you, in that pseudo-chivalrous, die-for-you kind of way. So at the heart at least there's that.

The Day

He slept more and more as the days drew on. He stopped shaving, convinced that he would just grow a beard, but then failed to keep that in check. He lost interest in picking up anything that happened to give way and slip in his apartment, and enjoyed the feeling of his bare feet grazing over empty carpet, like following a path to the frontier still not fully broken in. He was aware of all of this, it felt like he was aware of everything. He would stand for hours in front of his bathroom mirror, for some reason feeling a blurred sort of peace. Perhaps he was most detached there, he didn't know. Something was wrong, but he was unable even to postulate what. He ate when he was hungry, and worked his hours to pay his bills. But, in front of that mirror, he felt so much like giving up. Like if he closed his eyes one more time he would disappear back into himself. It wasn't that this thought comforted him, it terrified him. But at the same time there was this overriding sense of inevitability. And the day never came. He thought the fates were procrastinating, and wished he could somehow do what came next himself. Instead he slept, dreaming a whole new world. He would wake up and find a rough sketch from his dream the night before made in the dust on his window beside his mattress. A sky with no moon, men with wheels and wings, mountains turned upside down. Soon he began drawing when he was awake, on the fog on his mirror, on his one table, even in the dust on top of his ceiling fan. And then, almost catching him off guard, the day came. Later his sister would come to visit. She would knock, and then let herself into a world of replication, copies of somewhere else etched on every surface. And the only thing in the mirror would be a circle. Complete.

Counting Sheep?

He has no idea what she's thinking. He never has any idea what she's thinking. He hopes she's happy, but who's to say. But he's optimistic. If she wasn't happy, she'd leave, right? Right? He hates hidden meanings. For a brief second he imagines a word without etiquette, without formalities no one really means and without so much personal second guessing. Then the pain in his leg brings him back to reality. He lays back and looks up at the growing number of stars, like schoolchildren arriving for some cosmic rehearsal for an amatuer play. Really there's nothing amateur about the universe, but childish still comes to mind when he thinks of the big picture, in an ironic sort of tone in his head, portrayed by a simple smirk and glint in his eye. He hopes she doesn't see either, because he has moments of broken English around her and her alone, and would fail to explain his actual thoughts. Then he would have to take on, anecdotally, when he tied his tongue that he knew he would, and had been thinking he would, and had been thinking that he was thinking that he was, and his mind drowns itself in some apathetic white flag spiral. But she hasn't asked, so he thinks he's in the clear. He lets his head roll over to her side, and is filled with new thoughts, like being stabbed with a hypo full of carebears. He loves everything about her, and searches frantically for something wrong. Something faulty. And he is disappointed. Because now he is almost sure this is another dream, allbeit a vivid one. Her head mimicks his from a few seconds back and her eyes magically cushion his entire body to where he just doesn't give a fuck. If this is a dream, he's going to give a nice bonus to the awkward new trainee he bought the mattress from. He slides an arm around her, looks back at the stars, and settles in for what promises to be a fantastic show.

He would pinch himself with his free hand but he's still not sure.

(Author's Note: that was fun.)

No One Can Really Say For Sure

Say give up,
Say leave to chance,
Say there's no way of knowing,
And say you see no point,

But don't ever say you're right,
When you have no idea what you're saying,
Or what she's up against every minute,
How little I feel I'm doing.

So I will do more,
And the tides will rise higher,
Even join and stand on my shoulders,
Higher still.

It keeps you up at night,
And makes the day a travesty,
All that swells in-up-out of your head,
Lead balloons if they could burst.

But it is not the end,
Thanksgiving thank your God for hope,
In the passing of the hour,
And any relief we can find.

We won't beat this,
I'll agree with you on that,
But grant me this point,
It's one hell of a fight.

The Upheaval

The evil settled back and waited for a response. His was almost instinctive, as if merely witnessing the scene dictated his actions. He reached down and took up his sword, and saw another hand wrap around an axe. He retrieved his bow, and he his mace. Even the priest came forward and took the small wooden crucifix swaying from a hilt. But not all the men had taken back their belongings. Some had grabbed their dagger or halberd and escaped back along the path to the east. Others crossed their arms in front of the pile, rebuking those who had taken. After it was clear no other ally would be gained, as if of collective mind, those willing made for the north. The evil receded out of sight in the same direction, and the moon made clear the path they would take. Even the geography of the terrain seemed to point to some culminating point, in no way of benevolent nature. The men knew they would not come back from this, the evil had made that very clear and proved it so. But still none of them so much as looked back at the others yelling for their senses to return to them. Step after step, they neared a confrontation. And they began to sing.

