Working in an office with a lot of girls mainly
Suddenly it was that time of year again... Christmas
And the Office party it was looming
As I went toward the pub where we were having our gathering I was feeling nicely laid back and relaxed
Primarily because I'd just been to another pub beforehand and had a few quick scoops/ drinks
Now I was bolstered, all pumped up, I was like a Boxer ready to step into the Ring.

Our pub it was festooned with decorations, lovely colours and glittery things
They were hanging out of the ceiling and stuck on every wall
Above our table a big jovial Santa Claus
Looked down, beaming at us all
As I sat down one of the girls asked rather suspiciously "Where were you?"
Holding up my alibi, a little shopping bag with some items in it
I told her, lying beautifully of course,  that I had to go down the shop to get some things.
As I sat there I noticed the atmosphere was a bit subdued, people weren't talking much
I said to myself, this... this won't do
So I took it on myself to take the lead, I'd be the one to spread some Christmas cheer
So suddenly I blurted out "Wh..Wh..What does Santa say... after drinking a bottle of *** ?
"I don't know" they all said, "what does he say".
I paused a moment for dramatic effect...then I hit them with the punchline...he says "Yo ** **!"
They all looked at me blankly
You don't get it, Yo ** ** and a bottle of *** is the famous pirate song from Treasure Island
Santa's catchphrase is **!**!**!
He drinks the *** and suddenly it's Yo! **!**! (Jeez I thought, I got to explain my own jokes)
Still there not impressed, one shakes her head, another raises her eyes to the heavens, another comments "A silly joke"
But really I don't care, I say to them
I suppose you don't want to hear my Snowman joke then
"O Go on", they say, "get it over with"
It's a bit risque I warned them
What do you call a Snowman... standing outside the window of a Brothel ?
"A hot Frosty", someone said
No! ... The Abominable Snowman.

I say to myself, well at least I tried, I made an effort
I done my bit, now I can sit here quietly for the rest of the evening
Some of the girls have now started to talk amongst themselves
One girl sitting right next to me who I hadn't spoken to in awhile
She suddenly inquires after my wellbeing, she asks"How are you?"
I tell her O! You know me, I'm just... just hanging on in there, yea! just hanging on to the Ledge of Life by my fingertips trying not to look down at all the crocodiles circling below
"Things aren't that bad, are they?" she says a little concerned
I smile and say Well I might be exaggerating there... a little bit
She smiles and offers "You're a real Drama Queen".

Suddenly one of the girls announces that she's done an evening course during the Autumn, she's done Bellydancing of all things
I thought we'll have to get her to give us a demonstration later on (but not before dinner LoL)
This girl then starts asking everyone did they do any courses and what their hobbies were
Finally she comes to me and I say Well I've been making some music on this little keyboard I have, yea! I've been playing...I've been playing around with my *****
(this gets some laughs)
I go on, Actually I've been writing a song
"Writing a Song!" says one of the girls really impressed, "we know you write stories, now you're writing songs, my! you are talented.  What's it about, your song ?"
I tell her it's about a girlfriend whose... well she's a bit of a Goldigger,
Then I smile, I have a great title for it, I call it (I pause for a moment then I say proudly), I call it...Octopus of Love.
"Octopus of Love!!" says one of them dismissively, "what kind of name is that for a song.  There should be a Society for Prevention of Cruelty to songs"
I ignore her and then suddenly launch into a verse of the song

     She said she was a dove
     But she's my Octopus of Love
     A hundred hands in search of one thing
          only
     Yea! My wallet, my Pride and glory.

     When she whispers in my ear
     Her fingertips they tiptoe across my rear
           and into my back pocket  
      O! She's my Octopus of Love
      She"s not at all what I dreamed of.

     When I hold her in my arms
     She sets off all my alarms
     She tells these great big whopping lies
     Man! She's got a finger in all my pies.

    She said she loves me dearly
    Visiting the most expensive shops
    Buying the most expensive gear
    I say, could you not make it more cheaply instead,

  O! She's got me in her grasp
   Her tentacles they hold me fast
   Then she asks what's all the fuss
   And she's so innocent looking
   Man! She's a lovely Octopus.

"I wouldn't be giving up the day job just yet" says one of the girls,
"That's funny" says another
Then someone ups and says "Tell us another one of your little stories",
"A good one, this time!" adds another
"Yea! A good one! We need a good laugh" says another,
I feel a bit slighted by this for some reason, the way they say it, their attitude
It's like their making light of my Art, my labours, my great works
Like their just bits of fluff for their titillation
So suddenly my mood it darkens and my voice it takes on this ominous ring and then I say a little threateningly
"So you want to hear a good one, do you!"
With this I smile and then say menacingly"I'll give you a good one"
Then I look at them slowly one by one
And it's almost like I've gone into this trance state, switched into ghostly mode
A distant remote look comes into my eyes
It's like I'm looking through them into the far distance somewhere...  
And then suddenly I intone real solemn like and with great gravitas
"The Great American Novel!"

