From the Uncollected Thoughts of:

DEAR READER

I'm not going to cry, beg, or plead

to get you to read.

I may hide secrets in there

Do you care?

I may open your mind

when you'd rather be blind

Say what you will

I won't ask you to be kind.

Just know that every word perceived

as hackneyed drivel now

Will, instead

seem brilliant

when I'm dead.

PART I

FRONT: 1983 – 1998

SHADOW

There was something

like a shadow fleeing swiftly from the dimness

of the evening air

he was crying, from what I recall

with something waiting in the wings

but the air was present

I remember it well

thick like fog

it wrapped around the stairwell like

a protective mother

over her child

who is trying to find his way

back in her womb.

There was something

like a shadow fleeing swiftly from the dimness

of the evening air

he was crying

from what I could tell

but I know his sadness

was sadness so deep

that it eluded even him

until he couldn’t feel at all.

October 3, 1983

RAINBOWS

I don't think of rainbows

anyway

A rainbow does not hold me close to the day

but a rhyme without reason,

a silly cliché,

leaves me lingering longer

for something to say.

Voices with words

that I don't understand

pull me back to reality,

meaningless plans.

Others at work with a reason to be

make me wish harder

for something to see.

Artists that bloom with a song in their midst

capture the feelings I know don't exist.

And somewhere, an owl keeps time to the beat

a soft, lulling melody

everything's sweet.

I don't think of lovers

anyway

Lovers do not keep their feelings at bay

But they touch me so tender,

I can't walk away

With their classic embraces,

so sweetly they sway.

Uninspired

Undesired

Afraid, and alone

Those feelings have weakened

the strongest I've known.

Then again, many others

who hadn't seemed strong

had the courage to fight,

and never belong.

1984

KINGSHIGHWAY MOTEL

The cars pass me by on this dusty, dirty road

as I watch from the window of my mind.

I try so hard to tell myself, You aren't really here.

But I fear

I know the truth.

My imagination isn't that good.

I see the woman carrying the sheets that I will sleep on.

She drops them by the door and turns

with some kind of knowing look in her eyes.

I don't get why.

I think

she doesn't like me.

Alone again, I pick up my notebook, remembering how happy I'd felt when I had an

extra dollar to buy it. But it's red, and I

don't like the color.

Anyway, I sit and write of nothing, nothing.

There's nothing to say.

I feel no connection to this world, these people

Even the children, black and white—

so pretty, with their delicate features and tiny hands.

The next morning, I wake up to find two twenty-dollar bills on the

end table.

One for her. One for me.

There is also a note

which says

a lot of things—mostly misspelled, and with terrible grammar.

I feel my respect for him slide down a notch

or two.

But at least I have money.

I get dressed and go out to buy a pack of cigarettes.

Despair, despair grows like a fog in my heart.

It clouds my mind.

I don't belong here, I tell myself.

Did I say that already?

I sit down on the steps outside the door to our room. The sun reflects off the glossy red cover of my notebook, and my mind whispers, harsh and insistent.

Write something! Do something! Be something!

I can't imagine anything except this lost highway motel,

cold concrete, and dust on cheap furniture.

The janitor walks over

and asks me something about Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Do I want some?

Yeah

I think I do, but I don't have any money.

Oh, I'll buy it, he says.

He sends her to pick up the chicken, and she comes back

out of breath and hysterical

a bucket of chicken and a bag overflowing with biscuits, coleslaw, and gravy bouncing as she runs

toward me.

He was there. He followed me. He says he knows where you are!

Oh.

Well, so what?

Who cares?

I feel strange—kind of nervous about it, but not really.

I mean, life is over anyway, so who cares if he finds me and beats me up and insists

that I love him?

I'm not really here anyway.

How can he find me?

I wish someone would love me for real.

That would make things better, I think.

But who could ever love me?

Even if such a man existed, he wouldn't look for me in this

rundown motel.

King’s Highway, my ass.

Like any king would ever stay here.

Or even me, for that matter.

Then I remind myself,

I'm not.

Oh yeah, keep forgetting that.

I follow her inside and close the door. The room smells like chicken.

I grab a piece, and sit down on the floor.

Old, ugly carpet, and it's blue.

Just like me.

The next morning, I take a shower and wash my hair.

I can't see anything but the sky

out the dirty kitchenette window as I try

to dry my hair in the wind.

But there is no wind.

So, I take my pathetic little notebook, and stuff it in my bag.

