The Image

            Gerald deactivated the Brain Inducer device and sat up from the medical bay bed. He rubbed his hands over his hairless head and massaged his eyes. The Brain Inducer was working perfectly. He felt like he was getting smarter, and faster, but it was taking a terrible toll on his body.  He could swear he could feel the brain tissue swelling and throbbing with each heartbeat and it was invigorating. If only he could sleep and dream like he used to.

            His dreams were all nightmares now, far too real for his liking. He was always falling down some shaft or losing his hand hold on his wife as she got sucked up out a loading bay door airlock into space. He would almost always wake up screaming and drenched in a cold sweat. The worst dreams were when he had to urinate. It was so real that he was constantly waking up covered in his own urine. He’d recently resorted to using a catheter to keep the sheets dry, but it was keeping him awake.

            Gerald stood from the medical bay bed and went to the MRI monitor and reviewed his scans while under the Brain Inducer. It showed marked synaptic increases and gave the impression his brain was now operating at over 198% efficiency. He’d yet to reach a telekinetic state though as he had hoped. He reviewed his research notes and flipped back to the very beginning. He remembered his wife, Sophia, begging him not to test the new device on himself. It was the only way though since the government was about to cut his funding if he didn’t start showing some results. He was positive the Brain Inducer would work by ramping up the available electrical energy to the brain along with a high protein supplement injected directly to the neuro-transmitters. The initial results were very promising.

            The government was pleased that his recall was infallible and he could perform mathematical calculations faster than their best machines. However, it started to plateau and things just wouldn’t improve. He knew, with his advanced brain power, that he could achieve true mental power and reach out from the confines of his skull into the physical world and manipulate objects. It was merely controlling the atoms that made up everything there is in the universe. He had determined that by focusing his significant brain power on the frequency of the atomic particles he should be able to manipulate them in the physical world. In essence, use his mind to move and re-organize matter. 

            He just had to move his operation to space, to remove the confines of normal gravity and allow his brain the freedom to expand. It was with some significant cost but he was able to show that his methods would work. It was easy with his increased intelligence to encourage funding. He actually made the board of directors think it was their idea.

            Sophia hated it. She didn’t think his mind was something that he should tamper with. She left the space station last October and hadn’t sent any communication. Gerald had argued with her relentlessly about it. Their last argument was the worst. They’d had it out in the corridor outside the station’s cafeteria and basically the whole crew heard them.

            “You are not a God Gerald,” Sophia had shouted.

            “I know I am not. I am a man made in his image, so why shouldn’t I therefore become what he is,” yelled Gerald back.

            “It’s madness. That’s why. I just want you to come home. Forget all this and come home. We can start again. A family. A different life,” Sophia pleaded.

            Gerald’s fast moving brain had already concluded that she would never understand what he was trying to accomplish. She was just too small now to ever realize his vision.

            “Go then. Leave this place and never come back,” he’d told her tearful face. He turned and entered the cafeteria and didn’t look back.

            Sophia stood behind him, clasping her chest as if she’d just been hit by a bowling ball. But she never said another word. The cafeteria doors slid closed and she left the ship that night without another word.

            Gerald closed his note book and re-set some of the calculations for his next turn in the brain inducer. It was a little harder now since he was working alone. The crew. The crew kept getting in his way. So he had to move them on. It wasn’t too hard actually. Thanks to his increased brain power he had the crew at each other’s throats and they effectively removed themselves from his plans. Pity they resorted to violence though. Blood is so hard to clean in low gravity. He did wish for at least one other pair of hands around to help with the menial tasks.

            Gerald set the Brain Inducer for the next run and climbed back into the medical bay bed. The Brain Inducer gently hummed as Gerald closed his eyes as the protein fluid needles charged to jab into a new section of his skull. He hoped he wouldn’t dream this time. 

Open the Window

Open the window

and let in the sunshine.

Put away the heavy

jackets and fold

your scarf away.

Forget the memory

of snow and cold,

of bundled hell on

the frozen train

platform on mornings

when it seemed sunshine

never actually existed.

Shake the chill from

your bones and inhale

the newly minted air

wandering though

your open windows.

Remember how the

sun’s rays crawled across

the walls through the

day and lengthen the

shadows of the things

you own.

See how warm it all

looks with spring sunlight

glinting off a forgotten

winter corner of dread.

The freshness of sounds

that were completely

shut out behind the closed

windows of the cold now

echo up to your ears and

make you remember.

Children playing,

cars roaring,

music blaring,

laughter,

all though the open windows.

Dharma Grind

            The tow truck pulled Jeffrey’s car away from the curb. He ran behind it for a few steps in a panic, nearly spilling his recently purchased coffee. He was yelling and shouting for the driver of the tow truck to stop. The driver didn’t and within a few moments had pulled completely out of sight. Jeffrey stopped running and threw his coffee after the tow truck and it splashed harmlessly into the street.

            “Mother Trucker! Mother Trucker! Muuuu-tha Trucker,” screamed Jeffrey.

            He turned around and started walking back toward the coffee shop. He’d parked with his blinkers on just in front of a fire hydrant so he could run in, grab his coffee like he did every morning and run right back out. He never got busted before. He was usually in the coffee shop for no more than 40 seconds and then back out to his car and on his merry way.

            This morning the universe decided it was his turn in the Dharma grinder. It started when Jeffrey opened his medicine cabinet in the bathroom to get the toothpaste. He unscrewed the cap and it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up and as he was standing back up he whacked his head on the still open medicine cabinet door. It hurt so much that he squeezed the toothpaste tube in his hand and squirted toothpaste all over the sink and the top of the toilet tank. It elicited more half swears from Jeffrey as he rubbed the back of his head. He went to get a paper towel to wipe up the toothpaste but discovered he was out of paper towels. He’d forgotten to get more the last time he was at the store and now he had to use tissues to clean the toothpaste. Tissues were certainly not designed for the wiping up of toothpaste and seemed to make it a smeary mess. He resorted to one of the small hand towels he had for guests, which would add to his laundry pile.

            Once the toothpaste was mostly cleaned up he checked the clock and saw he was running nearly ten minutes behind schedule to get to work. So he started to rush. He was hurrying to his bedroom to put his socks and shoes on and was sort of cursing himself for having such an odd morning ritual where he brushed his teeth in bare feet. He turned the corner to his room and cut it too sharply, because he was rushing, and smacked his right pinky toe into the door frame. Jeffrey yelled and thought it had to be gushing blood and the nail had to have been torn off. He hopped to his bed and sat down to look at his toe. It wasn’t all that bad. Just a little red, but it hurt so very much.