"What's that?", asks one of the girls
Now most of the girls are married Moms with kids
They wouldn't have gone to college, they would have gone straight into work after school
So they probably wouldn't have known about English literature and  the Classics and all that high brow kind of stuff
Their only exposure to literature would probably be the so called Chicklit books down their local supermarket,
So I say to them 'You never heard of the Great American Novel'
"No!" says one of the girls, "what is it?"
Well, I start to explain, it's like the Holy Grail for all writers, novel writers anyway
How can I explain...how can I put it... The Great American Novel...
It's like this amazing fantastic legendary mythical beast of such great beauty and magnificence
That roams free and unfettered on the literary plains of a writer's imagination,
Many an author on his death bed admits, "I seen it once, I had it in my sights...had it in my grasp but I let it get away". They then turn their heads away and cry bitter tears of regret...
Or...or it's like... it's like this Great Mountain
that's no one's ever been able to climb
It stands there defiantly, supreme in its isolation, it's peak glistening in the sunlight or shimmering in the moonlight
Unreachable, unattainable... unconquerable
(I'm really on a roll now, I'm waxing lyrical and there's no stopping me)
The Great American Novel...it's like... y'know it's like that old fairytale, what was it called
Was it Snow White. No! Snow White had the dwarves in it
What was the other one?
One of the girls whose always been a bit negative, she suddenly says rather unhelpfully
"It wasn't Pinocchio was it?"
Of course I get her reference, when Pinocchio would tell tall tales his nose would grow longer
Then I point to her and say rather surprisingly "That's it!! Sleeping Beauty!" Remember Sleeping Beauty
The King and Queen have a beautiful baby daughter
At the christening all the good fairies come and bestow Blessings on the child
She'll be the most beautiful
She'll be warm and kind and generous
She'll have a lovely heart
She'll be so wise and so artistic...
Then suddenly who should arrive but the Wicked Fairy
She wasn't even invited to the ceremony and she's really angry
She storms into the Palace right up to the child
Then she says "When this Beauty, this Child grows up she will have an accident"
It's like The Great American Novel is the Beauty, the Child
And it's like she's saying "This Beauty no one shall have, no one shall ever write The Great American Novel"
And of course, when the child grows up she's so wonderful and so amazing
But then she has this accident and falls into this strange deep deep sleep
And everyone in the castle too, they also fall asleep,
And suddenly this big thicket of dense thorns springs up around the castle so no one can enter it
Many a brave young man having heard of the Great Beauty behind the Wall of Thorns
They valiantly try to get to her but are invariably driven back by the thorns
Alas! They fail and gradually the story of the Great Beauty passes into legend.....
That is till one day, a Knight appears, a Knight so noble and pure of heart
The moment the blade of his sword touches the Wall of Thorns
A path opens up right through the thorns leading to the castle
He finds everybody there fast asleep
He climbs the Tower and finds in her chamber this incredible Beauty sleeping
He is so taken with her that he must kiss her on her lips
In that moment her eyes they open and she smiles a radiant smile. And the whole world awakens again, comes alive.

I look around at all the girls, their all a bit spellbound by my story (at least I like to think)
I go on 'It's like I was walking in my mind one evening, seeking some inspiration
And then I just turn a corner and there he is, in all his glorious splendour
Remember your Greek myths, the fabulous white winged horse... Pegasus... this beautiful mythical beast
Just there drinking at a pool right in front of me,
So quietly I sneak up on him and then suddenly I jump up onto his back
He rears up and then spreads his mighty wings
And starts to rise way above the earth
My eyes they are suddenly opened, and I see what I had not seen before....
I look at the girls but then just as before, a strange dark look comes over my face and I say
" I'm really afraid but I think, I think I've done it
I think I've nailed it
Yea! ... I think I've written The Great American Novel.

I go on 'Yknow  whenever a new book comes out the Critics, they all wonder
Will this be the One, will this at last be The Great American Novel
Of course, their always disappointed, the candidates they all fall short
It was a good try but...but not quite
A valiant effort, maybe next time
In the Critics Room one of them will be given my book to read
Slowly as he reads, his eyes will grow wider
And his jaw will start to drop in awe
When he finishes he'll sit there in his chair stunned, almost like he's been shellshocked
Then he'll rise unsteadily  with his finger pointing at the book
He'll be stuttering and stammering
"What's wrong!", people will inquire of him
He'll look at them in a mad crazy way
"My eyes... my eyes they've seen it" he'll say
"Seen what?" they'll ask
"It...it... it's The Great American Novel.
They'll all stand up and gather around the Book
Suddenly someone will grab a pair of binoculars and look up at The Great, the Holy Mountain
And there on the top, on the summit
There'll be a lone figure standing with his little Irish flag
"Truly he is the One", they'll say, "and a feckin' Irishman, wouldn't you know".

"So what's it about then", asks one of the girls interrupting my flow
What!', I say
"The Novel! What's it about"
I look at her and then I smile and say rather mysteriously 'Well, that's another story isn't it'.
"Wait a minute", says the girl whose usually very negative, "so the valiant Knight with the noble heart, that's supposed to be you is it ?
I raise my hands innocently as if to say what can I do
"O! I think I'm going to be sick", she says. Then she continues "Where did you get the time to write a Novel anyway. All the time we thought you were working you were probably just there daydreaming over in the corner".
"It's not very long", I say to her "my story".
"How long is it ?", she asks curiously
"Actually it's only about ten or eleven pages".
"What! Ten or eleven pages!!!", she says jumping on this with exaggerated disgust, "that's not a Novel, it might be a short story but it's certainly not a Novel. For it to be a Novel it has to be several hundred pages long ".
I tell her But 'I didn't need a few hundred pages just ten or eleven was enough, it's all there, the whole thing'.
"But it's not a Novel", she maintains
I answer, it's the spirit of the thing that matters, the Spirit!
She then gathers herself and I can feel an offensive coming
"I don't want to rain on your Parade", she begins, "but One you're not American, Two it's not even a Novel, and Third if it's anything like your song I for one won't be holding my breath".
I look at her a bit crestfallen and then I say
"You really like to burst my balloon don't you" , then I say, "I'm reminded of the classic lines of W.B.Yeats the great Irish poet
And then I declaim theatrically
"And Great Art... beaten down".

