One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

I sat curled up in the closet, my knees tucked up into my chest and my arms wrapped tightly around them. The more pain I felt, the tighter I clutched my knees to my chest, my fingernails digging into my skin, breaking it, hoping, with my blood, to make the hole stop throbbing, stop hurting, if only for a few minutes, a few seconds. The throb subsided, dulled, but didn’t go away. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks as another aching sob built deep in my chest, threatening to explode any second. The pressure built, higher and higher in my throat, the pain pushing its way to the surface, looking for a way out. My stomach tightened and convulsed as the sob broke surface, screaming out of my chest like a freight train, allowing the whole world to be privy to my most private pain, privy to the anguish that comes from losing something so dear to you that, when it goes, it takes a piece of your soul, and all of your heart, with it. As the last of my air escaped, my sob turned into a soft, pathetic whimper, like that of a dog sitting at the door when his Master leaves. Depleted of that life-giving substance, oxygen, my body and mind did that automatic thing: breathing. Air ripped through my mouth and down to my lungs, digging its wicked claws into the walls of my throat its entire way. A soft inward whine echoed up from the abyss of my chest just before my lungs were again filled to capacity and another sob burst forth, screaming my agony to the dark walls of the closet I had sheltered myself in.

Eventually, like always, numbness came. It worked its way up through my limbs, a sweet coolness working its way through my burning body. It started in my toes and feet, the furthest and therefore already dullest part of me. Its icy fingers began to massage their way up my ankles and calves next, pausing at my knees to work through the weakness there. I began to feel it work its way up my fingers next, cooling the burn that had been left by her fingers. It followed the paths that she used to trace up my arms, feeling nothing like her fingers’ tender caress. It moved its way up my thighs, chasing the paths her lips used to pursue on their way to my tender core, icing the burns left there. The ice flowed past my elbows, up my biceps, to my shoulders, still following her lips. Up my stomach and abs, along my ribs, over my chest, it searched out the heart that was no longer there. Its icy fingers took a firm hold of my chest and continued their ascent, up my neck and along my chin, gently caressing my cheeks, my nose, playing gently through my hair. And finally, the face, her face, that had been haunting me since I’d stepped into that closet, was frosted over and replaced with the grey haze that meant that I was able to unwrap my arms from around my knees and stand again.

I stood, then, and let myself out. I went to stand in front of the sliding glass door. It was sunrise. I’d sat in there another full night, hiding from the memory of her, hiding from her face, from everything that reminded me of her. I sighed and returned my attention to the sunrise. It was ablaze with oranges and reds and yellows, fire working its way across the sky, flames dancing in the sunrise clouds, heralding a new day. The light was streaming in through the windows, the hopeful light of yet another day. A soft breeze was playing through the aspens that were planted in strategic locations in the sidewalk five stories below. A woman jogged past, dressed in the typical black spandex sweatpants with white stripes running down the sides, accompanied by a tight tank top that revealed far more of the silicone masses, that her stock-broker husband no doubt paid for with his far-too-large Christmas bonus, than was truly necessary for a morning jog. His bonus probably paid for that nose-job that she was sporting as well. I wondered briefly why she was running. I was sure that her husband could probably afford liposuction for her. She jogged around the corner, taking my brief distraction with her, and I was left to ponder the sun rising on yet another day.

I looked around my room, seeing and not seeing the faceless picture frames lining the walls, their emptiness a shadowy reflection of my soul. A soft rage suddenly erupted from somewhere deep inside of me and I found myself tearing the empty frames from their perches upon the wall. Her face stared up at me from the empty, shattered glass that littered the floor. Her eyes haunted me in my rage as I trampled the broken glass, pulling my hair and screaming at the top of my lungs, wordless screams of anguish. My unclad feet began to drip blood onto the glass, hiding the green that was staring up at me, making her flee from the pools of glass that lay strewn upon the floor.

I turned my attention back to the sunrise. Opening the door, I stepped out onto the balcony. A sunrise this beautiful might have once moved me to tears, but the numbness was as paralyzing as it was relieving. All and any emotion was gone. My life was devoid of meaning now. I climbed onto the railing and steadied myself. I waited for the nausea and vertigo that normally came with heights to come, but it didn’t. I looked down, gazing at the sidewalk five stories below. The wind swept up, catching my hair in its grasp, and making me wonder for the first time what it would be like to fly. I spread my arms, my wings, and allowed the warm morning breeze to wash over them. It had a warming effect on my numb body, breaking the ice that had just recently formed all over my body. Her face came back into focus, obscuring the view of the street and the sidewalk below.

