SILLY SEASON, SLIPPERY SLOPES AND SOME SNOW SLUSH    
From the 7th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.    
       
WOW, it was already Christmas Eve. It goes to show, 'time flies when you're having fun', for winter was amongst us again. This year's weather was awfully cold, with the temperature dropping to only two degrees, it was freezing outside. I said, to my parents, 'it seems to be a silly shkeason for this time of year, and without any real good reason'.    
     
My dad, had gathered some wood for the open fireplace, that he had made for us inside. We then all sang songs and ate our multi coloured marshmallows, straight off the wooden sticks, to make us feel yummy, once inside our tummy.    
     
My mum Flo, said, with her cheeks as red as a rose, from the heat of the fire, which was making her cheeks glow. 'Do you want to go to the snow, for a couple of days'? We could have so much fun, in the white, cold snow'?    
     
So, the next morning, Dad packed up the car, with ski's, gloves, boots, jackets and even some ski chains for the slippery wet road tar.    
     
Mum, packed some food, drinks, our tooth brushes and even a hair brush and a comb. Then we hopped into the overloaded car, and headed off west in search of the white, cold snow.    
     
We finally arrived at the Shivermetimbers Ski Lodge, and the manager Monty Lopez, was there to greet us, and gave us the keys to our regular ski lodge. It's a funny job, by the way, for a bloke that can't even ski, due to vertigo, unbalanced and all.    
     
Once inside our weekend ski lodge, we quickly lit the enormous fireplace, which was built, smack in the middle of the very large lounge room.    
     
Mum and Dad had their own bedroom, my two much older, identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma, had the ski loft, while my little brother Lemmy, Smoochy and I had the fold-out bed, that popped out from under the couch.    
     
Early next morning, we all ate bacon and eggs and drank hot chocolate, except for dad, who preferred his hot cup of tea.    
     
After breakfast, the manager Monty Lopez, told my Mum, Flo and my two, identical twin sisters, that they can have, free ski lessons down the back tracks, for an hour or so.    
     
     
But after only about, ten or fifteen minutes, with the, Shivermetimbers ski instructor, Stefan Pettersson, who was from North Poland, they just simply gave up.    
     
Not just because, every time they tried to stand up, all three of them kept falling flat on their backs. But, because Stefan Pettersson, could not speak a word of English, unlike his distant English speaking cousins in South Poland.    
     
I'm sure he was a great ski teacher, but maybe, needed to learn the language of the South as well. Then he could explain to the tourists, from English speaking countries, what he needed them to do, to stay on their feet.    
     
Meanwhile my Dad, along with his old and very funny friend, Trevor Thomas Timberlake, whom Dad has always called Triple T for short, were hiding in the retreat's garage, making another Christmas surprise.    
     
While Smoochy, Lemmy and I were trying to peek in and see what they were doing, we heard loud noises like, Boom, Buzz, Bang, Clunk, Clink, Clank, Smack, Swat, Slap and even Heave-**.We couldn't wait to see what they had made for us, after all of that noise.    
     
As we were walking back to grab a soft drink and bite to eat, BANG the garage doors opened, and that's when we saw our Christmas surprise.    
     
For it was Trevor Thomas Timberlake, dressed up in a very colourful Santa outfit. But, if you think that was funny, 'who do you think was pulling Santa's even more colourful sleigh'?    
     
It was the manager Monty Lopez's, eight very small pet Chiqaua's. They didn't look like they were that strong, to pull Santa's sleigh and Dad's old and very funny friend, Triple T.    
     
All of the kids and I were so pleased. I even noticed Smoochy, with a bit of a glee. Santa Trevor and his chosen helpers, my two, identical twin sisters Emma and Jemma, gave out the presents, to all of the children that were staying at the,'Shivermetimbers Ski Lodge'.    
     
Later that afternoon, my mum, had made a big barrel of fruit snacks for everyone to share. We were all about to start to eat, when all of sudden, we heard an almighty big crash.    
     
For Monty's eight very small pet Chiqaua's, were spooked by my grouse new pet mouse named, Smoochy. He had startled them all and made Triple T's Santa Sleigh, stack right into the table. With the fruit barrel sitting on top, the big crash had tossed the barrel of fruit, onto the ground and it rolled down the slippery snow ski slopes.    
     
Everybody rushed over to see all of the mess. But it actually turned out to be quite good looking, more or less. Because, Mum's fruit snack, had all spilled out and had created a really cool, very cold and quite a colourful, rainbow snack in the snow.    
     
I named that accidental creation of a mess, 'The Sensationally Spilt Rainbow Snow Snack on the Slippery Ski *****'.    
     
We had all decided to head back to our family's very large shack and have chicken nuggets with tomato sauce of course, instead of Mum's colourful fruit snack.    
     
In the morning, we went and saw the mess from the night before. My Dad and Triple T had come up with a clever idea, They had made some square wooden boxes, in such quick style.    
     