Anyway now the spotlight moves away from me, the girls start talking among themselves
"Let's leave him to his delusions", one says and now our meals are starting to arrive, I'm forgotten about for awhile.
For some reason the word "Parade' has stuck in my mind
And the pub has suddenly grown more boisterous, some people are singing and blowing whistles (those paper things that roll out and then roll back in again) their throwing streamers and confetti about
Suddenly I'm reminded of those old ticker tape parades they used to have over in New York when they'd be celebrating something or someone
All the faces looking out the windows of the skyscrapers and all the streamers cascading down, and the cheering crowds
And up on a big Podium there standing, the President himself.
I look up at the wall at Santa Claus smiling back at me
And I say to myself "Hello Mister President"
I can see him welcoming me up onto the podium, then with his hands he quietens the  crowds... and then...then he speaks
"Fellow Americans, we've waited a long time for this day
Many thought I'm sure that it would never come but some...some still dared to believe Yea! That one day a man would appear and that a Book would be born"
(holding up the Book) I give you the Book
It may be a slim volume
But don't let that fool you
Sometimes good things come in small packages...
Yes! I give you the Book,
The Great American Novel!!!
And I give you... the Man (motioning to me)
"He told it like no one else could, he said it like no one else could say it
Let the bells ring out across the land, in every city and town...in celebration"
So sitting there I raised my glass to Santa Claus smiling on the wall
And said quietly and secretly to myself
"Here's to you Mr. President, Merry Christmas!

Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven--birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.

Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.

No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!

Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.

For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.

Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!

Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.

And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.

O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.

That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!

I
Originations of consciousness whir into a moan of torment.
A sudden bombshell of consternation;
    her eyes burst wide.

Baby?
Sleep-laden, post-finals brain gravy:
No, can't be. Could be. Shouldn't be. Want to be? No, can't be.

Lurking beyond the reach of terror, realism slithers closer.
The hysteria deteriorates as deduction brings lucidity.

******* eggs.
They are abolished, and never heard from again.

II
Suitcase tetris, smothering each layer.
She moves without direction,
or a lazy child with ADD.

At long last, the shimmering sink full of death beckons...

Dissatisfaction erupts in a symphony of fragmented drinkware.
Her assumption lingers, cresting into prediction.
Her expectations are met.
A thorn in her paw.
     The dishwater weeps.

III
Her rage is tangible, hissing in her ears,
bashing her skull when it is ignored,
clawing at her spine.
She abandons the silverware.
They never did anything for her.

The loathsome bag swings threateningly.
She ignores it, giving it a silent challenge.

Fate strings before her eyes, yanked taut and thrumming
with inevitability.
Crimson satin sheets tangle lovingly from the rift of tender peel.
Cake-batter-in-a-mixing-bowl splatter,
the dissimilitude of children's laughter.
Wobbling, fawn-like under the density of rage gnawing at her lips,
she retreats, acknowledging her submission.

She begins as a tree, but rapidly degenerates
into grotesque dysmorphic spasms on the cheap veneer.

Hysteria threatens to burst forth, frothing, but no.
This is not my day.

Several miles beyond, the dark mountain
looms threateningly - mirroring my mood
as we both brood coldly. Snow clouds hold
grip of its peaks and melt in an icy drizzle to the
umber, wind-swept valley below.

Inside this dank motel room with its peeling
walls, my addiction is both hidden and enhanced.
The room's grimy window is closed to the world
by a threadbare curtain which hangs
askew, sealing me inside my drunken cocoon.
I can now lift bottles to my mouth with abandon,
gratefully lacking the contempt of others.

A tinny television mutters a string of profanities
from a corner, and a faucet drips incessantly into
the filthy sink. It all seems to echo into what I
have evolved. I have become as this dead fly,
scraping back and forth along the window sill,  
manipulated by currents of stale air.

_

It was something small. In an effort to persuade me you said:
“I barely ever ask you for anything!”
Later you revealed that you felt bad, and that you didn’t mean it threateningly.
I chose my words carefully in my reply.
“I know you didn’t mean it that way.”
Because you didn’t. You never do. But it happens anyways. You are unaware of it, I think.
You’re unaware of how much you ask of me everyday.
Just by being you. Just by being us.
In every stinging word, you ask of me to ignore the hurt, because that’s easier than changing.
In asking me to bear the weight of who you are, and what you plan to do with yourself.
By asking me to be someone I’m not, to be someone that fits you.
“I barely ever ask you for anything.”
Not intentionally, lover, but in my life I’ve never felt so obligated.

Diseased again , in the middle of May,
Almost threateningly fatal.
Dormant dimmed brain of mine,apt and inviting prey,
Been demented since awful April!

Earnestly eager to get healed,
I've enacted the preposterous tribal dance to the write(right) gods and appealed.
They unmistakably ignored my pleas,
and my mind still remains stuck,stagnant ,in a frigid freeze.

Changed my workspace to the garden,
To **** in the fresh air,clear my brain and brighten.
Result: Chewed half a pencil,
******* alien patterns in the muck,and a weak wasted writers' will.

Countless imaginary "stories" with no beginnings,
Right Brain-dead till late evenings.
Waiting on this blasted writers' block to clear soon,
Hopefully,the rains should clean the slates, in Judicious June.

The sky is dark, the rain drenched park stretches away. I stand the land bleak speaks, a feeling of desolation creeps into my soul, the whole is dank and grey. Nature is all around, the muted sound of birds is heard, the sky is louring and grey.
The wind blows, trees sway, the dark park stretches threateningly away.

I read the poem I wrote about you on the radio yesterday.
I wonder if the waves hit you, wherever you were.
If somewhere under your skin you felt my words
About you.
I'm sure you didn't hear them.
I'd have heard if you had.
Or maybe you did,
And you listened with disgust
Or with that feeling when your heart sinks but it's with fearful hope.
I don't know what you'd think if you heard my voice on the radio,
Saying I cried the night you kissed me.
Maybe you'd be ashamed,
Or maybe you'd call me a goon, like you do when you don't know what to say.
Amanda used to call me silly,
Or kiddo,
The same way-
To make it clear (to herself) that I was not threateningly in love with her
And that she was not perilously fascinated with me.
I really honestly have no idea what you'd do
If you heard
But I think I'd know about it, whatever it was.
I think you didn't hear.
Maybe a friend of yours did,
Maybe one that thought for a moment on the description
And was startled to think of you,
And then dismissed it as ridiculous.
Maybe nobody heard it, who knew you.
But I know people heard it.
And they heard how I loved you that moment when I first truly met you,
And they heard how it broke me to see you walk away
Even though back then you were promising to come back.
They heard what I think you want to forget happened.
And that's why
I read the poem I wrote about you on the radio yesterday.