Enough shit people. Move.

A Nice Afternoon

The other day I went on a hike. It started at the top and we ran down to the bottom before struggling back up. I can freely admit it was a bit more than I'd expected, but by no means out of any amateur's league. A lot of people when they got back complained and shook their heads, but I wish they would bite their tongues. I guess it's different for everyone, but I enjoyed sliding on all the broken leaves, forgoing the necessities of a steady base or anything really built for safety because I felt like I was running to something. To something and for it. Like I was inexplicably drawn to something at the bottom, and ran with reckless abandon towards it. Of course there was no such thing when I got there, no special prize, no magic waiting. But I got a nice view of a waterfall, and started back up still feeling that pull, only now back up. Passing all the people I know leaning against trees to catch their breath, I drug myself back up the bluff and again found nothing new. Same life. Same me. But as I caught my breath on the rock wall, looking out at all the other mountains, the draw resurfaced. Although I haven't gone on any more hikes since then, I still feel that draw as clear as ever. For something waiting, something worth it. And it always feels so close.

But that's just me.

Stragglers

I'm running your mountain,
Your steep inclination,
Losing grip in these shoes,
And it's wearing me ragged,
Keep pushing up (go we believe in you now go),
But I'm starting to breathe too hard,
No one's mapped out this far,
Blinded and shaking,
Older newborns still looking for someone,
At the top to save them from falling back,
Can't do it alone they know better than most,
But we are all running solitary,
Bite like wolves differing packs,
Win the race you don't understand,
Muscles flexing strands snap and reform,
Sweating,
Panting,
Faster.

And I am losing.

Update

Lately my life has consisted of two main thoughts:



Clutch her

No don't.

Elementary Schooling

If I had anything worthwhile at the end,
It would be a sense of understanding,
At how contrite we all really are,
(I've been jumping to use that word)

At how something can burst and still be there,
Looking around for the invisible shards of itself,
Believing in all aspects that there are some things you can't survive,
Some things that bound you.

At the beauty of a screened door,
As the fog is surrending the day,
With beads of light collecting in individual squares,
So you find another way outside.

And her smile,
And that fire,
And nothing else,
That is belief.

I've changed my mind at the end of it all,
I want a house,
In between hills,
With a view of the coast,

And someone to tell me it's real.

Concessions

She was right. I give myself away too.

I Am The Walrus

I think if reincarnation was real, I would come back as a sea lion.

Selfish

Come sit here with me on your aunt's old couch,
I feel like coveting you for today,
Rest here in the shaft of light succeeding above the neighbor highrise,
I feel like coveting you today.

You make me smirk you angel you,
Are your shoes dry yet?
I'm dying and I've never been so healthy,
Are your shoes dry yet?

I'm going to sell my car tomorrow,
For two tickets to France,
I'm not a fan but I know you want to go,
I'm not a fan but you know I love their shows.

You know you're right on cobblestone,
You know you're right when your all alone,
It's my maniac I crave,
I am so right.

Double check my math.

It works itself out,
Because that's how it's supposed to be,
That's not supposed to happen to me,
Yours Truly.

So just sit here,
And let me covet you today.

Career Test

It's involuntary,
The leap,
The growing pearly whites,
At my stockpile,
Of shit,
Priceless,
The night with no clouds,
Honesty shines on my furrowed brow,
Instinct intensive,
I'll find what to do here,
I'll find the word,

I swear.

Time.

Both energies,
And all the luck in the world.

I'm going to explain your eye first,
That should be a good life goal.

Can't Make No Shrines

Almost involuntarily I slow and then stop. She had already pulled ahead of me and apparently not noticed my pause because she was still sprinting ahead. I clinched my toes into the wet grass, digging them in and feeling the earth. To my right the fog was rolling in, gasps of white coveting my knees. Faint glimpses from car headlights penetrated the thick air far off to the left, but they are a million miles away.

And I am here.

I feel my eyes roll back into my head. I close them off from everything I'm seeing and focus them back inside. I let some of that fog in to mix around the other memories I keep here. Around the broken training wheels from the bike I tried to run away on. Around a toothpick that held an h'orderve from Sam's funeral, which was later redeposited in the bathroom sink of the funeral home. Around a small clump of confetti from the New Year's Eve Party where I first saw her.

I pull back out of my sanctuary and see that she has by now begun walking back to me. I smile seeing the concern on her face and pick up a jog to meet her. Not slowing down I engulf her in my shivering arms. We spin awkwardly around one and a half times. I counted. Then I take hold of both sides of her face and plant one. I want to apologize for how cold my hands must be, but for obvious reasons can't. I want to do a lot of things. But then, for just that one instant, I wanted to cry, but she would be concerned again.