We gathered up all of the mess and packed it all into the wooden boxes. Then we made some very cool, fruit coloured, solid snow bricks. We were going to make some igloos out of the colourful bricks, and try and spend a whole night sleeping inside them.    
     
It wouldn't be that cold inside an igloo, we thought. Eskimo's do it all of the time, and they don't seem to catch that many colds.    
     
When morning had come, we had awoken to find the very cool, fruit coloured, solid snow bricks, had all melted away and we were lying in, not so very cool, fruit coloured, soggy, snow slush.    
     
We laughed and cried and hurried inside to get ourselves dried. I called that creation, 'The very cool, fruit coloured bricks, that just didn't stick'.    
     
Mum said, gather up all of that, not so very cool, fruit coloured, soggy, snow slush, and I will create you a new all time favourite, colourful fruit creation.    
     
She had put the slush and the fruit into several ice trays, and had placed solid sticks over each block and made them stick out a bit, from each of their ends. She then, cut holes in the middle of some plastic cups and placed the cups, on one of the ends.    
     
After a while, our very cool, frozen fruit delight, was ready to bite. We all had one, and yelled out yum, good on ya Mum. For, not only did the cup catch the melting ice, it also caught any fruit that fell off the side.    
     
I named that creation, 'Colourful Ice-Drips & Fruit-Drops in a Cup'. That's my Mum for you, always likes a good clean mess.    
     
Dad said, what a great idea, and that we should all listen more often to our Mums. Then, my Mum joked, 'if only your dad would listen to me more often'.    
     
That night, I was back in my fold-out bed, that popped out from the couch, I slept like a bug in a rug. Even Smoochy, crawled into bed, and gave me, an ever so tight hug, on our very last night, of our silly season, ski holiday trip.

His lips moved closer to hers. His eyes begged, "I need you."

She backed away cautiously. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer to him. He never said a word but looked at her as if with tenderness. With his chest against her body, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her slowly. She stood frozen for the longest minute, before surrendering. She kissed him back, longing flooding her. He told her he had been hurt, and she took him into her embrace and cradled him.

He had arrived one night as she was walking by herself on the beach. She had almost stopped searching. He seemed to be just like her: agitated, sad, pathetic. She hid her own loneliness well, but his was written all over his face.

When she found him, broken and washed upon the shore, she did not realize he would leech onto to her foot. She felt herself drifting into the water, water almost up to her neck - his hand leading the way, but she did not realize that he would leave her there. Suddenly, the water filled her nostrils and her lungs and she was drowning. He was nowhere to be seen.

She looked for him, desperation flooding her stomach, her chest overflowing with sorrow- more so than the water filling her lungs. She searched for him frantically. She could not understand that he was gone.

She felt sadness overcoming her, and she struggled to keep her head up. It engulfed her as she collapsed into the abyss. She sunk to the very bottom, sea creatures passing by her as she sunk. She lay on the bottom of the ocean, but she could not stand up, nor could she breathe, nor could she die.

She stayed their for the longest time, clutching her heart and her stomach, as if she would throw up her insides if she didn't hold them in. She cried, but no one noticed in the deep waters of the ocean. She wanted someone to save her, but no one noticed as she put up her hand. She wanted to die, but even death did not pity her.

After a long time, the water parted and dried up slowly. The animals left, following the tide into the deep ocean and so did the plants. She lay there on sand, her hand cradling her stomach, while the moon watched over her. Soon the moon also left her, and she was alone.

There was no sun, no moon, no stars. Nothing shone. In the darkness, she still lay, unable to get up. All of her strength and stubbornness willed her to keep trying to stand, but it was as if she had polio: she could not move.

At last one day, she slowly sat up. She looked ahead and saw the water which had once engulfed her at a distance. It left her alive, as if she was not even worth killing. She stared at it for a long time, her eyes sadly missing him. One day she found the strength to stand up. She stood there, naked, her clothes ripped from her body, as if emotionally ***** and ******* over and again in her life.

She had not planned to trust again, but when she found him she thought she had found another side of herself. Little did she know that he used her and left when he realized that she was not what he wanted. He wanted to master her, to win her-- and when she finally succomed, he realized that he wanted something better-- which she could not provide.
                                       _________

I close my eyes, the heavy comforter draped around me  so securely I might as well be in your embrace. You hold me tight, gather your arms around my waist. You apologize for making the mistake of ending what we had. You tell me you realized that you are madly in love with me, that we must find a way to be together.  You squeeze me so tight, and I wrap my arms around you and we lay there.

