The turn signal blinks hypnotically as she waits patiently in a shitty cheap company vehicle that they dumped on her at headquarters. It’s sound much like a metronome that slowly fades into the background of her thoughts. Tik-tok tik-tok tik-tok “Maggie deserves more than that cheap 99 cent bullshit!” The man is yelling that phrase animately along more vulgar and descriptive complaints at her in her mind’s eye. She sighs as the light finally turns green and, as the vehicle’s nose reaches the intersection, barely breaking into the oncoming flow of traffic, she hesitates for a few seconds. A loud crash rings in her ears and the impact swings the vehicle in a violent half circle into a street lamp on the right. But, that moment of hesitation passes and the crash that seemed so real fades into the recesses of her mind as she forces her hands to move to complete the turn after triple checking traffic from all sides. Maybe the next turn will be better. Well, hopefully anyway.

“The day is done,” he thought staring out his kitchen window. The soft glow of the street lamp illuminated the snow banks along his sidewalk and he smiled. There was a small shuffle of anxious feet behind a few boxes left by the garbage can, intended to be recycled, for months now. He turned around to spot Maggie, a hodgepodge of mismatched colors for fur, poke her head out at him from inside one of the boxes. Motioning her to come to him with his left hand after sitting down at the kitchen table only made things worse for the poor cat. While trying to respond to his demand, her paw caught on the flap of another box that was nearby and she stumbled clumsily forward. The man broke into a grin and started to laugh uproariously as she stumbled some more along her journey. Maggie never had good balance, this he knew, and he always found her antics to be amusing, but tonight it brought him pure joy. So, he stood up and walked the rest of the way to her wishing that the feeling would last. Sooner, rather than later, he would have to return to the world out there underneath the street lamp and beyond it where chaos reigned. A world that he barely understood anymore. But, for now, he decided to enjoy his small taste of paradise. He knelt down scratching Maggie affectionately behind the ears with a small smile ghosting across his pursed lips.

Maybe. Perhaps. If. That is her world and some would swear that she revels in it. Uncertainty. No guarantees. It makes it hard to stay. Makes it hard to get disappointed. Hard to claim and be claimed. At the first indication of an escape route, she will take it and claim it was the higher moral ground. Claim a sacrifice that was never hers to make. But it’s OK. It’s always OK just so long as she can disappear on her own terms. Her letter of farewell fondly planned out for another more final goodbye held tightly to her breast. And, so, she travels. Whether it be in the physical world or within the countless worlds her mind creates, she is content.

Where you hesitated, he forged forward. Blind and uncertain. Not a penny or possession to her name. Where you feared your own skill, he stumbled into it with no experience at all. She grew and came to be known for her craft worldwide. Where you blindly believed in fate and soul mates, he built his own path brick by brick. Her skin is marred, but she dies with very little regrets. Where a part of you dies, he thrives and I have come to stay.

He marched with her down the boulevard which ran parallel to MLK. Two different worlds separated by less than a mile of concrete and sewage. She preferred the boulevard, but he secretly missed the world on the other side. Maybe he’ll go back once she loses interest in him for good and it’s about damn time too. The smile that broke across his face at that thought did not go unnoticed by her and her smug laugh that followed made his hopes soar. Tonight was definitely the night to be him on that old boulevard.

They prodded and exhausted all methods of diagnostics. All that was found was her fear underneath the bravado once she had to make due on her promises and flowery declarations of war. Their disappointment was heavy. It weighed down their bodies and drooped their faces. Eyes that once held hope lost their luster becoming dull and disinterested. Onward, forever onward, they continue their search for another to die on their cross.

He holds his hands open, palms facing upward, arms stretched wide to either side of him at waist level. The prayers slip from his his thoughts, to his lips, but never reaches his vocal chords. With eyes gazing reverently upward at the stars that did shine, his body begins to tremble lightly starting from the tips of his fingers to the thinning grey hair on his head. A man walks by, athletic and well groomed, stopping abruptly as if just noticing the older man standing there in the middle of the vast nearly empty parking lot. “Hey, got a cigarette I can bum off ya?”, the young man asks with uncertainty lacing his voice. The older man pauses in his silent incantation which has become a daily ritual for him as natural and frequent as eating for him over the years. The only indication of acknowledgment, and annoyance, at the interruption manifested itself as a slight twitch of his right eye. This is the first time since his awakening that anyone had dared approach him while in this state. Most people are too scared to even walk withing spitting distance of him and that fact has never chanced no matter his location. Be it a city or town in the middle of nowhere, the people there have always paid a deference usually reserved for strict authority figures. “As they should,” he mused to himself. A slight quirk of his lips at the corners of his mouth blossomed then in his own personal version of a smile. “Huh?” came the confused response from the young man standing far too close for comfort. The old man had been too engrossed in his thoughts to notice this fact. He also came to realize that he had spoken out loud without intending to. Lowering his head to stare into the young man’s eyes, muttering, “peccavi,” while doing so. Yes, he thought bitterly. Work is prayer after all and my overconfidence has overridden my caution. The Lord is testing me. Very well. The Saints did not journey unscathed.

