The begining of something big

"There is still time," he said and flushed the sink clean.
"There is always enough time."

Outside the birds chirp in a little tree three feet from the living room window.
It's sunny, quiet and there's a cool breeze pushing flower petals across the pavement.

"Oh for Christ Sake, Charles, stop yankin' on the fuckin' dog. Do you want him to keel over on you right here? Then everyone will see what a piece of shit you really are."

"God damnit Alice, I told you not to talk to me like that in public. Your only embarrassing yourself, you know." Charles patted the side of his inbred pup and then sneered at the fat old woman that had abducted the young sex pistol he use to call a wife. Her ass said "Juicy" as she walked ahead of him, and all Charles could picture was a limp dick trying to fuck a bowl of tapioca.

Inside the one room apartment the steepened face of a middle-aged man sweat while the quarrel outside faded into the green mini-van and then off into the street toward anywhere but here. His hands were bruised but he kept scrubbing and kneeling, over counter, floor, and wall.

Rewind all scenes. Rewind the sun. It's night and the moon cracks its eye over the world. The stars are vague but there is a soft halo of light where air is freezing with distance. Scan down toward a tan apartment complex. There are two porches opposite each other, second floor. There are two porches back to back, first floor. Apartment 19 has a softly lit window where a curtain is blown open by a fan. Enter the apartment through the window and past the curtain and over the fan, into a red lit room where two men hold each other.

"Your so young," he said.
"Not too young, you think?"
"Just young," he said. "Young enough not to know the odds and ends of this life."
"You're eyes look beautiful in this light. Can I kiss them?"
"My eyes?"
"Yes, your eyes."
"Sure," and he closed them while the younger man softly pressed his lips against the lids of his eyes. His lips were cold, but the affection was warming. "How about some water?"
"Ok." And he let go of the arms around him and unraveled their legs.

The older man walks away, naked, into the light of the another room. The light brightens and fades into the light of another apartment room.

"Charles. Charles. Charles. Are you listening to me?"

"I am takin' a shit. Give me a goddamn minute." The bathroom door closes.

"Will you bring me a new set of batteries on your way in, the remote isn't working and I am missing Dancing with the Stars."

While zipping up his pants, Charles hands her a set of batteries.

"There wet."
"I washed my hands."
"Well there wet."
"They'll work."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."

Alice's face is warmed by her hearth of entertainment as a the wind cools the back of her neck. A women moaning crescendo's in the night and into Alice's window.

"Do you here that?" Charlie asks while looking toward the window.

Upstairs, the older man stands at the kitchen sink listening to the same sound as he holds an empty glass above the sink. His knuckles widen as he grips the glass harder and his lungs burn as he forgets to breathe. He exhales, sets the cup down on the counter softy and looks over his shoulder toward the hallway, toward the bedroom, toward the man in his bed.

Downstairs, Charlie yanks the remote out of Alice's hands and mutes the TV.

"What in the hell are you - Oh my god. You are such a pervert. Give that thing back to me."

"No not yet, she's almost done. "

"Charlie, stop acting like a dirty old man. You can get plenty of that at home."

"Plenty," he says soaking every syllable in sarcasm as he walks away into darkness.

Alice resumes her program after she shuts the window.

The older man upstairs grabs a pair of boots. The only shoes he has in his kitchen.

Alice's face glows blue and her eyes widen with every twist and turn she absorbs. Everything looks peaceful, everything feels normal, when a loud thud wakes her from her coma and startles a screech out of her overweight lungs. She jumps up, "Charlie, there is someone at the window. Grab the bat."

Charlie walks in with a wooden bat and opens the curtain. There in front of there window is a pair of hairy, booted legs dangling from the floor above them. Then, before they have a chance to peer up toward a face, there is a another loud bang and the sound of a window slamming shut on hands followed by a scream and the naked body of the older man streaking by into the bushes below.

"What is going on around here?" Alice asks with a blush.

"Husband must of come home. Poor bastard."

"But wasn't that the guy who lives up there?"

"Well I don't blame him, if it is. Stop being such a snoop Alice, let it go."

"The sound wasn't coming from upstairs Charlie."

"What is your point, Detective?"

"My point is that it seems a little strange for a naked man to be sneaking out of his own house."

"Yes, strange. Just as strange as it is that you insist on discussing it. Your missing your show Alice." Charlie walks away mumbling something about women under his breath.

timeless

It is time to Get Started:
Please enter in a thirty-three character-long password that includes your mothers initials and the number P. But make sure it is something that you can remember because if you need to restart or reset your password there will be a questionaire sent to your e-mail address including, but not limited to, questions that really have no answer, but this is alright because if you can remember when you first started you answered these questions already so not only are we asking you the questions but we are asking you to remember what you answered three years ago. This is so much fun. Now after entering you password be sure to click firmly on your mouse nine times until the next screen pops up, but before we do that OH MY GOD, someone in Grants Pass has a crush on you. And if you pay just $9.95 we will tell you who that somebody is. But wait! If you don't know anyone in Grants Pass we'll find you that special somebody from Tokyo who also has a crush on you and every day for the next 365 days we'll send you nineteen e-mails including profiles and pictures of all those hotties that totally want your body. Guarentees not included.

