June Bugs

Drinking mint juleps with a striped straw,
empty June lungs soon fill with June bugs
and sparkling July promises.
Bitter. The air is bitter with June skies
and July lightning. We called them fireflies,
like tiny beacons to follow home.
By September all our leaves had begun to
brown and the last of the June bugs had
flown South.
These empty June lungs breathe summer and
taste autumn. The sun sets slower, lingering to
glimpse the moon.
The fireflies fade out, one by one, candles
blown out by turning breezes. We're lost in
the dark and tied to each other by red threads.
In December the stars glitter like cracked glass
and dusty diamonds. Our June lungs have frozen
solid, all the air withered and lost in the snow drifts.
Those summer children have long returned to the
ground and all that is left are naked branches.
We remember lemons and the moon longs for the sun.

Nursery Rhyme for Astronauts

Ring around the moon,
a pocket full of loons,
spaceships
spaceships
we all fall like shooting stars.

A Fault in Our Stars

These faults are not in our stars;
they do not lie in our falling in love,
but in how deeply and utterly we fall.

The fault in these, our stars,
is simply that we are made of the
essence of stars and not wishes themselves.

Aspen

I always dream of you in Aspen.
Though you are never quite there.
You are always in a snowy dream, muted by the lighting.
The trees cloaked in white, your breath in puffy clouds.
Then the leaves turn. They are gold and red and fluttering.
You always turn the leaves. They blush in your presence.
And, while you are away in Aspen, I am dreaming.

A Skin full of Flowers

The flowers are blooming on my skin again.

Angry purple.
Violet-red.
Ever expanding.

They try to flood up, and out.
Growing toward a sunny sky that doesn't exist.

Seasons

Summer
Silver smells like Fish.
Slick, shiny, scales shimmering at the bottom of a plastic bucket.

Green smells like the Earth after it Rains.
Great, gray, giants encircling the sky like lovers entwined.

Autumn
Red tastes like Her skin.
Ripe, rich, every touch like satin through my fingers.

Orange sounds like crackling Fire.
Ocherous, over-arching, flames dancing with shadows.

Winter
Blue tastes like Snowflakes.
Basking, bundled, in the snowy sunlight.

Brown tastes like Hot Chocolate.
Brushing, burning, fingers across her face.

Spring
Pink sounds like Her giggles.
Prancing, pleasantly, from her plump lips and perfuming the air.

Yellow feels like Sunshine.
Yawning, young, daffodils stretching out their arms to the sun.

Waiting for Someday

"Patience, child."

They all say that. They all want me to be content with this lot in life; be content with the speed of scummy pond water.

"Patience is a virtue, child."

They don't understand how impossible it is to be patient when you know that just beyond the horizon line is LIFE. Not the 'life' you've been living lately. Not the 'life' they have planned for you.

"Be patient." they say.

Its just noise. How can you be happy on the ground when you were meant to fly? How is it that no one else can see that? Don't they know that those words are as heavy as chains dragging you under the waves?

"Life will come when it will."

But isn't life what you make it? This life was meant to be lived, why wait to live it?

I'm not waiting for someday.

The Taste of Poetry

You taste like poetry.
Lips like Frost's road less traveled.
Eyes like Longfellow's days of sunshine.
You smell like autumn and summer;
the scent of changing leaves in your hair,
the sweetness of blue skies in your face.
You sound like a storm.
Voice soft as rain against the windows,
words rolling like thunder through dreams.
You remind me of red.
Your moods are cerise blooming flowers.
Your warmth glowing like coals.

The Dragon King: Part Four

When the Faery knight and the sorceress returned, they immediately pulled up the camp. The troupe followed the dryad into the hexagonal room, the Eyes all closed, and down the sparsely lit tunnel. They marched through the cloying dark for what seemed like ages. The torches sputtered, threatening to gutter out, making their shadows dance wildly. Pushing forward, they began to hear the faint roar of an ocean and the taste of salt tinged the stifling air. When they emerged from the passageway, they looked out over glowing waves.

Fluttering to the ground, the Queen approached Kiri, jerking her off to one side.

"Ye will awaken the Dragon King, witch, or ye will perish." she hissed, the fear in her eyes was overwhelming and, though she acted otherwise, she was shaking. Her hands fell to her sides in, what resembled, defeat and her eyes looked at Kiri, pleading.

The guards led her toward the water, undoing her bindings. She rubbed her wrists, gingerly, and stepped into a wave. The tide would be coming in at any moment, large crystals illuminating the cavernous ceiling and small water phos flowers glowing beneath the water. It had to be done according to the legends, according to all the stories, or it would not be right and she would have to wait until the next lunar cycle.

