The blinking colon on the
alarm clock, like her,
is off an on again. Counting
seconds trying to make
my time match technology,
or God’s time.
Dogs being
put to sleep,
I want to be
one of them.
God please stretch forth
your hand put
me to sleep. Make
this long night,
eternity.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Seventh Street and Elliot
Sweet Six Teen.
Five Dollar Bill.
Four way stop.
Three’s a crowd.
Two way pager.
One night stand.
Blastoff
!
Five Dollar Bill.
Four way stop.
Three’s a crowd.
Two way pager.
One night stand.
Blastoff
!
I hate the Yankees" earlier version
Curses, streaks, rivalries,
running cars, Wilco and green garden hoses.
First time ever, Impossible, Miracle.
Pimperton, Susie, a life full of bills.
Alone, a woman sits hating
baseball more than ever.
"Sweet Home Alabama" never
sounded so bad.
You selfish bastard,
you ended the game we
all lost,
not the Yankees.
running cars, Wilco and green garden hoses.
First time ever, Impossible, Miracle.
Pimperton, Susie, a life full of bills.
Alone, a woman sits hating
baseball more than ever.
"Sweet Home Alabama" never
sounded so bad.
You selfish bastard,
you ended the game we
all lost,
not the Yankees.
All Nighters
I would say at about 5:18 or so during an all nighter is right around the time when you want to kill yourself. Your neck and back are sore and you eyesight has been blurry for sometime but finally you have rub your eyes every few minutes to make sure you are not going crazy. My brain thinks that it just got a job on the graveyard shift and my body is telling me its Sunday after noon. People have told me to make a list of things I need to do the next day so my mind doesn't think about them and tries to sleep. I have tried it a couple of times but my minds just starts thinking of things that I left off--catch 22 I guess. I feel a bit like Harold Crick I guess.
Sorry no poems this week trying to polish off old ones and get ready for the GRE yeah.
Sorry no poems this week trying to polish off old ones and get ready for the GRE yeah.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Night Custodian in a Library
I see you every night;
walk by you when vacuuming,
when I dust you off,
and clean the windows.
There is one light bulb
that shines on you.
I change it often
so it won’t burn out.
I think of you when
I’m not cleaning
as you sit on the shelf—
the book no one picks up.
Coming in on my day off
I find you, check you out,
take you home,
and begin you.
Lying in my bed,
I cuddle up with you.
Try to find meaning
between the covers.
Slowly your dust jacket
falls off, and is set
next to my lamp which,
like me, is turned on.
I start feeling your
leather-bound back
and your gold leaf title
hanging from your neck.
Your pages slowly
nuzzle up to my hands.
I begin to read you
and you begin
being read.
Your words are soft
flowing together.
You speak to me
in my language.
Turning pages faster
I find more.
I hear your
pages rustle.
your words like air
fill my lungs, flow
through me.
Giving everything,
I breathe deeper,
reading faster, almost
violently turning pages
with two hand and scanning
your words for more—more letters,
symbols, dots for i’s and exclamation points!
Moving slowly in and out of your o’s and a’s
and wrap myself around
your j’s and l’s grabbing your nouns and the
adjectives that describe them.
Your prepositional phrases pull me
closer while your commas suck my ear.
Your page numbers are warm and your
chapter headings are sweaty. I get lost in
your w’s and m’s, going back and forth
between arms and legs. I slide faster
again down the pages and paragraphs. I
want to read you every day,
maybe twice a day. I won’t take you
back to the library. You are the only
book on my shelf.
I buy bookends to hold you up when
I’m not reading you. I spend all day
everyday reading you sometimes. You
love your t’s being tickled by my tongue, or
your s’s swerving around my teeth.
Sometimes, I fall asleep with you on my
chest, or lying next to me, or your pages in my
in my hands.
walk by you when vacuuming,
when I dust you off,
and clean the windows.
There is one light bulb
that shines on you.
I change it often
so it won’t burn out.
I think of you when
I’m not cleaning
as you sit on the shelf—
the book no one picks up.
Coming in on my day off
I find you, check you out,
take you home,
and begin you.
Lying in my bed,
I cuddle up with you.
Try to find meaning
between the covers.
Slowly your dust jacket
falls off, and is set
next to my lamp which,
like me, is turned on.
I start feeling your
leather-bound back
and your gold leaf title
hanging from your neck.
Your pages slowly
nuzzle up to my hands.
I begin to read you
and you begin
being read.
Your words are soft
flowing together.
You speak to me
in my language.
Turning pages faster
I find more.
I hear your
pages rustle.
your words like air
fill my lungs, flow
through me.
Giving everything,
I breathe deeper,
reading faster, almost
violently turning pages
with two hand and scanning
your words for more—more letters,
symbols, dots for i’s and exclamation points!
Moving slowly in and out of your o’s and a’s
and wrap myself around
your j’s and l’s grabbing your nouns and the
adjectives that describe them.
Your prepositional phrases pull me
closer while your commas suck my ear.
Your page numbers are warm and your
chapter headings are sweaty. I get lost in
your w’s and m’s, going back and forth
between arms and legs. I slide faster
again down the pages and paragraphs. I
want to read you every day,
maybe twice a day. I won’t take you
back to the library. You are the only
book on my shelf.
I buy bookends to hold you up when
I’m not reading you. I spend all day
everyday reading you sometimes. You
love your t’s being tickled by my tongue, or
your s’s swerving around my teeth.
Sometimes, I fall asleep with you on my
chest, or lying next to me, or your pages in my
in my hands.
After the Fall
In the winter of my mind
it is still snowing. Coats cover,
and scarves wrap thoughts—the thoughts
that can't get out, the cold, frozen ones.
it is still snowing. Coats cover,
and scarves wrap thoughts—the thoughts
that can't get out, the cold, frozen ones.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The Paint Job, Ten, Cookie
I think that I have finally come to the realization that my parents are almost there. By there I mean the point where they need help to do regular things. My Dad's eyes are so bad, he is legally blind, but in his stubbornness wanted to paint the his second house by himself. Knowing that he can't see to well my mom asked me to go over after he had finished and do some touch ups. My dad was there when I arrived, and he knew why I was, there but didn't bring it up.He just told me that the last bedroom needed to be finished. I proceeded to paint the entire basement again, of which I am not complaining about, but was gracious for the eyes to see it.
While painting I left my mp3 player at home and pulled out some old Cd's from our collection. Almost 16 years ago an album was realeased that changed my life. The album is obviously "Ten" by Pearl Jam. I listened to the album 4 straight times while painting and thought of "Jeremy" painting the wall of his school classroom. There is something to say about Pearl Jam being the only band left from the 3-4 year period we called grunge, but can now call really good music.
Our family dog Cookie was "put to sleep" this week, there are times when I wish I could just be "put to sleep". I am working on a poem about this but can't really put in words quite yet the feeling.
While painting I left my mp3 player at home and pulled out some old Cd's from our collection. Almost 16 years ago an album was realeased that changed my life. The album is obviously "Ten" by Pearl Jam. I listened to the album 4 straight times while painting and thought of "Jeremy" painting the wall of his school classroom. There is something to say about Pearl Jam being the only band left from the 3-4 year period we called grunge, but can now call really good music.
Our family dog Cookie was "put to sleep" this week, there are times when I wish I could just be "put to sleep". I am working on a poem about this but can't really put in words quite yet the feeling.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
I am not a baby boomer
Where are my depressions and my picture perfect home?
I left my Woodstock and drugs sitting on the counter
of my cold war and Vietnam. I need a drink of freedom
and piece of Berlin’s wall. I will have to download them
on my I phone.
I left my Woodstock and drugs sitting on the counter
of my cold war and Vietnam. I need a drink of freedom
and piece of Berlin’s wall. I will have to download them
on my I phone.
Middle of the Month
I’m like a rent check that
you hold on to until, I
Clear or come.
I’ll place my cherubim
and flaming sword
in your tree of life—
knowing good from evil.
The cables out, rabbit ears
are broken, like bread
we break and partake.
you hold on to until, I
Clear or come.
I’ll place my cherubim
and flaming sword
in your tree of life—
knowing good from evil.
The cables out, rabbit ears
are broken, like bread
we break and partake.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
A Crazy Month
Seven Jazz games a baby and finals week and we are finally back into a regular routine. Some stuff that I have been working on lately.
It has been said that man can only think five seconds in the present time, and that all the other time we are thinking, it is either in the past or the future tense. Are we so consumed with our memories and future events that we cannot think in the moment, or is the moment so real and so dangerous, five seconds is all we can handle? Is every future thought just an outstretched memory of some part of life that we have already tought of.
It has been said that man can only think five seconds in the present time, and that all the other time we are thinking, it is either in the past or the future tense. Are we so consumed with our memories and future events that we cannot think in the moment, or is the moment so real and so dangerous, five seconds is all we can handle? Is every future thought just an outstretched memory of some part of life that we have already tought of.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Public Reading at the college
I am reading one of my published poems tommorow at My Word, for some reason I am unusually nervous which is why I am awake. The poem has not been put in here as of yet but will be when I upload my zip drive. Some have said it is the best yet we will have to see.
IDEA, movie with split screen throughout following two random people that fall in lust and so forth just the visual would be amazing
IDEA, a real time book or real time movie meaning the movie is 2 hours and thats how much time the movie takes. maybe thats what they call a tv show but maybe we could change it up a little. More to come on this.
