Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.  
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.

The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.

Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0● I ●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0●●●●●●●●●●●0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
0 0 0 G A T H E R 0 0 0 0 0 0 0  
0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
in the silence between finale and applause.
I/H/I/D/E/I/N/B/L/A/N/K/C/A/SS/E/TT/ES
spouting my lore until you break; hats tipped to
˙ʇsᴉsǝɹ oʇ pǝƃɐuɐɯ oɥʍ sǝuo ǝɥʇ

1.) I left your brother a fake key to my front door underneath the concrete block at the foot of my driveway. Tell him it's real; feign disbelief when he discovers it's not. Do not break to his powerful will, keep up the lie. (Don't worry about the cat, she'll be fine.)

2.) I've provided you with the supplies to harvest the memory worm and I expect it in good condition upon my return. Do not disappoint me again.

3.) The moon cycle is about to restart. Remember to water the stones, chart their growth, and make sure to keep up with your calisthenics; we don't want a repeat of last month's escape.

3-II.) Break the orange stone if it darkens any further. Malevolence is always in poor taste when inflicted upon people such as us and I do not want some rock probing around in my head again.

4.) Pawn your step-father's television, give his eyes a break. We need the cash, quick, to help pay off my polonium dealer. The man is patient, but we need to show that we're making progress; money will help. The synchrones haven't quite flourished yet, or matured for that matter, so gold is a little out of our reach, but we've at least progressed to clouds and static.

=--
===-
=====-

The vessels will soon flood over with the milk of bounty,
and the time shall come when the palaver begins to cease;
a time when words are indeed obsolete to the new being.
The vessels will soon flow with the true, fourth color.
Trichromacy be ******; we shall see things as they truly are!
=====-
===-
=--