My mind, so tattered and torn with grief, brought me back to our last morning together. We had been up most of the night before, making love, our bodies moving in perfect synchronicity throughout the night until they had finally arched in ****** together leaving us sleeping peacefully in each others’ arms. Somehow, we’d still woken up with the sunrise, a blazing red and orange one, much like the one that I was staring at now. She had looked at me with a passionate fire burning in her eyes, softened by a tenderness in her cheeks, and told me that she loved me, that she wanted to stay with me forever. Our fingers entwined, I looked in her eyes and told her that nothing would make me happier. Our lips met then, our tongues entwining and our pulses racing as our bodies moved as one.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, finally allowing myself to succumb to my memories, the happy ones she and I had made during our time together. I held onto them, allowing them to cushion me as only her love could.

bike's rusted chain
against the walls of my childhood
a new family lives inside
but what they don't see
are the notes of cardamom and burnt orange
rolls of film that my parents and I left behind
capturing sneakers over gravel
along the east river
toward the steel Hell Gate
as dad jogged beside me
his caramel skin
against the sycamores
my first time learning how to ride
they don't feel the bruises and scrapes nor
taste the paella we shared for dinner that evening
they only see what we gave them,
an empty house with matte finish

Sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable chair as I readjust my seat for the sixth time… it seems to be a futile effort.
An overweight man in a grey jogging suit is walking in, his white shoes leave wet foot prints across the faded carpet as he crosses the room and begins taking up the chair opposite me with a heavy sigh as though he has walked a long distance though I can see his car through the half closed blinds.

I think the carpet used to be red, like the long carpets they use in the lineup to see Santa but now it is a muddy color… like the water one might use to rinse paint brushes after it has been used too much.

The woman beside me is wearing a faded floral print dress, she smells like garlic and is snoring softly a rumpled romance novel clutched in one hand as her head nods forward onto her chest.
I watch it rise and fall slowly for a few long moments before finally pulling my eyes away again and look towards the desk where the blonde receptionist is sitting.

Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and there is a pen stuck in it to keep it in place, the pen is blue… or black I think but there is a red cap on it.
She is wearing those nurses’ scrubs they are a faded purple color with chains of daisies decorating them.  

I look past the blonde receptionist and her messy bun with the blue… or black pen with the red cap sticking out of it to the hallway with its bright lines of light and glossy floors.

Another woman is walking out of one of the doors, I can’t see it but I hear it close loudly in the silence, the woman beside me with the faded floral print dress jumps a little snuffling and grunting her dime store romance novel held up before her like a shield before she realizes it was just a door.

Just like the overweight man in the grey jogging suit as he to tries futilely to get comfortable in one of the world’s most uncomfortable chairs, I don’t think he has ever jogged… maybe he just likes the color.

The woman beside me is slouching a little further down in her chair... in another moment she is snoring again softly, I watch the woman who just came out of the unseen door.

She has a little boy with her, he is wearing black puddle boots and Spiderman pajama pants his coat is blue with black racing stripes down the back… he is tugging at the woman’s hand and saying something in another language.

She hushes him and turns back to the receptionist with the messy blonde bun, I watch as she reaches for the pen that is holding it in place… that one that might be blue or maybe black with the red cap on the end before she stops and picks up a black pen off the desk and writes something on a slip of paper before handing it to the woman.

She looks tired, her black hair is braided loosely and strands are falling into her face.
There are large dark circles under her eyes and she dressed in faded jeans and a grey windbreaker with the crest of a sporting goods store I have never heard of embroidered across the shoulder.

The boy is tugging at her hand again and as she turns to look at him she wearily sweeps her gaze over the rest of the room before she answers him.
Her voice is very soft with a practiced kind of patience most parents have, though I can’t make out her words I am sure they are also in another language that I do not understand.

I watch as they boy runs towards the door and pushes all his weight against it making a great show of his strength as the door slowly swings outwards and he leans back against it digging his boots into the muddy colored carpet as the woman follows him out.

The man in the grey jogging suit that has most likely never jogged before has gotten out of his world’s most uncomfortable chair and is eyeing the other still empty seats around him mentally trying to guess without having to walk over and try them which is the least uncomfortable.

He looks across to the woman beside me in the faded flora dress as she gives another snuffling murmur her fingers slowly letting the rumpled novel slip from them, it slides onto the floor and bounces before landing cover side up. Fields of Passion.

He looks at me and our eyes meet, I roll mine in a dramatic gesture of my opinion of the sleeping woman’s taste in reading... he smiles but says nothing and finally decided on another chair right beside the one he had before and sighs heavily as he settles himself into it.

I hear my name being called by the blonde receptionist with the messy bun held together by her blue or black pen with the red cap.
This time the snoring woman with the bad taste in novels doesn’t stir, the man in the jogging suit smiled a little as I pass him and I smile back before turning and disappearing down the hallway with the glossy floors and bright lines of light.

It was the December of '91,
and Larry asked me to come with
him and some ladies he knew
from Cameron Christian to
some **** yogurt shop on
Dead Dog Ave.

Three brunettes and a blonde;
at the time
I didn't care much for brunettes,
but god, god, god,
the blonde
with the crystal grey eyes,
the wrinkled floral print dress,
an optimistic ***,
and shaky feet
every single time
I made the eyes.

Sarah and Jennifer (two of the brunettes)
smelled of Glade-Feces-Blanket-Spray,
the third was far too young
to undress,
and I nearly strangled my beautiful blonde
when she mouthed, "Eliza."