IDEA, movie with split screen throughout following two random people that fall in lust and so forth just the visual would be amazing
IDEA, a real time book or real time movie meaning the movie is 2 hours and thats how much time the movie takes. maybe thats what they call a tv show but maybe we could change it up a little. More to come on this.
Ideas that have been floating around this weekend
A spoof of "The Natural" which may be sacraligious in the first place, but would be funny. Boy sees lighting strike tree then makes pencils out of wood and writes the great american novel.
Although I am usually the
center
of attention,
I find that I want to
become more of a recluse.
My Mind often drives a lot left of center, but my other personality pulls the wheel back.
the lake to my left and the mountains to the right
I want to drown myself but also climb to the top of the mountain.
The series of poems about individual subjects has grown.
I ran across a man named Henry Darger today well I ran across his website and art which you should google and you can kind off get a feeling of what is going through my head this entry.
Although I am usually the
center
of attention,
I find that I want to
become more of a recluse.
My Mind often drives a lot left of center, but my other personality pulls the wheel back.
the lake to my left and the mountains to the right
I want to drown myself but also climb to the top of the mountain.
The series of poems about individual subjects has grown.
I ran across a man named Henry Darger today well I ran across his website and art which you should google and you can kind off get a feeling of what is going through my head this entry.
I am sick of America being an apologist country
http://www.purevolume.com/elijahwyman Found some new music on Purevolume.com this past week, a mixture of Robert Smith from the cure and Bright Eyes passing it along.
For the first time in my life I feel old, due to the age of my parents. For christmas my dad bought himself and Ipod and an HD big screen tv that comes with 2 remotes one for the tv and one for the dvd player. You can obviously see where this is going but he needs help downloading music and videos to the ipod of which I have no problem doing but there is a sense of aging going on some sort of torch passing. 15 years ago we would always go to my grandmas house and help her program her microwave clock or her arm chair that helped her stand up all by her self. There will come a time I'm sure that my kids will help me with my (whatever the next invention is). Its amazing to think there is a generation of kids out there that don't know life without the simpsons. I am sick of America being an apologist country. Let me clarify. This entire thing going on over the past few weeks with what can and can't be said with out apologizing for it afterwards pisses me off. I'm sure Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert will illaberate more so that is that.
For the first time in my life I feel old, due to the age of my parents. For christmas my dad bought himself and Ipod and an HD big screen tv that comes with 2 remotes one for the tv and one for the dvd player. You can obviously see where this is going but he needs help downloading music and videos to the ipod of which I have no problem doing but there is a sense of aging going on some sort of torch passing. 15 years ago we would always go to my grandmas house and help her program her microwave clock or her arm chair that helped her stand up all by her self. There will come a time I'm sure that my kids will help me with my (whatever the next invention is). Its amazing to think there is a generation of kids out there that don't know life without the simpsons. I am sick of America being an apologist country. Let me clarify. This entire thing going on over the past few weeks with what can and can't be said with out apologizing for it afterwards pisses me off. I'm sure Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert will illaberate more so that is that.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
The List another short story
Want this to be a screenplay eventually-Incomplete
I stood on the second floor of the Eiffel tower, kissing a French woman named Gabrielle. She was taller than me, not by much, but enough for me to take notice and think about the fact afterwards. She wasn’t big breasted American beautiful; she was the European anorexic beautiful. We had just eaten lunch at the Le Jules Verne restaurant. I had met this woman two hours previous to this embrace, to this kiss, to this fulfilling of a wish. It was a passionate kiss--- no love, no last names, no phone numbers or emails, just passion. I think that is the way it is supposed to be when you kiss someone on the Eiffel Tower, or at least this is what I think James thought it would be like.
She invited me back to her flat, I then told her that “I had to go, I had to see the Mona Lisa before I left back to New York”.
She understood. She had grown up in Paris. She had seen and had many flings with American tourists.
I stood with this woman on this street because my brother had died six months earlier. I will not say that it is his fault, because it was not his fault; but it was for him. I kissed Gabrielle. Both of us new this was goodbye forever and I jumped into the taxi. I opened my briefcase and asked the driver how long it would take he said it would be a few minutes because of traffic. I pulled out the old piece of tattered paper. It had some stains on it. Some of the things on the list were beginng to fade others were written within the past year. A rainbow of pen, pencil, marker, and few items in crayon. I had this list practically memorized, but loved looking over it everytime I crossed something off. Number 45, Kiss a woman on the Effiel Tower.
I looked into the eyes of Mona Lisa for as long as the line behind me allowed. I wondered why this woman and why the history and magic behind this painting was so meaningful to people, it is just paint; all of this was just paint. This entire museum is worth millions of dollars and it is just paint, a mixture of oil, water, color, dried clay, and granite. I thought about how funny it would be to make a bomb or some napalm and blow this place up, after a few years people would forget that it ever existed. I understood the kiss on the Eiffel Tower, that was romantic and powerful, but museums seemed like a waste of money to me.
My brother, however, would disagree, He said “I had to look at her, look at her like I loved her, then she, this painting this fictional women or (what I thought could be a man) would return the look with either love or hate”. I’m sure he read it in some book somewhere, he was always reading books.
James and I were 10 months apart, exactly; he was one of those “uhoh” babies. Because of the close age we started school at the same time, so my mother could get us out of the house and enjoy her “alone time”. We were good friends --the kind that call when a big event was happening, but we didn’t visit very often.
After graduation, he wanted to save the world and I wanted to become a real estate agent, so he got a girl pregnant and got married, so much for saving the world. I went on to real estate starting off horrible but eventually found my niche in mobile home parks.
As the driver drove speedily towards the airport, he told me in his broken American, that I should hurry, it would take a few extra minutes to get through customs, there had been a bomb threat earlier that day. I walked through the metal detector a number of times. I had to be frisked and then walked through again. I began thinking about the piece of paper that had been in my brief case for the past eight months. I looked at it every day, sometimes two or three times. I almost had the list memorized: Great Wall of China walk two miles. Binion’s Casino, reenact the scene from “Rounders” with anyone on the table. Oh and yes, number 84, kiss a girl on the Eiffel tower.
I only did this one out of sheer convenience, technically she kissed me, but it’s the same thing isn’t it? As I stood on the walking escalator in the airport, I opened my briefcase and opened the tattered piece of paper. It still had the smell of cigars and plastic from the box. That is where my brother kept the list and his “emergency” condoms. The list had sat in that box for twelve years. Occasionally it looked like he had added things on the list, there were a few different colors of writing scrawled both on the front and the back.
“Eighty-four” I said aloud, as I grabbed a pen and Scribbled it off the list.
“He has got to be kidding.”
I looked at it again and again; the more I thought about it the more I thought how silly it was and how much time and money it would take. I checked in at my gate and slowly sat back in the seat near the television listening to the events that had taken place earlier at the Airport.
One of the things I love about first class is that well its first class. generally there are no kids, no babies, no hastles, and basically you get whatever you want. One of the things I don’t like about first class, is that I think I’m turning into the guy from “Fight Club”, not Tyler Durden the badass one played by Brad Pitt, but the narrator, the one Ed Norton plays. At the beginning of the movie he talks about his addiction to Ikea, I have that same addiction with SkyMall. I know all the stuff they sell is shit, but man! when I’m super tired and on the plane I think to myself, “yeah I do need a shampoo/conditioner dispenser that plays CD’s and has an alarm clock built in." Then three weeks later, I open up a package and I’m like what the hell? Why the fuck did I buy this? Its not like I’m going to be taking a shower when I’m asleep and the alarm clock actually wakes me up.
So I hand the flight attendant the magazine and she gives me this look like, who the hell are you? Just put it in the little pouch in front of you.
“I will buy something if they stay in front of me”, I say.
She nods “Oh one of those types, huh?”.
I thought to myself “one of those types” what the hell is that about?
After looking at her nametag, I asked “Sherry can I have a pillow and a blanket?”.
Sherry got me a pillow and a blanket and something I wasn’t expecting, a stroke on my shoulder every time she walked pass. Of course the entire idea of dating a flight attendant wouldn’t ever work because of obvious reasons, but the occasional, “Oh I’m going to be in New York for the night, would you like to go to dinner and then have casual sex,” didn’t bother me at all.
I met three or four women like this a year. They mostly just wanted a guy to take them around New York for the day, afterwhich proceed to fulfill their sexual desires that had been bound up for the past eight days as they traveled around the world. Some of the women I saw on more than one occasion.
In fact last year I tried to actually date one of them. Sarah was her name, and then it came to me that she probably had other men, in other big cites, to release the tension from the flight from New York to Europe. In fact I was convinced they all had men stashed all over the world, like coins in the couch, kept there on purpose, for that rainy day that they need some change for the wash, or a coffee.
Note to reader I plan on developing the jerkiness of the older brother a little more, following is a exerpt from a later portion of the novel or long story.
I dreamt about James lying on the hospital bed that the V.A, had let my parents take home. My father always repeating “this isn’t the way its supposed to be, he is supposed to take care of us”. I had bought my parents huge home on three acres outside of Boise were my dad grew up, but we both new that was my idea of taking care of them, not his. My father wanted someone to be there to program the VCR, mow the lawn, and help him check his email from his grandkids, from James’s wife. I knew what my father wanted and needed I just could not afford to leave my life in New York and move to Boise to take care of them. But there I was standing on my parents’ doorstep in response to a phone call I had received earlier that morning.