I wanted to cry because my world had successfully been ravished with ease and childish formality.

Quotes

Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion.
-Hegel

Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.

We forfeit three-fourths of ourselves to be like other people.
-Schopenhauer (both)

All I know is I'm not a Marxist.
-Karl Marx

Attention

Attention lovers, I am writing a novel.

I Can't Help Picturing It

I hate how how one amazing song,
Which used to somehow transmit all of what I wanted,
Now refuses to bring about any thoughts,
Except that day in the mountains.

I am hoping it is just from the recency,
The sun receding to sleep like I knew I wouldn't,
The mountains never said a thing but made the most,
Vivid impression I've had in a while.

I took it all in near the end,
And maybe I shouldn't have done that,
Now I remember exactly where I was,
Staring into a buck's eyes as if to query am I meant for this?

I really did think you were asleep,
And I was engulfed by some great emotion,
Letting myself admit that maybe you had a good time,
And maybe you were happy there beside me.

I actually stopped as I was craving my bed the other night,
Hearing the wind through the crack in my front door,
I stepped out and never noticed,
How real the stars are from my own house.

I think my only qualm is with myself,
In the indecision this has put me in,
The turbulance-ridden mindset I reside under,
And I still can't find a word for you.

As much as this rings in my ears constantly,
I always put on this very song,
And I don't want to say if that means something,
Or if there's something to mean.

Still so scared.

Yea

I really should help people more.
And I just popped my knee.

Incredible Song

Ok I just had to post the lyrics to this amazing Sufjan Stevens song:

Casimir Pulaski Day

Goldenrod and the 4H stone,
The things I brought you when I found out,
You had cancer of the bone.

Your father cried on the telephone,
And he drove his car into the navy yard,
Just to prove that he was sorry.

In the morning through the window shade,
When the light pressed up against your shoulderblade,
I could see what you were reading.

All the glory that the Lord has made,
And the complications you could do without,
When I kissed you on the mouth.

Tuesday Night at the Bible study,
We lift our hands and pray over your body,
But nothing ever happens.

I remember at Michael's house,
In the living room when you kissed my neck,
And I almost touched your blouse.

In the morning at the top of the stairs,
When your father found out what we did that night,
And you told me you were scared.

Oh the glory when you ran outside,
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied,
And you told me not to follow you.

Sunday night when I cleaned the house,
I find the card where you wrote it out,
With the pictures of your mother.

On the floor at the great divide,
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied,
I am crying in the bathroom.

In the morning when you finally go,
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low,
And the cardinal hits the window.

In the morning in the winter shade,
On the first of March on the holiday,
I thought I saw you breathing.

All the glory that the Lord has made,
And the complications when I see His face,
In the morning in the window.

All the glory when He took our place,
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face,
and He takes and He takes and He takes.

~love~

Past

When I think of where I've live,
I don't miss it because I know I can't go back.

But I remember it.

I Have Ceased to be Capable of Coherent Thought

I think I am at my best here,
Watching the million tiny peaks float along,
This is my dock, my lake, my life,
I owe so very much.

It should be so lonely being the only one out here,
But I feel so many around somewhere,
The wind is starting to bit and this jacket isn't much help,
Still not much could make me move.

If you were here,
I'd probably be better at explaining this,
I'll bring you someday if you care,
And show you were I am in love.

God it's embarrassing how much I drift to you,
Your smile when it's completely honest,
And the catch I feel when I get the details straight in my head.

I forgot there were wind chimes here,
Rusted like most of the leaves now,
And I will suffer the breeze still,
Because it makes such beautiful music.

I am so insecure off these rotted planks,
Even of these very words,
But I'm starting not to care,
Can you commend me for that?

I'm still after the same old same old,
That one feeling I can't pen,
Catching glimpses so far apart,
Unforgetably framed and eternally sought.

Please, Please Forgive!
I know I am only rambling,
And I apologize for taking your time,
You really do have to just be here.

Could I tell you to your face?
How you stop everything,
Or have you heard it so much that it can't be true,
No matter how true it is.

I'm laughing at the fish,
Pen in my mouth like a pipe,
And thinking how much I want to sleep out here,
And see what dream that brings.

When I laugh at nothing,
It's because I'm scared as hell,
More than any politics could do,
You shake my heart.

I wish I could help more people,
And stop at least some of the unnecessary shit,
That goes on in the back of our minds,
Maybe I'll take up banjo.