I kept talking up the
fact my dad had just kicked me out.
I told Eliza I had the most magnificent
apartment
a bachelor could buy,
she kept averting her eyes,
shifting subjects like
playing cards,
my hands kept clinching,
clasping,
aching,
"Be right back, purty ladies."
I headed for the bathroom
leaving Larry to ******
Jennifer Glade.

I looked in the mirror,
I remember giving myself
a pep talk,
but I can't for the life of me
remember anything I said.

I remember pulling a dwindling
bottle of Black Label from my jacket.
I had taken it from my ******* dad,
the night he yelled, yelled, yelled,
until I was in some low-income complex
with a bunch of lowlife, ******
fuckups.

I ****** off the remnants.
Combed, recombed my greasy hair,
went back in,
just in time to hear
Jennifer Glade spout her stupid mouth,
"Larry, I told you I have a boyfriend."
"He's a ******* idiot."
She started to whimper,
said something like he was a regular sweetheart.
The regulars are so boring.

Larry stood up,
accused her of leading him on,
the acne cashier asked us to "pipe down",
I directed my stare into his acne-framed
irises.

I walked quietly toward him,
I could feel Larry and the girls
tracing my every feature.
"Just leave him alone,"
said my blonde little sweetie,
I turned back to her briefly.
Her skin looked like milk,
I wondered if it tasted like milk,
I kept my feet on track,
redirected the gaze,
back to my heavy-breathing cashier.

I got eight inches away from his face,
he fumbled some words,
that left a bad taste.
I could see my reflection in his retinas.
I looked clumsy and circular.
My milky, blonde Eliza would
never go for a circular **** like me.
This conclusion
coursed through my veins with
irrational speed.

I shot the acne cashier.
Right in his stupid, acne-framed iris.
The gun had been my grandfather's.
He had killed a black boy in the '30s with it.
Got to love legacies.

The brunettes were screaming.
I think Larry was trying to reason with me,
or maybe he was throwing up-
somebody threw up,
anyways,
I shot the young one first.
She had annoyed me most.

Then Sarah Glade.
Then Jennifer Glade.
Eliza began to run.

I jogged after her,
she frantically searched for a phone,
and my milky blonde
found one.

I stopped at the doorway,
rested my head on the frame,
listened to her cry into the handset,
begging for the police.
I opened my lids,
silently strolled up behind her,
with my left hand
I grabbed her optimistic ***,
with my right hand
I pulled the trigger.
She splattered onto me.
I felt successful.

I walked outside.
A silent,
still Austin night,
not even a dog on the street.
Larry was crying.
I told him to shut up.
They were *******.
Asked him for his lighter.
He opened his car door,
dug in his center console,
buried under 6-feet of cigarettes
was a lighter,
he popped the trunk,
I grabbed the gas can.

I erased Friday's mistakes,
and found Larry had driven off without me.
I walked to my low-income home.
I had a lazy Saturday.
Read an interesting story in the Guardian on Sunday.
By noon on Monday,
they were pointing cameras at me.

“I am the wolf!” I say
As I trot behind the caribou.
I’m salivating and my heart pounds
As I ignore the pain of miles jogged.
“I will never stop running” I say
As I swallow my thirst.
I run on and don’t slow;
Determined to sink my teeth into healthy flesh.


“I’ll never be the coyote” I say.
He desires only weak meat.
He laughs at the idea of a good meal
Stealing any morsel he can find.
“I’m not the coyote” I say
“I want to earn a true dinner.”
I absolve my petty desires
With my passion for the caribou.

--

I run through a field of rabbits,
Past by my potential meals to stop at shore.
I can just make out the lone caribou.
She is alone on her island.
She is beautiful and strong.
She looks me in the eyes - inviting and unafraid.

--

“Alas, I am NOT the wolf…” I say
“I am cunning and swift,
Yet unable to swim to her shore.”
My hunger rumbles as I stare.
“I am the fox” I say
I hope for the caribou,
But I try and try in vain
To fill her void with rabbits and the slain.

A whirlpool of thoughts swirled
as I slowly jogged around the park.
Amid the futile struggle of light,
against the approaching dark.

To never let go of the strings of past,
as stubborn as a flickering flame.
The road ahead mirrors the bygones.
We needn't look far for the blame.

The crushing burden of modern life;
facing the music with his head unbowed.
He gets on his feet with wounded knees,
and smiles at the succumbing crowd.

Innumerable choices present themselves,
as many as the peppered stars, abundant.
Each with unfathomable potential, yet
the path chosen invariably redundant.

He walks about the infinite desert;
the scalding ache of complete isolation.
He covets the presence of a nearby soul,
whose essence is but a mere reflection.

I drew in a lungful of evening air;
the immediate difference, so stark!
Yielding to the juggernaut of conformity,
as I slowly jogged around the park.

This isn't a poem but I just wanted to share it. There is a poem at the end however.