A tap on the shoulder awoke me, “Excuse me Monsieur, anything to drink”.
“No, no thank you”, I replied in a kind but annoyed tone.
It had been two months since the phone call from my father. I awoke every morning wondering when it would come and when it finally did I still didn’t believe it.
“Peter, I know it’s early, but I don’t think he will last through the week, ” my father said, trying to hold back the tears that fought him every time he called.
At the age of thirty with a wife of ten years and 3 beautiful children James was diagnosed with cancer, which had formed a tumor in his brain. The symptoms first started showing up when he was about 27 or 28. When the doctor’s first diagnosed him they told us that he might live five years, but not to except anything longer than that. It was in the middle of the third year when my father called.
I got on the next flight home to Boise. I hadn’t been home since the previous Christmas, which my father reminded me of, ever time he called to update me on James’s condition. I brought James a painting of Central Park, a place that he had never been in his ten years travelling with the Air Force. His wife Stephanie said that he would love it. The mood in the house was sullen and an overwhelming sense of fear had come over everyone. The fear of the unknown, our, his future. I went into his bedroom, and he lit up just a little bit. I think that he was ready to say goodbye to us, or at least me. I showed him the painting of which he thanked me for and had me put on his dresser at the end of the bed. He asked me to reach into the nightstand and grab an envelope that our names (James & Peter) written on the outside. I grabbed the envelope and handed it to him.
“Do you remember what this is” he asked.
“Vaguely”, I replied.
He grinned and winked, “It’s the list”.
“The list, you’ve got to be kidding, I thought we threw that out with your old love letters”.
“We did, but I made a copy of it ‘cause I knew you would forget about it”.
“To well James, you know me to well”.
He opened the envelope and pulled out two pieces of paper, one with my name on it and one with his. Underneath my name was written in my still horrible handwriting---
1) Be a successful Realotor
2) Be a millionaire before the age of thirty
3) Buy a 7 series BMW
4) Meet Warren Buffet, and Charles Schwabb
5) Buy Mom and Dad a new house in Boise
I laughed out loud as I read them.
“So Peter, how are you doing on yours,” He asked.
“Great I think, I gotta Volvo instead of a BMW though”.
He laughed, “Peter, I’m missing a lot of mine its hard to take the family to Paris on a Captain’s income.”
I laughed but also felt his pain. On the night before he left for Texas, we stayed up all night writing down the things that we wanted to do or accomplish in life. My list obviously was geared towards my career and becoming wealthy. James had never seen my list or I his, but every ten years we were supposed to check up with the other person to see how they were coming along on “the list”. It had been twelve years since we wrote these lists and this was the first check-up that we had ever had. Ironic as it was, my best friend and brother sat on his deathbed laughing about his list and all the things he hadn’t accomplished. As he read them out loud we both laughed at the sound of some of them.
46) Eat a 72-ounce steak from The Big Texan
63) Bluff the hell out of High roller in Las Vegas
108) Keep a piece of the Berlin wall
James wasn’t necessarily an adventurous man, but wanted to live life for all that it had to offer. That it why he wanted to be an Air Force pilot. I thought of all that James was going to leave behind and wondered why God hadn’t picked me to bring home. I had no kids, no wife, and really no one would be affected by my loss except for my parents and James. Why was life not fair, why would his children not be able to grow up with a Dad, why would he not be able to take care of our parents?
“Peter, I want you to finish my list” he asked, but implied.
“What, I can’t travel all over the world to fulfill a twelve-year olds wishes.”
“I’m not twelve any more, Peter,” he said with a look of disgust on his face.
I took the list fully not planning to do a thing. I did not want to upset my brother and family when the situation was already stressful and negative.
As I looked out the airplane I thought of this entire situation and why I had kissed a women named Gabrielle on the Eiffel Tower, and why the Mona Lisa really seemed to hate me. A piece of paper, “the list” a thirty-year old man’s dreams.
I stood on the second floor of the Eiffel tower, kissing a French woman named Gabrielle. She was taller than me, not by much, but enough for me to take notice and think about the fact afterwards. She wasn’t big breasted American beautiful; she was the European anorexic beautiful. We had just eaten lunch at the Le Jules Verne restaurant. I had met this woman two hours previous to this embrace, to this kiss, to this fulfilling of a wish. It was a passionate kiss--- no love, no last names, no phone numbers or emails, just passion. I think that is the way it is supposed to be when you kiss someone on the Eiffel Tower, or at least this is what I think James thought it would be like.
She invited me back to her flat, I then told her that “I had to go, I had to see the Mona Lisa before I left back to New York”.
She understood. She had grown up in Paris. She had seen and had many flings with American tourists.
I stood with this woman on this street because my brother had died six months earlier. I will not say that it is his fault, because it was not his fault; but it was for him. I kissed Gabrielle. Both of us new this was goodbye forever and I jumped into the taxi. I opened my briefcase and asked the driver how long it would take he said it would be a few minutes because of traffic. I pulled out the old piece of tattered paper. It had some stains on it. Some of the things on the list were beginng to fade others were written within the past year. A rainbow of pen, pencil, marker, and few items in crayon. I had this list practically memorized, but loved looking over it everytime I crossed something off. Number 45, Kiss a woman on the Effiel Tower.
I looked into the eyes of Mona Lisa for as long as the line behind me allowed. I wondered why this woman and why the history and magic behind this painting was so meaningful to people, it is just paint; all of this was just paint. This entire museum is worth millions of dollars and it is just paint, a mixture of oil, water, color, dried clay, and granite. I thought about how funny it would be to make a bomb or some napalm and blow this place up, after a few years people would forget that it ever existed. I understood the kiss on the Eiffel Tower, that was romantic and powerful, but museums seemed like a waste of money to me.
My brother, however, would disagree, He said “I had to look at her, look at her like I loved her, then she, this painting this fictional women or (what I thought could be a man) would return the look with either love or hate”. I’m sure he read it in some book somewhere, he was always reading books.
James and I were 10 months apart, exactly; he was one of those “uhoh” babies. Because of the close age we started school at the same time, so my mother could get us out of the house and enjoy her “alone time”. We were good friends --the kind that call when a big event was happening, but we didn’t visit very often.
After graduation, he wanted to save the world and I wanted to become a real estate agent, so he got a girl pregnant and got married, so much for saving the world. I went on to real estate starting off horrible but eventually found my niche in mobile home parks.
As the driver drove speedily towards the airport, he told me in his broken American, that I should hurry, it would take a few extra minutes to get through customs, there had been a bomb threat earlier that day. I walked through the metal detector a number of times. I had to be frisked and then walked through again. I began thinking about the piece of paper that had been in my brief case for the past eight months. I looked at it every day, sometimes two or three times. I almost had the list memorized: Great Wall of China walk two miles. Binion’s Casino, reenact the scene from “Rounders” with anyone on the table. Oh and yes, number 84, kiss a girl on the Eiffel tower.
I only did this one out of sheer convenience, technically she kissed me, but it’s the same thing isn’t it? As I stood on the walking escalator in the airport, I opened my briefcase and opened the tattered piece of paper. It still had the smell of cigars and plastic from the box. That is where my brother kept the list and his “emergency” condoms. The list had sat in that box for twelve years. Occasionally it looked like he had added things on the list, there were a few different colors of writing scrawled both on the front and the back.
“Eighty-four” I said aloud, as I grabbed a pen and Scribbled it off the list.
“He has got to be kidding.”
I looked at it again and again; the more I thought about it the more I thought how silly it was and how much time and money it would take. I checked in at my gate and slowly sat back in the seat near the television listening to the events that had taken place earlier at the Airport.
One of the things I love about first class is that well its first class. generally there are no kids, no babies, no hastles, and basically you get whatever you want. One of the things I don’t like about first class, is that I think I’m turning into the guy from “Fight Club”, not Tyler Durden the badass one played by Brad Pitt, but the narrator, the one Ed Norton plays. At the beginning of the movie he talks about his addiction to Ikea, I have that same addiction with SkyMall. I know all the stuff they sell is shit, but man! when I’m super tired and on the plane I think to myself, “yeah I do need a shampoo/conditioner dispenser that plays CD’s and has an alarm clock built in." Then three weeks later, I open up a package and I’m like what the hell? Why the fuck did I buy this? Its not like I’m going to be taking a shower when I’m asleep and the alarm clock actually wakes me up.
So I hand the flight attendant the magazine and she gives me this look like, who the hell are you? Just put it in the little pouch in front of you.
“I will buy something if they stay in front of me”, I say.
She nods “Oh one of those types, huh?”.
I thought to myself “one of those types” what the hell is that about?
After looking at her nametag, I asked “Sherry can I have a pillow and a blanket?”.
Sherry got me a pillow and a blanket and something I wasn’t expecting, a stroke on my shoulder every time she walked pass. Of course the entire idea of dating a flight attendant wouldn’t ever work because of obvious reasons, but the occasional, “Oh I’m going to be in New York for the night, would you like to go to dinner and then have casual sex,” didn’t bother me at all.
I met three or four women like this a year. They mostly just wanted a guy to take them around New York for the day, afterwhich proceed to fulfill their sexual desires that had been bound up for the past eight days as they traveled around the world. Some of the women I saw on more than one occasion.