The wind's up to cresting waves,
And the geese are floating in,
I'll take it as the right time to stop this one,
But I'm still not moving.

Red Cricket Ball

Unpacking I find,
That red cricket ball,
Scars digging in on all sides,
The lace beginning to come undone.
Just holding it right,
Catching the scent of that field,
I remember where every cloud was in the sky,
And every word that was said.
So important and yet so small,
So much was said in that red cricket ball,
Now it serves to punctuate those events,
Empathetic as it rests in my hand.
I toss it up for good measure,
Thinking of all the distance it's traveled,
All the hands it's seen,
And all the time that's passed.
I know when I'm lonely I'll return,
To this red cricket ball,
With it they almost seem real again,
And it doesn't hurt as much.

Trabajar

It is my delegated post to harness,
These endless unshapen thoughts and makings of dreams,
To carve them clean and give them shape,
To manifest whatever floats in those yearning.

For I am the Writer,
Allbeit not a good one is true,
But as such I must transmit,
That which is before only felt now real to you.

Full Circle

One of these days I will fade for good,
And then I can finally return to that summer home,
With all my friends and none of my baggage,
Will I even be able to speak on that day?

Sit down with a cranberry and orange muffin,
And wait for Emma Watson to come back around,
Or run out in the neverending downpour,
For some water-fight soccer action.

The alleys cry out every memory,
Every joke and every change,
Everything I could ever want and so do,
So much contained in that aging stone.

Everyone will be there when I come up that road,
Life will come complete and it will be my chosen Heaven,
I want to hear every one of your lives right away,
Right back on those steps I will finally be at the right home.

**Special thanks to Liam-No one could replace you Wingman, Cody-my capitalist Goose I will go get you those chips soon, Alyssa- you're one in a million, and that's not just cus of the scrabble obsession, Skye- I promise never to complain if you snag some of my chips ever again, Noor- I'm not sure I've ever met anyone so full of life or ever will again, Sara(h)- I took the "h" back (zombie victory!), Tosh- my little wcheeeee you're too special, Carolyn- dorkette you were a dream come true, Sheru- mellow really is the best life man, Michael Wong- MICHAEL WONG!!!, Geoff- you make me want to go to Canada (never before accomplished by mere mortal), Jaimie- the only one to most distance herself from the power of words to describe I can only say incredible, Anna- Brazilian will we ever understand each other's sarcasm?, Reva- How hard it was to walk you through that airport you will never know, Nick- cheese dick homo budd I shoulda taken that walk with you, Josey- you're on the phone right now aren't you?, entire S&D class- P.O.I. we kick ass, and HERE COMES THE LIST!!!

THE STEPS, Staircase IV Entrance, Pembroke Quad, Chef's Corner, Coffee Republic, G&D's, PIAZZA, Borders, Waterstones, University Park, Ben's Cookies, The Mitre, Christ Church Meadows, Sainsbury's, and OXFORD!!!

I know this thing doesn't do a shred of justice to you guys. I know I forgot so many people and so many places, so just ask me and of course I'll add you, but I just thought I had to write something about Oxford or I was going to explode. So there you go. I love all of you. -Tyler**

Open Eyes

I close my eyes to picture it in sleep,
Someday when the leaves are falling,
She'll smile and no words will be said,
And the fingers will subtly lace.

Never anything so simple,
Never anything so quaint,
As the neat tip of her nose,
The radiant smile set upon her face,

I pray to God we don't have much,
Just an apartment and some laughs,
My universe really was made for two,
Everyone else a beautiful background music,

I refuse to wake up from it this time!
From what I'm so unsure of fulfillment,
On darkening knees I will not give this up,
I will fight for the illusion if that is what I have,

But the sun knows me better,
And the seasons are coming right,
For my eyes to be open,
And the same real to play through.

Purple Glasses

I have taken off my purple glasses,
The world is not cool enough now,
But that part of my night is over,
I can never go back,
To my purple glasses.

Similarities

At the core of all men is one long, continuous shout.

I am joining in that at the moment.

Viva.

The Royalty

Clear steps on a marble floor,
Statues from both sides stare me down,
Time escapes me but I know this is the end,
Ornamented doors ahead beg no invitation.

Where the hell are we anyway?
I don't like the shadow I am casting,
Dark and menacing it follows,
Marching with me to some final showdown.

I've been talking in my sleep,
Conversing with nocturnal demons,
Sacrificing up the last few drops of endurance,
I had managed to retain all this time.

I can't look at you with the same ease,
And I'm guaranteed to misread all your actions,
But there is no way to strip the importance off this,
My pride simply won't allow it.