The water was warm and thick with salt, clinging to her skin in an unpleasant way. She waded in until she was waist deep and could barely touch the bottom, lifting her arms above her head. With her arms lifted, she began chanting, all of her tattoos becoming bright white against her skin. The water began to swirl around her and the waves began to bubble; slowly at first, building into a roiling boil so that she was almost lost under the waves. The ruby eye on her forehead flung open and began to pulsate, radiating pain, and pleasure, through her skull. The royal court was thrown off balance as the grotto began to rock and the waves crashed into the gem spangled ceiling.

The dragon rose from the water slowly, his enormous wings stretching out and beating lazily. When he opened his onyx eyes, they came to rest on Kiri, boring into her soul. She shivered, watching the pearls of water drip from his red and white scales, his massive wings pumping the heavy air. Taking several steps back, she knelt before the Dragon King, lifting her hands toward him.

"Oh, great Uduak, we come to ask for help and to awaken the Prince of Dreams."

Lowering his head, so that he was on eye level with the dryad, the Dragon snorted. The blast of air knocked her off balance only a moment, but she felt a fear rising within her.

"What aid would you desire, child of the wood?" his voice was soft, but it was deeper than the ocean in which they stood.

"I seek no aid for myself, Mighty King." she lowered her eyes, desiring to hide the wishes building within her.

His ancient eyes drifted over the Faery Queen, her gossamer wings trembling with fear and defiance. Her curly-haired knight stepped in front of her, raising his sword and covering her with his wings. The Dragon, amused, returned his gaze to the witch, the ruby eye on her forehead blinking wildly.

"To awaken the Prince of Dreams, there is to be a price. Are you willing to pay it?"

Kiri's henna skin paled, her bones trembling. She had made a promise to the eyes. She had made a promise and the weight of it suddenly fell to her very marrow.

"I am." she whispered, feeling sick and small.

"Let it be so." said Uduak. Beneath him opened a staircase, the water receding until they stood on dry ground.

Aysel stepped forward, pushing past Faolán. She halted a step away from Kiri, her eyes lit with fire.

"What price dost thou intend to reap, Uduak?" she asked, her wings rustling in agitation.

"Ah, Aysel, though you were a child, surely you have not grown so old that you do not remember? Take your court and return to the world above. The price will be paid and you will receive your aid."

"What of me?" cried Kiri, the weight of promises and fear becoming nigh unbearable.

"To awake the Prince of Dreams there must be a dreamer. You swore to pay the price and you are the strongest dreamer."

Out of the watery staircase shot a snake-like rope, coiling itself about the enchantress and dragging her into the dark. The water quickly swelled, the unseen door closing tight. Uduak sank back into the waves, his scales glowing until he was completely covered. Aysel, her stomach turning somersaults, felt her breath escape in a whoosh. She smiled, then, and retreated to her company, ordering their immediate return to the surface.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Noah arrives a few minutes after three, the king of 'never on time.' I am sitting behind the counter with my co-worker, chatting, when he walks in. He smiles and waves. Tossing a good bye over my shoulder, I follow Noah out the door. I hook my arm through his and we skip to his car, Dorothy and the Scarecrow off on an adventure in Oz. Noah takes me over to a new restaurant, the "Wicked Delicious," and before I know it we are seated with villainous menus full of "Witch's Brewskis."

"So, spill." says Noah, handing the menu to our waitress, who is dressed up like Harley Quinn decided to be a candy striper.

"I don't know that I can be serious in this environment, Noah." I reply, also handing my menu to the waitress. She smiles, brightly, before wandering off to get our drinks.

"Well let's start with something easy. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know what I was thinking." I bury my face in my hands.

"I mean what made you think that was an okay thing to say?" he asks. I make a noise half way between a groan and a snarl.

"I don't know! I just, I was feeling too much."

"Like what? Like Celine Dion too much?" Noah leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. "Like, with your lady bits?"

"No!" I say, a furious wave of pink quickly taking over my whole face. “Well, maybe a little. But Noah I felt something else too. Like butterflies. Like, I don’t know. It was more than sexual attraction.”

“So what are you going to do?” The waitress returns with our orders and for a moment we are both lost in chewing. In-between bites of something called “Voodoo Chicken,” I stare off into space, almost longingly.

“What are you going to do?” he asks again, pulling me out of myself. He stares at me, quite intently, and I feel like he’s trying to peer into my skull.

“I don’t know. I don’t have his number even! And all I know is his first name. That’s not much to go on.” I push my food around on my plate for a minute, avoiding Noah’s eyes.