In fact last year I tried to actually date one of them. Sarah was her name, and then it came to me that she probably had other men, in other big cites, to release the tension from the flight from New York to Europe. In fact I was convinced they all had men stashed all over the world, like coins in the couch, kept there on purpose, for that rainy day that they need some change for the wash, or a coffee.
Note to reader I plan on developing the jerkiness of the older brother a little more, following is a exerpt from a later portion of the novel or long story.
I dreamt about James lying on the hospital bed that the V.A, had let my parents take home. My father always repeating “this isn’t the way its supposed to be, he is supposed to take care of us”. I had bought my parents huge home on three acres outside of Boise were my dad grew up, but we both new that was my idea of taking care of them, not his. My father wanted someone to be there to program the VCR, mow the lawn, and help him check his email from his grandkids, from James’s wife. I knew what my father wanted and needed I just could not afford to leave my life in New York and move to Boise to take care of them. But there I was standing on my parents’ doorstep in response to a phone call I had received earlier that morning.
A tap on the shoulder awoke me, “Excuse me Monsieur, anything to drink”.
“No, no thank you”, I replied in a kind but annoyed tone.
It had been two months since the phone call from my father. I awoke every morning wondering when it would come and when it finally did I still didn’t believe it.
“Peter, I know it’s early, but I don’t think he will last through the week, ” my father said, trying to hold back the tears that fought him every time he called.
At the age of thirty with a wife of ten years and 3 beautiful children James was diagnosed with cancer, which had formed a tumor in his brain. The symptoms first started showing up when he was about 27 or 28. When the doctor’s first diagnosed him they told us that he might live five years, but not to except anything longer than that. It was in the middle of the third year when my father called.
I got on the next flight home to Boise. I hadn’t been home since the previous Christmas, which my father reminded me of, ever time he called to update me on James’s condition. I brought James a painting of Central Park, a place that he had never been in his ten years travelling with the Air Force. His wife Stephanie said that he would love it. The mood in the house was sullen and an overwhelming sense of fear had come over everyone. The fear of the unknown, our, his future. I went into his bedroom, and he lit up just a little bit. I think that he was ready to say goodbye to us, or at least me. I showed him the painting of which he thanked me for and had me put on his dresser at the end of the bed. He asked me to reach into the nightstand and grab an envelope that our names (James & Peter) written on the outside. I grabbed the envelope and handed it to him.
“Do you remember what this is” he asked.
“Vaguely”, I replied.
He grinned and winked, “It’s the list”.
“The list, you’ve got to be kidding, I thought we threw that out with your old love letters”.
“We did, but I made a copy of it ‘cause I knew you would forget about it”.
“To well James, you know me to well”.
He opened the envelope and pulled out two pieces of paper, one with my name on it and one with his. Underneath my name was written in my still horrible handwriting---
1) Be a successful Realotor
2) Be a millionaire before the age of thirty
3) Buy a 7 series BMW
4) Meet Warren Buffet, and Charles Schwabb
5) Buy Mom and Dad a new house in Boise
I laughed out loud as I read them.
“So Peter, how are you doing on yours,” He asked.
“Great I think, I gotta Volvo instead of a BMW though”.
He laughed, “Peter, I’m missing a lot of mine its hard to take the family to Paris on a Captain’s income.”
I laughed but also felt his pain. On the night before he left for Texas, we stayed up all night writing down the things that we wanted to do or accomplish in life. My list obviously was geared towards my career and becoming wealthy. James had never seen my list or I his, but every ten years we were supposed to check up with the other person to see how they were coming along on “the list”. It had been twelve years since we wrote these lists and this was the first check-up that we had ever had. Ironic as it was, my best friend and brother sat on his deathbed laughing about his list and all the things he hadn’t accomplished. As he read them out loud we both laughed at the sound of some of them.
46) Eat a 72-ounce steak from The Big Texan
63) Bluff the hell out of High roller in Las Vegas
108) Keep a piece of the Berlin wall
James wasn’t necessarily an adventurous man, but wanted to live life for all that it had to offer. That it why he wanted to be an Air Force pilot. I thought of all that James was going to leave behind and wondered why God hadn’t picked me to bring home. I had no kids, no wife, and really no one would be affected by my loss except for my parents and James. Why was life not fair, why would his children not be able to grow up with a Dad, why would he not be able to take care of our parents?
“Peter, I want you to finish my list” he asked, but implied.
“What, I can’t travel all over the world to fulfill a twelve-year olds wishes.”
“I’m not twelve any more, Peter,” he said with a look of disgust on his face.
I took the list fully not planning to do a thing. I did not want to upset my brother and family when the situation was already stressful and negative.
As I looked out the airplane I thought of this entire situation and why I had kissed a women named Gabrielle on the Eiffel Tower, and why the Mona Lisa really seemed to hate me. A piece of paper, “the list” a thirty-year old man’s dreams.
Tell Black Book Lit
a play on words poem still into it a lot some of the words have double prenunciations and meanings.
In your lit, tell,
black book
Lick, Wi-Fi
yourself, so I can
drink of your waters
and of your
emo shun
me of my sickness.
I‘m a lone in a
desert me.
Make me
perfect
my imperfections.
Make a
record
me in your
lit, tell,
black book.
Watch me
tear.
The pages
from the
spine.
I am
wound
up or ed
you tell me.
Stand, close
the lit, tell,
black book.
In your lit, tell,
black book
Lick, Wi-Fi
yourself, so I can
drink of your waters
and of your
emo shun
me of my sickness.
I‘m a lone in a
desert me.
Make me
perfect
my imperfections.
Make a
record
me in your
lit, tell,
black book.
Watch me
tear.
The pages
from the
spine.
I am
wound
up or ed
you tell me.
Stand, close
the lit, tell,
black book.
"clocks"
An attempt at a poem that is visual it says in order "you are everything I have ever wanted you just have bad timing"
clocks
You just 1
“You are everything 3
8 10
2 B4D T1M1N6” 5
Have 9
7
I’ve ever wanted
She said 12
clocks
You just 1
“You are everything 3
8 10
2 B4D T1M1N6” 5
Have 9
7
I’ve ever wanted
She said 12
"Fear" sonnet
10 by 14 not exactly iambic pentameter ther are a few hickups when you read it aloud needs to be edidted and finished spring 06'
I fear I may be part coin collection
I fear people, when they finally snap.
I fear if not praying, my soul to keep.
I fear the loss of my recollection.
I fear discovery, when I unwrap.
I fear I empower the bourgeoisie.
I fear the example left for my son.
I fear the feeling of Dad’s leather strap.
I fear not dying in middle of sleep.
I fear my future is not up to me.
I fear writing and the reader who scans.
I fear government and his guarantee.
I fear that Heaven will not let me in.
What else do I fear? Let me start again.
I fear I may be part coin collection
I fear people, when they finally snap.
I fear if not praying, my soul to keep.
I fear the loss of my recollection.
I fear discovery, when I unwrap.
I fear I empower the bourgeoisie.
I fear the example left for my son.
I fear the feeling of Dad’s leather strap.
I fear not dying in middle of sleep.
I fear my future is not up to me.
I fear writing and the reader who scans.
I fear government and his guarantee.
I fear that Heaven will not let me in.
What else do I fear? Let me start again.
The Paino a short story
Needs to be edited and rethought through and have stronger voice spring 05'
He had walked this path to her house countless times before. Knowing that this may be his last time, he walked a little slower and listened to all the sounds around him. He didn’t speak Chinese, but knew exactly what the shop owner was yelling at the little kids running in an out of the little shop, triggering the electronic alarm each time. He could hear the cars occasionally whizzing by, as if all of them had a pregnant woman giving birth in the back seat. There was a helicopter landing at the local hospital, maybe carrying someone whom had been hit by the speeding cars.
Thomas had lived his entire life in this neighborhood. It was an area of only 10 square blocks. But because of the housing projects it was filled to capacity about 80,000 people lived in this square mile of concrete. Considered a poor neighborhood it was rich with family traditions and friendly neighbors. Many of the people living here were grandchildren of the depression. This neighborhood once was a nice glamorous community but the state wanted a newer nicer community closer to downtown Manhattan. The buildings were sold and were turned into government housing, but those that grew up here wanted to stay. So they did. Thomas was one of these old-timers as the men in park called him.
As he walked through the park he was an easy man to spot out, a skinny man, well lanky may be better way to put it. He walked with his head hi, scanning back and forth at all the things going on in the park; kids running, jumping rope, and just listening to the tapping sounds that rhythmically guided him whenever he walked outside. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a long stick in the other. He cared for people and always had a story to tell.
Just then one of the old–timers yelled out, in a surprised voice as if he had just seen Thomas the day before.
“Thomas, has it been a month already”.
“Yes Herald, I can’t believe it myself,” replied Thomas.
Vincent one of the oldest men in the neighborhood asked,
“I’m still certain WWI was much tougher than Vietnam, you guys had all those gidgets and gadgets. When are were going to compare war stories again?”
With a grin Thomas replied carefully, “Well I don’t know about that, but maybe on my way back from Sarah’s”.
“Tell Sarah I said hello, and I’m still waiting to hear the masterpiece,” Herald shouted, as Thomas continued towards Sarah’s apartment.