I won’t melt when the rain falls down
I will sing and dance around
I shall grin I shall not frown
And when it floods I will not drown

If the lightning strikes my head
It’s not something that I dread
Because it can’t make me drop dead
It ignites my mind instead

Thunder does not frighten me
It’s drums that make my dance more free
As it resounds threateningly
My feet will glow vibrantly

And as my light sees the sky
It shall sprout wings so it can fly
It will rocket up so high
And rain joy down on passersby

The sun will see and fight the clouds
Rising again to defeat rains shroud
I’ll light up again and scream so loud
And share my delight with all the crowds

One day warmth will cover you
The ones who dance are very few
We’re all bright colors with a unique hue
Some are purples, greens, reds, and blues

And if we all just could shine bright
We would overcome the night
The battle is never a fair fight
But friend, you’ll win if you’ll shine your light

I thought I heard you cry,
From the other side of this crowded room.
Though I could not see you through the crowd,
The sound is more clear and present
Then any other in this frowzy room,
Louder than the half-dozen doltish conversations,
Louder then the raindrops crashing on the window pane
Louder than the wind, as it howls outside threateningly ,
Louder than my own thoughts in my erratic head,
They scream "I did this", and yell " this is my fault".
Your would-be tears make me doubt myself
And question my very nature.

-Jamie F. Nugent

The huge container of glue had emptied onto the ground nearby my desk. Now, I didn't get to see how it happened until it hit the floor but it looked like Chloe's arm must have knocked into it somehow. White goo bled out from the open container like syrup, traveling at the speed of a snail in the middle of a marathon.

"Oh no." Chloe yelped, plopping herself down to the floor with paper towels.

Her eyes grew to the size of saucers once she gazed up into the resting ***** face of Mrs. Hoiga, who raised her eyebrows as she walked onto the crime scene. The bun on her head always seemed so tight, showing off too much forehead. As for Chloe, she was frozen in place as she looked up at Mrs. Hoiga with a huge glob of Elmer's glue stuffed in a paper towel.

"What happened here, Chloe? Why is there glue all over the floor?"

Chloe and I made eye contact for a split second, which made Chloe ramble out, "I-It was Max. She spilled it."

The entire class gave their full undivided attention to the current situation, making me tense up immediately once I heard Chloe blame me. Everyone knows Chloe is a trouble maker, but she's never called anyone out for things she's done. Ever.

I pretended the entire class was just non-playable characters in a video game soundlessly waiting to see what developed. My body shrank down to the size of a pinto bean as Mrs. Hoiga hovered over me threateningly, crossing her toned arms.

"Is this true, Maxine? Did you spill Chloe's container of glue?"

My body seemed to shrink even smaller, if that was even humanely possible. I began to say no, but then I noticed Chloe silently crying beside the growing puddle of glue. A burst of sympathy rushed through me as I said, "I'm sorry. I'll clean it up right away."

I ignored the looks of pity my classmates were giving me as they exited out the classroom for Lunch, using the mop the janitor handed me to completely sanitize the floor from any glue residue. While the teacher hovered outside the door talking to another teacher, I pretended the mop was a pirate sword and started swiping the air with the wooden end of the mop. Then I pretended a pirate appeared in front of me, holding my parents hostage.

"Die, evil scoundrel! I'll take me pirate ***** back, if you don't mind. And my ship." I mumbled quietly to myself, stabbing the captain in the chest with the wooden sword, and watched as he sank into the ocean depths. "At least my parents won't be mad at me now since I saved them from the evil Captain Hook."

"Are you done, Max?" Mrs. Hoiga appeared behind me almost abruptly, making me flinch.

"Yeah. Um, can I eat Lunch now?"

"Tell me something then." She placed her hand on Chloe's desk, and stared over at me with a small smile. It was one of the few times I've ever felt my shoulders relax around her. "I have this feeling that you didn't spill the glue from earlier. Were you trying to take the blame for Chloe or something, Max?"

"No. I-I mean, i-it was just a terrible accident."

"Oh. I was hoping you could be a good influence in Chloe's life, since she is a big trouble maker."

Mrs. Hoiga broke eye contact with me immediately after finishing her statement, and started scribbling out a clean sentence out onto the chalkboard. My task was to write her sentence down twenty times down the page as my punishment while I dug into my prepared lunchbox: "I must not use other student's items without their permission."

Once I held up the paper towards Mrs. Hoiga, she snatched it out of my hand resuming her normal ****** attitude. "I won't tell your parents what happened, but let's not have this happen again, alright?"

"Okay."

That seemed to be the last conversation I was going to have at school. Or so I thought. On my way out through the double doors, I slammed into another student who dropped their half-zipped up binder spilling the majority of the contents inside out. Folders, graded papers, homework, pens, and a pencil pouch coated with stickers.

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” That’s when I realized it was Chloe who I bumped into, and I started gathering her stuff for her in a seemingly awkward lapse of silence that followed her statement afterwards. “I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus like that. That was wrong.”

When Chloe looked up at me, her frown seemed to deepen. “It’s okay. Thank you for apologizing.”

I noticed her notebook laying open with a crayon-based sketch of a butterfly on one of the pages when she quickly closed it. Her face reddened as she stuffed it into her polka-dotted backpack. “We’re neighbors, yet we’re already getting off on the wrong foot.”

“I consider us friends.” I said, walking out to the front of the school with Chloe lagging behind me by several feet. “Come on, I wanna show you this spot I found before your parents come to pick you up.”

“Well…I guess I have time.”

I roped my arm through Chloe’s, and our footsteps naturally synchronized as we walked over to the outdoor garden area within the school ground with the large red bench centered in the middle. Flowers and bushels blossomed here, giving this place a more intimate vibe. “Woah, this is so cool.”

“Some of the staff eat lunch here, but I sneak over here to wait for my parents to pick me up in this spot. I can never sneak into this area whenever it comes time for lunch.” I perched down on the seat while Chloe settled for the top of the bench as her chair. “Chloe, what are you doing?”