Chapter 1: Kenzi


The room is dim. The only light emanating from the small desk lamp in the corner.

“Unhappy with the life I'm living,
Not finding anything to
Wash my ***** slate of emotions
And to keep me from crying.
Nothing to turn to when I cannot
Take anymore of this pain.
Each tiring day I 'm getting thrown
Deeper into the rainstorm.

Trying to find a peaceful way to
Escape contention and get
Away from this life I hate. I
Refuse to cry anymore.
Sunshine doesn't stay with me for long.”

A poem I once wrote. The words ran through my head like a melody.
As I rummage through disorganized desk drawers, I search for a paper and pen. After glancing at the time on my cell phone, 2:11 AM, I begin to write:


“Dear—“

...dear who?...

        “—Everyone,

                          If you are reading this—“

...what do I say in a note like this?...

                “—it means that I've finally released myself from this painful world. I'm   
                          sorry for any heartache that I have caused you and I want you to know
                          that I love you more than anything. Once again, I'm sorry...I'm sorry I left
                          like this.

          Kenzi Mullberry ”



After signing the letter I just sat there, staring contemplatively at the paper.
...am I really going to do this?...

I looked the time again, 2:25. I usually hear the train roll by around 3.
After carefully folding the paper into thirds, I laid it on my bed.
...I hope they see it here...

Peeking out, I slowly opened my bedroom door.

CREEEAAAAK

I froze, listening... All quiet. Cautiously creeping down the carpeted stairs I let out a deep breath of air and arrived at the front entrance. Then, hesitantly, unlocked the door and stepped outside. Standing in the cold night air, I scanned the empty street. Then finally took a deep breath, and started walking.

My thoughts quickly drifted to Adam, my boyfriend.
...would my family tell him about the note? I don't want him to worry...

I took out my cell phone and typed up a text. Staring at the words, a tear rolled down my face. SEND

I checked the time again before putting the phone back into my pocket, 2:43.
...I'd better hurry...
Picking up my pace, I wiped my eyes and then shoved my hands into my sweatshirt pocket.

It was crisply cold out and my pale nose was red and running. A quick shiver ran through my body as the chilled breeze whispered past my ears and fluttered my dark brown hair. I looked up at a car traveling across the freeway overpass. It's surprising that there are still people driving this early in the morning. It's like that saying, "The city never sleeps."
There wasn't a sidewalk on this road so I stayed on the grass, even though there were no cars in sight. I looked to my right as I passed the canal, dry and empty. The irrigation water has been turned off for the winter.
Slowing down, I approached the crossing and my eyes examined the rail line. I could hear the train getting closer. I stepped onto the tracks and could feel them shaking beneath my feet. The train was getting closer and I started to panic as the bright headlight grew and I heard the horn.
...no. I have to do this...
I closed my eyes, embraced myself, clenching my teeth and my frozen fists.
”I'm sorry...”


 
Chapter 2: Adam


Music ran through my ears.

“...I miss you and it still feels like I know you
I've got pictures of us side by side to show you
But it feels like I owe you so much more

And you will always be perfect
You'll always be beautiful
Our hearts will never forget you
You didn't belong here
And it's become so clear
Why heaven called your name

And it just doesn't seem right, was it really your time?
Are we dreaming?
We'll never let go of you
Wish you were here but it's becoming clear
That Earth's just not the place for an angel like you...”

BZZZZZZ

I paused the music and looked down from the bright laptop screen, picking up the bottom corner of my pillow to reveal my phone.

*               1 MESSAGE:
                 Kenzi

“Huh, what's she doing up so late?” I thought, as I waited for the text to open.

                *Hey babe. i...im sorry...i know i'm about to
break ur heart, but i just cant take it anymore.
When you wake up and see this, i'll be gone...
I Love You Adam <3 im sorry...


“What?”

I re-read the text...

“Kenzi! You idiot–“
I jumped out of bed and threw on my jacket as I burst out of my bedroom and around the corner to the front door. I quickly slipped my shoes on and bolted out, not caring if I disturbed the others sleeping in the house. I had to stop her.
I sprinted across the driveway, knowing exactly where she was going.
She had talked about it so many times before, she'd say, “Adam, I'm so depressed I wish I could get hit by a train.” She'd pretend it was a joke, but I always knew she was being literal.
The air was cold and thin, making my throat dry so it was hard to breathe. I heard the train whistle.
“******* Kenzi...”

I strained to make my legs move faster, they were burning.

After cutting through the park, I passed the cemetery.
“Don't end up there k?...not yet...”

My shoes we're untied, due to my rush out the door, and I stumbled, but regained my balance. All I could think about was running. I could hear the train rumble as I turned the corner and the tracks came into view. I saw her.
“Kenzi!...Kenzi get off!” I was breathing hard and my face stung from the cold. “Kenzi!”

I saw the headlight and knew I wouldn't reach her in time. But I kept running.