            He had to ignore the toe pain and get on with his socks and shoes. He was on a schedule after all. He put on his sock over the injured toe and grit his teeth. The sock felt like it was made of sandpaper and glass shards. He rubbed his toe a little to see if that would help and then pulled his shoe on. His shoes were a little worn out and the leather inside was rough and it only added to the discomfort. Jeffrey tied the shoe and stood up from the edge of the bed. He put his weight on it and it felt okay. Just had to suck it up and move on.

            Jeffrey went to the hall closet and grabbed his spring jacket and his keys from the end table by the door. He realized at that moment that he forgot to put his aftershave lotion on due to the toothpaste fiasco. He considered stopping and going back to the bathroom, but he was already dressed and nearly out the door. The lotion would have to be forfeited for the sake of timeliness. He would have to endure dry neck skin for the day.

            He rushed through the front door and locked it behind him. He hurried to his car and pulled out of the driveway and sped to the coffee shop for his morning cup. Jeffrey really couldn’t start his day without his favorite hazelnut roast coffee. He knew it was an addiction but it was better than heroin he often joked to his co-workers.

            He parked in front of the fire hydrant, like always, and rushed into the coffee shop, like always, but because he was running about ten minutes behind his normal schedule, the coffee shop was filled with old ladies. Old ladies who seemed as if they had never been inside a coffee shop in their entire lives or at least since coffee cost a nickel and came with a pack of Lucky Strikes and a movie.

            Jeffrey was forced to wait in line behind three old women that were moving incredibly slowly. They had a coupon for the coffee but none of the three could remember which one of them was carrying the coupon so they all had to look through their gigantic purses at the counter. Jeffery was bouncing around behind them like a three year old that had to use the bathroom but kept insisting that he didn’t.

            When the old ladies had finally moved their death tour 2013 off to the side Jeffrey was able to get his regular hazelnut coffee. He thought that would be the end of his troubles for the day. He had just swiped his debit card through the card reader when he looked up and saw his car being towed from in front of the hydrant.

            “No,” said Jeffrey and he ran from the coffee counter with coffee in hand.

            After the tow truck had vanished down the street. Jeffrey returned to the coffee shop. His face was red and he was out of breath. He stormed into the shop and went right to the counter.

            “Do you know which company towed my car,” he asked the young female clerk.

            She snapped her chewing gum against her teeth and looked at him like she’d never seen Jeffery before, even though she’d been getting him his coffee for nearly three months.

           

            “What,” she said absently.

            “The tow truck that was just here, the one I went chasing after. Was that a city tow or a private company,” shouted Jeffrey.

            “I don’t know. I didn’t see it. I just saw you running out the door,” she said.

            “God Dang it,” said Jeffrey.

            Jeffrey reached into his pockets and a wave of fear rushed over him. He’d left his cell phone in his car. It was in the console synced up to his stereo so he could listen to his songs through the radio. He looked up at the young female clerk.

            “My phone was in the car. Can I use the store phone,” asked Jeffrey.

            “There’s a payphone around the corner,” said the young clerk.

           

            Jeffrey’s mouth dropped open and he felt an intense rage burning in his stomach.

            “Are you telling me that a customer that’s been coming to this shitty coffee house for 13 years can’t use your god damn telephone,” said Jeffrey.

            “I’m sorry sir. The management doesn’t allow it,” said the clerk, “and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk that way in front of the customers”.

            The clerk was gesturing to the three old ladies who were looking at Jeffrey with finely aged condescension in their eyes. Jeffery looked back at the old ladies.

            “This is your fault you god damn old bags. If you hadn’t been so f-ing slow ordering your damn coffee my car wouldn’t have been towed!”

            The old women took this admonishment in stride and barely flinched as Jeffery stared at them with panting rage. One of the older women put her coffee cup down and looked at Jeffery, right in the eyes.

            “Maybe, young man, if you hadn’t parked in front of a fire hydrant like a douchebag, then none of this would have happened. So put that in your pipe and smoke it,” she said.

            Jeffrey stood stunned as the two other old ladies high fived her. The clerk stepped up closer to the counter.

            “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said and pointed toward the door.

            Jeffery staggered toward the door and exited. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment. He started walking in the direction the tow truck had gone. Each step was filled with pain from his now throbbing right pinky toe. He remembered he wanted to use the phone to call his boss and tell him that he’d be late, but then realized his boss’s number was on his cell phone, he had no idea what the number was. He didn’t even know his own number. Jeffery limped forward wondering how much worse it could get.

Hoops and Hoopla

            Some people are designed or born or bred to jump through the various hoops life places in our path and obtain status quo success. They followed the rules, went to a good school, graduated, got a good job, married, bought a house, had children and work at a job they do because they can do it. (Whether they enjoy it or not.) They get up on time without alarm clocks and feel a general sense of satisfaction when they look in the mirror.

            Some people look at those same hoops as if they were on fire and think, “Well, that sure as shit ain’t for me”. I happen to be one of those. I’m not a jump though the hoops sort. It always made me feel bad that I wasn’t one of those types. People made me feel bad about not being one of those types of people, like there was something wrong with me, that my way was not the right way and therefore I should be punished or disciplined.

            I’m starting to learn that this world is designed for those on the thick part of the bell curve, those hoop jumpers, and people like me tend to wander the fringes of the curve. My dreams of success are constrained by a world where the hoop jumpers rule. My way is not wrong however, it’s just different, and I shouldn’t be punished for it.

            America is all about rugged individualism, as long as you follow the herd of other hoop jumpers. To stray from that flock can cause you to be shunned or looked down upon and cause a person to develop some deep seeded resentment for the system; a system that favors the hoop jumpers, designed by hoop jumpers, for hoop jumpers. I’ve often felt ostracized by the system. Which makes me feel lonely, sad and ‘out of it’.

            It’s hard for me to follow the rules of a system that rewards conformity, mediocrity and illogical redundancy. Although I am often told I just have to do it because I have to. Which I don’t accept as a reasonable reason for doing anything. I’m not an anarchist or a nihilist or anything so extreme. I just am tired of being made to feel bad because the way I want to conduct my life is not in line with the fat part of the hoop jumpers bell curve.

            I have a different perspective on what success is. I have a different perspective on what a meaningful life is. Although I strain to explain what it is exactly using the terms of the hoop jumpers’ bell curve. I can’t explain it and I don’t think the hoop jumpers would understand it. Their perspective is wholly different from my own or from any artist really.

            I wouldn’t really dare to call myself an actual artist, but I do feel I have that perspective. I don’t see the world like the hoop jumpers. I’m just not in that club, never have been. But I’ve been made to feel bad because I don’t see the world like the hoop jumpers and I’m tired of it. I won’t ever succeed in a cubicle. I won’t ever succeed behind a desk. Unless that desk is my own as I put the finishing touches on the “Great American Novel”.

