It was you who woke me this morning.  Your hand cupping my breast, slightly pinching my nipple.  My fingers clenching yours as you whispered “You’re not allowed to pinch back”.

For once, your warm body snuggled close to mine.  My fingers pinched back, waiting to hear your voice again.

Yes, it was you who woke me this morning.

a keeper

there is something about waking in the deep early morning, reaching out to a ghostly figure.  In your minds eye there is a shadow, an entity beside you.  Your lonely hands reach out to pull it near but it is just air.  Weary eyes pry open to the window as a wavering light seeps through the pane.

dream a little dream of me

When I was a child I experienced a few recurring dreams. All three were so different from each other that I wonder at times if I was inhaled to a past life.

One dream in particular was disturbing. There were a gaggle of children adorned in drab grey uniforms (myself included) being escorted from school to a bus. Clearly, we were going on a field trip. The bus takes us to a tall white building. Not a skyscraper, more the height of an old oak tree.

We were then corralled up a flight of stairs as we waited entry. Once the door opened, our adolescent assembly line continued climbing around the interior perimeter of the building. It was hot. Fires were burning white deep in the earth below us. Up ahead, I could see a square platform where a uniformed guard stood watch.

As I climbed closer I saw. The children were falling. Why are they falling, I asked myself? The heat was overwhelming and I tried to stand closer to the wall. As I watched these children cascade from the platform, I realized they had no expressions. No fear, no sound. The only cacophony was from the hungry fire we hovered.

That was when I got it. We climbed, we trailed and we fell. Emotionless, fearless death.

no title

My only presence is in this tear. The welling of my eye an Ambassador for your despair. A dream. One dream. One dream can break, can fracture, can sever an eternity of searching. One dream. One moment turn heaven to hell. One day. One day the sun stayed away. Her fire burned out, tired. Forever the moon circled the earth, looking, searching, weeping. Weeping dust. Clouded dust. Clotted dust. Clouted dust simmering above the atmosphere making their bed, their home. She plays, she sings, her somber tune come home. Imploring. Come home.

500 shoes

Falling from the tree onto the porch, I sneak into the corner and hide. It is dark, mid-night, silky, foggy, thick summer night. The man. He is on his bicycle beside the house waiting for me. He starts to ride screaming “SAM! SAM! I KNOW IT’S YOU” crazy fucker. My shoes start chasing him down the lawn “I’M NOT SAM, YOU ARE CRAZY! GET OUT OF HERE YOU CRAZY BASTARD!” He cackles his maniacal taunt while spinning me into a conundrum. Who is chasing who, exactly?
Around and around in circles I chase him in the street. This scruffy old bearded man, hair as a lions, dirty as a gassy tractor sitting in the dead heat of summer, trying to sweat but can’t because it’s metal. My shoes run straight for the house, running as hard as they can, my hands fumbling for the knob because dirty old tractor man is right at my heels. Success! I run through, hurrying to untie the shoes. This is difficult seeing as the floor is covered in shoes. 20 30 40 pair of shoes just in the foyer. All down the hall, in boxes, inside of each other, shoes breeding more shoes. They are fucking rabbits, piling up more quickly than I can untie my own. Hearing his huffing behind me I bolt for the stairs. Shuffling again, where the fuck are these shoes coming from? I try to kick mine off at my pursuer but they get lost in the more shoes that keep appearing on the stairs. Now hundreds of pairs of shoes trailing the path of my feet, they fly out from behind me shooting as an old tommy gun. My tracker ne’er deterred, still has his gleaming eye on his prize. At the top of the stairs I turn sharply, tripping, slipping, gripping onto the door jam, throwing myself onto my bed. The shoes stop breeding. Waiting. The man stands in the frame of the door, breathing heavily, playfully watching me. Ready. He disappears and again I fall from the tree onto the front porch.