CLICK-CLACK CLICK-CLACK CLICK-CLACK TOOOOOOOOT

I finally stopped 10 feet from the tracks. Raising my hands to my head, I grabbed my hair, then threw my arms back down and placed my hands on my knees as I caught my breath.

“Kenzi...you...stupid...” I softly spoke, I could feel tears creeping out of my eyes.

The end of the train finally passed and I jogged over to the tracks. Her body was on the ground, limp; lifeless.
...I can't believe she actually did it...
I bowed my head and closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath of air, then gazed up at the sky in discouragement.

...why did she have to–…
 
-----------------------------------------------------

*He­ looks into her motionless blood-shot eyes,
and sees something he hasn't seen in years.

A pain so deep, it's stitched into her skin,
leaving dark scars she knew would never fade.

He wants to help, but can no longer feel
The life that once ran through her veins.

The cold has taken over her weakened soul
and left it in the troubling dark of her mind.

She can no longer see, no longer taste
The endless joys they once together shared.

In a world full of happiness and sun
Were only memories of things left behind.

She couldn't see, didn't want to feel, the light
that was softly beckoning her away.

And now he stares at her in a state of something
He knew he could never bare the thought of.

As he kneels beside her he plainly whispers,
“This heart wasn't made for suicide...”

And then it hit me;

it had nothing to do with the fact that I tripped over a rock
fell and scraped my knee, crushed orange leaves and marred
them against me-it'd be tricky to get this off in one wash.

I was caught by an overdue epiphany;

it had been chasing me since the beginning of everything but
I promise it was not the reason I jogged each and every season
back and forth-which I suppose also was metaphorically.

Nothing was going to change;

I got up and brushed my raw hands on my ***** pants,
mud stuck to the heel of them and trickles of sweat fell down and
made everything that much colder-windy city.

If I kept waiting;

my breath came is white puffs, rapid and elevated,
the sun broke through the thin barrier of gray clouds and I swore
just a bit at the state of my ripped pants.

For someone to come and alter it;

my legs were burning at the sudden discontinuity of motion and thus
I got up and stretched once more- my knee was bleeding- inhaled deeply
the scent of crushed leaves and began my journey home.

It was me all along;

Children played,undisturbed by the chilly breezes of Autumn,
they fell and laughed merrily as though falling was just a sanguine
thing to do.

And it wasn't easy, I know;

The wind took the tiny tangerine hats off trees, blowing, howling,
the leaves soared at the mercy of nature's cycle-death and rebirth-
and suddenly my excuse of “what's the point? I'll die anyway.”
seemed petty and amusing.

I needed to change to change things.

A child, unafraid of pain, dove unto a pile of gathered leaves,
disappeared in a midst of orange and red after emerging
flushed and jolly, snickering and snorting. I crossed the road
and reached the door.
And after I let water fall and take away the dirt, a stray leaf had
made its way to my hair and I did not throw it away but kept it
as a reminder of the tumble I took to fall to this conclusion.

Autumn fell unto my world, feathers bright like the plumage of
a Phoenix bird in flight.

Sweaty armpits and rubbery legs
Labored breathing, one more step
My mind aching for a destination
There is none
Nothing but internal babblings
And an afternoon run.

I'm Bored in Brighton
Can't you see?
I'm locked here in this mansion
with just my family.

I'm Bored in Brighton
Yes, I've traipsed the streets
From Church to Bay to Hampton
I've jogged along the beach!

I'm Bored of Brighton
The Daimler's in the drive
The staff? Well they've just up and gone
All this to stay alive?

I'm Bored of Brighton
The twins are going mad.
And Rupert? Rupert's all a-moan
It's just so terribly sad!

I'm Bored of Brighton
The cavoodle looks a fright!
O heck! O no! It can't be so!
My Lulu's ...they're slightly tight!

I'm Bored with Brighton
You people are the pitts!
Try Lockdown in a high rise
And don't give us the pip!

I set out on a filthy evening
Jogged the stream and under the bridge,
Headed into the pouring rain
And over St. Alban’s Ridge,
I heard some footsteps running behind
But never could turn to see,
For who would venture out in the rain
Just to be following me?

I’d heard the following steps before,
Had stopped, and I’d turned around,
Scanned the bushes and hedgerows
There was no-one there to be found,
I thought I could hear some breathing
From a bush, or hid in a tree,
Though nothing stirred but a restless bird,
Nothing that I could see.

I’d always travelled the leaf strewn path
By the early sun of the day,
But sometimes ran when the darkness fell
By the light of a moonlight ray,
I loved the scent of the pine fresh air
It made me alive, and free,
It wasn’t until I courted Claire
That the footsteps followed me.

They’d stop whenever I stopped, and then
Would start again when I jogged,
I thought at first it was just a trick,
An echo, bounced off a log,
But sometimes, there in the silence when
I stopped while catching my breath,
I’d feel the hairs beginning to stir
Way up on the back of my neck.

I turned to run by a farmer’s field
That was stacked with new mown hay,
Reflecting light from the pale moonlight,
Awaiting the farmer’s dray,
I heard the footsteps behind me squelch
In the mud from the driving rain,
I called, ‘You’d better come out tonight,
By God, or I’ll cause you pain!’