            I just wonder if people will let me be who I am and not put the demands of the hoop jumpers lifestyle on me. My happiness doesn’t lie along that path and it never will. The more pressure I get to conform, the worse I feel about who I’ve become. When I really shouldn’t. I am working on being proud of what I’ve accomplished outside the sphere of the hoops.

            Life is hard for the non-hoop jumpers; it’s extreme and difficult to keep your chin up when surrounded by those that measure their lives by how many hoops they’ve jumped through. I just don’t want hoop jumping happiness. I want raw, real, dirty, messy, surviving, sloppy, anti-hoop happiness. So bear with me as I try and figure out how to do that on the fringes. It isn’t always pretty. It’s just the person I am and I'm only just realizing it.  

At Sea

            “Ahoy Matey’s, are ye ready to cast off to adventure and treasuuuure,” shouted the tour guide in to the microphone.

            The tour boat was crowded with middle-aged tourists of varying weight, mostly heavy, and unsupervised children hanging onto the edges of their seats as if the boat was really about to set sail on the high seas and start attacking French ships.  I was sitting with my girl friend, my friend who is a girl, trying to look like I was enjoying myself.

            “Are you having fun,” asked Karen, my friend who happened to be a girl.

            “Oh, yeah. This is great. I always wanted to learn about scurvy first hand,” I said.

            “Don’t be a poop,” said Karen.

           

            The boat lurched away from the dock and the lure of buried pirate treasure. I knew that there was no buried pirate booty to be found on the Florida beaches. I thought that if we were in the Carolinas we might have had a better chance. But it was all part of the tour. The tour that Karen wanted to take.

            I was in love with Karen and I wanted to be more than the friends we were. I just didn’t know how to tell her that my feelings had evolved from just friends to someone I wanted to kiss every single second of every single day. The boat rocked a bit on the water and the tourists gasped with the roughness of the sea. I think they thought that going on the ocean would be more like a small pond in the Dells. Karen had gasped as well but then burst out laughing. I smiled at her and wished for the moment when I could kiss her.

            “All hands on deck, this is your Captain speaking, arrrrgh,” said a gravelly voice over the loudspeaker, “today’s trip will take us past the deadly Cove of Drunken Sailors and the shallow Graves of the Keelhauled. The bar is also now open so feel free to have one of our rum cocktails made special by Mr. Smead.  Arrrgh”.

            “I need a drink. Do you want one,” I asked Karen.

            “I’d love one,” said Karen.

            My eyes drifted over the curves of her breasts hidden behind a bathing suit. A once piece but still very arousing. I tried not to get aroused by her. She was too pretty in the sunshine and the summer. Her golden hair and soft skin, lips that were made for kissing and eyes to get lost in; it was a classic cliché.  I had to get up from my seat and get to the bar before I blurted something out I’d regret and ruin the whole trip. Or maybe make it better, I just didn’t know. I’d never been so full of doubt in my whole life.

            I got up from my seat and worked my way past the large crowd that was no longer interested in high seas adventure and made it to the bar. An eye patch wearing, Jack Sparrow look a-like was behind the small bar. He was making drinks that appeared to be all rum with a little juice for color and hastily cut fruit slices. I ordered two drinks and looked back out toward Karen. The sun was hitting her just right and she was practically glowing. She was even brushing her hair back with one arm as she leaned back a little. The wind was blowing her hair around and I was amazed how sometimes life did actually imitate TV commercials. I was glowing with lust.

            “Yer drinks matey,” said Mr. Smead.

           

            He put two wacky rum concoctions in front of me and I paid him $14.00 for the two drinks. So much for being a cheap vacation. I wondered what the actual price would be of the whole trip, especially if I told Karen about my love for her.

            I took the drinks and walked back to my seat next to Karen. She was listening to the tour guide explain where the pirate vessels of old used to sail. She smiled at me as I passed her the rum drink and I felt a flutter in my chest. The boat rocked and I took it as a sign. I would tell her when we got back to dry land how much I wanted her, I would rock our boat, and see if we capsized or sail into the sunset. Yo, ho, ho. 

The Job

            “I think there’s a monster under my bed,” said Rene, “I heard it last night just as I was trying to go to sleep. It started making this horrible buzzing noise, like it had a little muted chainsaw and it was going to use it to cut me up while I slept”. 

            Steve stopped stirring his coffee for a moment to confirm what he just heard.

            “A monster you said? Under your bed,” asked Steve.

           

            Rene nodded emphatically and stepped closer to Steve in the small break room. Rene grabbed Steve by his elbow and looked at him with wild, bloodshot eyes.

           

            “I think I’m going crazy Steve. I swear there was something, a monster, under my bed. I haven’t believed in monsters since I was a little boy, but now. I’m pretty sure of it,” said Rene.

            Steve pulled his elbow away from Rene. The last thing Steve wanted was for Rene to think they were actually friends. They were acquaintances, but not friends.

            “Of course there’s a monster under your bed Rene,” said Steve.

            “What…,” asked Rene.

            “Part of the conditions for working here was you had to let a monster live under your bed. Don’t you remember that from orientation,” said Steve.

            Steve added a little more sugar to the bland coffee he hated to drink but drank anyway because it was free. It tasted like mud. Steve was pretty sure it was made with actual mud or maybe something worse.

            “I have to be honest, I don’t remember the bosses telling me that,” said Rene.

            Steve rolled his eyes and sighed. He put down his spoon and stepped across the floor of broken glass to an impalement device that served as a chair in the break room.

            “They didn’t come right out and say that a monster would be living under your bed. That would be silly. They said, and if I remember right, ‘Employees are subject to quartering of management forthwith and to eternity’, or something like that,” said Steve.

            “I thought that meant they could cut us into fourths, you know, being quartered,” said Rene.

            “Nope. It meant as in your home is now their quarters, like headquarters. It’s fairly common in this industry,” said Steve.

            “Damn. Well, it was really scary. I mean this gnashing, grinding, buzzing noise from under the bed. I mean, it had me up almost all night,” said Rene.

            Rene crossed the broken glass floor and winced as a shard poked him in the heel. He moved to the other impalement device and hiked up his toga. He sat on the hard point of the impalement spike and cringed as it drove up into his body cavity.

            “Damn. I should have got a coffee before I sat down,” said Rene.

           

            Steve toasted Rene with his coffee mug and cringed as he slid a little further down on his own spike.

            “So what do I do about the monster,” asked Rene.

            “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do,” said Steve.

            “I just have to deal with it. Forever,” asked Rene.

            “Well, I mean, at least until you quit this job I suppose,” said Steve.