This dream can only last a minute, each time shorter and shorter as reality floods through me. Slowly, you slip out of my arms. You're laughing in the night air, kissing new girls. They are laying in your bed, cradling you as you tell them you need them. You lay against the warmth of their *******, while they nurture you. They take you inside them as you lie there like a small, whimpering child that needs to be taken care of. Night after night, there is new laughter in the air- each woman you meet becomes your shield, your protector, your mother. You **** them with your small *****. You tell them ***** thoughts and they respond with the ones you want to hear. You are no longer mine- you never were. You just needed to be taken care of for a night when you were lonely, you needed to be cradled and I- like a fool, found the motherly side in me and took you to my breast. When morning came, you awoke in another bed, on another breast, and you no longer needed me. Confused and abandoned, I searched for you and found you laughing in the night air, another Scarlet Johansson or Marilyn Monroe taking you in for the evening.

What do we all look for in life? Lau once posted this by Chitrabanu:

"We need love. It is the food of the soul, we cannot live without it. Love is not planning, it is not remembering. It exists only in the present moment. In love, there is no desire to hold, possess, or bind. To hold on to someone or something else is to disconnect from oneself. In disconnecting from yourself, you disconnect from the present moment, because your energy is used on the future. In this way, the experience of life, of love is slipping through your fingers. When you begin to see this very subtle point, you come to know that love has nothing to do with the past or the future.

Love is to just be. It means to be in communion. You can be in communion with any being that communicates and builds some kind of feeling and harmony with you. You can be in love with a plant, a child, an animal, a grandmother, a villager, a simpleton. It is possessing nothing, only being present in that moment, feeling and communicating with life in different forms.

In the same way, you experience this unconditional love with your own Self. You are in tune with yourself. When a person is in love, he does not hold anything back. He pours all his treasure without reserve. He does not say, "If I keep it, it will be useful one day." No, he says, "Here is the day, let me live it." You create this experience each day and turn it into your life style. In this way, you will no longer sadden your day with future thoughts and worries. Your living will be here and now with love."

Here is another by Tom Robbins, "When we're incomplete, we're always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we're still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on--series polygamy--until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter.”

All true, wise words. When I went through what I went through as a child, I always hoped for better things in life. In college, my girlfriends and I comforted each other by saying that one day we will be this or that. We never realized that hope- is just that. Nothing more. While you have have a great inner strength that is capable of challenging even gravity, while you can push your limits and change and adapt yourself in ways you never thought possible-- some things are just given to you sheer luck, or some may even say God's blessing. No matter if you can change the air the wind blows and the tide-- there are still some things which must be granted to you by the mercy and grace of the universe- and if you are not in the lucky 20% of the world, you will not get it. We all have a quest. We seek to fulfill ourselves through the spark and comfort of a special stranger. We long for that understanding person to finally enter our lives and to endure the world with us together.

I wanted him to understand me. I thought because he was broken like me- he would understand me. First he told me that I was not like him, that I was not philosophical enough- that I was too simple. I quickly attempted to show him the deeper recesses of myself. He was not a camel that could be led. What he saw frightened him, he refused to see. He left.

We all think we want someone that understands us. Then I realized that no one could understand me, if I did not first understand myself. Perhaps it is not understanding that we need-- perhaps we need someone that we are mutually attracted to, to consider us important enough to be patient with us. Once during an interview, Justin Timberlake said to Ellen about Jessica Biel, "Sometimes I stare at her when she is unaware. This is when she is the most beautiful-- when she is unguarded, un-noticing, just carrying about her day and I observe small things about her."

I don't need someone to understand me. It's not possible. I don't want someone to come to conclusions about what I am-- even I don't know myself fully and I am constantly being shaped by situations that I encounter. What I want is a person who is awesome enough to be gentle- to watch without making observations-- without needing to relate opinions, instead simply to care enough to just watch. And if we don't agree upon something-- to love me enough to compromise. To be gentle enough to pull me into his warmth and keep me secure. To be man enough to bring out the woman in me.

As an independant strong victim of the scars of life, I tend to combat everything myself. It would be wonderful to fall into the embrace of a man who can take care of me. I want someone who never gives up on me-- who finds me worthy enough to teach me and reconsider me. I want a man who doesn't need me-- but wants me more for what good he has learned about me. I want a man who is so secure in himself, that once he has loved me, he doesn't question greener-seeming pastures. My heart aches, and I am lonely. As easy as it is to fall into the arms of the wrong guy, my heart is worth enough and I am deserving enough to face the quest alone until the prize is won.

Many times I have met men who seem so much like the right key-- who fit into lock, but these keys have never turned and opened. I want the one who is meant for me. For him I will wait.