I pulled a glittering knife blade out
I’d hidden, deep in its sheath,
Scanned the track by the farmer’s field
And the heather, down on the heath,
But nothing stirred in the pale moonlight
Though I saw its tracks in the mud,
And as I watched in a gathering fright,
They seemed to be filling with blood.

I turned and ran in a panic then
And weaved my way through the trees,
My heart was beating, my mind was numb
I slipped, and fell to my knees,
I finally found the giant oak
Where I knew that a corpse would lie,
The moon was sending a single beam
And lighting the dead man’s eye.

I’d propped him there when I’d slashed his throat
To free up the hand of Claire,
She’d been bereft when he disappeared,
Would never have found him there.
I’d meant to come back, bury the bones
But still he sat by the tree,
And now the footsteps joined with him there,
His eye was glaring at me.

They followed a trail of blood, they said,
The searchers said, when they came,
And I was cowering by the corpse,
They said that I was to blame.
They’ve put me here in a darkened cell
Where I sit and stare at the floor,
And hear the shuffle of footsteps there
On the other side of the door.

David Lewis Paget

i parked my car in your driveway
promising myself i was over you
and waited for a moment
promising myself i was over you
my head rested in my hands
promising myself i was over you
i heard myself open the car door
promising myself i was over you
and shut it
promising myself i was over you
i jogged up your gravel driveway
promising myself i was over you
and almost turned around
promising myself i was over you
i hopped up the porch steps
promising myself i was over you
and knocked three times
promising myself i was over you
i blinked
promising myself i was over you
and you were suddenly there
promising myself i was over you
no words were spoken
promising myself i was over you
your blue eyes like the sea
promising myself i was over you
you smiled
promising myself i was over you
and i realized you didn’t hate me
promising myself i was over you
you asked if i was okay
promising myself i was over you
i lied
promising myself i was over you
“yeah, i’m better than ever”
promising myself i was over you
you said you were glad we could still be friends
promising myself i was over you
i lied again
promising myself i was over you
“me too.”
realizing i wasn’t over you

Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.

Sometimes I muse about the strangers in my life.
I like to pretend that some of them have telepathy like radio
and when they see me as they always do,
in the commons at the school,
jogging past me on the sidewalk,
or in the polite but awkward silence of the elevator,
I wonder if I intrude upon their fuzzy bubble of mid-morning consciousness.  
If my inappropriate thoughts make their way through the static of theirs.

I almost want to apologize to the woman who jogged passed me this morning.
She didn’t need to know that I scratched my nuts
sniffed my hand,
and the scent of that ball-sweat brought me back a time when the room reeked of sin,
in the afterglow of rough ***, and that it made me miss
Her.

And that classmate didn’t need to know
that I secretly hoped the girl
that they keep talking about on the news would just show up dead,
so I don’t have to hear about it anymore.
Or the guy I just shared the mandatory hellos with,
if only he knew that just before we talked I was pondering the best way to induce mass hysteria
- a plan involving a *** of one dollar bills and LSD -
not that I’d ever actually put it into action.
Chaos is just fun to think about sometimes, I think.

And now I’m thinking of how weird it would be,
if one of these people tuned in right now and overheard me musing about them.
Woah…that’s so meta.

I gotta write this **** down.

Good is a growing word.
It's a destructing thing to those who wish the worst.
Unable to indulge in anything other than good.
Facing forward so that is the way I go.
Can't change anything but myself, my path, my choices, My wrongs.
Kinda rusty in a field I haven't dab at in awhile.
Dressing everyday like a salad smiling with every bite I take.
Constructive criticism with every good intent.
Dreams shattered with tropical stroms winds that picks you up, but takes you nowhere.
Takes every breathe in me not to take it one step further.
Feels like I'm going I'm going circle.

my existence
is that of procrastination
biding my time
until the clock ticks out

father time
will have no ***** left to
give, and mother
nature will have
jogged her course

there's nothing left for
me here. raucous chatter,
degradation via insolence,
disregard for basic human
life

******* on my virtues,
scraping up my vices
(like gravy curds left on ham)
you pick me apart
and throw me to my bed

so I can dig my fingernails into
my upperthigh and muse
on regret and self-hatred and
the mistake of my

existence, as I wait
for father time
to grow tired of me
as well

Watching a giant cockroach was I,
pushing across a ball of dust
he seemed satisfied to trace,
a path between the table and door,
but soon he turned and jogged in crooked rings,
and flipping over to scratch his back-
as if a victim of a mild
panic attack.
After a while of climbing open shelf's,
he looked uncertain where to go.
I don't know what he was thinking,
but I knew I recognized myself so.