           

            Rene frowned and tried to adjust himself on the spike that was now seemingly poking him in the liver.

            “I can’t quit. I wasn’t really qualified for anything else. This was the best job I could find,” said Rene.

            “I know what you mean. I went to college to be a nutritionist. I’m not sure how I ever ended up here,” said Steve.

            “A nutritionist? That’s pretty cool,” said Rene.

            “Not really. Nobody cares what they put into their bodies,” said Steve.

            Steve finished his mud coffee and used the leather straps dangling above his head to pull himself up off the impalement spike.

            “Listen, don’t worry about the monster. Just leave a cup of piss out by the end of the bed every once in a while and the monster will leave you alone for the most part,” said Steve.

            Rene tried to pull himself up off his impaler, but his arms were too weak. He frowned again and sighed.

            “I hate this job,” said Rene.

            “Me too. But someone has to do it. Well, I guess I’ll see you around lunch. They’re serving goat placenta in the cafeteria today,” said Steve.

            “That’s okay. I brought something from home. I’ll probably just eat at my desk,” said Rene.

            Steve nodded and stepped across the broken glass on the floor leaving a few bloody footprints behind. Rene reached up to the leather straps and pulled again, freeing his rectum from the impaler.

            “Well, at least it isn’t Monday,” Rene mumbled. 

Ups and Downs

            “The Tilt-a-Whirl is a far more adequate description of life than the classic roller-coaster view,” said Franklin.

            “Why do you think that,” asked Marion.

           

            Frank sat up in his chair and leaned over the lunchroom table. Marion moved in closer to hear his response. She put down her protein drink and moved her salad off to the side. Franklin put his hot dog down.

           

            “A roller-coaster always goes in a straight line. There may be loops and twists, but it is always moving in one direction along the rails and it never deviates. The Tilt-A-Whirl just seems to be all over the place, spinning and twirling over an undulating frame. It just seems, to me, that life is more like that,” said Franklin.    

            Franklin leaned back and picked up his hot dog and took a seemingly satisfying bite. Marion considered this statement about life. She’d never been a fan of either roller-coasters or the Tilt-A-Whirl. She was always more of a carnival game type, but not the rides. They made her feel nauseous.

            She liked eating her lunch with Franklin because he almost always had something interesting to say. He was a little weird though. Most of the rest of the store employees wouldn’t even really talk to him. He did often seem to smell of Limburger and his hair was the greasiest she’d ever seen. But he did have a kindness that Marion felt was lacking in the rest of the Mega-Copy employees. He was also older than most of the other employees and he seemed to have a little experience under his belt.

            “So, what do you think,” asked Franklin.

            “I don’t really know. I never really thought about it much. I mean, I guess I can see what you’re saying. I’m not much of a carnival ride girl. Maybe I’ll ride the Ferris Wheel every once in a while, but I never really think about it as a metaphor for life,” said Marion.

            “The Ferris Wheel, now there’s a metaphor. The highs and lows of staying in one place without ever really going anywhere but in a giant circle,” said Franklin.

            “Well, I never think about it like that. I just don’t think about life like that. I come to work here, I go home, I hang out with my girlfriends, I see my niece and I sleep. That’s about the extent of my life. So I don’t guess carnival rides are all that relatable to me as a way of explaining life,” said Marion.

           

            Franklin had finished his hot dog and was now jamming French fries into his mouth. He looked down at the table and the mess he’d made. Mustard had plopped off the first hot dog and splattered the front of his blue work polo shirt. He hoped Marion hadn’t noticed. He felt like she was someone who understood him.

            “My life is totally a Tilt-A-Whirl though. I mean, I have a lot going on in my life. I’m not going to be a tech with Mega-Copy forever you know. I got big plans,” said Franklin.

            “That’s good. I’m glad you have plans. I just don’t know what I want yet. I mean, I’m only 24 years old and I don’t think I really have to know yet,” said Marion.

            Franklin wiped his chin and Marion looked at him.

            “I like you Marion. I want to take you out on a date,” said Franklin.

           

            Marion stopped sipping the last of her protein drink through her straw. She almost coughed.

           

            “That’s so sweet, but I’m… I’m not really looking to date anyone right now. I’m just not really into that right now. I mean, you’re so nice and we’re friends and I wouldn’t want to mess that up with, you know, anything…weird,” said Marion.

            Franklin put his head down and considered his ever expanding beer gut.

            “I understand. I wouldn’t want to screw up our lunches together,” said Franklin.

            Marion nodded. The lunchroom door opened and Gary came in and went to the microwave.

            “Well, I should get back to my electronics counter,” said Marion.

            She stood up from the table and moved past Gary. She threw her remaining salad away and went out to the sales floor. Franklin slouched in his chair. Gary was pressing buttons on the microwave filling the small lunchroom with annoying beeps and boops. The microwave finally whirred to life and Gary started humming. He was humming a Queen song, Another One Bites the Dust.

            “Up yours Gary,” said Franklin.

            Franklin stood up from the table and hurried through the lunchroom door.

A Dreaming Memory

            I had a dream last night involving a woman whom I’m not sure existed. That is to say, I’m not sure if she was a real person that I once knew or if she existed only in the dream. I suppose I am getting to an age where memory, dreams and experiences might start to mingle a little bit. She was a sort of a petite woman with dark curly hair and was quite lovely with piercing blue eyes. It seemed that I had known her for only a short time and maybe I have forgotten that I might have spent a few nights with her. Or she was never real and only existed within the context of the dream.

            I am confused because part of the dream took place in my mother’s basement at her house, in my old bedroom. Affectionately called, “The Bunker”, by some fine women I’ve known. It was a dreary little bedroom and was probably a vortex to another ghostly dimension. This woman and I were in that bedroom, in bed, just being casual with each other. Talking, and just holding each other close. We were still clothed. It seemed that we had met at some post high school party, or maybe some very early college thing and she’d come back with me to my mother’s house to sleep. It seemed very normal. It seemed more like a memory than a dream.

            I think it would be terribly weird if I started dreaming up memories while I was sleeping. Imagine the confusion that would breed, hence the confusion I’m in now. I remember other experiences with this curly hair girl. I remember what she was wearing, or maybe I simply dreamed what she was wearing. A lilac colored sweater with some minor embellishments along the front and jeans. Very 1990’s blue jeans at that, none of this tight jeans stuff. So the details of it seemed to make it seem more like a memory than a dream.

            I remember or dreamed that she had to get up in the morning and that was why she had stayed with me so I could take her somewhere maybe. I remember, or dreamed I remembered, that we hung out a few more times. We laughed and smiled and enjoyed each other, but drifted away for some reason and eventually to be erased from my memory by time, or imagined in a long dream creating some waking confusion about my own past.