We are sophisticated killers you and I,
And I hope I'm losing my touch,
The nights alone are hell to me,
And your glances are getting to be too much.

Put on something sexy and we'll dance this bitch out,
It's last call and my shadow's long gone,
We are the rulers of this deserted stronghold,
And this my candlelight courtship.

(phrase "dance this bitch out" credited to Megan Mooney=hilarious)

On a Request...

I have been most kindly commanded to give a little background on Jennifer Quell (look, I've already told you something new!). She is one of the few people to truly have a unique life literally from birth, since her father insisted that before they even wrapped a blanket around the screaming newborn, she had to be see the world through the retro glasses worn by the infamous Mickey from Natural Born Killers. Not the actual pair used of course, but replicas her father snagged as a promo way back when the film premiered. You could almost say she always had her own special tint of the world from that point on. After the trip home from the hospital, Jen was introduced to a snug 1-level house on the West Coast. Her childhood consisted mainly of childish things, except she would never, ever play with dolls.

"They're just such a poor representation of humanity," she told Tucker on the one occasion that she ever mentioned anything about her past to him. "I mean, they're supposed to be this model of a human, but they're so still. So dead. And people just aren't like that. Not real people at least; people who are actually awake."

She never used the term "alive" when referring to her "real" people, it was always awake. Tucker remembered the shock in her face when he showed signs of confusion as to how someone could be asleep all the time but alive. "Oh, you could sleep through your entire life if you wanted to. Well, I guess really you either do or don't from the start, but you can wake up in life. But it's rare. And I've never met anyone who was awake and then went to sleep."

He had laughed at that, because it was said just as he was yawning. He also remember what happened next quite well.

She had jumped up with no discernable reason or purpose, and started dancing. Not a fancy dance or even a party dance. In fact, Tucker couldn't tell if she had any technical involvement in it besides spinning in circles. He remembered bursting out laughing, then trying to mute himself. She stopped to face him, seemingly more from his concealment than the laughter. He had instinctively appologized.

"I'm not embarrassed. It feels like there is someone else doing this same thing somewhere else right now. It's a way to connect."


Author's Note: I feel as if I may have failed in my task of deciphering more about her, but I think this last bit summarized Jennifer as best I can at the moment. Yes I know it ties in with the other story, but I think that may mean that Jennifer is something bigger in my head than I first thought. As it is for now though, Jennifer is a simple thing:

Jennifer is a dance.

Abyss Proves God

I have been assured that we were made in some God's image,
Someone generous enough to darken our minds,
To add an abyss for us to peer down into,
And an endless sky with a changing moon.

It is to this that we were called,
And it is to this adventure I am a slave!
One who stops under shade trees,
to journal of his various experiences.

Of a man who never quite touched the ground and one day drifted off,
Of a woman bound to the storm she carried and those she snared,
Of the hell and the tightrope hope above it,
And of the hill at the end of it all (for this one).

Of course this last is still in the distance,
And this traveler has much to write!
What can one see through other windows?
And what can surprise will surely be worth noting!

Everything has past me yes,
And oh God! I thank you for them!
As is Everything before us,
And I would much love the company.

Just A Thought...

It has been my experience that in my short and ignorant life thus far, the worst thing one can discover is that nothing has changed.

Likewise Part 3 of 3

The large man had been gracious enough to let Tucker take the day off. In truth he was more than happy to do so, but Tucker still thought it a kind gesture. They got into a taxi and Tucker directed the man to his apartment. But everytime he would look over at her, he would be back in his car, driving her places because she had wrecked when racing a boy to prove that girls could race too.

He lived on the second floor, and fumbled with the keys unlocking the door. He opened it to his old room where he grew up. There was only a bed, a bookcase, and a desk buried in crumpled wads of paper, all containing various attempts to tell her how he felt. He blinked and it was his apartment again. Robotically he walked to the couch and sat with a thud. At last his body seemed to give under the pressure. She sat placidly opposite him in a chair, hands folded in her lap. Still those green eyes penetrated him.

"Jennifer, " he said, and there was some power in it, as if validating her existance.
"No one calls me that. You know it's always been Jen," she said playfully.
"I...I don't know what to say, " Tucker stammered out.

That was a lie. He knew exactly what he wanted to say. He wanted to say how he loved her, lover her back then and still loved her now, and how he hadn't forgotten a thing.

"I always knew you did, " she said. His breath caught. His own mind had betrayed him!

She got up and sat back down beside him, facing him. The only other time they had been this close and alone was when he gave her the lighter. He had kissed her then.