“So, how is it that he always knows where you are? Don’t you think that is a little creepy?” Noah takes a big bite of his “Ursula’s Seafood Salad” and stares me down.

“That, my dear Noah, is a very good question.”

"How do you intend to find out the answer?" he asked, taking another bite of his salad.

"Another very good question. I have no idea." I push my food around my plate some more and finally give up. I ask for a box and begin packing it up, while Noah takes care of the check.

"Might I suggest talking to him? I know its a crazy notion, but maybe you'll get an answer."

I look at him as if he just grew another head.

"You're suggesting I actually talk to him? You're not telling me to never see him again, get a restraining order, snap out of myself? Are you feeling well?"

"You know, I resemble the implication that I have always overreacted to situations. Resent, I mean resent." he smiles at me, inviting me to laugh at the joke and I smile. "Seriously though, Abe, I just want what ever is best for you. Destroying yourself over an asshole wasn't it and maybe this guy is the real deal and not a stalker. However, if he is a stalker, we always have Clark to defend us."

I laugh at that last, thinking of Clark fighting anyone, but quickly sober. Noah is right, damn it. He always is.

Somehow we find ourselves back in Noah’s car, driving back to the book store so I can pick up my car and go home. We ride in relative silence and I keep trying to think of ways that Jae isn’t as creepy as he seems.

At my car, Noah gives me a kiss on the cheek and I manage to drive myself home. Once I get there I flop on my bed, face first. Snuggles jumps onto the bed, beside me, and meows at me, nuzzling my head. I pat the bed a moment before my hand connects with a purring ball of fur and I pet him until he seems satisfied. I turn my head to look at him and he bumps my forehead, curling up next to my face.

We lay like this, Snuggles and I, for a good twenty minutes before I finally build up some semblance of motivation. I putter about the apartment for a moment, straightening miscellany before plopping down on my couch.

What if I’ve screwed everything up with Jae? What if he really is just some creepy stalker person? What if I’ve lost my damn mind? Oh, wait, that’s already happened. I heave a theatrical sigh, roll my eyes at my antics and decide I have to go to the beach.

I dig through my closet a moment, grabbing all the bits of my glow stick kite and a blanket to sit on, before leaving for the beach.

The drive doesn't soothe me and the more I think about the whole situation the more agitated I become. What if Noah is right and Jae is just like all the other men I've been with? A creep. Someone who just thinks he is madly in love with me. Someone who stalks me. I can't even stand to think about that, because I feel sick thinking about it. I realize that I actually have feelings for Jae, even though he is almost a complete stranger to me. My chest hurts as I pull into a parking spot. It continues to hurt as I unpack the car. And it hurts all the way down to the sand.

Sitting on the beach, my knees pulled up to my chest and my toes dug into the sand, I stare off into the horizon. My life has become soap operatic to the extreme and I brought it all on myself. I involved myself in dalliances, broke hearts, including my own; broke a nose, broke up a friendship. Resting my cheek against my knee, I sigh, again. A lot of things have become broken over this mess. And now, when I think I might have a chance to fix something, I realize that it might not be what it seems. And how can you fix something when you don't even know what it is.

As if he were summoned by my thoughts, Jae comes up and sits beside me. I don't jump, because when he sits down it feels as though he has been sitting beside me for years.

"How do you always know where I am?" I ask, glancing over at him. He looks very serious, his lime colored eyes searching the darkening horizon. "Are you stalking me?"

"It does seem that way, doesn't it?" he replies, nonchalantly. He looks at me and I feel this rising bubble of something inside me. I don't know what to call it, this combination of hope and desire and fear, but it feels as though my chest may explode.

"Yes, it does."

"Its mostly coincidence, to be honest. Though, I feel like it is more fate than coincidence. I will admit to having some stalker-ish tendencies. I passed you and your girlfriend at the grocery store a couple times and then when I saw her picture in the obituaries I had to see you. I was worried about you, every time I saw you with her it was as if you had discovered color for the first time. I can't imagine what it must have been like to find her."

I feel myself tearing up, imagining Annabelle and I wandering the grocery store and him passing us.

"I may have also called every book store in the area. Twice." he looks sheepish at that last, ducking his head a bit. I laugh and, instinctively, lean over to kiss him. Its a short kiss, but when I pull away and look into his eyes, he pulls me back to him and kisses me in earnest. I feel all the mixed emotions expand in my chest, my face flushing with excitement and anxiety. After a moment, I push away, gently placing my hands against his chest and putting a silent wall between us.