            I was up early due to the violent stormy weather Chicago is experiencing today. I woke around 4:30 a.m. to the sound of thunder rattling the very walls of my apartment building and I could have sworn I said this woman’s name. Then I wasn’t sure about her existence at all. There was something very real about her and then, there was something that wasn’t. I started to wonder if I might have early Alzheimer’s and this woman did exist and we spent some wonderful together, but she’s been lost to a failing mind. Part of me could have sworn she was real and we loved passionately for a very short time before being parted for some dreamed or forgotten reason. 

            I have no way to be sure really, unless some of my long time friends who read this blog might refresh my memory. I there was such a woman or not. Although as this day goes on I am more and more convinced she was never real and only existed in my dreams. I can’t see her face anymore whereas with the real people I know I can at least see their faces in my mind. There are some good looking faces in that bunch actually, but none seem to match the vague impression of this pretty, dark curly haired woman with the piercing eyes and mischievous smile.

            I got out of bed for a little bit at 4:30 a.m. to watch the lightening show and I had a cigarette. I racked my brain trying to remember if this woman was real or not. I felt like she was an important person to me that I had let get away, but then, I couldn’t be sure. The rain pelted the windows and I decided to check for any leaks or puddles in my apartment. There were none. I went back to bed hoping that maybe another dream might point me in the right direction as to the existence or non-existence of this woman.

            Unfortunately I ended up dreaming about heavy water. I’m not sure if that’s what it is called but it was recently discovered in the Ocean that even in deep water there are pools of even more dense water. The two are separated like Guinness and Harps in a Half and Half.  When I woke up again I remembered I had this dream memory of this young woman and it was still very confusing. I had to get up and going though since the rains were still pouring down and I didn’t want to be late for work, which I was anyway because the rains flooded too much of the city and the trains were late and all kinds of nonsense.

            I wish my memory was better, or my dreams were real.

            

Stepping Back

I fret.

I worry.

I am concerned.

I pace the floor.

I consider.

I frown.

I mumble.

I remember it all.

I push it away.

I well up.

I decline.

I refuse.

I doubt.

I curse.

I moan.

I am solitary.

I hear my own voice.

I want another voice.

I dream.

I type.

I think of perspective.

I regret.

I rue.

I ache.

I wait.

I step back.

I disconnect.

I think of the now.

I worry about the worries.

I cover it up.

I find a laugh in a drawer.

I find a smile in a photo.

I put them on like a mask.

I brave it as best as I can.

I hate it.

I breathe.

I sigh.

I step through the door.

I find the rain.

I go forward.  

The Finish Line

            World history is rife with tragedy and sadness. In fact, if you look at the real underbelly of history it is usually written in blood and borne on the backs of the downtrodden. American History is no different and yesterday in Boston was another example of the horrors that human beings can inflict on one another. The thing that bothers most Americans, I think, is the mystery surrounding the attack at the Boston Marathon. We want to know why this happened. We want to know who was responsible and what their motivations were. We want then to see justice prevail.

            Justice, however, is difficult to express when the scale is so high. If the individuals or individual is captured, they will stand trial and be given the opportunity to defend themselves. A jury will likely hear evidence and make a decision based on the facts, if they can, and then decide an appropriate punishment, which by most people’s standards; won’t be severe enough. But this is justice. It may not be perfect, but as a collective society, it’s the best we’ve got. It is only the beginning of healing, not the end result.

            These acts of terror, cowardice and blatant villainy need to be fixed and I believe they can. Throughout History mankind has basically been at each other’s throats for one thing or another. Be it land, titles, religion, ideology, or just the two biggest kids on the block, we’ve always been after each other. But I do see a different side of it all for the sake of peace and growth as earthbound neighbors. As much there are violent men, there are equally men of peace. It is those men and women of peace that will eventually triumph in the end.  

            I do not believe in an “eye for an eye” because eventually everyone will wind up blind. My Catholic up-bringing encourages me to turn the other cheek and I take comfort knowing that evil never lasts. It is weak and short lived. So I can risk my other cheek understanding that no matter how great an evil, it cannot sustain itself. It simply doesn’t have the stamina. So I might have sore cheeks for a bit, but I will prevail.  I like to think of myself as a man of peace.

            Believing in peace and wanting justice is not mutually exclusive. The ideologists of terror can bang their heads against the walls of the United States of American for as long as they want, they can never, ever, break our spirit or our desire for peace and justice. It is that balance we strive for at home and abroad. We want to cheer for the oppressed and help them rise above the things that are keeping them down.

            We want to believe that a world that is educated, self sustaining, free and just will only help propel us forward as a collective species into the next stage of our planetary existence. It is counterproductive to hold onto 16^th century ideals and outmoded bigotry for hates sake. It was Captain Ahab’s hateful obsession of Moby Dick that led to his demise. His hate got him and his men killed for nothing. Hate sake and nothing more.

            It is the peacemakers, the caretakers, the people dedicated to the idea that there is no horror that can’t be overcome, there’s no evil that can’t be overthrown, that help lead us to becoming a constructive and more learned people. War mongers don’t have a plan for peace.

            I hope we as a people can overcome this tragedy and learn from it. I hope we can honor the injured and the dead by working toward peace. I hope we as a people can all cross the finish line together.

Dusted

The fine particulate that

covered Miss Havisham’s

wedding feast table.

The microscopic remains

of skin, hair and the

remnants of a forming

cosmos.

A light layer of us and

others floating through

the air and settling on

dressers and end tables,

desks and TV screens,

on the unused items

of our lives.

It covers everything and

reminds me that everything

is everything, and everything is

made of the same basic

materials.   

The dust is me.

The dust is you.

There’s always more of

it than you realize. A day

spent dusting and cleaning

is so quickly forgotten as new

levels of dust immediately

start to settle over the contents

of our lives.

It’s grit, it’s dirt, it’s grime,

it’s all the same and will

rapidly build on inactivity and

idleness.

It builds on memories.

It builds on lost hopes.

It builds on me,

collecting ever so slightly,

over time,

until the weight is colossal

and pushes me down.

I need a good and

proper dusting from

caring hands and

adoring eyes to find

the luster under the

ever finer particles

of everyone. 

Ipanema Coffee and Heartburn

I woke this morning with

the taste of acid in my

mouth and The Girl

From Ipanema on my

mind.

I know why I have heartburn,

that’s all about poor eating

choices and feeling a little stomach

disheveled throughout the day

but I don’t know why

the girl from Ipanema

was in on my mind.

I couldn’t recall the last time

I heard the song but there

it was, playing over and over

in my head as I bemoaned

my burning esophagus.