4 | 31 Poems for August

Woken up by the sound of rain.
Writing about intimate memories until sunshine finds me again.
It may seem like I cannot see but sometimes the darkness becomes my light.
It’s amazing to see a love this beautiful shine so bright.
I found love in the midst of pain.
I found sunshine in the midst of rain.
Your perfect imperfections are the most intriguing parts of your being.
Sometimes these words are just not enough to describe all that I feel for you.
Your hips are perfectly contoured for my hands to hold on to.
When you’re not here, these hands don’t know what else to do.
We found love in the midst of pain.
We found sunshine in the midst of rain.
The pages of my heart are saturated with words describing how remarkable you are.
In a sky full of constellations, you are my favourite star.
Your perfect imperfections are the most intriguing parts of your being.
A connection this strong was destined.
I gave you love, you gave me reflections.
Now a song by Justin Timberlake keeps playing on the radio.
I may be introverted but my love for you will always show.
Maybe that’s something our friends need to know.
Woken up by the sound of rain.
Writing about intimate memories until sleep finds me again.

“I don’t know a perfect person. I only know flawed people who are still worth loving.” – John Green

“You must be Donny?”

asks a tall, thin man with olive-green skin.  He must be Italian, but then again, I’m not exactly sure. For Heaven’s sake - judging by his handshake, Justin Timberlake could break him into two. Distracted by the shiny pennies in his brown penny loafers, I don’t want to come across as rude, but I suddenly don’t care to know this dude. Then he says to me,  

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, my name is Donny. I’m bored, so I would like to give my self a lobotomy, but first I have to feed the monster that’s inside of me, so I must pick out the green mold in my expired salami.

“Instead of doing important things, I enjoy jumping up and down on my mattress that is made of squeaky springs while flapping my arms, pretending I have wings.

“Sometimes I get fidgety when this alcoholic, legless ****** stands too close to me, but then I feel guilty cause he’s blind and homeless and reeks likes ***, so I tell him he can lean on me.

“When I go to the dollar store I like to be a **** and drive the clerk berserk by asking him to do a price check on every item I’ve dropped on the floor. The manager grabs my collar and throws me out the door.

“I still ask my mother if I can please wear her skis when I climb trees only using my knees. She says, ‘Grow up! You’re 33, quit bothering me.’  I did!!! I’m 5’10… now what am I suppose to do then??

“I like to play the air fiddle and stand in the middle of the street in my bare feet with a mouth full of skittles, trying not to dribble, telling lots of riddles.
  
“Sometimes when I’m drinking I like to wear a black top-hat like Abe Lincoln then I get to thinking, while squawking like a chicken, how long I can keep my eyes open without blinking.
  
“‘Four score and seven years ago’ seems to be a mathematical equation that can be breaking down to zero. Oh, oh, oh! Did I ever tell you who my hero is??”

“donny”---“dooonny” “Doooonny” “DONNY!!
It’s time to leave and return to your room.”

“Room? What room?”

“Your room - there’s someone there to see you.”

“Who?”

“Your hero.”

I feel a gentle hand rest on my back and guide me to an unfamiliar door.  I enter into this mysterious room and hear the door shut and quickly lock behind me.  

Where is he?  “WHERE IS HE?!”   I hear my voice echo down the hallway.  I know they can hear me.  “TED NUGENT!!  MY HERO!  SWEATY UNCLE TEDDY!  WHERE IS MY HERRROOOOOO?!?!?!”

A large, olive-green plant stands proudly in the corner by the window.  How did my psychiatrist sneak in here?  

“You must be Donny?”

Hole in Hollow


The end was brought by men of sand
born creeping blood and streaming water.
Apocalypse fought in the heart of nature
by the hands of her heartless keepers.

In these glorious hours, mourn the grieving
this last morning, this gory evening.
Victory swept when they were dead in treason,
the ****** drenched in sweat and the wet bodies lie bleeding.

This is the end of everything,
the final fall season.


Foreword: My Plague

   This is that dream.
   I found myself on a long barren road, winding, far from the city, civilization for that matter.  My road meanders, slowly reaching my destination in what could have been a straight and focused line.  The curb reads my mind and takes me further as I try to escape it, following me.  I stutter in cursing and the clockwise becomes counter, but I age.  I age more rapidly than ever as the tape rewinds, or the record spins backwards.  My record sings supposed messages from the Devil as my existence lessens yet my sins become more.  How can I repent when there is nothing left?  There will be no wrong when I am done, but I will suffer for what wrong I had.  I will be a lie when I am not here to give the truth.  If this pain cannot be corrected, it will be shared.  This is my plague.  I will drown in this sea only knowing that I've spilled insanity's seed to blemish the water, blot the page.  This is my plague and you will feel it with me.
   I am telling the story and you are listening, with every page you read, you are the sinner's dream.  I have you.  This is my plague.  Action.