What was it jogged my memory
what was it filled a gap
when as I sat and ruminated
this forgotten thought came back
from long ago when I was ten
I stood alone outside
the stars were coming out
the Jotunheimen land of giants
was lit by northern light
far off their ghostlike splendour
fair took my breath away
such mirage-like illusions
were real for me that day

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2016

You won’t believe it
We were together
If only in my mind
And it led me to try things
I never thought of
It’s exciting, at the start
But then I turned and you were gone
I fell on the floor!
Afraid to go on
And I backtracked, to a non-existent circumstance
When we were together
I jogged in the summer heat
Gravel crackled under my shoes
But I felt it through the soles
And the sun shone on us both
It won’t do that again
Can you believe it?

i put on my sweatshirt, yoga pants, tennis shoes,
and said, "I think i'll go for a jog."

And I left. I ran down the driveway
I jogged round the turn,
I passed, on my way down the road,
a collar.
Pink, purple and small.

I took a break. Walked it off
That lost collar means a lost pet.
that lost collar might mean a lost kid.
I brushed it off.

Running across the bridge, I
told myself i couldn't stop, or
The eyes behind windshields would stare.
would realize im nothing.

I took the path along the river.
It was noticeably full and wide.
a dark, River green.
the current was strong and I

Followed it with the path
until i coudnt breathe. And
I told myself to get a rusty fishhook
carve my failure into my skin.

I told myself to ****.
To **** myself.
To jump in the winter river,
to leap too far into the hypothermic current
to come back.
I sat on the edge for too long.

I went back home.

Her curves were real
And made of steel
she jogged along the path
I watched her pairs and did the math

Mint green t, V-neck, super tight
Shorts so short I could see daylight
Arreola hints and could cut glass
Couldn't decide where to stare, **** or ***

Then she looked and smiled at me
Infatuating blue eyes and bright white teeth
Celestial nose, with a turned up tip
Short red hair and pouty lips

She said hello, and jogged away
I went back the next day
She wasn't there never again seen
I suffer each day from what might have

You've met the people in my mind
They live upon The Street
It's near nowhere special anywhere
They don't know the word defeat
We all know people like them
And I hope it jogged your brain
Maybe they reminded you of someone else
And if they did, I'm glad you came
The bartender and Bluesman
Harry Cooper and Old Cy
The old man at the graveyard
And all the other passers by
They're all a work of fiction
But, they're people we all know
We all know a street a bit like this
No matter where we go
I hope that you enjoyed them
And I hope some made you think
I hope some made you smile
And others brought you to the brink
These people are inside me
Their stories needed to be told
But now that you have read them
They are your stories now to hold
I thank you for your patience
And I appreciate the time
You walked in a mind's garden
And I'm glad that you chose mine.
Thanks for enjoying "The Street" and it's people.

I went out for a jog on a Wednesday night
I thought of taking my mind of some things
and... that's what I did
I jogged like Forrest Gump's lazier half brother
because, I simply can't run because of asthma

After a few rounds around the university,
I decided to go home with a quick trip to the convenience store for dinner
I had the usual.. a rice meal, and two cans of milk

I walked home, taking home a can cause
I cannot stand the stench of the store's second floor anymore
That's when I saw a particular beggar on the street

It was a old woman, probably on her 70s
She had lesions on her legs, so she couldn't walk...
She looked up to the sky like somehow, maybe today she'd breathe her last
I mustered whatever kindness I had in me, and with whatever I had left..
I gave her Php. 8.00 and can of milk

She had this lit up look with her eyes and with utmost fervor, she said "Salamat po" ("Thank you")

Days. Weeks. Months passed by since I've seen that lady again... and at some point that moment seemed like history to me...

Today, I've went out for a jog to take my mind off things.
and what luck did I have.. I did not have enough for my usual..

I decided to go home and with a heavy heart.. Tired and full of stressed out muscles..
On the street, a young girl with a plastic bag approached me.
She was apprehensive; shy even. She gave me the plastic bag and ran off...

And with what surprise I had when I opened the bag... You know what it had?

A rice meal and two cans of milk

I walked or sauntered or dashed or stumbled, no...
staggered! or swaggered, or was it stepped, no...
I jogged or, bolted, no stomped or slid no...
hopped! or was it skipped no hop skipped and jumped...
or sauntered! no i said that one, it was swaggered! no....
I stampeded or dogged or shlepped no bounced or was it...
I stamped or ed or rolled? no strolled! haha yes Strolled! no...
I stalked that was it or was it followed no no it was sojourned
sojourned! sojourn? no it was galumphed or marched, no charged...
aha sauntered! no! ******! it was ambled or slogged, trounced? or tromped, no rambled, yes I rambled on! no no thats not right, I plodded, trod no tread! no strided, thats not even a word, sloped, no...
govereetted, or persnicketied, or skreed, or preened, no no no none of that is right....
I sauntered! no no, swaggered! no was it promenade? prowl. no patrolled, parolled, no no thats way off...
I trekked, trudged, no fudged, no dogged! like george! he dogged it all the time, no I said that one, slogged or sashayed no trooped, no perambulated, or moseyed? or hoofed it? no it was definitely sauntered, no no it wasn't sauntered it was a dawdle, no lurched, or hawked, no stopped,
no no it was definitely movement, thats it! it was a movement! no no no that can't be right I paced, yes i paced back and forth and thought about life for a awhile....

no no that wasn't it either it was really more of a strut, or a saunter, yes saunter! no swaggered! no no
**** you words....