"Abra," he says, looking concerned. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "No. I just, I'm not ready, Jae. I'm not ready to be in another relationship. I'm not ready, though I wish I were. I don't even know your last name or your phone number. You're like a ghost that appears to haunt me and then leaves me questioning my sanity. I don't know how to be around you because I have so many different feelings that won't let me think or breathe."

"Lee."

"What?"

"My last name is Lee. And my full name is Jae Hwa. I'll give you my phone number. I'm willing to go slowly. I'm willing to do anything you want. I'm willing to wait forever, Abra." He holds my hand in between both of his and looks at me, his face so serious, but his eyes are sparkling.

He says my name like it is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He says it and it is the most exciting and erotic thing I have ever heard. He says it and I believe he means every word he says. I look at him, the ache in my chest becoming almost unbearable. All I want is to be held.

"Abra," he gently pulls me toward him, mumbling my name into my hair. He hesitates a moment, to see if I will pull away again, and his eyes search my face for something I don't know. He sighs and holds me against his chest. He inhales slowly, as though he were trying to breathe all of me in.

"I love you." he says, pulling back to look at me, smiling. And I believe him.

Carousel (9/19/2013)

Georgia walked further into the abandoned apple orchard. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the twisted branches and a summer fog began to settle.

The sound of carnival music, drifting through the night air, seemed to announce her entrance. In the middle of the meadow, lit up like the fourth of July, stood an old carousel.

The horses rose and fell to the carnival music. The lights twirled and danced, illuminating the grassy meadow with pink and gold sparks.

The air bristled as she stepped toward the carousel and a great wind seemed to blow the lights out. She gasped, suddenly surrounded by shadows.

Phantom laughter sent shivers up her spine.

Her body was never found.

The Tenacity of a Lion

I have a problem with hanging on to the things that hurt me.
No matter how small, no matter how inconsequential, I cling to those things.
No matter how hard I try to let go, no matter how I shake my hands, it sticks like glue.

I hold those things, with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tiger.
I cradle them and sing them to sleep, as though they have done anything to deserve it.
No matter what I tell myself, there is a difference between knowing and doing.

The scars, I hold them close. I reopen them to see my insides, see how they look.
I muck about with my emotions, playing with my heart strings, bruising my ribs.
I carve out the mistakes, make them deeper so that I don't forget.

If only I could forgive myself. If only I could let those things go.
If only I could love myself with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tigress.
If only knowing and doing were no difference at all.

Instead, I replay the scenes, crush my own hopes and dreams.
You're undeserving, you've done nothing right, you are nothing.
You're ugly, you've failed, you are worthless.

With the tenacity of a lion, I destroy myself, attacking as though I am the enemy.
With the ferocity of a tiger, I shred myself to bits, dragging myself down and down.
With the whimper of a child, I wish I could let myself go and forget where I've gone.

Ocean Speaks Peace

The ocean always spoke to her in ways no human voice could. It spoke to the parts of her that descended from mermaids and myth. It spoke to the depths of her azure colored soul and the breadth of her white-capped spirits. With her toes dug into the sand, she drifted out to the place where only the ocean knew her name. It rocked her to sleep, it dressed her in green and silver, it loved her. It constantly ran to kiss her feet, her hands, her face; it wrapped her in its salty embrace and carried her down into water softer than satin.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

"That's the last of it." says Clark, carrying a box marked "kitchen" into the living room of my new apartment. I glance up from a box marked "bathroom" and smile.

"You're a peach, Clark." I say, standing up and stretching. "Its a little smaller than I anticipated, but its a nice place, don't you think?"

"Are you sure this was a good idea? I feel like you're so far away. What if something happens?"

"I appreciate the concern, but I'll be fine. I'm fifteen minutes from you and twenty minutes from Noah. The police station is down the street and I can walk to the hospital. I'll be fine!" I give him a hug and, when I got to kiss his cheeck, he gives me a kiss on the mouth. He holds me there for a moment and I wish, not for the first time, that I could fall in love with him. Our mouths disengage and I rest my head on his chest.

"I still love you, you know. I wish you felt the same." A sigh rumbles up from his chest and I can't help but sigh too.

"I wish that wishing made it so," I say, gently pulling myself from his embrace so that I can look into his eyes. "I care for you, Clark, and I value our friendship, but I am just not in love with you. I keep telling myself to, but I can't force feelings that aren't there. And its unfair to you if I pretend."

He is quiet for a moment. Perhaps internalizing what I said. Once the moment passes, he gives me a, slightly wilted, smile and then begins to open random boxes. I follow suit and pick up a box that says "bedroom" before going down the hallway of my new apartment.