“Taking a seat. Have a seat by me. If we’re gonna do this, we might as well enjoy it while we still can.”

“Nobody has ever found out about this place…besides me.”

Chloe stared at me with this strange expression. I couldn’t pick a good word to describe the complicated emotion that ran through her face, but it was like she was trying to hide the fact that she was startled. Then she rummaged through her bag before plucking out the notebook I found earlier.

“Nobody has ever found out about the doodles that I draw. At least, until you came along.”  

There were drawings inside of what looked to be butterflies, birds, and moths. And for a six year old, she wasn't half-bad. “Why is it all doodles of winged animals?”

“I want to be able to fly. That’s what I want my super power to be.” Then Chloe smiled for the first time towards me, and it was almost like I was being drawn in captivity with this girl. There's something about her that gives me the feeling that she's going to change my life drastically.

The moment ended with my Dad's car honk nearby the garden. "I have to go."

"Hold on."

Chloe ripped out one of the crayon doodles in her notebook, folded it up, and placed it in the palm of my hand. "I want you to have this as a commemoration of our new friendship. I hope you'll take it."

"Of course, Chloe."

Feeling like I was running through clouds, I dashed towards the source of the car horn to see my Dad grinning over at me as I jumped into the passenger seat of his truck. "Hey, kiddo. How was school?"

I craned my head to see Chloe waving wildly at me as she walked over towards a beige-colored van with a handsome blonde-haired guy saying something to Chloe in the vehicle. "It looks like something happened at school today. Care to tell your old man about it?"

"I made a new friend. You know Chloe Price, the girl who lives next door?"

"Your Mom talks to Joyce and William Price more than I do. Unfortunately, I don't know a lot about Chloe besides the fact that she's a little bit rebellious. Promise me you won't turn out the same way."

"I won't. Promise."

We settled into a comfortable silence, a country song softly humming through the stereo in the car. It was a moment later when I unfolded the contents of the ripped notebook page slowly. The picture Chloe handed me was nothing other than a crayon-based sketch of a blue and purple colored butterfly.

I once met a girl in Paris, a local
She accidentally brushed the injury on my elbow.
When I looked threateningly, all she did was smile
She was beautiful, that girl
And not in the way that beauty is conventionally defined.
She did not have full lips or arched brows or rounded *******.
She was skinny and pale and her cheeks were hollow.
She was beautiful.
Her smile was beautiful.
In the way that lovers hold hands
In the way the first rains dampen the earth
In the way the sun sets in the orange sky
She was beautiful.
Her smile was beautiful.

Its been four years that I've met her and I still find myself writing poems about the way she smiled

Alice sits brushing her hair,
stroke following stroke,

her husband sitting
on the edge of the bed

watching, studying her
hand and brush going

downward and out and
downward and out, and

as he watches he suddenly
remembers his mother

doing likewise and he
standing by the doorframe

of her bedroom, sees her
hand pull the brush through

her tight black hair, and
hears her sobbing voice

over the old white radio
playing some country song,  

and senses an uneasiness
fill him like a wetting of pants,

and his mother gazing at him
in the mirror before her with

her red rimmed eyes and he
knowing as she lifts the brush

threateningly, that that way
pain comes and danger lies.

When was the last time that you took a full breath?
And don't tell me "on the weekend" or when you got home today.
I mean without that feeling like your throat might close in halfway through.
A breath    
           without a stress headache pulsating in the background.
I mean without your sleeplessness telling you to slow your breathing
to lay down a while,
take another breath
and another
and close your eyes.
I mean a breath before the long nights, the headache-blurred vision and this brutal self evaluation.
a breath  
            not taken underwater.
Not taken with your own hands threateningly clasped around your throat, only letting go long enough to make strokes to drive yourself under further.
You've swum so deep hoping the pressure will hold you together by sheer force, but by the time your bubbles of alarm reach the surface now they'll be too small to notice.
You think
that if you pile enough things on yourself
you wont be able to fly away.
Your dream of release is to crack into hundreds of pieces
disintegrate
finally
from the pressure you're applying from inside
and float to the surface.
You imagine it constantly.
You hear smashing mirrors
You hear windows on the brink of breaking,
squeaking in protest.
You hear glass hitting floor in crashes
but also like chimes.
You see visions of spectrums
refracted in your shards
when you hear that range of sound in your midnight imaginings
that taste like guilt.
The art of those colors,
the music of that sound,
is so alluring.
So you do- you shatter.
Crystal walls to scattered fragments that litter the floors.
You start to collect yourself
in the sinister triangles and unidentifiable shapes
that lay like splinters of a tree hit by lightning on the ground.
You'll put them together again.
You'll make art out of what was broken for so long.
You see that now,
your stark fractions have long crashed,
snapping as you walk
rattling in shining scraps
sharp on the edges
like shards of broken conscience.
You're tired of leaving a fine dust
everywhere you walk
because of the grinding every move produces.
Tired of leaving glass slivers in all that you touch.
You're frantically trying to reassemble yourself.
You'll be better this time.
But are you sure you have enough glue?

You're tainting the pieces as they cut you.
Your hands were worn before
but now they're bleeding
and scarred forever.
You hated the glass shifting inside you
but now it's embedded in your hands
and never changes.
You're like a frozen reflection
of off-kilter fragments hastily thrown back together
in the smooth mirror that you so envy.
Your cracks are now immortalized
like paintings
in the stories that the pains in your palms tell
as a new sliver resurfaces everyday.
So what do you do?
Can you melt yourself down,
knowing that being melted
you'll lose that last shred of self?
Somehow you know you'll be recast in an image not your own.

At least in pieces you were still yourself.

