Relics (House of Stolen Light)
by Ryan P. Kinney

When I pull up in my battle-scarred truck
That old song is playing on the radio
Whose lyrics I have misheard and, hell…
“Who did that **** song, anyways?”
Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,
It definitely suits this house

It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porch
And more windows than walls
But the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawn
The windows do not let the light into the home,
But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again

How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?
For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?
Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?
Or even that series of horrific things?

Did the boogie man originate here?
Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girls
Finally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonment
Until eventually their days of play started getting shorter
And they return to their nine months of confinement
With no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home

I imagine a stone in my hand
To be thrown into this house of glass
I picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoods
I see the sunlight exploding from the foundation
The cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with green
Years of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice

And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceiving
Maybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruin
But rather a cracked and worn old photo album
Housing years of relics of lives spent well and with love
Love that our generation could not possibly fathom
Devoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it

How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?
How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?
How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?
Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?
Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?
Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?
Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?

Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the light
But, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing inside
So that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightness
And anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kind
Richer and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls

Who are you, oh house of stolen light?
What secrets do you hold?
How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?
What lives have you had?
What adventures can you tell me?

I smile.
“This is gonna be fun.”
As I kick in the front door

Jigsaw
by J.M. Romig, Amanda Whitlock, and Ryan P. Kinney

The first time I watched a man die
It wasn’t a man anymore, they told me
Just like my mother wasn’t my mother anymore

I will never forget the wrong answer
And the empty hours
When the minute       hand was always longer

I often welcome sleepwalking through most of the week
In the few instances the machines malfunction
I curse being awakened

I don’t see how anyone
Can smoke at a time like this
When the air is so heavy
It’s like breathing cement

I’m in stressed and panicked misery
And I’m vomiting
Lots and lots of                              stuff
That stretches vast
And expands to eat up everything

The guilt of my sin
The heft of your innocence
Weighs heavily on my soul
As i drag you down with me

Her lit cigarette burns
So brightly from the porch
Against the darkness
It reminds me of a lighthouse
Or a bug zapper

And what is that moth doing there anyways?
People are trying to sleep

Love Toy
by Ryan P. Kinney

It all started Valentine’s Day.
       A day of plastic hearts and candied affections.
Two love-weary travelers,
Overwhelmed by loneliness and desire,
Found solace in each other’s arms

Our stark white uniforms mingled.
Our glasses clinked.
Our lips meet.
While the sins of loves lost
       Hung like the albatross
And pressed a crooked heart into your bare skin.
So beautiful a moment
      For such a deceitful act.

You spent the whole night, transfixed.
       Listening to my heart beat.
Amazed that something so beaten
       Could still function.

In the beginning you were “The Crush”
A passing fancy, I was sure.
       Born of my desperation and your compassion,
But that act crushed “The Crush”
One simple kiss.
       Spoke the words, “I love you.”
And began our own false romance.

I could see how beautiful you were
       Inside that shell of obscurity.
You could see the light that shown within me
        Shrouded in a cloud of darkness.
We both had such beautiful scars.

But you refused to be committed.
To wear these bindings
And dwell within these padded walls.
Yet, kicking and screaming,
       You still accept that you love me.

We are cloak-and-dagger lovers.
       Borrowing sensation
              Stealing kisses
       Whispered intimacy
              And secret *******
One holds the hush, the other the blade

That is for but the moment, though.
We spend all our raw emotions at once.
Choosing to live fully
      At only that instant.
We have all the time in the world to die.

You can’t keep me from others
And I can’t you.
But I want no other.
Although you stand in front of my face
       You refuse to be seen.

What do you want from me?
I want everything from you.
I want to peer into your darkness
       And drink in your warmth.
I want to be so intimate
        You’ll have to smoke a cigarette when I’m done.

Our liaisons have become a formula for pseudo-dating.
Meet
       Kiss
              Touch
                      Feel
Repeat, as necessary.
So close to the real thing
       That only the word “girlfriend” separates it.

We ARE seeing each other.
We see more of each other
       Than those who don’t.

We even see the barbed wire
       That separates us
Digging into our skin,
       Ignored
While we exchange momentary, blissful passion.
I love you,
For now.
Tomorrow, who knows?

I will surely go to a Hell of my own making
        For loving you.
               Sullying, dirtying, corrupting you
And it is that fact
       That keeps you from me.

The guilt of my sin,
       The heft of your innocence,
Weighs heavily on my soul
       As I drag you down with me.

But, in spite of me,
A new hope was born in utero
Inside this woman came new light.
Enveloped in your inner angel
Was proof that I could love again.

You will hurt me
       I will hurt you
To which I reply
       Please do!
             Don’t you dare stop!
For the love of your God
       Let me feel something.

Some love is better than none.
Pain is better than the void.
Let’s just live in the moment.
And agree this is weird,
       And *****,
             And cheap.

All I can say for certain is,
       I love you.
You say you love me,
       But what does I love you mean,
When it doesn’t mean I want you.

The Blue Collar Lament
by Ryan Kinney

I spend most of my week in a semi-conscience trance watching multi-million dollar machines work. They are more alive than I am. Monday at 3 PM I click off my brain, switch on automatic, and begin the countdown-T-minus 40 hours. Each minute that ticks by in the dull monotony slowly steals my sanity, bit by bit. The vampire conglomerate that signs my check robs me of my youth, intelligence, and vitality until I am just another mindless automaton.

These walls are masters of time. Each minute closer to Friday gets slower and slower, until on Friday they seem to tick backwards. Then on Monday, the entirety of the previous week repeats. Each day blurs into the other making them indistinguishable.

The dictator they put in charge of the asylum barks out commands on cue, just to remind everyone that they own you. All the while he never realizes that he's just another puppet dancing for them, only his strings are shorter. When they inevitably cut them he has further to fall.

I often welcome sleepwalking through most of the week. In the few instances the machines malfunction I curse being awakened. At least as a zombie I don't feel my mind rotting.

I live on the weekends. I shed the identity the uniform has forced upon me and my true self emerges. On the weekends I love life, I achieve the goals I value, not the hazy path set before me by the corporation that owns my soul. For two days the dungeon master gives me reprieve from my incarceration. Upon clocking out each Friday I suddenly feel rejuvenated, while Sunday night I begin dreading the impending coma.

The desperation for dollars are the shackles that keep me here. I am only truly living two days a week and dying the other five. I've made a pact with the devil, 5/7th of my life for a weekly pittance. Until the decay of my body matches that of my brain I return weekly to mind numbing tedium, the memory of my weekend existence fading into the background.

Written 1/28/08 while on the "job"
Edited and organized into sensibility on a weekend.