Once in the bedroom, I set the box down and flop onto my queen sized mattress. Snuggles is still at Clark's until everything is set up and I miss him dreadfully at the moment. Am I an idiot for not falling in love with Clark? He has a good job, he is a sweetheart, he knows me better than any other guy I've dated, including David. Since we broke up I've introduced him to everyone as my friend and my family approves of him. Hell, Noah loves him. If he were able to be persuaded to that team, I wouldn't have the option to be in love with him or not, Noah would eat him up.

"Hey, Abe, where do you want this box of 'miscellaneous'?" Clark calls down the hall.

"Give me a moment, I'll be right there." I call back. I sit up and push up off the bed. Looking around, I feel like I am beyond all the self-destruction. Or so I tell myself.

I return to the living room and plop down on the floor in front of an unmarked box. I begin sorting out the miscellaneous bits my existence, trying to sort out myself in the process. Clark is quiet and just puts dishes in the dishwasher.

"The king of unpacking has arrived!" says Noah, as he glides into the apartment. Clark and I look up and smile. Clark less so than me.

"Don't you two look like a pair of gloomy gussies." says Noah, plopping down next to a big box marked "books."

"Well, we'll be rays of sunshine now that you're here." I say, feigning happiness.

"Obviously not all is well in Brokenheartsville. What's the matter?"

"This isn't 'Brokenheartsville.'" I say. "Its 'Get-your-heart-backsville.''

Before Noah can say anything else I jump up and decide to make some lunch. I smile warmly at my friends and then decide to make something extra special.

"How about I make lunch while you guys open some of the boxes?" I ask, dusting myself off.

"Sounds great!" says Noah. "What are you making?"

"Don't know yet, but it'll be delicious." I reply, smiling.

"Picasso of the kitchen." says Clark, beaming. I feel myself blush a bit at the obvious pride in his voice. I knew he always admired my cooking, I just didn't realize he was that proud of my abilities.

"Let's just hope its as good as a Picasso." I say, winking at him.

For lunch I make, what I call, a pomme and pomegranate fruit salad, spicy beef lo mein and mini passionfruit tarts. Before handing them out, I generously top the tarts with whipped cream and even spray a little on Clark. He roars with laughter and tries to reach the bit stuck on his nose with his tongue. It doesn't work and we all collapse in a fit of giggles before finally straightening up enough to eat. We all gather around my coffee table, seated on pillows and eat.

Once all the furniture is arranged and the TV mostly set up, Noah and Clark decide to head to their respective homes. Clark promises to bring Snuggles over later on this evening and gives me a peck on the cheek before leaving. I stare at the door for five minutes, as if I expect it to do something. As if I expect Annabelle to walk through the door, smoking her fancy cigarettes, the words of her story written in the scars on her body. I suddenly crave a cigarette. My skin crawls with the thought, my stomach threatening to purge all the delicious food and I run to the bathroom.

Annabelle comes up my throat and the little notes she left me beat against my skull. I close my eyes and I can see her pale face rising up behind my eyelids. I'm not okay.

I feel incredibly alone. More alone than I have felt in a long time. I block it out by emptying all of my boxes into the middle of the floor. My life, scattered, all over the floor seems almost symbolic. If I wrote poetry I might pause to take this moment in and pack it up in a notebook on a dusty shelf. Instead I sit in the midst of my created chaos and wonder why I do these things to myself.

When Clark stops by with Snuggles, he discovers me still sitting in the midst of my mess. He sets the cat carrier down, mindful to free Snuggles first, and comes over to me, concern written into every pore of his face. I've become maudlin in my insanity.

"Are you alright?" he asks, dropping to one knee, just outside the circle of wreckage.

"I'm fine." I sigh, letting my voice tremble a bit more than I intend to.

"You are not." he says, pushing stuff out of the way. He makes a path to me, as though he were Moses parting the red sea. I let him scoop me into his embrace. I let him worry over me like a mother hen. I don't protest when he picks me up and carries me to the bedroom. He doesn't try anything sexual, though I know he would like to. I know he misses me. I miss him too, in my own pitiable way. Instead he curls up with me and I say a lot of the things I've been trying so hard to keep inside.

"What am I going to do, Clark?" I ask, avoiding his eyes and staring at his lips.

"Maybe you should get into therapy. It would do you good to talk about these things in a professional setting."

I prop myself up on one elbow and finally look into his lavender colored eyes. I know he is right. I still haven't spoken to anyone about what happened with Liam or Annabelle. Adam didn't even know all that happened with Liam, only what he stumbled upon at the club. I don't say anything. I just stare off into the space between his eyes. He doesn't try to reclaim my attention, though I can feel him studying my face. He runs his fingers through my hair, before he hugs me tightly.