The young man had spent the past few minutes observing the emotions play across the devotee’s face. The ones that he could discern was making him uneasy. He knew all too well the face of a fanatic and his disquiet grew stronger as the elderly man lowered his head to make eye contact. The young man, a driver just stopping through town, frowned and began to turn away. Some things just aren’t worth it, he thought.

It was at that moment when the devotee’s right hand shot out to grab the driver’s left arm in a firm grip. The driver’s surprise was short lived, but it was long enough for him to be caught by a swift blow to the temple with an industrial sized tire iron. The devotee, in a fit of rage bordering on madness, continued to pummel the driver in the head despite the deadly efficiency of the initial blow. Panting, the elderly man ambled away into the breaking twilight sun, silently questioning the length of time it took him to perform his penance. It was a large parking lot and he had plenty of time to ponder things before the public trickled in. “A Saint, indeed,” he chuckled to himself at length.

Darkness has a weight to it. It envelopes everything like a heavy wool coat hanging off an old woman’s frail anorexic shoulders. She gropes her way in it, trying to find the sleeves so that she can at least have some pretense of stability. The coat smells of washed out smoke from its previous owners and their lives. There are blood stains barely visible on the silk inling that she does not pick up with her dimmed eyesight. She picks at the food stains that litter the coat in precarious spots in-between tugs at the hems and an attempt here or there to zip the monstrosity up. The cold seeps in and all she can do is give in to it. No time to…

The concrete assembly of minds keeps the world at bay. Ceilings of glass make rationalizations in the hopes of finding a week one to pluck from the trusses. Wedding rings constrict their binds on fingers too big to hold them with ease. The moon stays silent in her judgment of us all, but surely she is smiling tonight. The rain melts down steel rails fill of her released desires and how can we help but kneel before her innocence. If only abandonment were an option and the truth were the law of the land. Fear, hold me close tonight upon your purity of purpose and song. For without you, I would be alone.

Too self-absorbed to look at the stars. The clouds and the mysteries of the world beyond hold no interest to me, the ever vigilant observer. The child sleeps as I make my escape into myself. Lost within the void of the road. She bows her head in supplication to a creator that despises her. She knows. Because of these lips, full and lush. Cascading auburn locks that glisten with morning dew. Hips and long supple legs that tempt men to sin. Eyes that can haunt their dreams. She knows. As sure as a new generation is to be born to carry burdens of their parents and those before them. Armies will rise and fall for her, but with buried resentments and expectations within their hearts. The world is mine and I know it. If she doesn’t need it, then neither do I. Our chains reinforced by the voices within clamoring for supremacy. They know.

The book will unfold with every letter you take with each step. Stars bloom and unravel before you. Eyes roam the ground in search of where you will go. Hands trace the gravel to where you have already been. The pages always a step behind. Running in the world’s oceans to escape what should have been. Never learning to swim. To explore what already is. To hope is to die. To share is to be alone. A child lost in the ashtray at the foot of God’s throne. Apathy devouring rage. Storms raging in your heart pulling passerbyers into their destructive spirals. When will it end?

Not a nightingale. Do not pretend to need a heart that can not mend. Go away.

Compelled to wander the inner mind, explore where no other creature can reach. Caress and violate the most intimate parts of the psyche. Cosmogasm, the first leg of the journey, is defined by the initial euphoria of progress. Entry is always hectic and the passenger always half-afraid, body language laced with panic, eyes filled with unfulfilled expectations. The chaos of daily thought patterns passes through our traveler like waves racing towards a faraway shore.

If only you knew what color the sky is in my world. It is always the same wherever I go, same stories different faces. Crouched deep with my own mind. Always too busy reflecting or daydreaming to take in the humanity around me. So bored of this muted world, but wanting to experiences so much more of it. MY heartbeat is in-tune with the beat of life’s drum, The beating of our hearts is the blood flowing withing the world’s veins and the fire that lights my eyes feeds off it. Passion like a shot of adrenaline making my hands shake in anticipation of the unknown, the conquest over fear and convention. When the cage of obligation nearly closed its..