I figured when I got

to work a cup of

coffee would help to

sooth the constant

burning (I don’t know

why I thought it would help,

I just did) but the coffee

was worse. Bad, burned,

long standing coffee,

not tall and lovely at all.

I would gladly give the girl

from Ipanema

my heart, as the lyrics go,

if it would take this

heartburn and bad

coffee away.

I’d rather be relaxing with her

in a hammock on a beach

with a soothing ocean breeze

blowing over us as a phone rings

in the distance that neither of

us has to answer.   

That’s the cure for my

kind of heartburn.

The coffee, that can

be fixed with a more

fruity and alcohol

based mix. With an

umbrella.

Coffee never comes with

a little umbrella. It’s just

a cup of sludge, with cream and

sugar and it won’t cure

heartburn.

The Girl From Ipanema

and I, in a hammock

swaying in the tropical

breeze, the roaring ocean

crashing gently along the beach

lined coast of the fringes

of my imagination.

Where I don’t have

heartburn, or the need

for coffee. Just her soft

hands running over my

forehead and hair,

swinging in the silent

relaxation.

http://www.lyricsfreak.com/f/frank+sinatra/girl+from+ipanema+the_10121534.html

The Creeping Hands and Frowning Face

            Peter felt as if his heart was going to explode in his chest. He hadn’t run that hard or for that long in years. He had thought his days of running like his life depended on it were over. Somehow he was wrong, and sooner than he thought. He was gasping to catch his breath and sweat was dripping off his chin. The other train riders just looked at him like he was some sort of inhuman monster. None of them were kind enough to offer him a seat as it was pretty clear that he was having trouble catching his breath. He continued to gasp and try to pull in long refreshing breaths. He wanted his heart to stop beating so heard in his chest. It was ringing in his years and he could feel his pounding, rapid pulse in his eyes.

            He felt like he was on fire. Or at least, what he thought being on fire must feel like. Well, not the burning part. That part must be horrible. The part where the fire consumes all the oxygen and you can’t breathe so you suffocate, in addition to burning.  It’s a truly horrible way to go. Peter wondered if the people on the train would even notice if he was actually on fire. There were all so involved in their make-up, iPhones, newspapers, books and general boring mélange that the flickering flames of his smoldering corpse probably wouldn’t faze them. Although someone might complain about the smell as someone almost always does. 

            The conductor was walking through the train collecting fares and Peter rummaged through his pockets and produced his ticket to show he was a daily rider. His hands felt weak and his arms were tired from his intense sprint from nearly a block and a half away. He thought he had more time at a brisk walking pace to make it to the train, but it surprised him by arriving two minutes early. He was just lucky he hadn’t stopped for the morning paper as was his normal routine. The newspaper box was empty so he didn’t stop to mess with it. He thought about the little things in life that happen that way.

            If the newspaper box had been full, he would have stopped for the paper, which would have made him miss the train, which would have resulted in his death. It was just crazy how those little things happened. It was a strange connection of coincidences and happenstance to result in his making the train and living for another day. His would-be killer must be wondering how he got away. His would-be killer should have filled the newspaper box.

            Peter took another long, deep breath and felt a heat in his chest. He started to worry that he might have broken a blood vessel in his lungs or something and he was slowly going to drown in his own blood. He thought that his killer might have won after all, if indirectly. Peter felt himself starting to settle down. He was still sweating heavily but he was able to draw a longer breath and get himself a little more under control. He started thinking about the fact that he’d been smoking since he was eleven years old and that might be a contributing factor to his current difficulty. It was strange, but even though he was still trying to catch his breath, he had a craving for a cigarette. A smooth cigarette to calm his frazzled nerves would the thing. It was too bad you couldn’t smoke on the train anymore, or anywhere for that matter.

            The train rocked side to side on the train tracks as it approached the downtown station and Peter moved from where he was standing/leaning against the train car wall toward the exit. He was still feeling weak in the legs from his run and simply couldn’t believe how badly he was out of shape. He was just glad his would-be killer had counted on his perceived inability to run. Otherwise he’d be bleeding all over this train car instead of just breathing heavy all over it.

            His would-be killer was nothing of the sort though. It didn’t care what shape he was in. His would-be killer was time. Time was always after Peter. It was the monster chasing him down the hall into his parent’s bedroom as a boy and the beast lurking under his bed. Time was the taker of life over short increments. It was a slow killer, a fast killer, a lumbering killer and a swift killer. Peter had outrun it for now, but the next time he might not be so lucky.

            The train pulled into the station and Peter was able to push himself toward his next destination. He still needed to hurry but he didn’t have Time lurking over his shoulders anymore. There was an ambulance parked across the street from the train station in front of a little coffee shop. Peter could see the paramedics working on a man who was lying on the floor in the coffee shop. The EMT’s were giving the man CPR and chest compressions. Peter kept walking passed. It seemed Time had claimed someone else in his place. Peter shuddered and put his head down toward his destination.

Coincidences

            I remember when I was a little boy and my mother would go through my pockets as she did laundry and she’d find all sorts of things, rocks, paperclips, toys, bottle caps, bits of string and lots of dirt. I don’t recall why I had collected those items and put them in my pockets, but I did. I’m sure I had some purpose for them more than being an annoyance to my mother.

            I started this morning writing about the differences between irony and coincidence. In my brief research into the subject I realized it is a swelled and complex issue with far too much sub-text to delve into so early in the day. I mean there’s a lot going into the very definition of irony that I can’t be sure I even know what it means anymore. The most reasonable definition I found of irony is “the literal meaning is opposite to the intended”; so, for example, “clear as mud”, or “hard as a cloud”.

            We know mud is thick and difficult to see through and that clouds are vapor and likely soft. So the literal meaning is different than the intended meaning. This of course has to assume the listener or reader is aware that mud is difficult to see through and what clouds are made of for the irony to be effective. Otherwise the irony is lost on them.

            But it still doesn’t change the confusion between coincidence and irony that I hear all too often. Let’s say you’re talking about Jack Nicholson to a friend in a passing conversation and later, when you get home, you turn the TV on and there’s a Jack Nicholson movie playing. That’s not ironic. It’s a coincidence. However, if you were talking to Jack Nicholson about Jack Nicholson and he said he’d never act in another movie and he goes home, turns on his TV and there’s a movie on about you, then that would be ironic.

            A friend of mine recently wrote a wonderful piece about real Chicago Firemen and how she just couldn’t stomach the show, “Chicago Fire”, because she’d seen the real thing. I found out yesterday that the building next to my offices, a former Police station, will be used in the coming weeks for some location shooting for the very same television show, “Chicago Fire”. This is a coincidence. It only has significance because my friend wrote about it so recently and it was fresh on my mind. It may seem ironic, but it’s not.