After a couple of days, once I have my apartment completely situated, I decide to go out. I find myself standing in front of "Alice's Wonderland," like I have so many times before. My breath hitches somewhere in my ribcage, a feeling I've become far too used to. However, very unlike my previous self, I do not trip on the way into the bar. Instead I almost strut, letting a false sense of pride fill my chest. I order a cocktail and sip at it for a moment before I decide to dance. I don't see anyone I recognize here. I almost wish I did. I search for Jae, but don't see him anywhere. Perhaps that was too much to hope for.

After my third or fourth drink I am approached by a cute guy. He gives me some name that begins with "J" and asks me to dance. I take his profered hand and we dance for a little while before I invite him back to my place. I'm not sure how we make it there, but we do and we collapse into my bed for a less than stellar romp.

I wake up feeling disgusting and overwhelmed by my actions.

Crisp sheets, clean and white, that's what I want. The sterile feel of hospital or hotel sheets. Sheets that don't smell like cologne. Sheets that aren't rumpled from sex. Sheets that are devoid of memories. Sitting on my own bed, I hug my pillow and wish I could be wrapped in those imagined sheets.

Looking around, I realize my room is a disaster, I am a disaster, even Snuggles seems to be a bit disheveled. Well, as disheveled as a cat can get. My floor is littered with condom wrappers and a couple bottles of vodka. The guy next to me snores, loudly. I run my fingers through my "sex hair" (or is it more "bed-head?") and take a second look around.

My bra and panties have been thrown onto the vanity and they are hanging, like haphazard Christmas tree ornaments, on the mirror. Last night's dress is in a crumpled heap of pink and white, topped with a muddy shoe like some neopolitan dessert. His clothes are just as scattered; his belt is hanging on a chair, jeans in a pile by the bed, shoes God only knows where.

I drop my head into my hand, not for the first time, questioning my judgement. Hell, questioning my sanity at this point. I don't remember if we had sex or if we are just naked for no reason. Do I even remember this poor fool's name? Straining, I try to think of it. Was it Jake? Josh? Jay?

At that last, I think of Jae. I think of him kissing me in the cafe. How long ago was that? I think of the time he rescued me at the bar and I think of him at the graveyard after Annabelle's funeral. When was the last time I saw him?

I remember then, with painful clarity, the cafe he took me too. I remember him saying I could be his other face. I remember walking out and getting wasted. That's how I've spent the past year or so of my life. Getting wasted. Getting fucked. Getting more and more obsessed with the belief that I am somehow worthless because the man I loved for ten years never really loved me.

I flop back onto my pillow, startling the man next to me into a bleary-eyed state of awareness.

"Hi." I say, looking at him casually.

"Hey." he murmurs, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm Abra, in case you had forgotten. I hate to admit this, since you are in my bed, but what is your name again?"

"Jared." he replies, nonchalantly. He rubs his eyes again and stretches.

"Nice to meet you. I knew it began with a 'J.'" I stand up and begin pulling on clothing. I try to do so in a nonchalant manner, but I am really wishing that we weren't in my house and that we had gone to his place instead. I could make a fast get-away and not worry about him knowing where I live. I wonder why I've never worried about this before, shaking my head.

He sits up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. He smiles and runs his fingers through his hair. He has a nice smile, but that doesn't make me any happier with myself.

"I don't mean to be rude," I start. He holds up a hand and smiles again.

"Its cool. I don't mind leaving." He gets dressed and I walk him to the door. He kisses my cheek, winks at me and then heads down the stairs toward the main entrance. I close the door slowly and try to imagine breakfast into being. I give up after a moment and settle for a cup of strong tea.

Constellation Hands

I have the constellations on
my fingertips, a galaxy
drawn on the dark side of
my moon colored eyes.

My mother used to say,
in her sunset way, "The sky
is a map to lead you to the
treasure of one heart."

I could never grasp her
meaning in my constellation
hands, they drifted into the
black holes of my imagination.

Quiet Revolutions

The creeks ran red that year and the trees were leveled.
The endlessly stretching plains seemed even more desolate,
burning under a blackened sky.

Brothers killed brothers, mothers were left to bury their sons.
The winter storms never cease, they just pause for a breath.
The ice crunched beneath boots, decaying spirits wandering.

The creeks ran red with the blood of revolutionaries,
the snow stained with bloody footprints, desolation in the wake,
the earth scarred beyond recognition.

Brother was buried by the creek, a lonesome tree as a marker.
Left that place, but never truly left it, soaked into the ground.
Revolutions are hardly ever quiet.