You've forgotten about exhaling in your efficiency.
It serves no purpose other than to allow you to fill your lungs again
so you endlessly breathe in,
your breaths becoming more
and more
and more shallow,
and if you only took the time to breathe properly
then you wouldn't have to learn to live
with how those bits of yourself sound as they shift,
because exhaling
would let them fall
into place.

he wanted nothing more than her love
and she wanted nothing more than his demise
to him, she was god's dove
while for her, he was the product of the trashes' cries.

yet, she could not explain the feeling in her chest
as it constricted painfully and threateningly
when she saw him enter eternal rest
and he fell to ground, lifelessly.

maybe she didn't love him as much
or at all, even
but she would do anything to crunch
at the chance to enter heaven.

she would enter heaven to claim back trash
because no matter what she words she would say
he had more worth than any cash
as she longs for just one yesterday.

Glowers
Prowls
Footsteps claiming
Owning streets
Avoid the eyes
Gimlet glinting
Don't mess around
Deadly ground

Wordless
Anger incarnate
No reason
No reasoning
A natural fact
Magnificent horror
Threateningly ugly

Closing in
Too close
Dead eyes
Predatory grin
Steel glints lightning
Turn and run!
Run, run fast away
Never come here again

                                    By Phil Roberts

I plucked a book from my closet
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
I open to a random
573
The Test of Love -- is Death

It hurts
to hold this book
to hold this poem
in my hands

because you got me this book

you showed me all the most painful things
brand new, this book, ******* you with wine in my veins
and played me out, and I was young and dumb
I should have played the game, but I flipped out
you were terribly cute, threateningly Norwegian
I HATE to admit this, but I STILL love you like
the deepest laceration, the sorest wound of this animal
though I know it to be only longing
for the semblance of a truly wild life.

It hurts so bad because I'll die and never talk to you again
I always purposefully acted crazy and burned bridges with every ex-lover
Here's what I held from myself:

I know that I am good enough
That I don't have to worry
That I will overwrite your memory
With new love, true and blazing bright
And it will all be okay. More than that,
It will mean more than you could ever mean to me.

Strange apparitions
Moving kaleidoscopic
Giving me migraines

Keep me awake
The world imbued with weird hue
Augmented aura

The voice is raucous
Threateningly it tells me
What it has in store

I see death, decay
My people are perishing
At malice's hands

These wild conjectures
Billowing like forest fire
Ravage my rapt mind

I entertain them
Believing in them and thus
Imparting power

To dark delusions.
I didn't see that they'd lied
That they'd peddled frauds

That keep me locked in
To perpetual horrors
That torment the mind

I converse across
Continents. Had a whole chat
Across oceans

With a friend. It's mad.
It's as if a radio
Were lodged in my head

As time elapses
Their failure to fruition
Any truth makes me

Distrust the voices
Cynical I raise my doubts
They crow and laugh, but

My feet on the ground
I set to work destroying
Their reality

Trampling their world
By recreating my own
From the dull embers

Brash, cantankerous
The voices try forming thoughts
But I don't listen

A composition
I write my own monologue
Now, I am not theirs

If I were to say goodbye

Don’t you dare shed a tear

Don’t say that you’ll miss me

Don’t pretend to care

If I were to say goodbye

Don’t bother saying it back

Just keep walking in the same direction you were going before-

Your face turned away

You promised to always be here

Always and forever

But I was a withered flower

That could no longer be made beautiful again

And it took you long enough to realise it-

Long enough to fill me with the deluded hope that maybe one day 

Maybe my petals could be salvaged 

Maybe the colour would return to my world of black and white no-

Not black and white but grey

A stain of grey that is neither shadowed nor radiant

Yet muting all at the same time

But it was my fault 

For believing your empty promises

No you didn’t mean to shatter my faith in humanity
Not your intentions at all

Yet you did

But it was my fault 

For having faith in the first place

For believing that the light at the end of the tunnel 

Was the sun

Freedom

Salvation

No

It was the train that slammed into me head first as I impulsively charged towards it-

Hopeless, but hoping

I’m not dead though

Enough to feel the impact

But I am now paralyzed

Numb to any emotion

Almost as though morphine was so generously injected into every vein in my body

But it wasn’t the angels who helped to numb me

It was the demons

They cut my emotions away

“I will help you I will take it all away” they sang 

They are my friends

But friends-

What are friends?

When I can’t trust anyone anymore

Surely I cannot trust them

Can I?

I feel nothing now

No love no joy no love

So when I do say goodbye

I would have broken these chains that slither so gracefully yet threateningly around my limbs and body

You cannot cry

When I do say goodbye 

You may hate me

Hate every inch of my very existence

Hate me for leaving

Not “may” but please, I beg of you

“Do.”

Hate me for that would make it so much easier

Please don’t say you love me

I will not be able to say it back

I want my name to leave a bitter taste on your tongue

Like the ashes that I will become

I will fade into the dark forbidden corner of verboten memories

Where the monsters from forgotten childhoods live

Where the ghouls that had silently haunted live

Where demons hide

Where I will never be a vexation to anyone again

Goodbye

Our Protection Money Racketeers
was refused the extortion money demanded
OK, me and mi young daughter are game
just bring the ***** and a little gift for a good time
that's crazy said I, no thank you
ah..you think you better than us, all ladida

they subsequently burgled us
vandalized our car and stole the four radial wheels
off the poor car
then told us in broad daylight
" We will ruin your life, hound you and make your life a misery"
I laughed, imagine a known area Crook who's just robbed you
saying that to you. To me this was a joke! a big big joke eh! haha

"You're laughing!" Mama Crook says with hateful eyes
"We are going to sling mud at you, you'd wish you're dead"
I laughed even more
Hey Al Capone, I thought
I'm blameless here, my reputation is pristine, no skeleton hidden
no crime ever. Never wronged anyone, always kind, friendly
and respectful to all..all round sound guy, this crook is deluded.
Anyway people can easily see the truth here, I confidently assumed
Yeah! more fool me...

Go to hell, you you nasty crook...say I,... imagine the cheek!

Well people
sad to report, how was I to know Mama Al capone was right
They had the connections, the nefarious know-how of these things
and they know their demography. they know their people! .