Chapter One: Love and Marriage

   "Oh, God, Bill, you must be ******* me."
   "No, Drake, I am never ******* you," I nearly shoot myself in the face and respond.
   "Same lady?"
   "Same lady," I think about how ugly she must be to keep calling and how much makeup it must take to bring her face to a tolerable state of viewing.
   "Drake, it's an outstanding fine of five thousand dollars, it's not even that big of a loss for you."
   "Then it sure as hell isn't that big of a gain for Master Rentals, BILL.  Are we even talking about the same money-******* corporation for Christ sakes, Bill?"
   "Drake, this will end in a lawsuit.  You don't have much of a choice."
   "Bill, God ******, BILL!  Stop repeating my name.  This is the reason I shouldn't have hired a male secretary in the first place, I'm entirely stressed the Hell out and have no one to comfort me because I'm not even the least bit attracted to you."
   "Drake, you're getting married," casually.
   "Bill, you're getting fired," seriously.
   I throw the phone and its base out of the open window, screaming in a wave of relief as it leaves me, and again, in pain, when I find the line still connected to the wall, and the unit hanging outside of my 12th story office which pans a great view of the Los Angeles sky and the pathetic bums beneath it.  At this point I would much prefer the phone's position in hanging from a ledge to mine, sweating in hatred, with a possibly homosexual secretary.  "Homosexual ex-secretary," I shed a tear of happiness upon this remembrance and see him in a daydream bleeding from several moderate wounds, with the only real puncture between his legs.
   I leave my office and would proceed to stab to death every male co-worker wearing a tie with a graphical pattern, but I have to get back to my apartment as soon as possible because I miss Sharon, my soon to be better half.  I am confronted by a beggar upon my exit of the building.
   "Amazing!  Two and a half seconds into hearing the door open you're already asking me for cash.  I bet you would be happy with yourself if you weren't such a worthless *******.  You'd make your father proud, but he's probably dead by now."  I remember the phone and shove the homeless Mexican to the ground, where he probably thanked me for acknowledging him.  I turn to my office window and wave a ******* at the device, dangling, swaying back and forth still.  I realize now that I had left my lights on when I came to work, but it doesn't really matter because I've only been here for a half hour and I'm already leaving.  I use a handkerchief to open the door because the handle is ***** and I fear the *** may have touched it.
   I remember on the drive home that people are **** when I see the passenger of the car in front of me throw assorted trash out of his window.  I consider beating him and the driver to death with their own exhaust pipe in the next ******* toll booth we pass through, but notice a police car following directly behind me.  The rest of my drive is calm and quiet and I try not to push too ******* the gas, as an inconsistency in acceleration is considered illegal in Los Angeles because these inconsiderate ****** don't have anything better to do than harass people who make more money than they do, maybe even by doing less work, of which I am incredibly proud to be in that sort of a position.
   I take a deep breath and enter my apartment.  I smile firmly as I notice my fiancé's puppy leaving a surprise on the welcome mat and carpet before me.  Startled, he stops abruptly and skips gleefully into the kitchen where I'm sure he will soon finish.  I apologize for interrupting.  I see the blood of my lover puddling on an expensive leather sofa that, to my memory, wasn't even present on my last visit, and follow a trail of the substance leading to the bathroom.  I realize I am fantasizing when the bathroom door swings open and Sharon smiles to my own disappointment.
   "Hunny, you're home!"
   "Hunny, I'm home.  Why did you buy that dreadful couch?"  I light up a cigar and pass her open arms for a fall onto the sofa's cushion on which she should be lifeless.
   "They say smoking causes cancer, you know?  It will **** you," sarcastic, but at the same time realistic.
   I shake my head back and forth, looking up as if I were falling, then looking down as if something fell in front of me.  Rolling my eyes in dismay, I'm thinking of something else to tell her.
   "They also say professionally trained dogs don't **** and **** on expensive carpet," quick, but at the same time commanding.
   "Why are you always so **** negative?" She screams softly, tearing up more quickly than usual.
   "Why are you always so **** positive?" I wonder if she's ever thought of dying her hair a ***** sort of blond, or dying at all.
   "Drake, you are killing me!" She screams, at the top of her lungs now, confirming my subconscious inquiry to be as positive as she is.
   "I'd have to see it to believe it."
   I am now calmly and cleverly reading the sports section of an outdated newspaper, wondering if the dog's already claimed territory on today's, showing neither affection nor displeasure in my response.
   She leaves the room crying in a manner too painful and obnoxious for me to ignore.
   "I LOVE IT HUNNY, I LOVE IT!  Keep it coming, baby.  The cameras are going wild!"  I mention this in reference to her joke of a career she took with modeling.
   How I love that woman so.  I confuse myself as I dream about making her swallow that engagement ring I got her at some point for a reason I don't understand or have lost the compassion for.
   "Did you know it was supposed to rain last month?  Have you seen today's paper?"  She had already left.  I know this because I heard the door shut two minutes ago and she left the way I came in.

