Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday dear Main Street.

Happy birthday to you!

(And many more on channel four.)

Weary Sailor

My hands rattle to the beat of untamed nerves. Any moment, I could hear the echoes of your shoes bouncing off the cobblestone sidewalk. My tongue, already in a knot, is another casualty of epic anxiety. I rehearse what I’m going to say to you, but I know that the second I see you, my words will be blown away and join the ranks of fallen leaves; scattered by the mystery of the wind. The air is as sweet as the rain that fell before it. On a summer night such as this, you can almost taste the memories of yesterday. Children playing in the spray of a fire hydrant, the scent of Mr. Gordon’s fresh peaches soothing every passerby and the thriving population of simplicity. I find a small stone on the ground and kick it against the side of the building. The stone ricochets off the brick and slams into a seasoned tin garbage can. Exasperating sounds of bass escape into the umbrella of the night. The brick of the building has been transformed from just to criminal, to criminal back to just. The moon casts light on what his brother cannot. The players of the night skulk by with unknown objectives and thoughts unsaid. Boredom the likely prognosis with just a few moonlit persons of insomnia. A cat shrieks. A dog yelps. And the sounds of purchased love resonates through the street so skeleton and barren of virtuous light. My watch has become a fixture in my vision. Any moment now. If you could only imagine what kind of pleasant storm of butterflies rage. I feel like I’m about a burst. So, weather goddess, come along, come alone and sooth the swelling seas of my stomach.

Mission Accomplished

Dear Master Strategist,

I haven't heard from you or your company in a while. After long silences, I grew accustom to your style. That such tendencies bring out the best of your deficiencies. I once thought of you being foreign to such policies, but, as we both know, you speak tongues when confronted with niceties. It's all right, I wouldn't fret because you are probably holding hands with someone who is better than me or better than you. Or vice-versa. Maybe his name is Persa? He could be Italian or Roman. That would be my guess. Nonetheless, if you were with me, you might have been a mess. So, I'm glad that you are happy. With a man who doesn't get too sappy. One thing is for sure, he probably has more money and his tongue drips of honey. He could be smooth, he could be successful, but what about when life gets stressful? Will he be there to hear you speak of words frustrated? Will he sacrifice his breath to become ever so bated? You see, kiddo, that's where he is awarded consolation. That's where his eyes are rich in ignorance and his words lack intelligence. They are woven with "Mmhhmm" and "Uh huh", and when this happens, a seed of doubt is planted. Hopes for hearing "Mammuh!" are transplanted to a cavern towards the south. But you'll stay around because that chest, those eyes, that mouth. Sooner or later, you'll write again and by then, who knows? I might be roller skating on the sidewalk where the heat is mild or I might be living on the boardwalk, powdering the seat of Charlie, my newborn child.

Needless to say, I hope the best. But for future reference, don't put anyone through this test. It really doesn't measure to any reverence. It makes everyone a little tense and it doesn't make too much sense. It hasn't scratched my itch, what, with you being such a horrible bitch.

So, once again Master Strategist, I'm sorry for being your catalyst.

Sincerely,

X

a nice, tailored suit.

imagine silence- in a world where only the deaf can hear you scream.

- softened pangs of painful horror bouncing through your head.

imagine laughter- in a world where only the rich were allowed to enjoy it.

-great guffaws purchased by the cheapest of money.

imagine greed- in a world where the poor run the country.

-uncivilized civilians sitting at the thrones of economy.

imagine sex- in a world where it is issued like freedom.

- lost lovers retreating to the art and pursuit of romance.

imagine existence- in a world where emotion is just another word.

-droning drones that never come to pass.

imagine the past

forget the present

console the future.

Harumph!

It's official. I want to name my first born daughter Elsie Lauraine.

It's a Wonderful Jimmy Stewart

I've been sent home to the land of memories and pubescent freedom: East Grand Forks, MN. My objective: lose my teeth of wisdom (4). I go under the knife on early Friday morning when only the go-getters and insomniacs are running about, none of which I'm acclimated. So that stinks. But the good news is that I'm bathing in the comforts of home and swimming in the nostalgia of VHS tapes. So that doesn't stink. What doesn't stink even more so is that I will be watching one of my favorite VHS tapes and films of all-time, It's a Wonderful Life over and over again. This film represents the class and love that I strive to duplicate in everyday life. I want to find the woman I'll fall in love with the rest of my life and make wishes about our future. I want to fight people like Mr. Potter. I want to keep Zuzu's pedals in pocket!

I want someone to love me like Mary does.

County Rd. 58

A man getting ready for an occasion, bends down to tie his shoe. His wrinkled fingers slowly work through the motion of a perfect tie. He stands up and looks at the clock. "I'll be with you soon, my lovely", he says with wandering promise. With time to spare, he walks down the narrow white hallway of his third floor apartment towards the bathroom. Along the walls of the hallway, pictures of his wife and the experiences they've had together radiate a warmth of memories. Youthful passion and seasoned companionship will live on for eternity in the annals of their love. Each one he passes, he remembers. He remembers the smell of her perfume at the county fair on their first date and the daffodil in her hair. He remembers the embrace of their hands that were rid of doubt and full of aspiration. But above all, he remembers her green eyes.

The bathroom mirror is full of smudges and dirt though he still looks at his reflection. He turns the water on and cups his hands underneath the flowing drip. He looks down into the small pool that rests in his hands. Once again looking into his own eyes. He cannot bear it much longer. He splashes the pocket of water his face and lets the beads run down his face like rain trickling down a spout. He reaches for the dry coarse hand towel that is hanging limply off the corner of the sink basin. He finishes his business in the bathroom and heads to his bedroom. Upon the merlot colored bedspread, he once again finds himself perusing the scrapbook titled: In loving memory of my wife, Jane. The pages are worn from the many times he has flipped through them. Some of the yellowing pages are stained with alcohol. Most are stained with tears. The pages are filled his favorite pictures of their life together. The last page is dedicated to a newspaper clipping of the accident.

Accident on County Rd. 58

Last night around 6 P.M., Charles and Jane Horowitz spun out of control and landed upside down in a ditch alongside County Rd. 58. According to scene investigators, Jane was thrown from the car, breaking her neck upon impact. Charles sustained major injuries to the arms and chest. Doctors at United Hospital say that he should exit intensive care in a couple days and be out of the hospital by next week. " When I came to the crash, I didn't think anyone could have survived it. By the grace of God we showed up on time or else I don't know if anything could have saved Mr. Horowitz," scene investigator Robert Crenshaw said. No funeral arrangements have been made.

Guilt has overcome him. No longer can he press on with the echoing memory of his wife's screaming voice throughout the twisting steel. He throws the scrapbook across the bedroom and sinks his head into his hands. Sobbing, he gets up goes to the window where a vase of a single daffodil rests. He gently takes the flower out of the vase and slides it in his breast pocket. He then turns and walks over to a stepping stool. A rope that is tied to a thick wooden beam dangles slightly above his head. The ominous shadow of a noose drapes his body in darkness. He places one foot upon the stool. One step closer to being guilt ridden. He places his other foot upon the stool. One step closer to not drowning in his own tears while tries to sleep. He places the dry rope around his neck. Tears cascading down his face, he murmurs "Soon, my lovely, soon."

One step closer to Jane.