down withered trunks red-furred squirrels race
to twirl and dance over stony ground
watchful eyes observe from behind
glossy glass -
the veiled intent behind them yet
lies dormant;
waits to waken under freedom's call.

'A profound state of unease or dissatisfaction.'

I can understand that.
I ache.
My body twitches with the unseen tremors
     of muscles that were never there.

And sometimes my fingers and skin
fool me -
     wrinkles fade into existence
     as my body is at once
     too large and too small for
     the galaxies burning within.

Thank you so much for the memories,
those moments of pleasure-pain
when I meet
someone with your name
or think in the split-second before reality sets in
that I saw you walking towards me.

Thank you for the little trinkets
that I'll pack away in moving boxes
and
marvel anew when they surface,
all the way across the continent.

Thank you, all of you, my friends
and family -
in soul, if not in blood.

You knew me and I knew you,
and it was fantastic.
We sat together rolling dice,
or showing each other songs that made us think, "I thought of you!",
or just talking,
or eating,
like the wonderful,
mad,
insane human beings we all are.

I could never have asked for anything better.

hand reaches under the pillow -
flick the switch, hear the whir
screen lights up

night passes swiftly as
jedi and sith battle in your hands

her eyes never still -
trace smooth arcs over the scene,
observe everything

crystal glass glows under sunlit lances,
trails its shadows over blood red carpet
embroidered with dying embers of
golden thread.

kings never walked here,
and yet
the ***** crystal glints beneath
moonlight,
dusty shafts racing through the caked dirt
to touch threadbare ashes
where embers once glowed

a storyteller
pages crisp beneath his hand -
worlds painted in pen

insidious
creeping poison -
it begins slowly,
spreading filament-thin tendrils
over the surface
of
my
mind

then the tendrils turn inwards,
searching,
growing,
and I find myself trapped
as a plant,
once nourished,
cut off from the sun.

it begins slowly
as all things:
hints of apathy when plugging away
at my favorite game,
the need, the craving,
to chug a bottle of root beer in the morning
or risk crashing,
no strength to keep up a weary facade

And worse,
the creeping,
slow,
insidious
wondering -

*is it even there at all?

three men -

the dark, brooding cloak of darkness
to swoop down,
savior of the lost.

the clever one
victorious and wild,
flying through time and space.

the Oncoming Storm,
green, flashing eyes to hide
ferocity,
like sheathed talons.

three men who are one,
one man who is three -
they scream as they are separated,
scattered across the stars

The clock stops at 6:40 pm local time.

I'm watching through the attic window as the hands stop. The moon's light reflects off ornate gray steel, stopped in precice alignment with faded roman numerals.

Curious, I stand and push up the glass, scan the street below for any signs of movement. Nothing. Nothing's moving.

Standstill.

Then the outline of a falling leaf catches my eye. Heaven only knows where it came from. I certainly don't. It isn't moving anymore, isn't falling as it's supposed to. As I realize what I'm seeing, I notice even more discrepances - things so odd my eyes skipped over them at first: A large brown moth halted in place, wings frozen on a downstroke. Several candles, wicks lit but not burning, not flickering, visible behind my neighbor's curtain.

As I stare at the world around me, eyes wide and definitely not heavy with sleep anymore, my heightened senses tingle. Heaviness travels, did you know? It's physics. Gravity. Something to do with lift, too, I think, chest heaving as invisible bands of iron tighten around my ribs.

Time to sleep...

Thud.

Outside the window, the clock hands turn.

6:41.

old skin must be shed;
peeling
painful
the storm of darkness
after which there is blessed light

hands stained red
let's say it all together now:
I'm going to hell but I just don't care
'cause we all gotta see the sun someday

what if there were humans with wings
ultimate fission of mammal and bird -
scientific improbability
brought to life

curled up
safe in my nest of tears
I feel safe enough
to say
the impossible

we draw lines in the ever-shifting sands
     'No! That is me, not you!'
     'You idiot, that's ME, this is you!'

and yet the division is far too unclear
for any fool swigging his beer.

as the ever-shifting lines in the sand
tie us all to our meager plots of land,

i - for all that one-letter word is worth -
slip over the boundaries and cross't the hills
make this a test of mind,
not wills,

for in this shattered world, i find,
there is no boundary between me and thine!

only when we all understand
can we end the rivalry and war amongst man -
     so gaze into another's eyes,
     see the common soul you've both disguised