Chapter Two: Milk and Eggs

   I try to act surprised as I answer the phone, but I'm entirely too fake.
   "Hey darling, I'll be home in about an hour, I decided I should get some milk and eggs before the supermarket closes."
   Milk and eggs?  Does she realize she was having a nervous breakdown only ten minutes ago?
   "Shannon, milk and eggs?"
   "..."
   "Sharon, milk and eggs?" A smooth recovery.
   "Yes, milk and eggs.  We're all out." Alright.
   I hang up the phone slowly, stalling when the receiver almost touches, waiting... nothing.  Disappointed, I walk into the kitchen and forget what I was going to do.  I remember my high school sweety as my first real loss, Shannon.  Thirsty, I reach for the milk carton and upon lifting its weightlessness, I scream and hope Shannon knows what to expect when she gets back.  Sharon.  I look at my watch, quickly realizing I had spaced out for a time period of at least forty-five minutes.  I have fear that she will get back sooner than she expects, so I leave and choose to head for my office, but panic at my choices in transportation.  I never have this problem in the morning, I'm always wholeheartedly Bentley or Mercedes, but the afternoon is an entirely different story.  Sporty or speedy?  An eye at my watch tells me I don't have time for this, so I sob and hail a taxi.
   I can't become comfortable upon settling into the cheap interior with the non-leather backseat and realize I should have taken the Mercedes.  It's too late now because Sharon might be back.
   "Whey' you wan' go?"  The hardly English-speaking driver wails like a Puerto Rican, but upon further study, seems to be quite a Mexican.
   "Wan' go office."  The driver gives me shifty glances after this, squinting with a suspicious paranoia, first into the rearview mirror and secondly after turning around to face me.  I laugh and tell him to just go straight and stop stealing all of the American jobs.
   We pass by my office building where I wish my phone had fallen to some young child's death, or a welfare-dwelling tax-money-******* minority, but it hangs, relentless to my hunger.  I aspire to one day not think of ******, but I could stab the driver and roll him into a pond and be on my way just as well.
   On the walk home, I notice the relationship between the night sky I sleep under and the monster of which it makes me.  I'd try to elaborate, but I'm not quite sure I could.  My sleep is done when I wake up with Sharon nudging me, taking the best of one world and murdering it with the worst of another.  It is so unnecessary but happens nonetheless, hopelessly.
   Here I am, on my bed soaked in a cold sweat, Sharon crawling naked over me, salt on my tongue from my cheeks' streaming.
   "Good morning, sunshine.  Why the tears?"
   "What happened to the evening?"
   Upset, I'm sure now that I should remember something of the night before, probably better than I just made it out to be.  I've just had problems caring since she began speaking to me two years ago.  She flattens herself, chest to my lap, smiling to my reaction.
   "That always happens when I wake up." I try my best to **** her satisfaction.
   "I'm so sure."
   She has a great body, I'm just not sure I want to remind her.  The television suddenly turns itself on as the button on the remote must have pushed itself under the sheets, her eyes roll and she stammers, then passes out on top of me.  I slip out from beneath her, making that light slurping sound that means you're being careful with my lips tightened to the muscles in my neck.  I realize that was entirely unnecessary when I see the empty pill bottle on the counter, Xanax, prescribed yesterday.  I slam it against her face and pull her off the bed by her hair.

