I.

Up the stairs Suzann without an E went.
8" X 10" bright white rectangles dotted
the yellowing and dusty walls,
clean reminders of bad family photos.
Her parents, Bob and Theresa,
had picked out wallpaper. Lilacs
and vines and oranges. Why? She
didn't know.

She tossed her backpack on the floor
at the foot of her bed. Her senior book
was still on the night stand. Charity and
Faith, her sometimes friends, had spent
the last two weeks filling out every page
of theirs, printing hazy images on cheap
photo paper at their homes and sliding them
into the plastic holders or taping them to
the pages without.

They coerced boys they
had liked or still liked or would like if to
fill out pages. When the boys simply signed
their names or names and football numbers,
they guilted them into writing more. Give
me something to remember you by.

Suzann liked to look at only one boy,
Casey Stephen Fuchs, pronounced "Fox,"
though you know that's just what the family
said. She didn't want him to write in her
senior book. She enjoyed the space between
them. She knew what her peers didn't:
she was seventeen.
She knew she didn't know
the right words yet. She knew the heart-bursting
flutters she felt were temporary--enjoy them, she thought,
shut up and enjoy them.

Her parents set her curfew at 10:30. So
this Friday, like most Fridays, she stays
home.

She opens ****** in the City of Mystics,
a novel she's burned through. Fifty pages
or so left. She likes detectives. The methodical
stalking, the idiosyncratic theories and philosophies
that allow them to connect dot after dot.

She shuts her eyes and sends herself walking down
the streets of New York, where hot dog vendors
whistle and say, "Nice legs." She flags down a cab.
She sees Casey across the street. What are you doing
here, stranger? She waves the cab on.
The driver, a brown-skinned man from some vague
country, throws his arms up. "C'mon."

She cuts across the traffic, dodging a white stretch limo,
a black Hummer, a hearse.

Casey's straight hair hangs over his left eye. It's both
melodramatic and troubled. There's a small shift
at the corners of his lips, the corners of lips, this
is a detail she writes of often in her journal--why?

She can almost hear Casey ask her, "What brings you here?"

"Business."

"What kind?"

"None of yours."

He takes this as an entry for a kiss. Not yet, handsome. No no.

"Make whatever you want for dinner," her mom shouts up the stairs.
"There's stuff for nachos if you want nachos. Some luncheon meat too.
Only one piece of bread though."

"Okay."

"Alright. Just whenever. Dad and I are going to go ahead."

"Okay."

"Alright."

Get me out of here. Suzann's whole life is small: small town,
small family, small church, all packed with small brained, short-sighted people. She wants New York or Chicago. She wants a badge--no not a badge. She'll be a vigilante. "You're not a cop," they'll tell her.

"Thank God," she'll say. "If I were a cop then there'd be nobody protecting these streets."

II.

She's read mysteries set in the middle of nowhere, small towns like her own Kiev, Missouri. They always feel phony. Not enough churches.
Not enough bored dads hitting on cheerleaders.
No curses. Every small town has a curse. Kiev's?
Every year someone in the senior class dies.

As far back as anyone she knew could remember
anyways. Drunk driving, falling asleep at the wheel,
texting while driving, all that crap is what was usually
blamed.

This smelly boy named Todd Louden moved out of Kiev
in the fall semester of his senior year a couple years ago.
Suzann was a freshman.

A few months after he was gone, people started saying
he'd killed himself with a shotgun. First United Methodist
added his family to the prayer list. They had a little service out
by this free-standing wall by the library where he used
to play wall ball during lunch. People cried. Suzann didn't know
anyone that hung out with him. Maybe that's why
they cried, unreconcilable guilt--that's what her dad
said.

Then in the spring Todd moved back. The cross planted
by the wall with his name confused him.
He'd just been staying with his grandma. Nothing crazy.
The churches never said anything about that. He was
just the smelly kid again. Well until late-April when
he got ran over by a drunk or texting driver.
They hadn't even pulled up the cross by the wall ball site
yet.

III.

You call it the middle of nowhere, a place where the roads didn't have proper names until a couple years back, roads now marked with green signs and white numbers like 3500 and 1250, numbers the state mandated so the ambulances can find your dying ***--well if the signs haven't been rendered unreadable by .22 rounds.

The roads used to be known only to locals. They'd give them names like the Jogline or Wilzetta or Lake Road, reserved knowledge for the sake of identifying outsiders. But that day is fading.

What makes nowhere somewhere? What grants space a name?

The dangerous element. The drifter that hops a fence, carrying a shotgun in a tote bag. Violence gave us O.K. Corral. Violence gave us Waco. Historians get nostalgic for those last breaths of innocence. The quiet. The storm. The dead quiet.

IV.

It's March and not a single senior has died.
So when she hears the front door open
around 2 a.m., Suzann isn't surprised.
She doesn't think it's ego that's made
her believe it'd be her to die--but it is.

She hears the fridge door open.
Cabinets open.
Cabinets close.
She hears ice drop into
the glass. Liquid poured.