Somedays pop up out from something longer than 24 and I am wasted inside of its bottle just waiting for the nest to carry me away. It was all the same thing that made people worry over crumbs. It was the invisiable things that, when you act now you will not only recieve the large, medium and small VacuumPumpSavers but we will throw in if you order in the next ten minutes a twelve piece cutlery set and a Cashmire evening gown size 7 totally free . There are only five more in stock and Oh no Karen we are completely sold out. Well, stay tuned because next we have an antique Wine cooler for $395. Don't go anywhere. STay. We'll be right back. Next.

Annnouncement

So I feel inspired, and more or less that i should do something productive with my life so here goes: I am going to build another chapbook, however it will be composed of my own short stories and poems. but I do have one question if anyone could answer? Is it plagiarism, or how do I avoid plagiarism, but snatching an existing comic strip and deleting the blurbs in order to replace them with my own? Any way here is a sneak peak poem:

And in the End
Corners in the sleeve of things called for sweat and smell,
A salad of smell.

The Round made toward a neck
Filled with ice-warmed liquid under blue flame.

I tingled as turns crack.
As do metatarsals crack,
Under hammered weight.

There is a great popping,
And
Cracking
And
Clearing from the throat of my glass.

A hair on end meets a discontented heir of
Hope and Chance.
Everyone named this period of time,
This wasting of second to minute,
and hour-by-hour, to minute,
only to find another piles on top of another,
and 365 of these we call a year.
Ten will be the decade.
and in between the white edged waves will flush themselves into sand,
and age will beat upon time as wave ruffles with sand.

I chiseled you out of gold,
And
Out of gold,
Watched
Your eyes bleed his blackness.

If this is heaven,
Than let me live again.
And keep the gates open
As I weep my way toward center stage.

My Poetics

I want my poetry to live. I want it to breathe but breathe like aliens breathe, in a way that no one can pinpoint but everyone is happy in different ways. Theres a science and a skill all creeping in on the feeling of "I am totally freaked out" or "I wonder if their nice" or "How did they get here." There is something to say, I have, others have, and not many voices get to say these things. But I want my poetry to paint the pictures that colors can not grasp. Letters are colors, and in art there are more choices. But nothing in this world is a joke, and nothing is serious rather it is all the same simutaneiously and we merely choose to view it as one or the other or both depending on our mood. I want my poetry to have the same diversity in appeal, asthetics and syntax. It is hard to build a bridge between two cities that are hard to find. I feel I have found myself well in the world of jokes, and am working on the world of seriousness so that I may learn how to stitch a binding between the two without leaving the seam for others to trip on. I want to be the best, but I feel like there is nothing gained in being the best and there is nothing and nobody to decide who is the best or how one can be the best. So I want to constantly grow and not be afraid of growing and not be worried about change and find it easy to change and I want to learn to see my changes and name them and touch them and see my weaknesses and name them and touch them and love them, because weakness gives me a new challenge and i like challenge.

Let Me OUt

Rotting Together

I wish to find myself an hold hag with your hand. Meanding youth with age and memory to life, we remonice the quiet fall of ashes and dust where others fell and we made this little coffee cup filled with various liquid, where hot and cold combine and overflow, and hurt, and comfort, and excite, and . I never wanted healthy gorging, but filthy, rotten and bad is how I saw us, how I see us. This should be the waking point of our nebulous birth. out of muck, creating life. Beauty in the environments of vast inconsistancy where the ends of envelopes can bever be licked and time is caught in water bottles sold at $1.75 a piece, where nobody is buying but stockmarkets rise and you stay with me.

S. Second Street.

I am not the specimen suggested by my curves or skin.
I am river, functioning flows with heart as ocean clasped down by banks,
damns and shores.
I am home of other things;
Creepy-crawly, slithering-sneaking things that want to go,
AHHHHHHHH - ugh!
I have no mouth, no words, no sounds.

A waterfall throws its body off of cliffs and among silent waters it
ruffles the corners of boulders and splits around obstruction,
once at the middle and twice at the end.

I am chopped like you have chopped the air with tongue and switch.
I am not you, or what you think I am: A dark hole in the corner of His
toybox, left bloodied and bruised without anyone to kiss away my wounds.
Unhuman. Not Devine.

Never known to cling to devout notionsI, like you and Him, spend hour with hope
and pouring onto miracles the dreams of their existance. So that I can be the orange-cicle
I could never eat fast enough when the heat hung itself on the gutters of S. 2nd street.