Chapter Three: New Girl

   "So, what's been in your system lately?" Roger asks lightheartedly.
   "It's been a heavy rotation between Bright Eyes and Chevelle."
   "Bright Eyes can cry me a freaking river with Justin Timberlake for all I care.  Goodman, the indie scene *****, get over it.  Have you listened to the new Hawthorne Heights I loaned you?"
   "Maybe."
   "Well, did you like it?"
   "Yes and no..."
   "Eh?"
   "Yes, I liked it... and no, I lied."
   "What's wrong with it?"
   "You know how you said cry me a river with Justin Timberlake?"
   "Whatever man, they scream and stuff though."
   "I'm leaving."
   "What did you do with my CD?"
   "I don't remember.  I would check the surrounding dumpsters of the place at which you forced it onto me."  I almost interrupt myself.  With frustration, "Again, I'm leaving."
   I get out of the car and walk around the traffic jam around us.  I arrive at the office thirty minutes before Roger's emo ***.
   "I thought you were carpooling with Roger this week, Drake?"
   "I don't carpool, I'm rich."  This nameless ****** is wearing a tie with a Christmas tree on it, out of season, and he will regret it one day, if I have to do it myself.
   I'm sitting at my desk and my view of the new secretary's skirt is brought to a sad closure when Roger bursts through my door, interrupting her sorting of my files and sending her backward about two feet in fright.
   "Where is my CD, Goodman?"  He has this real joke of a ******* look about him and it really makes me want to see his small intestine hang from a ceiling fan.
   "I'll get you a new one once you apologize for what you said about Conor."
   "Conor?"
   "Yes, Conor."
   "... Oberst?"
   "Yes, Conor Oberst."
   "Oh my GOD, you are still not over that whole Bright Eyes thing?"
   "Get out of my office, you little ******!"  I seriously pelt him with tens of pencils from the intricately placed holder on my desk and he leaves, feeling my superiority reign.
The phone rings three times and I let my machine pick it up, I thought it was set for two rings.  I remember now.
   "WHO the HELL put the PHONE BACK IN MY OFFICE?  WAS IT YOU?  YOU LITTLE *****!"  I'm sure she hears me and is petrified, wherever she has run off to in the time of my distraction.
   "I'm sorry I can't make it to the phone right now, I am at an important meeting with representatives from an almost higher power.  If you are calling for business discussion, leave a message at the beep.  If you're Sharon, take the phone and-"  Click.  They forgot to leave a message.  I paper airplane a death threat into the back of a fellow employee's head, he's been standing outside of my office looking at something on the floor for at least thirty seconds, ***** looking skater hair.  I quickly get back to reading papers of a nature similar to the one I just used.  He turns ninety degrees and reads, almost aloud, I surprise myself as I read his lips to remember what I put.
   Another ninety degrees and I see him glance at me in the corner of my eye.  I lower my forehead to see past my reading glasses, raise my eyebrows, and then tighten my chin, waving ninety with my left hand leisurely.  He turns as my waving registers, entirely stiff, ninety to the left, robotically, and continues on his way, probably to a cubicle.  I shake my head.  Left, right, tilt down seamlessly, left, right.  I hope my secretary saw that, as it was a rather smooth execution.  She already left.  ****** at this, I throw my papers outside of my window and the phone rings.  "Who put my phone back in my office, anyway?"  I'm ******.  Sharon leaves a message this time, still at the third ring.  "... I was just wondering if you wanted to go with me to church tomorrow.  That's all."  This just reminds me that I'm at work on a Saturday, I don't remember why.
   "Idiot."  I swear I hear her digestive system breaking down a variety of entire pills, maybe whole bottles, as she hangs up.  "Sunday ****** Sunday" by U2 surprises me on the radio.  Nothing that good ever gets played around here.  I'm not going to church and I'm leaving work early today to wring some dove's neck in the park.

Chapter Fear: Satisfaction

   Fear is a funny thing.  Some people claim they've known it all of their life and then they go on to say that they can smell it.  You can NOT smell fear, if you could I would be among the first of its acquaintances.  You can see fear, you can hear it, feel it, sometimes I think I taste it, but you only smell sweat and body waste.  Sweat can be brought about by many different methods, but it smells the same within all of them.  Fear is only one of these occurrences.  Jogging too fast makes you sweat, even I sweat.  Seeing someone's eyes grow wide with awe is fear.  Watching their body twitch before you've even touched them is fear.  A grown man crying is fear.  Hearing it... the certain deep breathing not attainable by jogging too fast is fear.  It sounds as though his or her life is about to end and he or she wants to take as much air as he or she can with him or her in one breath just in case it is his or her last.  I feel as though I've rambled or that you've lost yourself somewhere, but far beyond that, it is disappoint

I've               never           met                    anyone
                                  who                                                    talks  so  fast
    with          such         bursting           enthusiasm!
                                                  who              is        so               enthralled
       by               every     little     detail !
                                who      is      so      visibly       excited about life        !  
   who          cares     so much                                        
         
          about      everyone                and       everything !

    
                     Cindy, where do you get the energy??


                                       I've been seeing you once a week for piano lessons,

but oftentimes it's felt more like sessions of therapy.
                                
              Get your weekly dose of Cindy!

  Before I can even get my books out,
                                           you'll break into your rapturous rant
          and I'll just sit there,     on the piano bench,
          utterly transfixed.

                                       
You'll talk about Beethoven, of poverty in Portugal, whatever Glen said at the last dinner party, German poetry, Justin Timberlake, back to Beethoven... And this isn't someone's mindless ramblings! Just the opposite! This stuff seems to be pouring directly from out of your heart. In an inexhaustible stream. And it's flowing out at such a speed that I start to wonder
                                            is she okay?
But then I'll catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the stream.
Not my face. Just a beating heart.
I'll compare it to yours.
It's painfully small.
I think if I tried pouring it out like that, it would soon        
dry out and shrivel up like a raisin.

*You've got a big heart. A huge heart. How else can you be so passionate about all these things?

There are guys who wed girls
There are straight folks and gays.
There are those who like single life too.
A fellow in England once wed his T.V.
I’ve known women in love with their shoes.
But the strangest relationship
I ever heard tell
Was the woman who married herself.
She’d waited for years
For “Mister Right” to appear
and was tired up there on the shelf.
So she strolled down the Aisle
With a confident smile
(There was no need to give her away)
She composed her own vows
which drew much raves and wows.
While Justin Timberlake’s “Mirrors” song played.
She thought” who needs a spouse,
They just mess up your house.
So she bought a ******* instead
She vacationed in France
Where no one looks askance
And took “Battery Bob’ to her bed”

Love is Love. I have heard
But this bond is absurd.
You know very well how this ends.
An expensive divorce in a year I forecast
But the Bride and the “Groom” will stay friends.