And he kissed her now.
Back then he figured she had just played it off to the moment. This time he didn't care, and would make up an explanation and convince himself of it later.

With unimaginable strength he pulled back. For the first time he spoke directly to those green eyes. "Is this what I've been waiting for?"


She smiled just like she did when two versions of the same soul first saw each other.

Likewise Part 2 of 3

He was stocking when she came back.

"Do you have Cat's Cradle by any chance?" asked a female voice. He was down on one knee filling up the next-to bottom shelf and didn't turn around immediately. "It's by........by........"

"Vonnegut," he said as he stood up and turned around at the same time.

Suddenly he was 16 again at a local football game. He didn't really care about football, but his friends had practically dragged him to it, and now he was thirsty. Musing over how many other drinks he could have had elsewhere for the price of the one in his hand, he was walking back to his seat when he saw her. He thought she had black hair at first, but would find out that it was just a very dark brown. And green eyes. Green eyes that stopped you. Just like they were doing to him now. Someone bumped his shoulder and muttered a swear word. She was wearing a short jean jacket, with what had to be fake fur around the edges and cuffs, because later she would tell him how she hated to see any animal hurt. She was standing still too, and looking at him. After all these years, he never forgot the way she first smiled.

"Yes! Vonnegut!" She smiled the same way. Tucker blinked a few times before becoming fully present in the moment again. He didn't want her not to remember him. Frantically his mind searched for some key event, some pivotal point in time that would bring it all back to her. He thought of the last night before she went off to college. He still had another year before he went, and they weren't even going to the same school. They had both ditched a farewell party and had driven out to the highway. They parked in the median, and were laying in the grass listening to the cars pass on both sides. He had given her a lighter, not because she smoked (he knew she despised even the idea) but because...

"Fire is always so alive and so bright, and that is how I'll always remember you."

He stood there trying to read some kind of response in those green eyes, but could draw nothing. Then her hand slowly reached into one tight front pocket, and pulled out a lighter with a lion carved into one side. She had always said she wanted to be a lion when she was a kid. Now her green eyes were searching him.

"Tucker?"

***

Likewise Part 1 of 3

Bookstores aren't that bad.
You have plenty of time to think,
and plenty of time to read other people's thoughts.

At least that's what he thought about it. The large man behind him who signed his check every thursday had trouble accepting that.

"Listen Tuck all I'm saying is that you need to get out more. Hell, even if it's just to another bookstore, go somewhere besides here and the laundry mat. " The large man's brows twisted with concern as his fingers traced his suspenders. Tucker put down a copy of American Gods and went into the back room. A minute later he reappeared with his jacket slung over his back and another book in his hand.

"Then I guess I'll read at home," he said with childish ease as he walked to the door. The old man's expression relaxed to a helpless frown.

"Don't you have any friends to go out with? Or a girlfriend?"
"I have a few friends, yes, but none anywhere close. And I could never have a girlfriend. " This last came out with an almost matter-of-fact tone, as if the large man should've known this already.

"And just why not?"
As he reached the door, Tucker turned his head to answer. "Because the only girl I ever loved is still somewhere out there and I still love her. Should I abandon that just because I haven't any reason to believe I will ever see her again?"

He pushed down on the black bar to release the latch. The large man sat down where Tucker had been reading.
"Well, pick up some red wine on your way home! A book is always better with some wine." He settled back and closed his eyes as the door swung back into place with a Clack!

* * *

All We Can Do

We can only hope,
That the stars remain at respective distances,
Blending us into a forest of fireflies,
We are all blinking our lights.

We can only hope,
That the oceans will stay to their tides,
To be content with their mysteries,
And not let jealousy make a new Atlantis,

We can only hope,
That fire will always burn,
Warming our hands and likewise our hearts,
The caveman froze because he was quite lonely.

We can only hope,
That man will never get better,
Sick minds conceive mental utopias,
With room for one and a great view of a microwavable future.

We can only hope,
That Importance will never matter,
That we will still enjoy being idiots,
And never murder childhood.

We can only hope,
That you will never read what I just spelled out,
And realize how fragile this world really is,
And how much I am hanging on these words.

Rain Makes People Think Too Much

"I don't think they have natural causes right."

A belch of thunder rolled over the car as she spoke, as if to announce that it was interested in death too, but I kept driving.

