I remember the day like it was yesterday;
the temperature was 7 below zero by 7 A.M.
Then it was 13 below, and at 7:25 A.M.
on Friday, Feb. 9, 1934, the coldest temperature-
ever for New York City was recorded.

Believe it or not that is not the reason
I remember that day;
it was the day she walked in my office.

She had the kind of look that made a man's-
and a few women's mouths drop open.

Like I said a real looker,
5' 8' endowed with more curves and-
hair pin turns then the Pacific Coast Highway.
Eyes crystal blue, hair platinum blonde
(without the bottle)
she was well put together for sure.

When she spoke;
the words that came out-
of her ruby red lips
made you want to slap her
and kiss her all at the same time.

the sky turned black today.
everyone acted as if this was normal.
why? am i crazy or is the sky black?
i was the only one who noticed, the only one who cared.
i got lost.
no-one looks down corridors or stairways or dark alleys anymore.
as they no what happened.
as their own sky's turned black, they ran. they knew what type of person would pounce.
i didn't know.
i didn't run away from the black sky.
but i stayed. and now i have to.
i have no choice.
confidence.
thats all i need.
give it to me. please.

Without sinking through the spheres. Hymns betting, still hands crisp under the wings. The wind slumbering, stays in the dark spaces. Eleven invisible pages, over. Any other name- Lux Arabesque, Uuqui Haratas, Preset: 117, and the foil.

The mirrored valley’s strangest flora, sifts the decorated thriving trails. Then it can all become an infinite weave in this world where lazy whistling sand dunes beyond, claim the rights to a juried Spring. Then somehow it may recant this glorious history we’ve only barely known. The potent eyes starved by madness, waxes seas and radio fields, slimming the loops that rip into  hinges and dispel a tryst.

Toward Earth’s serene prelude, this pageantry of standard masks make ascending towers just and stately. Then come the planets we’ve always loved: Mars, Neptune, and Jupiter too. Barefoot and staggering through the modern coolness of a colossal spring, aching mental itching grows. Until the fruits have fallen into the cloven shadows. Until buried stones alit with day consecrate these omens and conceive such lucid strings to break these quiet thieves into song.

Then the diary belies this affair. The steins upset the tales where pungent fleshy working minds coalesce. Observe the horses play in their endings, upon the wild mountain rivers where felling human eyes wander amidst these cleaved and sun-drenched desert mounds.

Pt. II

In origins uplifting diets foretell the escaped  seams of darkness whose lofty tongues of nature’s prose lift the veiled hours’ wraith. Never pressing bells nor raked by shivers, it occurs swiftly should the marbled rushing master call. Above the sound of narrow whispers, comes the wishing hands to shout.

He walked into the bar, a buzz in the corner
With fists upon each other
A self-appeaser, a demonizer
With a picture of Christ in the corner

A ****** posing as a mannequin
For the lost kids from the suburbs
A rockstar singing testimonies 
To its significant others

Careful, they might criticize your point of view

Its just the neons and gutters
The mundane-marveled life
The signs only omit what you realize
Its how we deal with each other
Its how we share our beds
With the promise that we're stars, no less
Its not a sign

Radio beats on null-head streets
And monotonous synchronizing
People pummel oil drums
Emphasize on heavy flooding

The local drug store is the place
For sanity verification
Latex gloves deem what we'll find
In the underbelly of this nation

Careful, they might criticize your point of view

Its just the neons and gutters
The written, free life
We see it all, but thats not realized
Why do we act as fodder?
Its how we share our beds
With the promise that we'll come back to a caress
Its not a sign

I'm not you, you're not me
I've no clue, maybe that's alright
I love peace, you hate war
We clash heads, maybe that's alright
I'm getting paid, you're a star
I don't bother, maybe that's alright
I've got kids, you're alone
We're all doomed, maybe that's alright

We'll be fine
We're divine
We've no crimes
We save our dimes
We keep time
We'll be fine

She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.

She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.

The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.

She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.


"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"

I was doing you a favor.

"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "

Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.

"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."

Calm down, okay? Please?

"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a ****, that's my ******* business, Asgar. "


And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.

When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***.

And drugs. Drugs, too.