She clicks her tongue in
her dry mouth. She puts
a hand to her chest. Her
heart beats slow.
She rests her head on
the pillow. It's heavy
yet empty, yet full--
not of thoughts.

She can't remember the name
of any shooting victims.
She remembers the shooters.
Jared Lee Loughner, Seung-Hui Cho,
James Eagan Holmes, Adam Lanza.
No victims.

She hears the intruder set the glass on the counter.
He doesn't walk into the living room.
He starts up the stairs. His steps are
soft, deliberate. What does he want?
Her death. She knows this. He is only a vehicle.
Nameless until. Has he done this before?
Fast or slow?

He's just outside her room, and she doesn't
remember a single victim's name. She hears
a bag unzip. She hears a click.

If he shoots her, Suzann Dunken, there's
no way the newspaper will get her name
right. Her name may or may not scroll
across CNN's marquee for a day or two.
If it does, it won't be spelled correctly.
This makes her move. Wrapping
her comforter around her body, she
tip-toes to the wall next to her door.

She hears a doorknob turn.
It's not hers.

He's going into her parents' bedroom.
They're both heavy sleepers.
She opens her own door slowly.
She steps into the hall. She sees the man.
The man does not see her.
She see the man and grabs a family
portrait. The man does not see her,
and he creeps closer to her parents.
She sees the man standing then she
sees the man falling after she strikes him
with the corner of the family portrait.
The man sees her as he scrambles to get
his bearing. She strikes him, again with
the corner. This time she connects with his eye.
A light comes on. "Suzann," her mother says.
He tries to aim the gun. Again she strikes.
He screams. He reaches for his eyes with
his left hand. Now with the broad side she
swings. She connects. She connects again.
The man shoves her off, stumbles to his feet.
By this time, her dad reaches her side.
One strong push and the man crashes into
the wall outside the room, putting a hole
in the drywall.

He recovers and retreats down the stairs
and out the door into blackness.

Her mother phones the police.
She pants more than speaks
into the receiver.

"Suzann," her dad says. "Sweetheart."

Suzann looks at the portrait, taken at JC Penny when
she was in the sixth grade. The glass is cracked.
She removes the back. She pulls out the photo.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

This photo. Her mother let her do anything
she wanted to her hair before they took it.
So she, of course, dyed it purple.

"That's right," her mother says.
"It's about half a mile east of the
3500 and 1250 intersection. Uh-huh."

Her dad sits down next to her.

"How long do you think it'll take them
to find us?"

There's a shift at the corners of her mouth,
and she nods, just nods.

I long for you
weary tendrils extend from my chest
in a vain attempt to corral you
but you are not corralable
you are the wisp of the wind
whose gentle kiss brushes
against my existence
with warmth and subtle excitation
then vanishes as quickly as you entered
even though I know when you’re coming
and you’ll tell me when you’re going
Your absence
leaves my heart motionless
sitting alone with nothing
but an irrational
unreconcilable fear
tell me I am the lone benefactor
of your calming touch
of your mindful caress
I cannot and will not bear
the agony
of watching the sand blow in the wind

Alters laid broken on trodden roads
as if breadcrumbs left for nothing
unreconcilable yesterdays parted
and the unreachable roads recharged
breaking all the chains that bond
but there were others that stayed
itching, screeching and reaching
for hope that never shook hands
for faith that embraced and decayed
and their entry points hallowed
swallowing their souls in an abyss
inside the dark zones, unlighted ozone
deep in the waters where fish swam
as they licked with fins undisguised
those alone inside a cage under the waters
strayed in the depths, left for decay

As a man thinks in his heart, so he is.
Thus the early warning for uninitiateds,

Pomposity, this is not, yawn

hypnopompic (adj.)
"pertaining to the state
  of consciousness when awaking from sleep,"

Accepting the hand stretched toward my spirit,
the idea that is me, in your mind, tenere- root
tension, the push and pull
stretch the minutes into days, yawn
hear,
the rolling of the dough, sticky, folding
butter and sugar and cinnamon in, ah,
coffee, creamed
morning,
in paradaise,
pomp and circumstance, ministers
solemnly stepping up
recommencing the quest, master.

To make a form for spiritual consideration,
of worldly wisdoms and philosophy's guides
granted all with access to the raw data of us,
clear text incontextual time locked eternity,
part one

all we may know, no real secrets lost to time,
all we may know, upon waking in confusion, is

and was known, upto now, but no further, see,

between thoughts comes time, no force felt,
think, what reading really is, is us thinking again,

a gain, a step in the only way time relates
every thing to next, smooth
only on the surface
tension
of our enclosing bubble
of being,
bound
by words we never read, really,

while amused
at the talent
of our acting friends,
where everybody knows your inclusion
in an active Dunbar herd
of potential help,

the one in need, indeed, met

the wedoms, most common groupmind limit,
the size of a military subgroup, hereditary
strategic deployable drilled
to respond
to drum and bugle calls,
now radio, neuro linked,
orders conveyed to science users,
ready made from those so usable,