I wandered or was it roamed, no limped, gimped! no...

minced.... or no yes! minced... wait.... no it was a hike, yes I hiked up a mountain with  friend of mine, or was it climbed, no no thats not right...
I slandered, no.... pandered! no... I meandered, haha actually no i think  it was a peruse, or no a beat! no.... I cut a rug! or actually i think it was more of a stumble no....

ah yes it was walked, I walked about sixty blocks today

I am what others left.

I’m the things that weren’t robbed.

I’m the scraps of a junkyard.

I’m the miles that weren’t jogged.

I am a little village

In the peak of some mountains.

My skin is leather

And supports any standards.



I am farm labor dedicated to your service.

I am the sun that rises,

And the day that dies nervous.



I am development in bone and flesh.

I am the picture of thousands missing

And their blood that’s still fresh.



I am Pele against England

Scoring two goals.

I walk on the world’s spine,

And rupture many soles.



I am what my father thought me:

He who doesn’t love his country,

Doesn’t love his mother.



I am manual labor

And I do it with great pride.

Here, we share,

And what you have is mine.



My town doesn’t drown

In the sea of your lies.

And if my church is destroyed,

my faith still survives.



I do not blink

And you shall remember my name

I forgive

But never forget who I am.



I am a nomad without destiny.

Negativity doesn’t stop me,

Negativity is my ecstasy.



I committed to travel the continent

without a compass, without time, without agenda.

Inspired by the legends

With stories trapped in tales and a moon without gender.



I learned how to speak and write

And with one common language

Became the world’s fright.



I learned my country still prays

Because the authority and royalty

Still operates under our poverty.



I learned to drink depression

With tequila and cerveza.

And that our own politicians

Have nothing en la cabeza.



To immigrate is my sport.

And even though you don’t fear me,

I can take you on your home court.



I am an intruder

With the reputation of an inmate,

Yet they still want me to support them

And develop the world’s hate.



But Abuela don’t worry

La virgen de Guadalupe

Is the one that knows my story.

H** esitance overcame me the moment I recognized the feelings.
E ncountering them jogged my memory of what it was like; love.
A lthough the nerves in my body are zipping around, electric,
L etting this happen feels like the most natural thing I can do.
I 'm going to. For reasons I cannot place, there is little to
N o fear in my chest at the thought of you, as you feel like a
G ift. One I've waited far, far too long to accept.

It’s Friday 30th June 2013
And I am not not at Glastonbury
The circus inside my stomach believes it
As it relives the act of the opening night
The generous performance of Prosseco
That now sing somersaults inside
It comes with not not being at Glastonbury

This weekend I’m a transient party goer
And I’m spreading the love of not not being at Glastonbury
Anyway who needs Glastonbury?
I’m here choosing my music track by track
On the way to meet my gran
Yeah, Granny Mac’s not not at Glastonbury either
So bring it on not not Glastonbury

Not not being at Glastonbury proves expense
Almost like Glastonbury itself would be
And now without phone
Not not being at Glastonbury develops realistically
‘Nother day and not not being at Glastonbury took me home
With old friends drinking aplenty
And more

Not to brag but I even jogged at Not not Glastonbury
Through fields and through the city
Undoing the damage done whilst not not being at Glastonbury

Tonight not not being at Glastonbury
Will peak when we get involved culturally
Shakespearean act performed in his Globe
You don’t get that at Glastonbury
But we’ll hold a drink through
Making the most of not not being at Glastonbury

By tomorrow my insides will feel like they’ve consumed Glastonbury
But here’s hoping we’re still able to get our art hit
Endurance is part of the test of not not being at Glastonbury

First thing in the morning and we’re counting the pennies
Because we’re not not at Glastonbury
So it’s never a bad time to buy *****
We’ve a young Argentinian as extra company
One of so many friends made at not not Glastonbury
Intent was succeeded with a turn of events never forseen
It went wonderfully wild whilst not not being at Glastonbury
Post play and pop with pa
Whilst wondering further afar
Party greets on a reclaimed beach
A gift given not by Glastonbury
So right now the Thames is actually the best place to be
Due partly to the unpredictability
For you know good times and good people come with Glastonbury
But the friends and offerings not not at Glastonbury this year
Have shown a surprising  shared love for not not  being at Glastonbury

Even if the comedown tries to equal the fun
It would be worth it this time, not not being at Glastonbury

I'm sweeping up the last bit of your hair.
I've already steamed the couches and rid them of your scent.
You're gone.
And now my memory is jogged.
From time to time things jog my memory.
Things like walking out the front door, those times you tried to run away.
And taking a bath, you bathed here once.
And laying in my bed where your warmth was welcomed.
Mundane things that I can't escape.