He was named after St. Thomas. His mother loved the redeeming quality the saints of the early church had and especially St. Thomas. St. Thomas was the doctor of the Early catholic church (Angelicus Doctor) who supposedly, had healed all the royalty that were taken by the epidemic in the early 12th century. Thomas didn’t necessarily believe the stories, nor did he think that he was a doctor. He had although, always been proud of the fact that he healed his mother’s broken heart by being a good listener.
Listening was definitely his strong suit and his livelihood. As he came to the corner of Piperno St. and Magnus Ave. he stopped, and waited for the light to change. As Thomas stood there he could hear the piano from the fifth floor of the building across the street. He had told Sarah not to play with the window open, that the humidity might ruin the wood and stretch the strings out of tune. Apparently, she had been playing with the windows open everyday this month, because he could hear the out of tune notes. The B flat next to middle C and the A # to octaves above that were out of tune. The B flat had been out of tune twice already this year. As she played he cringed every time the out of tune notes were played. The “music” sounded like a choking goose fighting for air.
He opened the two large glass doors at the bottom of the complex and dreaded the thought of walking up the five flights of stairs ahead of him. When the building was first built it was built for young couples so the thought of an elevator escaped the designer. The tenants of the building loved Sarah’s piano playing, especially the old-timers. As he walked up the stairs he heard the out of tune piano and the echo of his wingtips in the stairwell. The old building seemed to dance to music she played, as it traveled through ever inch of the building. Fourteen steps down the hall on the left and it her door was on the right. The piano got louder now as he got closer to the old oak door. He knocked and waited. Again he knocked louder this time, still with no answer. This happened almost every time. So he pulled his black wingtips back and gave the door a couple of big kicks. When the piano stopped, “Finally” he said, humorously.
On the other side of the door, a woman with a red apron that read “The food shall set you free” stood up from the piano, sliding the seat along the hard wood floor. She was a woman in her mid 30’s who had smooth, fair, skin. Her hair was down today, just like all the other days that Thomas came over. She wore a light-blue sundress with pink and yellow flowers seemed to follow the curves of her legs, hips, and breasts. This was her favorite day of the month. Thomas could hear the television in the apartment across the hall and also the colloquy baby in the floor apartment below. As she giddily ran across the room, Thomas could hear the heels hurrying across the floor to let him in.
“Hello Thomas” she said, as she opened the door.
“Good afternoon Sarah, how is She,” referring to the baby Grand Steinway that sat under the bay window like an emblem of beauty, art and history. The piano had sat there for almost 70 years. Sarah’s grandfather bought it for her grandmother just after he got home from world war one. He said it was a token of her faithfulness to him, and to their country. He took all of the money he had saved in war bonds, and worked two jobs just to surprise her with it on her 23rd birthday. He spent what was then a fortune, thirty-five hundred dollars on the piano telling Sarah’s grandmother that it had to stay in the family. The piano was worth more than one hundred seventy-five thousand by now, making the piano worth almost as much as the small apartment it sat in. It took one crane and 6 full-grown men to pull it through the bay window. On the top quarter of the bay window was a stained-glass piece depicting an angel coming down out of Heaven with its wings spread open as if to protect the piano that it floated over. The angle was made of white and yellow glass while the background was made of shades of blue and green. When the sun shined just right it would cast a shadow of the angel on the piano.
The piano was made of African Cherry (Makore) was the African name for it.
With a reddish-brown tint the wood was quarter-sliced to highlight the patterns in the grain. The wood was shipped across the long journey from the high mountains in West Africa to London and then on to Hamburg where the first Steinway & Sons factory was located. After the piano was meticulously crafted and carefully built, It was shipped by cargo tanker to the United States, then moved by flatbed trailer to the New York dealer where Sarah’s grandfather paid cash for it.
As Thomas walked across the room to the piano that he had come to love, he said
“It sounds like the B flat next to middle C and the A# two octaves above that are out of tune.
“Thomas you have the ears of an angel,” She replied.
Sarah watched Thomas closely as he started touching the piano. So many times she wished Thomas would touch her this way-- the way he touched the piano. He seemed to almost ritualistically start at the top of the piano with the lid sliding both of his hands softly down the neck of the lid and slowly down the backside of the open lid. He would whisper to the piano like a woman whispering nursery rhymes to an infant on the verge of sleep. He caressed the pinblock. He ran his fingers down the triplet set of strings as he let out a deep breath as if just finishing a long session of lovemaking. As Sarah watched anxiously this one breath of his sent shivers through her entire body. She so desperately wanted to tell him of the love that she had for him and the way he made her feel. Thomas continued down the tresses of the still sitting beauty. He continued onward towards the pedals making sure they weren’t to loose or tight.
He asked Sarah, “Have the pedals been giving you any problems this month?”
As if awaking from a dream, “Um no, no they haven’t, Is there a problem with them?”
“I was just wondering, them seem a little tight but it may be due to the weather change,” Thomas said, standing up and walking toward Sarah.
“I made tuna fish sandwiches,” She said, as she went into the kitchen to grab the plate of fresh sandwiches.
“My favorite, you are to kind Miss Daniels,” as he sat on the old Victorian sofa.
She relied quickly in an annoyed but loving voice, “I’ve told you a hundred times Thomas, not to call me that. It makes me feel old.”
“I’m sorry Sarah, but you are a Miss though,” stating the fact that she hadn’t been married yet.
Laughing out loud Sarah replied emphatically, “I know, but you don’t need to remind me of the fact that I can’t trick a man into marrying me!”
“Please, you have never tried to trick me,” he said flirtingly.
“Thomas, I’ve tried many times, maybe you’re just to blind to see.
They both started laughed extremely loud and began to eat the sandwiches she set on the coffee table.
Over twelve years ago Thomas was diagnosed with a rare degenerative disorder called Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. There only 139 cases reported in the United States the year Thomas was diagnosed with the disease. Sarah thought it was a problem that had occurred at birth. She did not know the seriousness of the disease or even worse that he had the disease. Gradually the disease had moved into his brain and he was starting to loose control of his muscle throughout his body. He was no longer able to play chess in the park with Herald and Vincent, or play with the kids on the soccer field. He saved all his energy and attention for his monthly visits to Sarah’s house. Here he could devout all of that energy to the task of tuning her piano and making it sound as beautiful as possible.
She would sit on the piano bench and press the keys that he asked her to. Standing directly next to her reaching into the frame he would tune the piano by ear. As they stood next to each other, occasionally brushing their hands together, both of the their thoughts were on other things, more beautiful sensual things; such as love and lovemaking.
Often Sarah would ask “Thomas how do you know if it is tune?”
“Because it matches the music in my head,” he would always reply.
“Well what music is that,” She asked.
“Why it is your unfinished masterpiece, Miss Daniels,” as he smirked knowing the annoyance of the sentence.
“Well Thomas, you are in for a treat today, it is finished.”
“Really,” he said, like a boy on Christmas morning. “The piano is almost in tune, will you play it for me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I hoped you would be my first audience.”
He packed his briefcase with wax, cranks, and other tools for tuning the piano. She hurried into the kitchen to grab one of the dining room chairs for him to sit on. She sat the chair next to the piano under the bay window with the stained glass angel hovering over the three of them.
“Thomas,” she said. “I want you to know that you are the inspiration for this piece, these are the things that I’ve always wanted to say, but didn’t know how to tell you other than music.
As she begins to play the 80-year-old piano, it seemed to come alive with all the things that force love through the barrier of weakness. Sarah had played hundreds of pieces before but Thomas was not the inspiration of any of those. As she played, Thomas wept. He felt a rush of compassion and knew the secret desires of her heart. He too loved her. He could almost feel the love coming out of the piano like steam from a boiling pot of water. He then thought of the disease and whether or not he should tell her. She was crying and it seemed that every tear was soaking up by the piano.
Over the next 50 years it soaked up many of Sarah’s tears,
“Miss Daniels,” the young piano student asked, “Does he have a name?” pointing to the angel in the stained glass window.
“Yes Elizabeth, he does. His name is St. Thomas.”
Confused the little girl relied, “Why is that?”
“He watches over me and the piano to make sure that neither of us ever go out of tune.”
He had walked this path to her house countless times before. Knowing that this may be his last time, he walked a little slower and listened to all the sounds around him. He didn’t speak Chinese, but knew exactly what the shop owner was yelling at the little kids running in an out of the little shop, triggering the electronic alarm each time. He could hear the cars occasionally whizzing by, as if all of them had a pregnant woman giving birth in the back seat. There was a helicopter landing at the local hospital, maybe carrying someone whom had been hit by the speeding cars.
Thomas had lived his entire life in this neighborhood. It was an area of only 10 square blocks. But because of the housing projects it was filled to capacity about 80,000 people lived in this square mile of concrete. Considered a poor neighborhood it was rich with family traditions and friendly neighbors. Many of the people living here were grandchildren of the depression. This neighborhood once was a nice glamorous community but the state wanted a newer nicer community closer to downtown Manhattan. The buildings were sold and were turned into government housing, but those that grew up here wanted to stay. So they did. Thomas was one of these old-timers as the men in park called him.
As he walked through the park he was an easy man to spot out, a skinny man, well lanky may be better way to put it. He walked with his head hi, scanning back and forth at all the things going on in the park; kids running, jumping rope, and just listening to the tapping sounds that rhythmically guided him whenever he walked outside. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a long stick in the other. He cared for people and always had a story to tell.
Just then one of the old–timers yelled out, in a surprised voice as if he had just seen Thomas the day before.