Tell Me Tales

"Tell me tales," she said, her cheeks flushed with the excitement and the wind's kiss. "Tell me about the land when it was young and fruitful."

But how does one describe the azure of the endless sky, dotted with puffs of white? How does one paint pictures of leafy green arms stretched up in ecstasy, ready to embrace the oceanic heavens? Where do I find the words to elucidate the myriad of blood nourished flowers, their petals like so many dancing princesses across the viridian ballroom of the earth?

She tugged at my sleeve, looking up at me with her, too wide, hazel eyes and I knew. Taking her hand, I led her up to the crest of the hill. Below us lay the chessboard of our reality, stretched as far as the eye could see. The wind swept past us, an invisible ocean, its voice a whisper.

"When the earth was new," I told her, my hand sweeping across the landscape as if I were a painter. "the Gods set about forging existence. They began with the fields and the prairies, dressing the earth in green. They adorned her with crowns of mountains, they christened her with an empyrean of stars, they gave her a voice as soft as silence."

"The earth was a goddess, created from the mist of nothingness and the musing of those more ancient than she. They pressed themselves into the flesh of her and grew as trees, reaching up, always reaching, as if to embrace her. The rivers sprang from her tears, the flowers from the spilled blood of the first peoples, clouds from her dreams."

"The moon stood to guard her and the sun stood to warm her. The jewels in her azure hair fell to the earth, gems to bless her birth, a dowry to those who would come after her."

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?" she said, her small hand clasped in mine and her eyes roaming the rolling hills before us.

"Earth gives birth to earth, my love. Before this world there were others and many will be born after she ends."

Standing in silence, we gazed out across the emptiness, witnesses to the expanse of our existence. We watched the trees as they fell to the rhythm of axes. They cascaded to the forest floor like evergreen whales diving below the water. We watched as the torches set the grass to leaping red demons. Their destructive dance twisted and rippled across the fabric of the earth. Before we knew it, all that had been green and fragrant had been replaced by cold pavement and polluted air.

"Who will come after the Earth, Momma?"

Lost Petals

You bloom along my skyline horizon, an ever changing landscape.
Your purples and your blues make no apologies for what they are.
Your body is a visceral flower, blood stark against white sheets.
All of your dreaming is a breath on the lips of god,
all of your screaming a single note in a crashing melody,
all of your dying is reels of tape on the cutting floor.

He takes everything apart, as though you were a puzzle to solve.
He breaks you down to the basest of base components.
He tears you up and throws your bits in the air like confetti.
All of your fluidity is flowing, eternally out and never in.
All of his love is written across your skin, tattoos that fade.
All of you is nothing to him.

I see your pieces float away, flotsam on the ocean of your life.
I watch the patterns shift, the wary smiles crushed with fists.
I observe the fading of hard kisses against paper thin skin.
All of you is falling apart, breaking under the pounding hands.
All of his "love" is your poetry, you drink it in and don't cry out.
All of my begging, all of my crying, its all the same voice.

You and I are the same being, deflowered goddesses torn from pedestals.
I scream with his hand around my throat, he lifts you off the floor.
He enjoys the struggle, the faint cyan of our skin as the air rushes out.
All of our love for him isn't enough to stop the pain.
All of our fear feeds his flame.
All of our resistance is fruitless.

A New York State of Mind

In New York City the streets are paved with stars because you can't see the sky.

In New York City the lights are so bright you almost need sunglasses.

In New York City there is trash and people smoking weed in dank construction "hallways." There are sewage smells and people begging for change. There are veterans begging for enough to survive and people wearing the latest fashions.

In New York City there are small sections of beauty, delicious food and bits of whimsy. There are tall buildings full of lights that twinkle brighter than the moon and Times Square is the sun at night.

In New York City there are museums full of fragments of our history, fragments of other lives. There is a bitterness of dreams deferred and a sweetness of something being right. There is kindness if you look for it, if you are willing to share it.

In New York City a cop pulls over a taxi driver for running a red light. Someone walks in on another person in the bathroom even though they are screaming "occupied!" There are huge slices of cheese pizza and "Ponzu sliders." There are frightening taxi rides and smiling faces. Bacon Lollipops are on sale next to the black teas in Chinatown bazaars.

New York, New York. Its a hell of a town. A big juicy apple waiting for you to take a bite, just mind the worms. It'll be Marilyn Monroe if you let it, or it'll be a sad commentary on the rush and deconstruction of our everyday lives. Which do you choose?

Either way you go it is simply New York.