"How so?"
"I just don't think that people die because their hearts or lungs or livers give out on them."
"Well, what do you think happens when you just up and quit?"
"Yes! That's it!"
I jerked the wheel right then quickly back when she twisted around in her seat to face me.
"Quit! That's what I've been trying to work with. See, my theory goes like this: we don't die because of disease this or problem that. We die because we have too many memories. Too many times and people we can never get back to, and it just gets to the point when you know where you've been is better than anywhere you're going. "

"Then you don't believe in Heaven?"
"Kind of, but not the God one. When you die, I think you go back and live in all those best memories. At least that's the only thing I think you can really call Heaven." At this last point she seemed to go back to her mental musings and rested her head back on the car window.
I took my eyes off what I assumed was still a road in front of me (the rain had by now increased to a thick sheet cascading down the windshield) and looked over at Harper. Most people close their eyes when in the position she was, but her dark blue eyes seemed intensely focused on every raindrop, guiding it up until where it shattered on the glass. For a moment her eyes seemed to match the grey in the sky, like trying to learn it, then they were blue again. Her dark brown hair seemed to somehow be a violater of the nature of the time in and of itself. Just her whole being, just...

I focused back on the road.
Why was I analyzing this girl I had known for so long? I had wondered before if I loved Harper, but always dismissed it. She was too much life for any one person to be that close to her, least of all me.

"Pull over."
"What?"
"Pull over."
I looked around to see if the weather was suddenly a beautiful spring day, but if anything it was raining harder. "What the hell for?"
All I got was another 'Pull over.' With incredible luck I managed to slide off the road and get stopped. Harper unlocked her door, stepped gingerly outside, and (should've known) started to dance. Not some elegant ballroom dance, or even just a party dance. Basically, it consisted of little more than spinning in circles. I had already gotten out of the car, and was soaked through my jacket before I came back to my senses. The feeling of 'What the hell' engulfed me and I found myself doing the same thing. After only three minutes or so I had completely lost all sense of direction and was trying to stop when I ran into Harper. And by ran into I mean she crashed into my arms. It was at this point that I found myself as close to those eyes as I ever had been.

Son of a bitch.

Instinctively one hand brushed the hair out of her eyes, and the next instant our lips met. Wet, dizzy, and mindblown, I stayed like that for eternity. When eternity was over, she stepped back a few feet and resumed her dance.
"Hey, Harp," I said, standing plainly with the rain still falling in every direction.
"Yes?"
"This is one of those things I'm going to die because of, isn't it?"
"Yep."

And so I kept dancing.

Live.

LiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLiveLive.

Live.

The Road To Hell

The dry land stretched out before us. As the old V-6 engine turned over and over, I tried to keep some kind of beat between it and my foot, then gave up after trying to incorporate my index finger on the side of the door. My eyes slowly rolled over to Drew, who at some point had slipped on his sunglasses. They were those big, black, Cool Hand Luke aviator glasses. They transformed his face into a perfectly still picture except for the reflection of the passing mile-markers in the lenses. I thought someone should make a bust out of that face.

"Want me to drive for a while?" I offered, "with those glasses I can't even tell if you're awake or not."
Drew remained static for a few more seconds.

"Bangs."

An indecipherable noise ejected itself out of my mouth to express my utter confusion.
"What?"
"The most attractive thing a girl can have. Bangs." He clarified.
I thought about Sloan. She had bangs, but I had never really attributed any great attractive power to them.
"Really? I always thought you didn't even look at their face."

I make terrible jokes on long trips.

Dave dismissed this with a quick grunt.
"No, definitely bangs. Think about it."

I tried, but I couldn't stop watching the reflections passing in his glasses.
"I give up."
"Bangs cover part of a girl's face. They hide something. But they accentuate something at the same time. By covering one eye, it makes you focus more on the other one. And if that one eye is so breathtaking, so encapsulating, so telling of everything, then, well, two of them..." He took his hands off the wheel to give the universal sign for 'what can you do?'

"But...doesn't that mean the eyes are the attractive thing?"
"Key word attractive. Bang's draw you in. Eyes keep you there forever."
"If they're good."
"If they're good."

As the city began to bloom before my eyes, and its dark alter-ego in Drew's aviators, I sat back and thought of how pretty Sloan's eyes were.

Hurry Up And Be Winter 2

(I just did this spurred by the title of the last one right after I wrote it, so forgive any increased difficulty in holding down food than is normal. k thx.)

Leaves fall and trees wither!
No I am not a fan of the death,
But rather the life these things signify,
The rebirth of the darker romantics!

We've all moved to the north now,
In apartments that badly need painting,
Near 24-hour grocery stores,
And weather perfect for our leather jackets.

We give the world away every night,
And always find it returned in the morning,
Do you know how much we get out with only a sigh?
We expulse the riches of kings!

But you can be sure we're faithful,
The nice guy last and always the saints,
Slipped your mind and never near your heart,
And what a joy that is to consider!