Mud slinging worked a treat...People believed everything,
every slander, defamation, fabrication, lies, everything
They delivered on their promises and then some
They told a fantastic story to their Socialist and Anachist connection, even those were fooled
Arrogant, the Big I Am, hidden riches, wife beater, domineering
et pompous, thinks he's high and mighty, the very opposite of me!
wow people...the heat is on
I became radioactive in one swift move..

For the first time in my life
I discovered real evil exist, not paper stuff

Now I know why there are never any witnesses in Inner city
Estates and a code of Omerta or Ali-baba or whatever its called
exists
why some witnesses never reveal their faces or give their names,
when they talk to the media about some crimes or some faces
they recognized

and why thieves threateningly utter this infamous line

" I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE"

if hell is where you love - yet heaven where you are at peace: where, i ask - would you rather be?

why doesn't this word exist: SOLEMNOUS...
"borrowing" from solemnity...
"borrowing" from... ah... because there was
the man of sorrows, woes...
there is the sorrowful...

i dared to think there might
be a solemnous man...
then again it's much simpler:
since... i have become the solemn man...

what does, solemn mean?
formal and dignified...
categorized by
deep sincerity...

         -ly: added to solemn invokes:
with: deep sincerity...
hardly a case for a heart of a naive child:
by now, aged 37...
i have aged to actually appreciate
a sincerity of Christmas...

i shouldn't have to make this public...
but i will make it public anyway...

        i thank with all my heart
             for bringing Edie into my life...
i can't forgo thinking aloud
an arrangement with fate
very much akin to the Duke of Windsor
and that of Wallis Simpson...

perhaps i've been binging on watching
the Crown and feel immense sentiment
for the man...

regardless...
finally a love less and less like that of tumultus
youth of changing each other
or jumping through hoops...

no longer an empty Christmas
no longer stationed with duty to an immediate
family... that ship has long
sunk and what remains is three
people on a raft...

the rest of family being crushed by
both death and modernity
and the luxuries the latter afforded each
to dissolve through the death of the last
patriarch in the shadow
of Franklin - the great grandmother,
guard of the kindergarten
the delivery man of lemonade
using a horse and cart...

              i only hope and perhaps i might
even begin to usher in a practice of prayer:
for me to be united with Edie
and Reyla for next Christmas...
even apart: yet a quick telephone call
and i'm there...

and i'm there with a quick snap of the fingers
and a shake of the wallet for
a £700 ticket from London Heathrow
via Anchorage to Honolulu...
a lifetime apart, unknown to either of us
a me or a you or a we as i-to-i...

terrible affair, love... so freely available
so freely given, so unabashedly willing to loiter
to lessen the pains of distance...
yet only loiter on the surface, yet...

how dexterous these hands with this
heart like a sponge...
        how easily to give love to know one can:
also receive     like-for-like...

no longer bound to poetry
   no longer threatened by family or by youth
or by expectations of muddled forensics of
societal norms...
threateningly unabashed:
a threateningly friendly: by my will
            i cannot otherwise...
                          disguise...

even with the throng of badly burnt men
who spew red pill black pill white pill blue will
as if the Matrix could be the only analogy
to a philosophy and how men
and women relate...

operation sirloin steak:
an imminent attack from Norway
establishing a colony on the coast of Scotland
by way of decoy:
to begin major work on canal building
under the English channel...
or at least that's the immediate
reading of Edward VIII sympathising intrigue...

quiet openly: these days you can be working
in England with colleagues
who are sympathisers of Vlad Putin
who have come from Sudan
to re-educate almost everyone from the continent
in post-colonialism...

          so it's not everyone is going
to get of scoff free...
for all that modernity affords us,
                    it still can't give us sufficient evidence
that...
heaven is a place where we can love...
that love is not a torturous liberation
from the stifling affairs of keeping at peace...

i do not consent to a heaven by dictates of peace
and angelic boredom
   while fascinated by a child-god
fascinated in turn by geology, dinosaurs
and the planets...

               for that matter time...

in hell and in love i'd rather reside...
         and perhaps tortured by being bored by women...
i can't imagine anything greater
than... pretending to be bored by women.

I remember the ivy-laden trellis that tried to impede our childhood climb up the house.
The two of us, boy and and girl dressed for kindergarten, finally made it to the top.
How frightening then it was to leave that trembling ladder and get onto the roof.

Afraid to look down, I focused on the view, wanting to reach out and touch the soft hills.
As I turned to my childhood friend, he was gone. I looked down in a panic and saw nothing.
I walked clumsily to the center and felt the wood soften and buckle beneath my feet.

I woke up in a carnival scene of odd characters and screaming music, my friend nowhere to be seen.
Crying in fear, I could barely make out the walls. Someone whispered in my ear. I wanted my friend.
I searched other rooms but found no sight of him. The music was hurting my head and I felt cold.

A wisp of a woman waved for me to come to her. She bent down, kissed my forehead, and said “Free.”
I woke up back with my friend on the roof. He was doing a little dance, as if nothing had happened.
My mother was yelling for me. She had to climb up to bring us both down to earth. I was scolded.

Looking back now I remember the feel of the ivy, the kaleidoscope of colors, a dreamlike wave,
a dress rehearsal for life, a nebulous event threaded out of childhood experience, a lifelong warning.
Her kiss so threateningly soft and persuasive. Her “Free” so musical yet so fleeting. Child’s play.

School’s out! – We both passed the term.
A month and a half of blissful idleness awaits –
Hope I never catch ringworm.
Why haven’t I as yet tasted any dates?

“I haven’t taken you guys to Sani Pass,” the Rock realised.
“It’s where I grew up. You’ll love it.”
Now there was a holiday plan, devised
To ice over our indentured past now closed with prayer.

Shabby Underberg Inn was our first hinterland halfway house,
And, with the morn’s dawn, we scuttled way.
Next was Alpine Heath, linen crisp and white as a mouse,
Indeed a far more luxurious stay.