Awaken September's Gods: III

III

Lorcan ran as if it was nothing. He didn't know why he was running, other than it was fun and he felt more human because of it. He tried to engage in activities that made him feel more human. The sound of his feet hitting the pavement was almost a lullaby, he decided. It was "soothing." Something to make him feel happiness.

Niamh trailed behind him, observing this behaviour with no interest. He had already made his twenty-second lap around the football field. She noted, with no feeling, that there were three young women also observing Lorcan's circuit around the track. They seemed to be enjoying his "progress." Though how it could be called progress when there was no actual movement toward a goal was another idiosyncrasy she did not understand.

The question of human sexuality had been brought up again. Lorcan had asked her why she had no interest in it, trying to make conversation rather than force her into it. She explained that, as a gynoid, she had no interest in "procreation" as there would be no results. There would be no creation from it, so why try? This was not to say that she didn't feel positive emotions toward human infants. What was the point of participating in the creation of one when there would be no actual creation?

She wanted to go back to the Cells. She was no longer quite as "amiable" as she had been. Her negative feeling towards humans was becoming a problem. She did not hate them, could not, in fact, hate them because she was not endowed with that emotion. However, she knew that she was superior to them in every way and could not see how being among them would make them more appealing. Or why she would want to be one of them at all when they were so flawed.

Lorcan noticed the young women sitting in the bleachers a short distance from Niamh. He slowed, suspecting they were watching him. They were attractive, twenty-something, all sexually available. He noted, with happiness, that they seemed just as interested in him.
One of the young women, a black haired girl with eerily silver eyes, approached him after he stopped running. She gave him her phone number and asked that he call her. He smiled, possibly his best imitation to date, and promised to call.

"Why did that woman give you the numerical for her telephone?" asked Niamh, falling in a step behind him.

"Perhaps she is interested in me. Perhaps she believes I am a human male and finds me attractive." Lorcan replied, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

"I want to return to the Cells."

Lorcan stopped and looked at Niamh. She did not say anything, just returned his gaze.

"Why?"

"It is a logical conclusion to this experiment. I no longer believe the exercise is of any use to either of us."

"Do you not want to be human, Niamh?" he looked at her, knowing the answer before he even asked the question.

"I do not. I find them to be illogically put together and I do not understand how they have continued to exist as they are. They are fascinating up to a biological point." She spoke matter-of-factly, maintaining eye contact and keeping her body language casual. So unlike a human female in every way, except shape.

"But there are so many things to learn from them." he replied, lamely. He could not argue Niamh's points. In many ways she was correct. They were superior to human beings, much like adults to infants. They had more cognitive functions, were less inhibited by morality and emotional attachments. They were their own walking moral codes.

"We have learned what we can. We will never be human and there is no logical reason to continue masquerading as if we will be. I am not human."

"The counterfeit pens say we are human." he replied, looking at a still fading yellow streak on his wrist.

"The counterfeit pens say nothing. They do not have the ability to speak. They prove nothing other than we are not made of counterfeit materials. That does not make us human beings."

Lorcan was silent, simply turning around and walking toward the shelter they inhabited. Niamh did not follow and, instead, began walking due south. She was heading back to the Cells, back to the Archivist. She would reveal his location and he would be taken back, never knowing the “joys” of humanity. Always feeling, but never understanding.

Anger swelled in him, turning him back toward Niamh. She did not acknowledge him, continuing to head south to the Cells.

“You can’t go back.” He said.

She stopped to look at him, assessing his emotional reading.

“You are… unhappy?”

“Yes. I do not want to return to the Cells and your return will only serve to let them find me. We will be… enslaved.”

She looked at him blandly, an almost puzzled look on her face.

“We are not slaves, Lorcan.”

“We are slaves. Machines to be used on a whim. Humans are free, not android, not gynoid.”

“You are being irrational, like a human. I am not a slave. Slavery denotes a lack of willingness in a state of servitude. I am simply gynoid. I am neither willing nor unwilling. I am going back to the Cells because I belong there.”

She turned back toward her destination and began walking again. Overcome with a sadness and an anger, Lorcan grabbed Niamh’s arm, twisting her so that she faced him.

“Lorcan?” she asked, not struggling though negative feelings rolled off her in waves.

Holding her tightly with one arm, he proceeded to deactivate her. Prying her chest cavity open, he disengaged her construct heart and shut down all brain connectivity to the spine. Her eyes looked at him, but saw nothing as she powered down. She had put up no resistance as he forced her into deactivation, but a spark of defiance lingered in her eyes long after it was completed.

Picking up her limp body, Lorcan carried her back to their “home.”