“Thomas, has it been a month already”.
“Yes Herald, I can’t believe it myself,” replied Thomas.
Vincent one of the oldest men in the neighborhood asked,
“I’m still certain WWI was much tougher than Vietnam, you guys had all those gidgets and gadgets. When are were going to compare war stories again?”
With a grin Thomas replied carefully, “Well I don’t know about that, but maybe on my way back from Sarah’s”.
“Tell Sarah I said hello, and I’m still waiting to hear the masterpiece,” Herald shouted, as Thomas continued towards Sarah’s apartment.
He was named after St. Thomas. His mother loved the redeeming quality the saints of the early church had and especially St. Thomas. St. Thomas was the doctor of the Early catholic church (Angelicus Doctor) who supposedly, had healed all the royalty that were taken by the epidemic in the early 12th century. Thomas didn’t necessarily believe the stories, nor did he think that he was a doctor. He had although, always been proud of the fact that he healed his mother’s broken heart by being a good listener.
Listening was definitely his strong suit and his livelihood. As he came to the corner of Piperno St. and Magnus Ave. he stopped, and waited for the light to change. As Thomas stood there he could hear the piano from the fifth floor of the building across the street. He had told Sarah not to play with the window open, that the humidity might ruin the wood and stretch the strings out of tune. Apparently, she had been playing with the windows open everyday this month, because he could hear the out of tune notes. The B flat next to middle C and the A # to octaves above that were out of tune. The B flat had been out of tune twice already this year. As she played he cringed every time the out of tune notes were played. The “music” sounded like a choking goose fighting for air.
He opened the two large glass doors at the bottom of the complex and dreaded the thought of walking up the five flights of stairs ahead of him. When the building was first built it was built for young couples so the thought of an elevator escaped the designer. The tenants of the building loved Sarah’s piano playing, especially the old-timers. As he walked up the stairs he heard the out of tune piano and the echo of his wingtips in the stairwell. The old building seemed to dance to music she played, as it traveled through ever inch of the building. Fourteen steps down the hall on the left and it her door was on the right. The piano got louder now as he got closer to the old oak door. He knocked and waited. Again he knocked louder this time, still with no answer. This happened almost every time. So he pulled his black wingtips back and gave the door a couple of big kicks. When the piano stopped, “Finally” he said, humorously.
On the other side of the door, a woman with a red apron that read “The food shall set you free” stood up from the piano, sliding the seat along the hard wood floor. She was a woman in her mid 30’s who had smooth, fair, skin. Her hair was down today, just like all the other days that Thomas came over. She wore a light-blue sundress with pink and yellow flowers seemed to follow the curves of her legs, hips, and breasts. This was her favorite day of the month. Thomas could hear the television in the apartment across the hall and also the colloquy baby in the floor apartment below. As she giddily ran across the room, Thomas could hear the heels hurrying across the floor to let him in.
“Hello Thomas” she said, as she opened the door.
“Good afternoon Sarah, how is She,” referring to the baby Grand Steinway that sat under the bay window like an emblem of beauty, art and history. The piano had sat there for almost 70 years. Sarah’s grandfather bought it for her grandmother just after he got home from world war one. He said it was a token of her faithfulness to him, and to their country. He took all of the money he had saved in war bonds, and worked two jobs just to surprise her with it on her 23rd birthday. He spent what was then a fortune, thirty-five hundred dollars on the piano telling Sarah’s grandmother that it had to stay in the family. The piano was worth more than one hundred seventy-five thousand by now, making the piano worth almost as much as the small apartment it sat in. It took one crane and 6 full-grown men to pull it through the bay window. On the top quarter of the bay window was a stained-glass piece depicting an angel coming down out of Heaven with its wings spread open as if to protect the piano that it floated over. The angle was made of white and yellow glass while the background was made of shades of blue and green. When the sun shined just right it would cast a shadow of the angel on the piano.
The piano was made of African Cherry (Makore) was the African name for it.
With a reddish-brown tint the wood was quarter-sliced to highlight the patterns in the grain. The wood was shipped across the long journey from the high mountains in West Africa to London and then on to Hamburg where the first Steinway & Sons factory was located. After the piano was meticulously crafted and carefully built, It was shipped by cargo tanker to the United States, then moved by flatbed trailer to the New York dealer where Sarah’s grandfather paid cash for it.
As Thomas walked across the room to the piano that he had come to love, he said
“It sounds like the B flat next to middle C and the A# two octaves above that are out of tune.
“Thomas you have the ears of an angel,” She replied.
Sarah watched Thomas closely as he started touching the piano. So many times she wished Thomas would touch her this way-- the way he touched the piano. He seemed to almost ritualistically start at the top of the piano with the lid sliding both of his hands softly down the neck of the lid and slowly down the backside of the open lid. He would whisper to the piano like a woman whispering nursery rhymes to an infant on the verge of sleep. He caressed the pinblock. He ran his fingers down the triplet set of strings as he let out a deep breath as if just finishing a long session of lovemaking. As Sarah watched anxiously this one breath of his sent shivers through her entire body. She so desperately wanted to tell him of the love that she had for him and the way he made her feel. Thomas continued down the tresses of the still sitting beauty. He continued onward towards the pedals making sure they weren’t to loose or tight.
He asked Sarah, “Have the pedals been giving you any problems this month?”
As if awaking from a dream, “Um no, no they haven’t, Is there a problem with them?”
“I was just wondering, them seem a little tight but it may be due to the weather change,” Thomas said, standing up and walking toward Sarah.
“I made tuna fish sandwiches,” She said, as she went into the kitchen to grab the plate of fresh sandwiches.
“My favorite, you are to kind Miss Daniels,” as he sat on the old Victorian sofa.
She relied quickly in an annoyed but loving voice, “I’ve told you a hundred times Thomas, not to call me that. It makes me feel old.”
“I’m sorry Sarah, but you are a Miss though,” stating the fact that she hadn’t been married yet.
Laughing out loud Sarah replied emphatically, “I know, but you don’t need to remind me of the fact that I can’t trick a man into marrying me!”
“Please, you have never tried to trick me,” he said flirtingly.
“Thomas, I’ve tried many times, maybe you’re just to blind to see.
They both started laughed extremely loud and began to eat the sandwiches she set on the coffee table.
Over twelve years ago Thomas was diagnosed with a rare degenerative disorder called Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. There only 139 cases reported in the United States the year Thomas was diagnosed with the disease. Sarah thought it was a problem that had occurred at birth. She did not know the seriousness of the disease or even worse that he had the disease. Gradually the disease had moved into his brain and he was starting to loose control of his muscle throughout his body. He was no longer able to play chess in the park with Herald and Vincent, or play with the kids on the soccer field. He saved all his energy and attention for his monthly visits to Sarah’s house. Here he could devout all of that energy to the task of tuning her piano and making it sound as beautiful as possible.
She would sit on the piano bench and press the keys that he asked her to. Standing directly next to her reaching into the frame he would tune the piano by ear. As they stood next to each other, occasionally brushing their hands together, both of the their thoughts were on other things, more beautiful sensual things; such as love and lovemaking.
Often Sarah would ask “Thomas how do you know if it is tune?”
“Because it matches the music in my head,” he would always reply.
“Well what music is that,” She asked.
“Why it is your unfinished masterpiece, Miss Daniels,” as he smirked knowing the annoyance of the sentence.
“Well Thomas, you are in for a treat today, it is finished.”
“Really,” he said, like a boy on Christmas morning. “The piano is almost in tune, will you play it for me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I hoped you would be my first audience.”
He packed his briefcase with wax, cranks, and other tools for tuning the piano. She hurried into the kitchen to grab one of the dining room chairs for him to sit on. She sat the chair next to the piano under the bay window with the stained glass angel hovering over the three of them.
“Thomas,” she said. “I want you to know that you are the inspiration for this piece, these are the things that I’ve always wanted to say, but didn’t know how to tell you other than music.
As she begins to play the 80-year-old piano, it seemed to come alive with all the things that force love through the barrier of weakness. Sarah had played hundreds of pieces before but Thomas was not the inspiration of any of those. As she played, Thomas wept. He felt a rush of compassion and knew the secret desires of her heart. He too loved her. He could almost feel the love coming out of the piano like steam from a boiling pot of water. He then thought of the disease and whether or not he should tell her. She was crying and it seemed that every tear was soaking up by the piano.
Over the next 50 years it soaked up many of Sarah’s tears,
“Miss Daniels,” the young piano student asked, “Does he have a name?” pointing to the angel in the stained glass window.
“Yes Elizabeth, he does. His name is St. Thomas.”
Confused the little girl relied, “Why is that?”
“He watches over me and the piano to make sure that neither of us ever go out of tune.”
Nation sonnet
This was a try at an over the top rhyme and sonnet that stuck with one rhyme which i almost pulled of but not quite all the way spring 05
Our nation has an absurd fixation,
To much of a good thing is not that wrong.
Information, to much relaxation,
Lots of medication. Dedication
Is absent. Segregation is present.
Take my Workmen’s compensation and get
Lipo operation. Buy a gun and
Maybe committ an assassination
today. With my money I’ll partake in
Ultra-Violet Radiation. Wait. Stop.
We need more communication, salvation,
Education, donation, celebration,
Dedication, No discrimination,
Preservation, and a whole lot of LOVE.