second string and above, do what you love,
ding, the bell, another round, ding

imagine the power of players taken in,
swallowed whole by an ancient serpent ,

slowly growing from worm to wise will

to oppose untrue why factors, long used
to beautify the imaginable future, if,

eh, Rudyard, who were you watching return
from Balaklava?
Did she force you to see?
Lady Elizabeth Southerden Thompson Butler,
Ai, ai, we totally know, yes,
must be some history in her string of names,

but,
what she projected on to the medium
what she witnessed in her spirit,
she showed us, the after facts,
the faces, the mud, the blood,

weariness and desperation, hope
captain, tell us, that's enough
war for the world to see,
life in color on canvas,
the message is the medium,
in it's pre-acrylic hues from tubes,
the latest advance in painterly tools,
and new colors, brighter, longer lasting

to let the spirit bearing the message,
alive until you stop, and realize,

you may, today, stare all day
at fifty-seven windows into
Lady Elizabeth's
upper crust wisdom,
becoming today's prompt,

To ask, if you do not find it easy,
my assuming you used your will,
voluntarily, to find the art abstraction
taken from the mindshare gone global,

my friends in all the lands enclosed
within the world wide web lattice work,
filtering the light we see through
to objects in mind reminding us,

of awe, the state, aha,
we agree, we sometimes weep
for those who live in foaming lies,

remains of old nursery fixed hates…

Have you gazed a while,
at the messages from Elizabeth?
Have you zoomed in to see
the faces on the nameless,

the glorious-less role call,  no.

I can't not go again, you see, war
and me, we
be adversarials and unreconcilable,
I swore to oppose all oaths to
pomposity, solemn turns first lie
to principal reason, first need met,
Art, making for the sake of making,
in the chaos, see the beauty, we live,
we who use words to capture thoughts,

think, we words, are no longer thoughts,
nay, we know, knowing, science, is
knowledge held as true, even known lies,
and the multitude of uses pride contends
is good to force feed kids, stacking order,
status quo, master and emissary, in one.

As a we form sapience spiritually coherent,
we all must protect,
free thought, raw truth, full function,

breath, modulating noise,
to seem musical.

Whew, hew and cry, scything on…

yes, self analyze,
woe is the skeptic
in America today,

or, no, the other way, today, in doubt's
haying day, sickles at the ready, stone honed,
…
least labor, follow the leader on the right,
starting from the left, northmost corner,
sweeping south along the terminii line,
proprietary responsibility border line,
work worth
sweat, taken as a feature,
water as a gift,
given by the fortuitous cloud catching
streams of conscious muse using,
refreshings, cool, new media,
cool, new colors, look, Spot,
see the images of all the worlds finest art,
right there on your globally tied in common-
uni-cating we conforming information device.

see close, zoom in, zoomers were born to this,
- old boomers who saw these images
- saw them in CMYK
- on shiny magazine paper,
- the message was not as loud as now.
Peace maker companions,
sharers of the one bread's condiments,
take some pride in pulling down imaginations
making peace, where a clamoring lobstrosity was,

warfare in the spirit, make sense from non-
sensible factors determining will to become,
still, observant, ignoring not knowing,
being left in the story your father's faith told
submission to authority, only obey,
-- line up, dress right, at a glance,
-- proceed standing at attention,
= be the message sent by the Bearskin helm.

will-less, submitted, under the orders
in the message most recently made law,
all those covered under the blood of victims,
in order to save the world, we must be ready
to let it evolve, no sweat,
- death has no sting, no lie,
- duty however is a killer,
- and pride the very worst.
Live
as might your favorite Bible character say,
sufferage is alright, wait and see, right,
you can choose your truth,
do the math,
vote by references to
chirality, right, or sinister,
the spinning difference is awesome
we mesh, fi, my talent, fits you
we become a one mind team
involved in mortal conscious
answers to sworn confusions,

Will to ever learn,
is a feature all spinning things use,
to stay in formation as we scythe through
ongoing knowing life is hard,
knowing is easy, taken slow,
bringing in the sheaves,
golden grain,
once worshipped,
worth the sweat,

laughing when the works all done,
was the winter breads and stewed roots,
all sets and settings we may imagine, on earth,
some sense we all share, every where we connect,

all at once, the world was enclosed, in clouds
of precocious proprietary secret methods,
right way to do things, procedures,

reusable code, rituals, rules and consequences,

object, entity in mind, abstraction, a pinch of now.

This is how all that ever matters must begin
in a literary effort akin to scything sown seed,

in a co-op thought pattern, me,
to you, feedback in the medium we share,

the air we breathe, but more enduring ties,
realizable already imagined known, yes,

the very idea that yes contains, on contact,
I know, be it how first or why, I care less,

yes, carelessly I spill my neuronic guts
distinct chakra reasonings, as factored costs,

go with your gut, but
first, grow ripe past pompous display,
look away, look away, do not open

the source code we think we see,

ah, me, too late.