It sounds so silly to be crying over this piece of something
But this piece of something was our everything
You choked back tears and told me there will always be the memories
But I looked around inside our place and was filled with nostalgia
"This is the last time I'll be in here," I thought
The thought made my eyes well up with tears, and I started to blink rapidly
No one could possibly understand how much it means
That rusted piece of metal that we drove around in was where it all started
Where we started

It all started in track, where the throwers hung out in your van
Awaiting practice, just killing time together, listening to music
It was a home, our haven, in some silly way, just for a little while
It was the **** of all the jokes, not some Porsche by any means
But there was something about it's feel that made it unique

After track, it was post prom, that I was there with you
Falling asleep at five in the morning, listening to the radio
With your hand on my knee, something just felt right
When we got back to my house, I thought you tried to kiss me, but I hugged you instead because I wasn't ready
You drove away listening to the song "Mirrors" by Justin Timberlake
And you still tells me that you knew it was a sign

As the school days wearied down, we grew together
Longer days, shorter nights, and warmer weather
We started to see each other more and more
You always wanted to drive me home, pick me up
Just to spend more time together
You lived for that in-between time in the car
Driving around with you just always felt right

At graduation he was there too, we named him, you see
JFE for his license plate, but we pronounce it Jeffie
I watched you walk across the stand, receiving your diploma
And after we walked back to him, because you had something for me
Which wasn't how I thought graduation worked
But nonetheless you asked me to go get a toolbox from him trunk
To help you with some nameless task
So I opened it, expecting a wrench, but I was met with wrapping paper instead
In it was a card saying that you knew that I was hurt, but you were trying your best to show that your feelings were honest
And in the box were webcams to help us make it through the upcoming summer apart

He was there those first two weeks of summer
I bet we totaled a thousand miles
Going back and forth from place to place
Just spending all the time we could before you had to go
Those beautiful weeks, the best of my life
We stayed out until two a.m.  in my front yard, just talking in the front seats
I always came inside expecting a lecture on the time of night and the worries my mother had
But, I really didn't care
I spent every single day with you before you left
I wanted to make the most of a bad situation
Because it was planned before we happened

He was there that day you told me of your love
Like it was something that had to be said, it was already seen
You confessed you would miss me because of your feelings
That encompassed your life
It took me two weeks to return it
Not out of lack of it, but because I wanted to be absolutely positive it was love
Now, there is no doubt, but then I was a little shook up
And when I said it, we were standing right next to him
His chipped maroon exterior, with power windows that seldom rolled up, and his creaky sliding doors
I have since said those three words a million times in his vicinity

He was there when he left, after the beautiful time
We were so unhappy to be separating, it was unbearable
But he always brought you straight back home to me
I would look out for him everywhere I went in case you were back in town again
Waiting for the rumble of his engine from the bottom of the hill
Then I knew you were home again


Since you have come home to stay, he has been there for all of our countless days
For all the good and bad ones together
He has seen us shine and diminish, but he has always been the place
If we needed to talk, you would just turn the key off and park somewhere to resolve it
While driving in him, we have told countless stories and memories
We became best friends and fell in love there

He was there for all the memories
The ones that cannot be bought or sold
Even though he was named with a price
In my mind, he is priceless
A treasure
One of a kind
Even though he was made on a factory line of thousands
*Just like him

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
Eheu fugaces labuntar anni

So it goes, an old poet
rose, to tell the story of
the beast and the decaying glass rose,
petals falling softly cracking into broken
glass.

When you look at someone through rose tinted glasses, all the the red flags just look like flags.

raise a generation on Eminem and Cobain
then
scratch your head wondering where all us grown boys
went a little insane

from Timberlake to Bieber
Brittany to Miley
what's really changed?
anything
but our age?

a president named Bush went to war on terror
in the the middle-east,
ten years later his son does the same thing.

again I ask,
what's even changed
but
our age?

The ****** scandals begun by our ******* president
continue today under an eponymous tabloid cover
called Kardashian.
exploitation the name of the game,
everything is done for us,
especially our thinking.
less scarily,
our cooking.

there has never not been an "us vs. them"
mentality in human history.
we are cultured cannibals, tribesmen who have outgrown
our britches.
****** and racial liberation continues against
****** and racial tension
*** is cheap
drugs are cheaper
morals are depleted
agnosticism the happy sedated norm
nobody expects a revival but the saved themselves, the born
again.
well do I even wish to be born again into a life as this?

If I have learned anything thus far from life's teachings:
One is nothing and everything
Nowhere and everywhere
   spirits abound where you least expect them  
There is no zero and no infinity

Watch a fire burn and you will know this truth

Alas! The fleeting years glide on.
*Eheu fugaces labuntar anni