            This “Chicago Fire” coincidence is what brought this whole article into my mind actually.  I’m not sure what else I had to say about it. It was just rattling around in the old brain box and needed to be hosed off and put on a shelf. Just one of the things I had in my pockets I guess. 

Rotoscope

            Larry couldn’t believe it. There he was on the sidewalk, everyone gawking at him with hushed giggles in the background. Larry actually did it. He slipped on a banana peel and fell into the side of a garbage can. It was comedy gold at its best worthy of The Three Stooges or Marx Brothers. He tried to get up but some of the banana was still on his flat soled shoes so he slipped again and plopped down onto his butt. Finally another business guy came over and helped Larry up off the sidewalk.

            “Are you okay,” asked the stranger.

            “I’m fine. Just really embarrassed,” said Larry.

            “Dude, that was hilarious. I always thought it was just something from the cartoons or from slapstick shtick but you did it man. You slid and fell and just bailed on that banana peel,” said the stranger as he chuckled.

            “Yeah. Thanks,” said Larry.

            He wiped the remaining banana from his shoe on the sidewalk and saw that the crowd that had so eagerly laughed at him had dispersed. The stranger was still next to him.

            “Are you waiting for an encore,” growled Larry.

            “No man. Sorry,” said the stranger and he sulked off like his feelings were hurt. 

            Larry checked his shoe and the banana goo was finally wiped clean. He looked around the sidewalk for the offending banana peel but couldn’t find it. He wanted the satisfaction of throwing it away for making him look like a buffoon. But he couldn’t find it and it left him feeling very unsatisfied. He wanted to hurt it; to take some sort of twisted revenge on it. He took a breath to collect himself and tried to clear his head.

            “It was just an accident,” said Larry to himself as he started away from the scene of his embarrassment. He started walking along the busy city street, still red in the face from his mortification. He just couldn’t believe it really. He had slipped on a banana peel. It just didn’t seem real. He thought the viscosity of the banana peel against the concrete sidewalks wouldn’t be so slippery, but he was wrong. It was his flat soled shoes that were the problem. They were nice shoes but he was always slipping and sliding in them, especially when it rained. But they went so nicely with the majority of his suits.

            Larry continued his walk toward his office building. He was an important man within the firm and was starting to wonder if he should start taking the company car into the office instead of having to walk through the streets from the train station with wage slaves. The laughing wage slaves love it when a big wig gets some comeuppance; especially the pratfall kind. Larry turned and crossed the street oblivious to the warning cones in front of the building next door to his. He heard someone shouting and then he noticed how dark it was getting. He looked up.

            Larry blinked several times trying to adjust his eyes to the fluorescent light over head. A woman came into his sightline. She was saying something but he really couldn’t make it out. It was sort of muffled. He tried to say something but realized he couldn’t move his jaw.

            “Please, try to take it easy Mr. Vickers,” said the woman, “This is going to be a little hard to understand”.

            “Hmmph,” mumbled Larry.

            “I don’t know how much you remember, but you’ve been in a coma for about two weeks. You see, you were hit, nearly crushed actually, by a falling piano,” said the woman.

            “HMMPH!?”

            Larry tried to turn his head but he felt a twinge of pain in his neck. He tried to sit up but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

            “Mr. Vicker’s, I need you to relax. I’m Doctor Unger and I’m here to help you. This has been a very serious injury and you’re incredibly lucky to be alive. In fact, some of the other doctors were worried you’d come out looking like an accordion, you know. like in the cartoons,” said Dr. Unger.

            “Hmph,” pouted Larry.

            

The Wrathful Grave

            The rains fell through the night and into the early morning. The normal bright sunrise was concealed in the black clouds of the storm. The rain washed down in thick sheets as if a great damn had burst in the sky and water was cresting over its invisible ledge. The thunder rolled through the sky as lightening flickered and illuminated the evil grin of the dark clouds swirling. The rancor was enough to keep Father Jessup awake through the entirety of the storm. Although it was less the storm outside that was keeping him from sleep.

            He sat near the chapel windows, watching the rain wash through the cemetery on the grounds. He saw the wreaths and flowers and items placed on the headstones being washed away towards the road and out of town. The rains had become a river of sorrow it seemed. He wished he had been able do something about it but the rains would have carried him off as well. He wondered if anyone would notice his absence. His flock was nearly all gone except for the few huddled in the rectory, hoping the storm wouldn’t take their small shacks away. Father Jessup knew the shacks were already gone, washed away in the muddy rivers of rainwater. This town was gone. It would be smote like so many wicked cities before it.

            The morning sun couldn’t penetrate the thick dark, roiling clouds overhead and Father Jessup went around the chapel lighting candles to try and clear some of the gloom. The thunder rattled the rafters and he felt the building shake. The small flames on the candles flickered wildly and cast eerie shadows on the walls. Father Jessup swallowed hard and began to pray out of habit. He knew the chapel was well built, but even this rain was worse than the one in 1887. That storm nearly washed the chapel away; it only moved it about six feet though. Some of the townsfolk back then called it a miracle but Father Jessup knew that the stones along the west side of the chapel had turned into a break and caused the chapel to become anchored in the mud. It wasn’t a miracle, simply a stroke of luck of the contours of the landscape.

            The wind howled and rattled the small chapel and the bell in the tower started to clang in the strong gusts. It was an irregular clanging that also sounded off-key. Father Jessup hoped the bell would survive. It had come all the way from Chicago and cost the townspeople a lot. It would be such a shame to see it ruined. Father Jessup looked up toward the high chapel ceiling for any rain leaking in or areas where the shingles might have blown off but everything looked okay. There was only the creaking of the wood against the winds.

            Father Jessup crossed the short chapel aisle and kneeled before the altar as was his habit and ritual. He turned toward the opposite side to light those candles when a giant clap of thunder boomed overhead and it made Father Jessup duck between the pews. He through the roof was going to collapse on him at that moment. He thought that perhaps it should. He’d lost his flock when the gold mining stopped. He had been drinking too much and had fallen in love with the banker’s daughter, Karen. He didn’t feel much like a priest anymore and wasn’t sure he wanted to. He had become bored with the life devoted to God.

            He had a hard time with a God that didn’t seem to really care about the suffering of the hungry, the sick, the poor or the lost. He wanted something more and thought that maybe God’s plan for him involved the beautiful Karen and a life outside the confines of this biblical coffin.