To crash and burn and fix and build,
The Phoenix is no myth after all,
It is us who will go down as new legends,
The faithful who carry on that essential hope.

So quick to the hunt for it is such a short season!
Hit the floor right alongside that first speck of snow,
Make hast for we are living and not yet so dead,
I am already out the door.

Hurry Up And Be Winter

Come outside with me,
It's snowing but you can have my jacket,
The lining's warm and I can't stand it here,
And I think I need the company right now.

Something white to replace all this red,
The burning of ash and smoke rising from their very souls,
Both our drinks were never half-full to begin with,
And I'm starting to laugh for different reasons.

Let's make cookie-cutter angels on the ground,
The silence will come and then I'll steal a kiss,
Play mind games with myself for the next half-hour over some coffee,
Give up and plung in as always,
(I'm so weak when it comes to this.)

Tonight you smell of cinnamon,
With orchestral eyes directing this amateur play,
Give me the cues and I'll do my best,
My best My best My best is enough!

Now I'm such a gentleman for walking you home,
Fleeting talk leads to the fleeting kiss,
Oh how I want to be buried on the way home!
Frozen right here on the sidewalk.

Not to bed but by my window is where I fall,
Some red wine and a sunrise to see me off,
My mind is calling in sick today,
It wasn't doing much work anyway.

Salvation

John watched the fan as it spun slowly in the silent room. Eventually he faced his fears and looked back. She was still alive and the gun barrel was still rubbing against her forehead, much to his dismay.

You knew it was still like that, idiot. No gunshot remember?

Regardless he averted his gaze again, this time to the old man near the furthest in the far corner. He seemed to be staring at the electrical outlet to his left, and John tried to do the same. The man with the gun suddenly spoke up.

"Boy, I told you I want you to watch this and understand."

John looked the soon-to-be killer in the eyes and immediately lost whatever comfort he had been trying to find in other things around the room. They showed no hesitance.

"I said I need you to see this, boy."
"Don't...do it," was all John could manage. Someone's life held in the balance and all he could articulate was the basis of an opposition.

"You don't understand...yet. But I have to do it." Was the smooth reply.
"Why?" he got out quickly, surprising even himself at the effeciency.

"Because it's god's will." chimed again the cool response.
This time John built upon the confidence of his last outpour. "Why is it necessary to kill someone?"
The priest looked him square in the eye as if it was the stupidest question that he had ever heard.
"Why...so they can go to Heaven, of course."

The mention of Heaven seemed to trigger a complete remake of who John took this man to be. He saw that he was not dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but rather a robe and with crucifix on a long chang slung around his neck. While John was gathering all this again, the man interpreted this as a need for explanation.

"I have to do this, because if I don't I can never be sure that they go to Heaven. See, I have already heard this woman call out to God when I threatened her life, and she is trusting in Him as we speak. If I let her live, that faith could slip, and I must win as many for the Kingdom as I can. So now do you see why I must do this?"

John was thinking of his response when the shot echoed.

The Races

Off to the races I quickly fall behind,
So many people are chasing this prize,
To wish that I could be more fit for this competition,
Is to cheat in the space race,
I have been given what I run with,
And that is all I will use,
I find the people in front of me lacking,
But that does not make them fall behind now does it?
What's playing out is how it's supposed to be,
And I will place as I should,
The finish line is decided by you,
And no one argues with the judge,
So bring on the verdict and I'll humbly bow,
Cus I've run my portion and can do no more for now.

Restless

I have too many desires I know,
But if that changed I would lose the good self,
Because I am made too much for the future,
Too fragile for the stakes which I am risking,
For something neither possible nor practical,
Mixed with fire and a shade of the amber glass,
But still it is not complete.
The whole scene drained without that essential componant,
The one who does to your heart what no scientist can accept,
And still deny the existance of God.
And yes this is too much to ask,
This is not my chosen blessing,
But still I desire,
And so still I am restless.

Responses

If I tell you of destruction,
What will you do in return?
Will you turn to the favorite corner of your youth?
Or look about for some common patriot?
There are those who can do neither,
And therein lies all creation,
Deep inside the eyes of the few,
shouting at the heart of it,

~I cannot fall~

It is they who will pick up and run with a dream,

Of a field with a cool breeze,

Of a woman worth anything,

~Of the peaks where you lose your head~

And you never see them reach the top,

And you never hear them weep for those behind,

But the Drive spurs,

~And the will is strong~

To this chaos can do nothing,

There is fire already within these beasts,

And it is they who shape the world,

~It is they who truly love~