The coming frost

She waits for dreams but they are so often the same.  She waits for someone to tell her something.  She is so used to accepting.  Accepting and accepting and accepting.  Some say this is a virtue, but acceptance can be the first stage of surrender.  She no longer fights, because she accepts.  She gives up.

Reflections

Listen to me.

We are the paint peel chipping,
dangling over the prickly
bushes,
waiting with an eye
toward falling.
I wonder who I will be
when I am cut and
bleeding -
I wonder who I will be
when I have
given up.

It is like the blanking of
a color screen,
the bleaching of dark
green carpeting.
Hold my hand for just
a little while.
We are moving
and fading
on and on.

And you have become all
of what is to go.
Once you were the buttercup
dripping,
dislocating the litter
lodged inside of
me,
when now I have
nothing inside
to lose.

Yes, I wanted to hold your hand,
for just a little while.
But we are a love song
moving and
fading
on and on...

What cannot be mended

“Just before your friend Andy came back here,” Alturis said, peeling an apple with meticulous attention, “he shot and killed someone.  Did he tell you that?”

            “No," Meg answered through gritted teeth, "he didn't."

            “Well he did.  Even more unfortunate, that person happened to be my brother.”

            Meg just looked at him.

           Alturis paused to cut the apple into slices.  Once he finished this, he went on, “Apparently your Andy had never killed someone before.  It disturbed him.  So he took a leave of absence and retreated to his family home.  Which is where we found him.  And you,” Alturis added graciously, as if it were impolite to not mention her place in his diabolical scheme.  “Bad information led me to—what was their name?—the Gergens or the Bourbons or whoever.  It’s hard to find good help nowadays.”

            “I wouldn't know," Meg returned, trying to block out the memory of the Bergen's dead bodies lying in their living room.  "I'm not in the market for henchmen.”

            “And a good thing for you, too.”

            “But that doesn't explain what you want with me.”

            “Doesn't it?” Alturis asked--and smiling, he popped an apple slice into his mouth.

Conversation with George, Pt. 2

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.

No, I say, they don’t sound

very nice.

They aren’t, he answers.

They shout things at me from

the other side of the

walls.

“You, boy,” they say,

“you shut up, or we’ll cut

you!”

You wouldn't think a doll

with blonde hair and

pig tails could be so

vicious.

Alive

In this lexicon of sorrow

I am too tired to speak for myself

if you saw miracles spring from darkness

I saw only memory

swathed in charcoal dusty

dream

Hiding in plain sight

“Where are we going?” Kitty asked him.  “The King just said the Window was nearby, not where it actually was.”

“It is in a field next to an extremely large building,” Jaguar replied.  “Beyond that I am afraid I cannot be more specific, as I confess I have not taken the time to learn the building’s function.”

“Huh,” Kitty answered, puzzled by where he could mean.  Her town was not exactly a thriving metropolis: the only large buildings next to a field she could think of included the police station, which bordered a meadow on the other side of town, and the liquor store, next to a vacant lot about 5 miles away.  She was desperately hoping the King hadn't miscalculated the distance and that she wouldn't need to walk there when Jaguar came to a stop.  “We are here,” he said, but Kitty had to do a double take before she trusted herself to answer, “The high school!  You must be kidding!”

“I am afraid not.  Is this where you are receiving your education?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Kitty said, stunned to think she had been this close to the Last Window all of these years and had never known it.  Her mistake in trying to guess the location from Jaguar’s description had been in her interpretation of the word field, because Jaguar hadn't meant the kind with wildflowers and hornet’s nests.  He had meant the kind the junior varsity football squad practiced on.

“Do you see the Window?” he asked her

Kitty peered into the darkness.  “Oh my god, yes,” she exclaimed, because there it was, shimmering in the moonlight, just in front of the goal posts.  She wondered how on earth she could have missed it before now…until she remembered that she hated organized sports and avoided all practice fields like the plague.

What remains

I slipped inside of the

oily puddle today.

Even though I knew it

was there.

The twig you threw was good

enough to save

itself, barely.

Still, it was the strangest thing.

While I was waiting,

suddenly I had this tree.

Not much moves me,

but I had to move for the roots.

They were so big.

It burned inside, I know it.

The petrol had to burn the

branches inside,

had to leave scars that

never turn white.

The explosion would have

horrified you,

had you waited to see.

Oil does that—

it explodes.

And then there is nothing left.

Not even a twig.