            Father Jessup poked his head up from between the pews and realized the roof wasn’t coming down on him. It was still standing, sturdy and strong. He sighed and pulled himself up. He felt ashamed for his doubts but he knew something had to change. He was filled with sadness that neither bible, nor drink seemed to cure. It was no wonder his flock had left him. He wasn’t very pleasant to be around and his homilies had become very angry. He felt a sense of loyalty and duty to this chapel and the town and couldn’t bring himself to quit. Which is what he knew in his heart was what he wanted. Even if the fair Karen didn’t feel the same for him, he knew that he couldn’t go on in this way.

            He lit the last of the candles and crossed back over toward the window that faced the cemetery. He looked out and saw the rain water had caused some of the caskets to become exposed and they were beginning to float along on the river of rain. It was as if the dead were coming back to the surface, and there were so many. The flu had taken a lot of the people, the mines took more, the rich got away with murder and the poor had no chance. All of them were now exposed and free from the dirt and were sailing through the flood, following the offerings that once decorated the headstones out of town.

            “Even the dead won’t stay here,” said Father Jessup.

            Thunder rolled overhead and Father Jessup decided that if the storm passed, and the chapel still stood, he would follow his heart and resign his ordination, make Karen his wife and move somewhere special. It was his only chance at happiness amid the flood of misery that polluted this once lively town. Lightening flashed overhead and revealed the river of dead, floating out of town. A casket lid had smashed open against one of the headstones in the flash flood and flipped the casket upwards. The skeleton corpse inside the now open casket was pointing; pointing right at Father Jessup. He felt his heart in his chest leap to his throat and a wave of fear possessed him. He stepped closer to the window however, to make sure the vision was real. He pressed his face against the glass. The upright casket still stood and the withered hand still pointed outward. The lightening crackled again and the emptying graveyard was bathed in a flash. The wind swirled and howled and what seemed originally to be a pointing skeleton finger was now a beckoning call to join the macabre parade of death.

            The casket fell back over onto its side with a splintering creak and was swept away in the torrent following the rest of the washed out dead. Father Jessup sat back in a pew and knew what it meant. He was meant to follow and never return. He stood from the pew and removed his priestly collar. He kissed it and placed it on the altar. He turned from the crucifix and headed toward the chapel doors. Thunder rumbled above as Jessup opened the chapel doors and stepped out in to the rain. 

Recharge

Sometimes sadness stings the
corners of my eyes and
I think, 'If only I had a
little more sunshine and
good music and woman
to dance with everything
would be alright'.

Sometimes it's just
sunshine.
Sometmes it's just
music.
Sometimes it's a
woman.
Somtimes it's
dancing.

Sometimes I can't
dance.
Sometimes it seems
like I see her every day.
Sometimes the music
is terrible.
Sometimes the sunshine
is obscured.

That's when it's time
to recharge by unplugging.
Unplugging the corners
of my eyes.
And look for a sunny place,
with music, woman, and
dancing.

Outside of the walls of
my mind. Where things
can go wrong, but with the
right golden sun rays to shine a light
in the dark, the good songs to
sing along to, a woman to hold
a little tighter, the wrong things
are less and the good things are
great.

A recharge, so my eyes
can dry.

Tenderly

            “It’s been a while for me,” said John as he took his shoes off and tossed them to the floor.

            “How long?” asked Cindy.

            Cindy took the seven or eight pillows off the bed and placed them on a hope chest in another corner of the bedroom.

            “A while,” said John.

            John smiled at her as she pulled back the comforter and slid under the covers. She giggled a little with nervous and playful excitement. They had been kissing and groping and teasing each other on her living room couch for the last twenty minutes and John was very excited. She was a really great kisser. Easy to kiss. She seemed to instinctually know which direction to turn her head as they teased each other with their lips. It was so natural and smooth. John felt something inside he hadn’t felt in a very long time. A tingling or spark or something was making his head a little dizzy. It could have been the two bottles of red wine they’d drank too, but he was hoping it was something more.

            John pulled his pants off and dropped them to the floor and crawled into the bed next to Cindy. She wrapped her arms around him as they started to kiss again.

            “I promise I’ll take it easy on you,” said Cindy.

            “Don’t,” said John.

            He gently explored her body as they kissed. He carefully moved his hands down her slender neck, over her shoulder, over the top of her left arm and the side of her stomach. She giggled.

            “Everything okay,” asked John.

            “Yes,” she smiled, “I’m just a little ticklish there.”

            “A little ticklish hm,” teased John and he gently brushed her side with the tips of his fingers and she laughed again.

            John liked her laugh. It was sweet and gentle. It was the laughter he’d always imagined the woman of his dreams would have. He kissed Cindy harder and she responded with passion of her own. Her hands were moving across his body and their legs were slowly becoming intertwined. Their breathing became more intense and John felt the room getting warmer. He moaned slightly as her hand moved across his inner thigh.

            “You like that,” she asked.

            “Mm-hm,” said John as he kissed her along her neck.

            Her breathing became more intense and John’s caressing of her soft skin became more impassioned. She had beautiful soft skin. He wanted to feel it against his hands since her saw her. John took a deep breath and stopping kissing her and left his hands drift across the surface of her body. She moaned a bit too and she kissed John on his neck.

            “It’s been a while for me too,” said Cindy.

            “Are you okay with this,” asked John as he continued to caress her.

            “Oh yes,” said Cindy.

            She looked up at John and kissed him. John saw that she closed her eyes as they kissed and he closed his eyes too. Even with this looming sex in the air and the passion they were about to embark upon all John could think about was getting breakfast with this wonderful woman, maybe lots of breakfasts, for a long time.

            He kissed her back with enthusiasm and gently moved on top of her. 

Bubbles

The strangeness of

the thought bubbles

over everyone’s head as

we jostle and collide

our way through

the world.

Each person

an island of thought

amid a highway of thoughts.

The mingling and

meandering of constant

thought, surrounding us

every single second of

the day.

The bubbles of thought

weighing overhead like

black clouds, shimmering

with flashes of lightening

and rumbling with thunder.

Lonely bubbles. Floating in

the breeze, strayed from the

other bubbles. Bumping against

the ceiling, caught in a tree,

deflated on the ground,

un-tethered, snapped strings.

Every bubble shaded with

the palette of the thinker as

they drift and swim through

the rages of the air. Blue thought

bubbles for the sad. Yellow bubbles

for the happy, green for the jealous.

Purple bubbles for the angry.

Two thought bubbles,

caught together, entwined, meshed,

with reddish tones of love, as they

lazily drift together over the rubbery

cacophony of the of the individual bubbles

which rub and bump into each other in

crowds.

Giant bubbles and tiny bubbles,

Medium sized bubbles and hardly

a bubble at all, waft and wiggle

overhead of the people we see

every moment. It’s strange.

This poem is another bubble,

drifting above my

head, now drifting

over yours.