n̷̢̬̯͙̮̤̫̪̟͂ͨ͋̅̏͒͒͆̅͌̚͢͢͜ö̈́ͦͣ̆­̶̷̶̛̹̱̱̭̝͈̤͍͙̟̬͕͈̤͈͇̩̠͆͒̄͑ͤ͗ͪ̈́͝ ̛͖̪͉̯̼̤̦̹͎́ͬͤͧ͂̏͐̀m̶̡̰̖̺̼̠̺̠̻͖̮̘̻͙̑̓͋̒̾̏̀ͬ̔ͦ̉͑̓͝õͩ̑ͭ͋̈́ͬ̈̈ͫ̓̂͗̎͆̒­͛҉̵͏̛̥̭͉͙r̶̗̗͓̻̪͑̃ͩ͂͗͌͛̂̽̈́̀̒̃́̕͡ͅe̢̛͙͕͍̹̲͐̍͐̎̄ͦ͒̈͂ͣ̾̽ͨ̇ͦ͋̀͟͡ ̸̨̺̣̬̩̩͚̹̰̖̻̜ͩͭ̔͒̔̄ͭ̓͂̚͜s̵̪̦̺̜̤͔̥̦̖͙̝̯̺͎̘̎ͫ̈́̔̎ͦͦ̿ͤ̏ͩ̌̕͞ͅm̑ͥ̾̈́ͮ̔ͪ­̭̦̮̜̱̫̻͖̔̎̐̆̀ͥ̈́̐́͝ā̷̶͓͉̼͚͕̤̘͕̰̣̩̲͍̭͓͎͉ͥ̆ͬ̎ͣ̍̏̑̂ͧͯ̆̄̓̑͗ͬ̀͞l̂̿ͨ̑̾́­̰̥̭͇͍̰ͬ͗̓̍̇͆̔̋͜͟l̶̉ͮ̃͆̉ͬ̾ͤ͑͆̓ͤ̆ͫ̉̓̾͜͞҉̝̣̙̯̺̳͕̫͍͕̮̹̝͖̹̠̼̼͈͝ ̸̨̮͓̗̝̤̬͖͖̬̪ͭ͆͛̒̎ͩ̍͐ͮ̈̿̂̓ͬ̆̄̃ͮt̆͗̿͋ͦ̇ͧ̓̉̌ͯ̆̄̚͡͝҉̢̢̱̮̺ͅaͬͣͧ̓̈́ͨͥ̓͒̚­̸̸̴̡̻̝͕͇̖̯̝̿͆̆ͬ̚͠l͈̬̫̰̺̥͙͍͇̭̣͇͙̰͚̠̦̻̜ͧͫ̒͋̊́̃ͪ̈́̀͘͡͞͞k̎ͯ͒͌̀̾̒̈́ͩ͋̓ͩ̚­̸̛̤̠͖̖͈̤̠̝̬̩̩̖̩͙̲̭̭ͮͮ́͝ͅ
̷̴̧̢͇͕͙͓̤̜͓̖̦͉̠̭̥̭̪̙ͬͩ̐͆ͩͨ̏̽ͫ͒ͩͪ͂ͦͬ̿̈̆̈́͝­͔̖iͤ̉̍̋ͩͬ͛̆͛̒͑ͥ̎ͥͧ͗҉̷̟͉̩͟ͅţ͉͚̹͚̑̂͛̉ͬͧ̕̕͜͡'̘̻̭͈̞̏̿ͩ͋̔̏̄̑ͤ̂̊͒ͩͯ̀̚͟­̫̯͓̮̥̝̩̖͓͈sͨ̑́̽҉̸̟̘̭̬́͢ ̉ͫ̊̒ͮ̓͘҉̯̘̲̖̹͍͝t̛͚͇͈̽͐̎̑͒̎ͬ̇̒̑̈́͠i̛̿ͭ͊ͮ͐ͪ̏͋͊͐̃̏ͪ̐͒ͧ͆͛ͪ͏̸̼͉̺̦̲̲̠͢͞m­ͦ̑̋ͦͫͭ͌̽ͯ͐̚͏͇̰̪̟̣̠̲͔͢͟e̷̛̥̻̟̲̰͕̤͎̭̖ͥͩ̄̊̇ͥ͋ͮ̓ͮ̑̎͒ͣ̾̋͡ ̶̴̷͔̟̦͍͕̦̞̖̬̖͛ͫͧ̀ͪ̌̓̊̉̐ͭ̐ͦ͊̕t̛̙̣̯̗̫͔̠̝̥̞͚̏̄͋͌ͩ̈ͪ̏͝ͅo̓ͬ̈̏̇̊̌͛ͦ̌ͤ͐̆­̸̝̣͎͖̲̟̗͇̰̯̇̍̈͊̕͜ ̴̡̘̥̲̙̫̞͎͔̘̦͔̎ͧ͐̒̈́̆͂͆̇͒̈́̓̊ͫ̾̚͞ã̇̏̀ͮͫ̇ͧ́ͭ̇̏ͣͥ҉͜҉̗̦͓̦͓͙͍̱̝̗̲̗͘c̐̾͊­̨͑̊́ͯ̈̔̃̂ͥ̆̊̽͢҉̶̙͙̣̝̭͕̺̰̞̰̮̤̱͔t̯̬̝̹̜̤̲̞̦͕̺̝̳̙̯̳̼́͋ͭͬͫ̋̽͂̾̌̃̂̏̌͠,̇­̢̡̧̣̲̩̤̖̭̹̬̜̗̞̭̰͓̂ͨ̐̀̄͐ͩ͂̀͗̓̽ͬ͋ͤ̒́̚͡ ̶̨̛̟͙͕͕̬̠͔̭̽ͨͫ͒͢m̧̘͈̝̟̹̺̬̬͎̳̹͙͕̜̭̙ͪ̾̒̐̉̾̅ͫ̚y̝͍̭͒͊̎́͋͋ͨ̐̽̋͗̏ͪ̈̕͟͢͝­̠̳̥̭͍͕̳̻͔̣̙ ̴͑͑ͫ̃ͮ͋ͭ̈̃͟҉̢̺̠̮̫͎͕̯̪͉̮̹̞̕c̸͍͉̝̦͎͇̳̥͙̋̆̀ͯ̎͗͌̈̍̽ͮ̌̏̈́͐̚͘ḩͥͦ̈́̀ͩ͆͐̿́­̸̱̻̥͙̳͈̙͚̫̀i̡̛̤̦͉͕͕̖̝̟̘̦͉͖̲̟̲͊̆͊͆͠ͅļ̶̳̮̦̗̳̂̓͛͂̋́d̨͒ͣ̂̐͑͛̈̏́͏̜͉̯͉­̣̭̻̥̻̮͎̰̦͖͖̟ͅr̴̸̰͍̤͉̦͙͎͙̩̞͕͉͈͙̻̣ͦͮ̅͂̒ͪ̏ͫ̓̋͆͐̀͢ͅè̾ͫͬ̋̽͊̂̓̾͆̅̅ͫ̎̓̚­̸̸̡̡̭̖̥̯̬̪̮͎̳͚ͩn̶̵̵̯̘͓͎̳ͥͪͫ̆̆ͯ̾̒͑͛̉͊ͩ̍̈́͌̓̈̕͟ͅ
̵̧̫̐̽̓͒̓ͤͫ̒̉̇̔̏ͧ͌̕͡­̣̩͙̱̺̞̤͙̰̬͖ͅ

-
߇ᆃ↿⊬❝ᆄ༺ᒦᅣ↑
Remember, you are not at fault here. This is all my doing.

Sincerely,
Mr. Cuttlefish

If she gathers enough sticks,
she'll be able to get the fire going real nice;
enough to see her hand
in front of her face for a change.

She's been scratching around in the dark,
wide-eyed and ravenous,
feeling the ground for wood
for what seems like hours.

Her fingers start to blister and sting
from the friction and the grinding
of her begging and pleading
for just one measly spark.

It's been like this since that day
when everything was still pretty nice
in her podunk town where she
was known as the black sheep.