Our nation has an absurd fixation,
To much of a good thing is not that wrong.
Information, to much relaxation,
Lots of medication. Dedication
Is absent. Segregation is present.
Take my Workmen’s compensation and get
Lipo operation. Buy a gun and
Maybe committ an assassination
today. With my money I’ll partake in
Ultra-Violet Radiation. Wait. Stop.
We need more communication, salvation,
Education, donation, celebration,
Dedication, No discrimination,
Preservation, and a whole lot of LOVE.
checkmate
Spring 05' needs some revamping
32 black and
32 red
The battle fierce
My friend
The knights are fighting valiantly
Upon their horses they stay
Castles are crumbling down my love
Because you have no gate
The bishops are sinning their way home
And the pawns have nowhere to go.
En Passante rules apply
You can slowly step on by
The battle won by you my dear
So true so strong and straight
All the enemies are bowing now
Begging for checkmate.
32 black and
32 red
The battle fierce
My friend
The knights are fighting valiantly
Upon their horses they stay
Castles are crumbling down my love
Because you have no gate
The bishops are sinning their way home
And the pawns have nowhere to go.
En Passante rules apply
You can slowly step on by
The battle won by you my dear
So true so strong and straight
All the enemies are bowing now
Begging for checkmate.
God is in the numbers
A poem or start thereof in which numbers from the bible are used.
one ahundred and forty-four thousand
doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness
21 The children of Ater of Hezekiah, ninety and eight.
Again, the duty of the president over the office of aelders is to preside over ninety-six elders
The children of Gibeon, ninety and five.
ninety and four years from the coming of Christ
aThen shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten bvirgins, which took their clamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom
4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness, and go after that which is blost, until he find it?
• • •
7 I say unto you, that likewise ajoy shall be in heaven over one bsinner that crepenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.
And Abraham acircumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.
3 Six days shall work be done: but the aseventh day is the bsabbath of rest, an holy cconvocation; ye shall do no work therein: it is the dsabbath of the LORD in all your dwellings.
• • •
5 And it shall come to pass, that on the sixth day they shall prepare that which they bring in; and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily.
five rams, five he goats, five lambs of the first year
five nails
forty days and forty nights
Jonah three days in the whale
2 other theives or whatever
1 sot
one ahundred and forty-four thousand
doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness
21 The children of Ater of Hezekiah, ninety and eight.
Again, the duty of the president over the office of aelders is to preside over ninety-six elders
The children of Gibeon, ninety and five.
ninety and four years from the coming of Christ
aThen shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten bvirgins, which took their clamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom
4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness, and go after that which is blost, until he find it?
• • •
7 I say unto you, that likewise ajoy shall be in heaven over one bsinner that crepenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.
And Abraham acircumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.
3 Six days shall work be done: but the aseventh day is the bsabbath of rest, an holy cconvocation; ye shall do no work therein: it is the dsabbath of the LORD in all your dwellings.
• • •
5 And it shall come to pass, that on the sixth day they shall prepare that which they bring in; and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily.
five rams, five he goats, five lambs of the first year
five nails
forty days and forty nights
Jonah three days in the whale
2 other theives or whatever
1 sot
God is in the numbers
A poem or start thereof in which numbers from the bible are used.
one ahundred and forty-four thousand
doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness
21 The children of Ater of Hezekiah, ninety and eight.
Again, the duty of the president over the office of aelders is to preside over ninety-six elders
The children of Gibeon, ninety and five.
ninety and four years from the coming of Christ
aThen shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten bvirgins, which took their clamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom
4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness, and go after that which is blost, until he find it?
• • •
7 I say unto you, that likewise ajoy shall be in heaven over one bsinner that crepenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.
And Abraham acircumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.
3 Six days shall work be done: but the aseventh day is the bsabbath of rest, an holy cconvocation; ye shall do no work therein: it is the dsabbath of the LORD in all your dwellings.
• • •
5 And it shall come to pass, that on the sixth day they shall prepare that which they bring in; and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily.
five rams, five he goats, five lambs of the first year
five nails
forty days and forty nights
Jonah three days in the whale
2 other theives or whatever
1 sot
one ahundred and forty-four thousand
doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness
21 The children of Ater of Hezekiah, ninety and eight.
Again, the duty of the president over the office of aelders is to preside over ninety-six elders
The children of Gibeon, ninety and five.
ninety and four years from the coming of Christ
aThen shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten bvirgins, which took their clamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom
4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine ain the wilderness, and go after that which is blost, until he find it?
• • •
7 I say unto you, that likewise ajoy shall be in heaven over one bsinner that crepenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.
And Abraham acircumcised his son Isaac being eight days old, as God had commanded him.
3 Six days shall work be done: but the aseventh day is the bsabbath of rest, an holy cconvocation; ye shall do no work therein: it is the dsabbath of the LORD in all your dwellings.
• • •
5 And it shall come to pass, that on the sixth day they shall prepare that which they bring in; and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily.
five rams, five he goats, five lambs of the first year
five nails
forty days and forty nights
Jonah three days in the whale
2 other theives or whatever
1 sot
I hate the yankees
October on the night the Yankees gave up a 3-0 lead to the Red Sox.
Wen
It’s a Friday night and I put on my kaki pants to delivery pizza in. I’ve been doing this for almost five years, four of them with Wen. Tonight is the first night in four years that I won’t have to worry about someone stealing my runs, complaining about shitty or no tips, no cleaning their share of the store.
The New York Yankees pushed him over the edge, an edge that I think he was barely hanging over in the first place. As I walk through the cemetery I think of other people I know there, close people, family. My Grandfather and Grandmother, My sister--- When life’s cup is overfilling I visit them, I talk to them, I ask them things especially my sister—I think she knew me and I knew her.
I watch Wen’s wife acting, smiling, coping, and questioning everything she believes in. What do you say to a woman in this position, I’m sorry, sorry for what I don’t know, for the fact that I was planning on going over to his house the night of the game. For the fact that I called and called and didn’t get an answer and felt something was wrong. For not telling her that he hadn’t taken his medication in over two months of which I knew about.
As I hug her I tell her “I’m sorry”.
She thanks me and When you leave that funeral, that drive is as important as any single stretch of road you'll travel on. You've got a renewed appreciation for life. And I think that feeling can last through the day, through the week, but then things start getting back to normal and you start taking this living and breathing and eating thing for granted.
Wen
It’s a Friday night and I put on my kaki pants to delivery pizza in. I’ve been doing this for almost five years, four of them with Wen. Tonight is the first night in four years that I won’t have to worry about someone stealing my runs, complaining about shitty or no tips, no cleaning their share of the store.
The New York Yankees pushed him over the edge, an edge that I think he was barely hanging over in the first place. As I walk through the cemetery I think of other people I know there, close people, family. My Grandfather and Grandmother, My sister--- When life’s cup is overfilling I visit them, I talk to them, I ask them things especially my sister—I think she knew me and I knew her.
I watch Wen’s wife acting, smiling, coping, and questioning everything she believes in. What do you say to a woman in this position, I’m sorry, sorry for what I don’t know, for the fact that I was planning on going over to his house the night of the game. For the fact that I called and called and didn’t get an answer and felt something was wrong. For not telling her that he hadn’t taken his medication in over two months of which I knew about.
As I hug her I tell her “I’m sorry”.
She thanks me and When you leave that funeral, that drive is as important as any single stretch of road you'll travel on. You've got a renewed appreciation for life. And I think that feeling can last through the day, through the week, but then things start getting back to normal and you start taking this living and breathing and eating thing for granted.
Backside Bluntside
After a day at the skate park about 3 years ago.--Incomplete
The sound of metal on metal,
As the trucks scrape the coping
screeches of plastic on asphalt
as corners are turned and bowls are carved.
An unspoken brotherhood breathes
Through the old, young, new, and am.
A trick landed always clapped for
A crash followed with
Ocassionaly a fire truck leaves
the station next Door
the cursings of bails and Bad landings
The sound of metal on metal,
As the trucks scrape the coping
screeches of plastic on asphalt
as corners are turned and bowls are carved.
An unspoken brotherhood breathes
Through the old, young, new, and am.
A trick landed always clapped for
A crash followed with
Ocassionaly a fire truck leaves
the station next Door
the cursings of bails and Bad landings
I am silence
Was an idea to write a series of poems where the poems are something or someone and desribe what or who they are and then identifying themselves at the end of the poem, hence I am silence.
I am the moment just before sleep.
The split second before a car wreck
When everything moves slowly
And senses are magnified
A doctor taking a newborn to the NICU
Just after the exhausted mother has stopped
and the chord is cut.
When terrible news is given over the phone
I am time that it takes the news to travel
From ear to mind to emotions
I am silence.
I am the moment just before sleep.
The split second before a car wreck
When everything moves slowly
And senses are magnified
A doctor taking a newborn to the NICU
Just after the exhausted mother has stopped
and the chord is cut.
When terrible news is given over the phone
I am time that it takes the news to travel
From ear to mind to emotions
I am silence.
