The phone rings,
A dead tone
"You are disconnected from reality"
"I look up"
A mirrored hall,
Images surround me
Laughing,
Crying,
Silent,
I am all, I am one
"A phone rings"
I run, but my feet glide
Upon air never moving
But the glass warps
Bends,
Distorted,
Shatters,
I am in pieces, shards
Slowly join,
I was in pieces, now whole
Climbing through the joined image
Upon the floor,
Grass meets my fingers
Wet with dew, I see stars
Wishing I wasn't here,
As the moment passes
"A phone rings"
"I run"
But the grass sticks to my feet
The stars are falling,
Lighted shards fall around
Grazing my body
Like paper cuts
Clean,
Deep,
Pain,
Claims my mind, I pass out
While sinking deeper,
Blurred sight, meets silence
I awaken to the phone ringing,
"I pause"
My hand reaches forward
"Pauses"
I move away, a shiver reverberates
To the sound, I walk away
**The phone rings & rings & rings...

brick   laying  word  masons

work like Hemingway.

one    clean,    clear    word

after     the    other

creates  one  true  sentence,

then    two,    unti­l

you’re  drenched in  sweat.

a     day’s     work

done.

A maniacal machine of glad and fad
A thing of mystery
A man that smiles the brightest of us all
No matter the weather, even in the fall
The darker stories that he never tells
Ring the most often of all the bells
These chimes are the very loudest
and his least proudest
They are the things that lead him to the bars
And honestly he hides these scars
His laughter is among the most of any
Because he was told not to frown by the most of many
He is not mad
Only empty and sad
All alone he is
Sharp edges are his only friends
Deprived of self expression
He's been in a depression
And this is why he is a maniacal machine of glad and fad
No longer a thing of mystery
At least here he's not the smiling man