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.

depressing revelation.

I just realized that so far my life is a romantic comedy.

                 ugh.

Check the Beckett

Was I sleeping while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake...at least I think I do...what shall I say of today? That with Estragon, my friend, at this place until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Potso passed with his carrier and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that, what truth will there be? He'll know nothing. He'll tell me about the blows he received and I'll give him a carrot. Astride of a grave and a difficult birth..down in the hole, lingeringly, the gravedigger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of cries.

Samuel Beckett- Waiting For Godot

Corporal A.E. Roberts

My dearest Love,

It has been so long since I've seen your face and just as long since I've experienced joy. I really don't like it here. All the men don't treat me well at all. I don't understand why they are being so distant. Everything I am and everything I try seems to be rejected. They don't allow me to talk to them outside of rank or class. It's so difficult without someone to talk to. The only thing that gets me through the nights here is the locket you gave me. I long for the day when I can wrap my arms around your body once more and let your love warm my abandoned tongue. How's Jane doing? I hope she's coming out of her fever. Such a strong young woman she is. 

I must be going now, we have a meeting in the mess hall. Always remember that you're the reason I continue my trek through this wretched place. No one else could fill the vacancy of my heart. I'll write again soon.

I love you, and always will.

Corporal A. E. Roberts

P.S. I think of the night under the tree often.

Building Blocks

Why is it so hard to build a time machine? I mean, is it the theory of relativity being reversed that it is so difficult? Is it because Michael J. Fox is way too old for any zany adventures through time or is it because Doc Brown is a fictional character? I wish I knew the secret that would unlock this precious phenomenon. Even if I could just go there, sit and spectate events happening and the people involved didn't know I was there and I couldn't become involved. You know, Scrooge-style. 

Persons with genuine time machine plans, please mail them to:

Lucas James

123 Baker Street

Anytown, USA

The Man From Kalamazoo

There once was a man who was from Kalamazoo

People said: "He had everything he wanted, his cake and he ate it, too."

One would think he would have no problem putting a smile on his face.

But there was something wrong, something empty about his space. 

You see, he was fond of this little lady,

she didn't say yes, she didn't maybe

when he asked for her hand in marriage, 

she just stammered "no" and put miles between him and her carriage.

There he stood, showered in dust, wrapped in solitude.

Follow her? No, he didn't want to make her angry, didn't want to intrude.

So, he stood. The man from Kalamazoo.

Almost had everything, except you.

Tossin' Stones!

Lately, I have been suffering through some really drastic writer's block. I've came to a conclusion: the only way to break through this case of writer's block, is to write. Everyday. So, gents grab your gals, eat some pie, and enjoy the show because there be a challenge set before my feet.

The Last Time I Was On Cotton Street...

So, "I'm here on business." is what I say to this chick. So, what does she say? "Let me see your badge." I was like..whoa! y'know because I'm here to get this lady's cat out of her tree and she's here barking up MY tree. I mean, what the hell? So, I tell her to be quiet while I call for the fire department...little do I know this chick is sneakin' up behind me with a damn crowbar and is about knock my brains out from here to Timbuktu. I see this coming out of the corner of my eye and duck at the last second, but it still catches my ear and rips it off. So, I got my walkie-talkie in my right hand and the cascading fountain of blood where my ear used to be in my left. I pass out because all off the blood I lost and next thing I know I'm on my back in the hospital. I wake up to the sound of shitty day-time TV and I look to my left and I see a bag. What's in the bag? It's my fucking ear. My fucking ear covered in ice. The bitch somehow got me to the hospital, got me admitted to the ER. And put my ear in a bag next to me for when I wake up. THAT is one crazy bitch. Nice tits though.

The Word Hoard.

The urge to die is unfathomable. 

Steel of a blade as cold as the tundra

Is knocking at the door of her soul.

Vengeful guile fuels the inevitable. 

Blood as warm as the touch Helio

is compromised.

Class Is Now In Session

He writes a message on a blackboard.

She writes a message on a blackboard.

They both write on the same blackboard.

Chalk dust overlaps the previous entrenched canals

From chapters of artists who have came and went.

He and She have been gone for years.

They never intend to come back.

They have no need to.

             pointless.

A Knight, a night.

The eyes sink deep into its skull

(like)

Stones cast into an unblemished lake.

The hands are quick to react

(yet)

Sluggish to deliver. 

Shrieking pangs of silence fly

(by)

 Its crooked ears.

Insomniacs everywhere scoff

(and)

Call it an asshole.

Galloping through your world, you

(are)

unaware of the chronicles of immortality. 