Insomnia
The moment before I fall asleep-- summer 2006
I fall in and out of sleep
With flashes of brilliance
Like shooting stars entering the atmosphere lighting ip the sky then disappearing into the night
I try to unzip my head
And catch the thoughts that are floating away
I bleed lead and ink from my fingertips
In some way trying to change the world
With a thought, a glimpse, a second
A view but realize that these
Lines and curves
Change me, change my atmosphere
I fall in and out of sleep
With flashes of brilliance
Like shooting stars entering the atmosphere lighting ip the sky then disappearing into the night
I try to unzip my head
And catch the thoughts that are floating away
I bleed lead and ink from my fingertips
In some way trying to change the world
With a thought, a glimpse, a second
A view but realize that these
Lines and curves
Change me, change my atmosphere
Confusion in FIction
If you can figure out what I was thinking when I wrote this then let me know.
This story that you are reading is not what you think, obviously, you are thinking something different than what you were reading on the line above because my words changed your mind. And once again as I write and you read, the words change your mind, you have done it again. What is it? It is the power I have over you. I don’t know you but yet I have power over you. As a human, you logically think “no you don’t”, but knowing that you would think that, and forcing you to think that, shows my power, even more so than previously exampled. You ask “Is exampled a word”, Yes because I say it is and you know what I mean when I type exampled. Quick! Run that word through the dictionary in your head, have you used it before, have you typed in a paper, no probably not but it makes sense and it completes the thought. What thought, the thought that you have forgotten about and have to look above to see and take your mind back to the prior existence five lines previous, once again showing that I control your thoughts in this story. Now you become part of my story so you are not just reading, but being, and existing in another world all by yourself, in your mind, but you are not alone I am with you and will direct you where to go. Quick what is the time are you late for something is there something that you need to do today but have forgotten was there someone that you had to call or something you had to buy. Don’t forget, go get a pen. NO Wait! You do not need a pen because you remember now the thing you had forgotten.
This story that you are reading is not what you think, obviously, you are thinking something different than what you were reading on the line above because my words changed your mind. And once again as I write and you read, the words change your mind, you have done it again. What is it? It is the power I have over you. I don’t know you but yet I have power over you. As a human, you logically think “no you don’t”, but knowing that you would think that, and forcing you to think that, shows my power, even more so than previously exampled. You ask “Is exampled a word”, Yes because I say it is and you know what I mean when I type exampled. Quick! Run that word through the dictionary in your head, have you used it before, have you typed in a paper, no probably not but it makes sense and it completes the thought. What thought, the thought that you have forgotten about and have to look above to see and take your mind back to the prior existence five lines previous, once again showing that I control your thoughts in this story. Now you become part of my story so you are not just reading, but being, and existing in another world all by yourself, in your mind, but you are not alone I am with you and will direct you where to go. Quick what is the time are you late for something is there something that you need to do today but have forgotten was there someone that you had to call or something you had to buy. Don’t forget, go get a pen. NO Wait! You do not need a pen because you remember now the thing you had forgotten.
Out of the best books
I was in a postmodern mood and wanted to create a poem that was very aware of itself and even arogent about itself thinking that it could save the world itself-Incomplete.
This poem, yes, this poem
that you hold in your hands
will save the world, and will be
whispered through the heavens.
It will save humans from the fall.
Not that of Adam and Eve,
but from art creativity and the
voice of human spirit.
These words that you read
will be read again. At the second
coming of Christ, by the angels
who accompany him in all his glory.
This poem, yes, this poem
that you hold in your hands
will save the world, and will be
whispered through the heavens.
It will save humans from the fall.
Not that of Adam and Eve,
but from art creativity and the
voice of human spirit.
These words that you read
will be read again. At the second
coming of Christ, by the angels
who accompany him in all his glory.
The Sunset of Summer
I wanted to do kind of an Ode to Autumn (Keetes) but from my past and the memories I have of the end of summer not complete started a few weeks ago.
Summer grows short, and so does
the money for school clothes.
The kids gather for one last
night of kick the can.
Gone are all the popsicles
and games of spin the bottle.
Mothers feel their sanity
slowly coming back
Bedtimes get changed,
and sack lunches get made
Classes have been posted
on the school’s main door.
Summer grows short, and so does
the money for school clothes.
The kids gather for one last
night of kick the can.
Gone are all the popsicles
and games of spin the bottle.
Mothers feel their sanity
slowly coming back
Bedtimes get changed,
and sack lunches get made
Classes have been posted
on the school’s main door.
Sea Shell
This definately needs to be revised haven't looked at it since spring 06' don't really know what I was trying to say here.
Please shrink me.
I’ll flush myself down.
With fake blue water
and your fake smile.
With fecal matter, and its writing
on paper made soft for ass.
Soft like your touch, of which I don’t ask.
With spiders balled-up trying to float,
like fists on my skull.
I’ll flush these things
down dark
slimy, sticky, sewers.
Switching direction back and forth eventually
ending up in the ocean.
Someone will find a shell,
put it to their ear.
No ocean can be heard.
Hearing my thoughts, my voice
slowly fading
they try to crack my shell
but it is solid shell.
Please shrink me.
I’ll flush myself down.
With fake blue water
and your fake smile.
With fecal matter, and its writing
on paper made soft for ass.
Soft like your touch, of which I don’t ask.
With spiders balled-up trying to float,
like fists on my skull.
I’ll flush these things
down dark
slimy, sticky, sewers.
Switching direction back and forth eventually
ending up in the ocean.
Someone will find a shell,
put it to their ear.
No ocean can be heard.
Hearing my thoughts, my voice
slowly fading
they try to crack my shell
but it is solid shell.
Some thoughts in limited omniscient about my nightly routine
He counts in is head, it has been this way for the past few years. He does not sleep, but counts the blinking colon on his alarm clock, trying to match the change in minutes. He counts robotically thinking of other days and other nights, but counting continues in his head fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, one, two, three. Did I lock the door, did I lock my car, did I put my phone on the charger, is my alarm on. He pulls the sheets back and goes to the bathroom. He tries not to wake his sleeping wife and 18 month old son.
In the bathroom he grabs one of his writing magazines and begins to read an article about sestinas and how they are the perfect form of art. He thinks of new ideas for poetry, short stories, and the next great American novel. He then writes them in his blog.
In the bathroom he grabs one of his writing magazines and begins to read an article about sestinas and how they are the perfect form of art. He thinks of new ideas for poetry, short stories, and the next great American novel. He then writes them in his blog.
Porch Swing
Obviously, unfinished but was jotted down in my small notepad and needed to be put somewhere so I could save it. Mostly about dusk and the events that follow.
Discussion winds down as the sun
pulls the sheets over itself.
Tucking another day into bed,
Echoes of bedtime stories
Slowly the moon and stars get
ready for the graveyard shift.
Andromeda packs a lunch for Orion,
as he sharpens his arrows.
The seven sisters and their own
deadly sins come to haunt
Discussion winds down as the sun
pulls the sheets over itself.
Tucking another day into bed,
Echoes of bedtime stories
Slowly the moon and stars get
ready for the graveyard shift.
Andromeda packs a lunch for Orion,
as he sharpens his arrows.
The seven sisters and their own
deadly sins come to haunt
Twenty-Seven
Seems like when birthdays come around we get nostalgic and start thinking of where we have been and where we are going. I wrote this on my 27th Birthday last year, this is the first and only version I wrote and have not been back to it.
Scattered throughout a Tel Aviv Mall
there is a 27-year-old man who died,
ten years ago.
He was a suicide bomber.
He took other people with him.
Under the freeway near Balboa park,
a 27 year-old-man sleeps
on a bed made of eucalyptus leaves.
At night he sneaks into the park
and rummages for food.
Four years ago, somewhere in Africa
a 23 year-old woman,
had her virginity taken from her.
She just died of a disease that not one
of the 6.5 billion people on this planet can cure.
Today there is a 27 year-old man
that writes a poem about what
could have been- had the sands of time
been shaken up and the grain representing me,
landed in a different place.
Scattered throughout a Tel Aviv Mall
there is a 27-year-old man who died,
ten years ago.
He was a suicide bomber.
He took other people with him.
Under the freeway near Balboa park,
a 27 year-old-man sleeps
on a bed made of eucalyptus leaves.
At night he sneaks into the park
and rummages for food.
Four years ago, somewhere in Africa
a 23 year-old woman,
had her virginity taken from her.
She just died of a disease that not one
of the 6.5 billion people on this planet can cure.
Today there is a 27 year-old man
that writes a poem about what
could have been- had the sands of time
been shaken up and the grain representing me,
landed in a different place.
Backseat Girl
This is the final version that got published in UVSC's Literary Magazine called Touchstones in Spring 06'. This is for my wife
Gaze at me in the rear view mirror
help him with his dinner.
Will you let me share the back seat all night
I want a back seat girl.
I’ll hold your hand tight,
our fingerprints make love and
you carpet the floor
with that tight pink Roxy shirt.
I know its feeding time,
twenty minutes all we need.
Kiss me good-
the gods will be jealous.
I bury you in “I love you”.
He, in dirty diapers.
Push your pelvis into mine,
magnets attracting.
I see our future,
In the rear view mirror.
Gaze at me in the rear view mirror
help him with his dinner.
Will you let me share the back seat all night
I want a back seat girl.
I’ll hold your hand tight,
our fingerprints make love and
you carpet the floor
with that tight pink Roxy shirt.
I know its feeding time,
twenty minutes all we need.
Kiss me good-
the gods will be jealous.
I bury you in “I love you”.
He, in dirty diapers.
Push your pelvis into mine,
magnets attracting.
I see our future,
In the rear view mirror.
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