jack-staubWhisper

American

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Evening blood on the bastard's pawsTime stopped. I had no bearing as to who, where, or what I was. All that was in my presence was the high, rolling desert painted orange with that odd sand-mud that he called “Geonosian rock;” his ebbing backpack being pulled from his shoulder, just like the ocean tide; his canteen bottle, lidless, slipping out of the rear pocket and whetting the sand with the boy’s quickly diminishing water supply; and the boy, Davy, being torn helplessly from safety by the cool, malevolent hands of gravity, and into the crevasse. / Reaching out desperately for the boy’s damp, warm hands, I grab a hold just in time—to consciousness, as he plummets and I stare wondrously; dumbfounded by my own ineptness in rational thinking. **the boy is gone**. Davy, my own stepson, my ******* child whom I would do anything for to prove my worth to his mother, Mary, who was the token to happiness with a new family, was ripped from my grasp, and eaten by the New Mexican terrain. So I delved after him.

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Lust for the blood of a bugbearThere sits a certain love for a being, / An animal that dwells in caves at night. / Could naught compare to the act of seeing

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A Limerick for Daddy:There once was a madman in Maine, / Who though relentless, went insane. / He got locked in his house,

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Where mind meets matterI may not be an author- or a poet, / But when I scrawl these words down on paper- / Or type stories on my cracked, 14 year old laptop,

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When a silent man snapsSometimes, / I sit, legs folded, / Hands idle,

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A fascination with blood.Oh, you pretty little lump, / Laying on the ground, you flail / Your arms grasp, feet kick,

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