That day, that day, in late April,
when she raised her hand up
stuck out her thumb and
blotted out the sun.

She woke up with dirt under her nails
and pulled a lock of hair out
that was starting to mat.
She went to sleep with dirt under her nails.

She went to sleep hungry
and now she chews on anything that moves
in the umbra that couldn't be too far
from where she used to live.

Dead leaf blankets-
"Are the trees still alive?
What did the forest smell like,
sound like, at high noon?"

"What were colors?
Light-lovers and their shrieking tears
filled with nostalgic longing for
magical, pretty un-black; privileges".

Sanctum in the murk.
She walks tonight, but not far.
"I am the mother of the moth,
and the sudden ritenuto".


) o ( ●

No water,
lights;
just her screech,
and that ****** tapping.

She couldn't be a mortal, just simply born;
but truly a goddess, ignited, free from form.
-
The day the ground met with her delicate toes
was the night the stars aligned in symmetrical rows.
-
In dream, she dances and glides upon air.
Awake, she braids comets in the threads of her hair.
-
My greetings seem hollowed, I am drifting afloat.
The language of fondness is a lump in my throat.
-
Her outline is gleaming with a soft, vermilion luster.
Her eyes, subtle jasper, urges your core not to trust her.
-
Not a staza, nor an epic can contain flawless grace,
or the yearning I feel when we are sharing this space.

I met my neighbor today.
Well, he's not my neighbor yet,
but he will be when I'm forty-two
and have that burgundy four-door.
He'll have two kids by then,
one from a previous marriage;
loud mouth little *****,
always reminding his step-mother
that his real mom wouldn't stand for
what she wants to call discipline.
I should really remind his dad to return
my rototiller when I see him next.
-
The meteorologist called for sleet
and I still don't see any ****** sleet.
I walked to the fuel station and got a fountain soda;
I counted six stray cats on the way back.
One of them used to belong to a woman
by the name of Jamila who moved back to Atlanta
in July of last summer.
The cat never liked to come to her,
so it stayed behind to chart star patterns.
Sometimes, when no one is out on the street,
the cats meet in alleyways to gossip
about the state of affairs in the soy city.
-
I buried seven heads-up pennies
underneath the yield sign on Union street
last Wednesday, I believe it was.
I'm still waiting on a reply,
but Mr. Cuttlefish isn't known for his punctuality.
No one is around here;
it's bad for your health if everyone knows where
and when you'll be.
They say one of the neighbor kids
found a piece of amber the size of a plum
in a box of Rice Chex from the corner market.
I knew someone would find it eventually.
-
Every umpteenth sidewalk slab has an "X" engraved
in the top, right-hand corner.
It signifies a meeting zone, and if you wait their long enough
I can probably convince one of the
silver men from the condemned apartment building
to let me borrow their aural symphonizer
so I can finally see what it's like
to extract one while it is still alive and roily.
It wont be too long of a wait,
as the men are always brief with conversation
and always seem to blink and breathe
at the exact same time I do.

I. centipede:
-
They come from both directions and it doesn't take long
for me to realize that they've figured me out.
My mind was fast, but not as swift as the hands
of five-hundred outreaching hands; one angry crowd.
Grabbing at limbs, low and high, they don't waste a second
before tearing me in every direction; at least the cardinal four.
My mind takes flight, leaves fancy, but not before
I get in one last swear, and one last spittle in their faces.

II. snake
-
Tail and head aren't in sync this morning, I tell ya.
No rattle, no bite, just a lot of traffic and heat shimmers
in the one place I don't need to be today.
The people here act like they don't know me,
but they still turn their noses up when I empty my mug.
The waitress answers when spoken to,
but just stares in the time in between wheezing breaths.
I've got to get out of this county, this state.

III. scorpion
-
Ronny hasn't been on a roof since a couple years after we got married.
He wrapped his ankle in some gutters and took a spill;
his thigh popped right out of it's socket and he just dangled
like some kind of prize in one of those crane games.
Doctor says he can still have kids, and I know he can still get it up
from how he watches that ****** **** on t.v.
But he wont touch me; hasn't in fifteen months, I've counted.
He's in for a surprise once the settlement clears.

IV. lizard
-
Wallflowers never get anywhere with their mouths sewn shut
and I cut my stitches well before my teens;
I got what I needed and I made sure of it.
But there is something to be gained from
basking in the naivety of youth and ignorance.
Trouble doesn't set in as well, and boredom comes
as some kind of waiting period, rather than the norm.
These bars are a reminder of why they don't let me make the rules.

V. toad
-
Invulnerable, incontestable, unphasable, archetype.
I listen for the right words to drop the shields,
but I'm only met with the silence that accompanies
asphyxiation through means of wet wax paper.
The touch of phantoms tingle along my skeleton's core
telling me the time for lollygagging has long since passed.
Stand up, giant, you're running hot and the moon
keeps calling out, "follow the lit road home".