Mountains clothed in lily-white shawls
Abound our abode as the day’s first view.
Too many routine breakfasts, conformers and Texan drawls –
Time to see what lies beyond these confined lawns.

“This is the bridge your grandfather built,” the Rock replied.
I could feel the limp structure yearning the tender touch of his artisan hand.
Next, we ascended the snow and heath of a neighbouring field
To look at the remnants of where the family house once did stand.

“Abandon all hope ye that enter here,”
Old Ridgeway’s sign threateningly testified.
Hey, Ridgeway – the stonemason’s grandson you rule not with fear.
Tell me, what was your last thought as you died?

Ah... methinks legal tender
could be a boon to help me bolster
mein kampf with necessary material equipage,
which prospect to acquire essential
commodities sabotaged
at the altar of gullible travails,
thus perhaps thee could make
a contribution to mine gofundme page.

Castaway stranded on figurative
deserted island pitted with absolute
zero salvation, sole recourse
finds scant consolation with prayer
lifetime atheist draws futile faith
within himself grudgingly accepting
feeble accomplishments ditto permanent
estrangement among kith and kin tortured
more punishingly versus death sentence of
choice: firing squad, gallows, guillotine...

nostalgically sentimentally, and zealously
yearning fore gone girl(s) of mine, one
spouse two grown offspring long since
severed emotional home ties even when
under same roof appalled, embarrassed,
jarred particularly regarding good for
nothing hang dog looking papa, mentally
unfit father, who wrought misery
upon heads he begat chronically dirt poor
Mainline moocher never earning a ******

cent claiming psychological disability
(verity substantiated with professional
assessment attests to psychological mental
illness probably present during inchoate
biological development in utero, and most
definitely congenital) unfortunate no
supportive resources, thus experiencing
grievous incalculable relentless scapegoat
treatment - me no kidding
inadvertently subjected with cruel, diabolical,

exponential sucker punches
while riding the bus sitting stone temple pilot
faced during class, belittled, defeated,
framed unfairly as spitball culprit during
eighth grade mathematics with Missus Labosh
subsequently painfully shy lad threateningly
harangued, and nearly paddled courtesy
Methacton Junior High School principal
Mister Clock believe me you, aye remained
mum about said incident til...this moment,

not surprising since every unpleasantry
suppressed unwittingly festering within
psyche in tandem with threatening rapier
sarcasm ostracizing jibes cumulative
wrath unwaveringly smoldering, passively
brooding, visualizing punching meanies,
screaming... wanting to **** - sublimated hurts
glowering, exploding... decades later -
more often surfacing unannounced at odd
times venting bile at wife directly, and barking

at deux daughters subjecting innocent progeny
with mine anger, or rerouting, harboring,
channeling... pathological addiction answering
and posting personal classifieds, yours truly
guilty attempting to appease call of wild at mental,
physical, and spiritual expense additionally setting
poor paternal example accompanied with detached
avoidance maybe costing yours truly king's ransom
and/or receiving my just desserts, yes?

Thus yours truly imagines
whizzing backward at light speed
to reverse engineer
and rejigger space/time continuum
many stupid blunders
that cost me being knocked out cold
courtesy rock em sock em life size robots
compromising opportunities
the figurative ball
slipped out of my court
bungled, fumbled, mulcted  
courtesy naiveté I did excede.

Analogous to albatross greater than weight
Atlas shrugged, severely over burdening
fountainhead, yours truly intermittently
wavered, sputtered, petered... out bumped
uglies fumphered, rutted, née languished
along since birth, (possibly while in utero,
or even moment of conception nada so
thoroughly good by George) or well resigned
***** deeds done dirt poor deeply grooved
within very self restricted comfort zone,

eventually digging deep black hole sun,
infinite void everywhere exit prohibited,
whence twilight o' mine waning existence
awakened sober inescapable realization
impossible mission to garner je nais ne
quois joie de vivre, thus officially reeling
courtesy psychological angst (strumming),
whereby galactic dash board pluck pitted
against frantic ethereal desperation) eek
clip sing el sol lure rays refracted back

rendering blind did as a bat sightless
wayward son helplessly, rustling grimly,
futilely groping, lumbering, resigning,
scarce tenacity clutch slipping
automatically bing foisted transcendent
state, where absolute zero soundcloud
bereft succor – meadow fore enshrouds
hermetically sealed turin soul (mine)
cocooning grubby human forever
pinwheeling within otherworldly realm

timelessly suspended within infinite void
n'er aging, rather regressing toward
infantile state, unable to distinguish
familiarity after aye promise never tug
heave fanta see piquing curiosity
acronym spelled out regarding above
soda describing bubbling sensation
"** And Never Touch Again,"
red alert universal emergency advisory
button commencing countdown to

Armageddon, but subsequently resign
quintessential pregnant outcome
housing grimacing deathstill blackness
unbeknownst to constitute afterlife,
or less disconcerting, disheartening,
disenchanting... prospect namely
imperfectly square discombobulated
chaos betokens palatable alternative,
perhaps revelation (cryptically spelled
courtesy Chinese fortune cookie) less

dim sum more tolerable conclusion possibly
incorporates being rezoned, repurposed,
reassigned... within parallel universe fast
D'Cell rating indicative approaching
beginning space/time continuum, where
cosmos concentrated into microscopic
speck sagely, taste fully, gingerly...
handled... courtesy garden variety
budding ***** **** sapien.

An armature linkedin to robotic divine
creator, who never tired plying matter
into big bang dang boomerang contraption
only to release stretched material with
frisson cold snap, crackle, and pop
indiscriminately, haphazardly, gamely...
flicked teensy weensy itty bitty cosmic
dross - poofing into immeasurable shift
shaping said vast bajillion mile wide
instant karma credit witnessed umpteenth
birth expanding into former vacuum of
nothingness simulating an all encompassing
immense awesome kaleidoscope when
viewed thru virtual reality goggles all
the while frustrated wordsmith toying
with incomprehensible far out mind
boggling notion defying elaboration.