His hands insecure and trembling knows that they expect him to finish the job. It’s always the same thing. Born a man and expected to carry everything the world has to offer with no complaints. Expected to stand with strength that he doesn’t have. The hatred he feels for himself lashes out to the world. Bitter and alone. Young and weak. Rotten before his time. Tired of the struggle so soon with nowhere to turn. Surrounded by loved ones that have no love to give. “It will end,” he says involuntarily. The words sliding past his lips, dripping down his chin, as he suffocates to death. His legs, numb and tingling, bang against all the shit he bought in his life to fill the void as his body sways with the tide of the wind. The corners of his mouth lift in a smile that belies the innocence of an inexperienced heart.

The Beatles wondered about those that embraced themselves and rejected the world. But what about those that accept neither? The truly alone. Where do they belong?

The oldest voodoo city in the New World. His home was the swamps where the women would tease the shackles of society with their freedom.

Raindrops fall and the silence beckons. Butterfly wings engulf the vision. Last breath drawn while he hides behind a smile. The nights drag on and he comes to her for her warmth and innconce. Without realizing. Without knowing. How his self-centered kindness and caution made her bloom. How his empty promises held her captive and how much he meant to her. How much his abscence filled her world with echoes of laughter faked behind a screen. The rain poured down slits of conrete being held fast by the hair of children lost within the whims of their parents. Smoldering flames between them char their skin littering the ground with ashes. Like ants pushed out of line, they wander, leaving behind the tyranny of existence. His boots crush their ashes beneath his smug gait and his wandering hands dismantles their hair from their entangled prison. The carefully stacked walls fall like carefully constructed truths whispered between lovers over torn cotton sheets covering a mattress pockmarked with cigarette burns. Faces worn with age peek in from musty curtains and so she is left to pick-up the pieces of her loneliness. The ultimate betrayal. The solace of lies.

The rain fell and washed away the years of polish. Over their eyes and trimmed nails. Under the sediment that is dragged along number fingertips. Showing off bullet wounds like medals on their sleeves. The only thing that they have to hold on to is pride to mask the weight of their sacrifice. Money slips through their fingers like it does the rest of us. No meaning in the rate race and survival is the only option. Coffee and cigarettes on a street corner avoiding eye contact. Connected by a mutual disdain for each other and the human condition. Women and their purses litter the pavement and streets. Men and their belts mill around behind newsstands and between brief cases that bulge with self-importance and dank resignation. Cigarette butts tumble from between the fingers of the homeless like…

Like the beat of boots against uneven concrete.
The soft sizzle of burning tobacco wrapped in thin paper.
Like the rustle of crows’ wings above the current of smoke.
Broken smiles hiding behind insincere eyes.
That creep between the cracks of our lives.
Brief silences surrounded by the cacophony of lies.
Whispers screaming the truth down greasy hair.
Past starched collars and torn jerseys all the same.

Beautiful how the silence makes their limbs sweat.

Just as there is a fee for everything else in life, there is a fee for opening the gates to your heart. People do not see you. You are just a flutter of wings above their heads. They will destroy you. They want nothing more than to destroy who you are. They will break you in every way. They want nothing more than to break your will and create an obedient slave. You think it’s a joke. That it can never happen to you. You toss your hair and laugh while bowing down to the same master who hides behind a smile and soft hands. Until, one day, the truth will beat you down. Your body violated and no longer your own. When you can hardly think straight, they will hammer at your mind. Every insecurity and fear will be magnified and confirmed to be true. Day after day. Month after month. Year after year. Your isolation and loneliness will be absolute. They will become your world. The entirety of your existence bending to their will. So, what will you do then, proud one, gaudy one, “strong” one. Oh, but it’s your fault, isn’t it? You allowed this to happen. Isn’t that what you said about the others? Yes, that was before they broke you. That was before you became a doll.

Walls of green surround us as we travel and into the moon we fall. Every detail sharp and as crisp as the weeds rustling in the wind. Her fingers trembled as she clutched her cigarette. Her past and present tumbled from her lips. Her words tripping over one another, but why? Faster and faster as Father Time drags his hands down her thighs. Our faces become our masks as we dance to the ramblings of ghosts. My heart reborn as a Ruby embedded in a fallen angel’s chest. I, the demons and I, stain her soul with paint richer than blood. The grinning moon graces innocence with pain.

She came to me dressed in sheets of white cotton. A pearl necklace around her neck. Eyes full of hope and desire. I sold her out to the Demon limping with his lacquered cane. Preaching to me about God and his angels in a cemetery surrounded by statues of Mary piously staring down at us in prayer. He came to us, lies tumbling through his loose lips and eyes cold with hatred. Would I be lying to say that I did not know what he would do? To save myself, I saved her. She left as she came, with blood stained feet and a broken heart. Our shared trauma fragmented in her mind until the day she dies.