"Hi, my name is Kathryn."

I find myself sitting on a stone bench alongside a gravel path in a park. I'm under the shade of a huge maple tree. It's cold in the shade so cold that it's almost unrealistic. The grass surrounding the bench is unusually long. It's almost as if someone has forgotten to cut it in years. The sun makes a jagged yet accurate line across the brown colored gravel path. There are no sounds except the sounds of the golden maple leaves hitting the very long grass other than that, it's completely silent. No birds singing, no cars running, nothing else in this park except me. Sitting on the stone bench. 

I notice I'm dressed for an occasion of some sort. It's not formal but it's not casual either. I'm wearing a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and khaki dress pants with brown shoes. I sit there examining my surroundings. My concentration is broken by a young lady in a black dress walking down the gravel path. I've seen her before. She has light red, curly hair and she looks absolutely beautiful. She is so happy. Her smile is so perfect it's like an artist took his whole life to paint it that perfect. I just sit there and appreciate how beautiful she really is. She hasn't looked at my once. She hasn't even noticed my presence. Then I stand up and walk out of the shade of the tree and into the middle of the path where I meet her.

When she sees me her perfect smile runs from her face like grains of sand in the wind. I'm still in awe of her beauty. Then I slip out of it and proceed to greet her. "Hi there beautiful, how are you?" She doesn't say anything. The wind starts to pick up, slowly. Her eyes start to water like she's on the verge of crying. Everything seems to slow to almost a crawl. I move closer to her and gently put my hand on her cheek and kiss her other. The leaves are swirling around us. Just us. It's like we are attracting them some how. There are so many. It's like we are in golden wind storm. My eyes explore the jaw-dropping environment that just formed around us and I notice everything is frozen for just a moment except me and her. She mouths something to me but I can't hear it, I can't make out what it was. And before I could ask her to repeat herself,time catches up to us and the massive amount of leaves that were swirling above us fall and obstruct my vision. I shout her name over and over again but she doesn't respond. I can't find her. I would give anything to find her. I fall to my knees with the last of golden maple leaves gently falling down in rhythm with my tears.

Gone are the birds

I find myself in a prison cell. The cell is completely dark except for the hopeless beam of light coming from near the top of the wall that seems welcoming but unreachable. At this moment in my life, it's the most beautiful thing I've seen in years. Then again, it's the only thing that I haven't managed to screw up yet...give it time, it's like clockwork. My wrists are bounded together with rusty shackles. The heat of the room forces you to feel every bead of moisture that you breath in. My clothes are sweat laden and dirty from previous unknown encounters. The every-now-and-again blood stains on my tainted (or what was) white dress shirt that I wore so proudly before help me piece together the memories that lead me here.

I sit on a rock near the river bank...where we decided to meet. The sun sits high and watches me like a weary parent. Birds in the trees above sing in a heavenly tone. The river provides a comforting, natural harmony that calms the butterflies in my stomach transiently. The old tire swing sways gently in the wind while the rotting rope clings with all of its strength to the thick branch; fighting for just one more day of happiness and dignity. Your favorite flower rests in my hands as I patiently await your arrival. I softly roll the stem between my fingers in great anticipation to see if your smiling face will come around that corner, but who are we kidding? We both know that you won't be here. Yet I still cling to the roots of hope of past memories shared together that are never to be repeated. There I sit on that rock near an unreserved river praying, pleading to God for this moment to arise.

Hours pass and still no sign of you. Gone is the sun...overtaken by darkness. Gone are the birds...replaced by shadows. Still I sit here under the bleached moon light, blanketed with an unrelenting chill. I gaze into your flower with lifeless eyes...gone is my love for you.

Hal The Mule

I watch him drift in and out of sleep. He is fighting gallantly to keep his consciousness in his pocket, but he is growing weak. The sound of the old grandfather clock ticking is visiting with the sound of his jerking back and forth, hitting the head of the chair. He cannot carry on like this anymore and he finally gives into this swindler of the tired. He lets go and begins to frolic through fields of chocolate bars and in the middle is his longtime friend, Hal the mule. They start to converse about this and that.

This man who just whisked himself into slumber is my father. As he continues to talk Hal the mule, I examine him. I look at his black, thin hair that is now inviting the ever incumbent Mr. Gray. I gaze upon his face and hands that have become withered in time. Age and hard work are the prime suspects. I begin to think about what he has seen in his days. What kind of places he has been. I think about the first time my mother laid her eyes on him. I think if I could ever be as hardworking and loving he has been. 

He wakes up. Asks me what I want to watch on T.V. 

"I don't care. Whatever you want to watch is fine."