Down, down deep, where no one will ever find it and see

that I was here, after all.

I tuck his little note inside, as well.

Maybe I'll find it years from now and remember

who I am.

1985

Published In: WRITE THIS, March 2011

GREY RABBIT AND THE BEAR

I will, said the Rabbit

Begin with a song.

You can't, growled the Bear.

You're singing it wrong.

"I am not!" the indignant grey Rabbit exclaimed.

I've a voice that of angels and blubells in song.

"It's bluebirds, you idiot Rabbit."

The Bear

Fixed his companion a glowering stare.

"If you dare to impose on my ears with your voice,

you do not leave me any choice,

but to—"

What? the grey Rabbit broke into his threat.

You scare me not, Bear. I will sing my duet.

A duet is with two, he corrected his speech.

With whom are you planning to cackle and screech?

"With you," said the Rabbit.

He smiled at the Bear

And their voices in harmony sweetened the air.

March 19, 1986

IMAGINATION (THE MUSE)

A vague and hazy shadow somewhere secret by my side

Dusty, abstract instrument which I cannot abide

Nothing I feel is as real as the night

Somber and cryptic, it steals my sight

I may sense in its shadow, mysterious mind

But truth in the daylight is less than kind.

Some powers, buried, may try to break free

Not so, the coward that's shadowing me

Contented to rest in illusion it stays,

and bends me softly to its ways.

Imagination, fragile toy

Capricious friend, and subtle joy

An instrument I cannot play

It makes what melodies it may.

Published In: BEGINNINGS MAGAZINE, June 2000

LINGER ON

Of dreams we whisper in the night

And shadows cross our paths

But only

Looking, looking for the light

We linger on.

Lost in colored fabrics, somehow

seeing only what is there

A distant echo sounds from somewhere

Calling, calling

Linger on.

One heartbeat mixes with another

Eyes of onyx stare me down

Like dreamers lost in something real

We search, and somehow

Linger on.

As one we whisper in the night

And visions blind our eyes

But only

Knowing what is wrong

Or right

We linger on...

January 20, 1986

NARCISSUS AND THE WRITER

Restless and ageless

Serene and secure

Strange and sincere, I am not

Anymore

Open and honest

Surreal and alive

Secret and selfish, what else

I contrive

Substance is sticky and wet

'Tis my soul

Might have been useless, but yet

I don't know

Strange cat staring in my eyes

I think he cannot guess

My lies.

FRAGMENTS

Once upon a time.

Twice upon a time.

Once upon when I did not know what time it was.

Twice upon a time that was a really long time ago.

Once upon a clock.

Once upon a second hand.

Once upon a timeshare property in New Mexico…

Prologue

Once upon a timeshare property in New Mexico, there lived a full-blooded Native American man named Hector Runningspringwater. Hector was ninety-nine and three quarters years old. He couldn't walk very well, so whenever he had to go to a meeting or public appearance, his great-great granddaughter pushed him around in a wheelchair.

One day, Hector Runningspringwater had to go to a very important meeting in a town sort of far away. His great-great granddaughter was unable to get the day off from work, and so was not available to push him to this very important meeting that he had to go to in a town sort of far away.

So poor, old Hector Runningspringwater was stuck all by himself on his timeshare property in New Mexico, unable to make it to his meeting.

Interlogue

I love you, she said. She didn't know why she said it. It just slipped out.

I shouldn't have said it, she thought. What will happen now?

There is romance, he said. "And romance is the beauty of love. Or, perhaps, it is only the soul of love, and you are the beauty of love."

An eloquent speech, she thought. But very corny.

Yeah sure, she said.

For in the running water, the spring of life—

Excuse me, she said. You’re in the wrong story. This story's supposed to be about love. The story up on the top of the page is the one about Runningspringwater.

Oh, he said. Sorry.

Up to the top of the page he went, to finish his speech.

Afterlogue

A fine work of art was placed upon the window ledge.

A fine work of art it is, thought J.P.W Giltenheimerstein.

He was the guy who had put the fine work of art upon the window ledge. It was a perfect place for it, he knew—because having just paid twenty-seven million dollars for it, he wanted to put it somewhere where everyone could see it.

The maid walked into the room. Would you like something to eat, Sir? She asked.

No thank you, answered J.P.W Giltenheimerstein. How do you like my fine work of art?

Oh! Exclaimed the maid, seeing it for the