Fluency

I speak the language

Of nodding heads,

Snapping fingers,

Tapping toes,

Raised eyebrows,

Coughs in crowded elevators,

Frowns in cheerful songs,

Tapping fingers on empty counters,

Persistent gazes past distracted conversations.

If only you could understand it as fluently.

Just the Little Things

What do I do to take care of this planet? Nothing too spectacular. I just save lives, every day.

Every hand I shake, every smile I make could prevent a suicide. Every small favor I do could prevent an act of violence, or an act of terror. Every time I wash my hands I could prevent a disease from killing thousands. Every tree I plant can preserve water supplies for millions. Every word I say could change one mind...which could change another.

Of course, I don't work solo. I can save one life, but it takes a lot of individuals to save an entire world. It's sad though, how many don't realize how much they can change their circumstances. Some don't even care; I call those people villians. I guess I care. I guess that makes me a hero.

I could wear  a cape I suppose, but I wouldn't tell you that over coffee, now would I?

The Day I Arrived at the 13th Floor Part IV

Not much happened for what seemed like hours. I hadn't been there too long before boredom made me try the fasteners on the straitjacket. They had shiny metal and intricate structure in the buckles, and I seemed to lose track of time trying to put them together. Try after try I failed to fasten the sleeves behind behind my back. Leaning against the wall, I decided to fold my arms instead.

It's amazing what boredom can lead to. I'm not quite sure when I started to hum the alphabet....or maybe I hummed Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Either way, I started humming it to pass the time...or maybe to entertain myself. Either way, I forgot about finding an exit. Somehow humming turned to singing. I wished I had a bottle of water. Pretty soon my voice went hoarse without any water to replenish it, but I didn't stop singing, until someone interrupted me.

The door opened, revealing a white hallway...with tiles on the floor outside. I only saw a shadow of a person, holding something in their hand. Stepping forward, the figure chimed flatly: "It's time for your meds."

I stiffened, seeing a nurse with a needle in the full light of the padded room. "Where am I?" The question seemed appropriate for the first time that day.

The nurse smiled sweetly, like she would to a feral dog. "Same place you always are, Parge's Asylum."

I blinked, backing up against the padded wall behind me. "You've got it all wrong! I work in an office building! I'm an accountant!"

She winked with a sparkle in her eyes as she grabbed my arm. "Yesterday you told me you were a straightjacket tester. What will it be tomorrow? A professional bungee jumper?"

"But... I have a driver's license.  Let me show you." I fumbled in to reach in my pockets, but straightjackets sleeves had been designed to be too long. I couldn't reach that far.

She didn't respond. "It's in my wallet! In my pocket!" I became more hysterical by the second.

"Calm down now, just a little poke is all." She said soothingly, as she cleared an area on my neck.

With tears running down my face I whimpered. "Please...don't. I don't belong here." I'm pretty sure she couldn't hear the last word bathed in a sob. Then the needle reached my skin, and she forced some medicine into my veins. I blacked out.

These days I spend on what I think is the 13th floor, but I'll never know because they never let me leave. I still wonder if I truly had a life outside of here...or if they're telling me the truth. One day I will get out, and I will learn what exists beyond the 13th Floor.

December, 2008

We were in a bind that day.

When the semi's engine died,

Halfway to Nowhere,

Where we meant to make a delivery

To  a Mom & Pop's store.

We wore the scarves

We meant to deliver,

As the blizzard blew

On through the fierce cold

And sat on bricks as

We tried to eat a cold dinner,

Parked askew on the side of the road,

On the way to a Mom & Pop's store

And halfway to Nowhere.

Okay...maybe this is more like Weird Prose

Oops!

This was your

Jacket I just stained,

That you

Were going to

Wear

Out Tonight,

Forgive me,

It was very pretty,

So soft,

And now multi-colored.

In Rememberance

Happy Memorial Day. I'm the guy you forget. I'm the gravestone you pass by because it lacks a name. I'm the grave with only unidentifiable cracking bones. People remember me as blank slate. Or maybe they remember me as a rose that one person left for me last year. It's pretty dried up right now, I can barely tell that it even came from a living plant.

I guess I'm okay with it, being forgotten. I can't do much about it, being dead. I bet you can remember me, even if it means just conjuring up a black and white image of your great uncle Fred, and give him blonde hair instead of brown. I'm pretty sure he won't mind either. It'll be a start anyway.

No, it's okay. You can leave the dried rose. I kind of like it. It suits me. I'm not really sure when I'll get my next one.

Shel Silversteen, I Salute You

Sneezes,

Always messy.

Right,

Almost Never.

__________

Jumps,

And

Everone

Looks,

Laughs,

Yelling

"Nice!"

_______________

Puke

Isn't

The

Trendiest

Outerwear,

Currently

Known.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene I

The office sat wearily, even the light sank to the floor on beds of dust. Pieces of paper, once white, had turned yellow with age. Five fingers tapped the desk languidly as two eyes roved the room for some clue as to the time. A sigh fell from his chapped lips as he stood up. He didn't bother to adjust his suit as he trudged across the room to pull the clock from the wall. The batteries had died again.

He pushed his bushy chestnut hair out of his face as he headed back to his desk, dead clock in hand. Fumbling through his desk drawer, he searched for batteries, but found none. With a sigh, he wearily glanced at the frosted glass in his office door. Did he really want to talk to her? Not particularly, but he probably should anyway. After all, he paid her to be his secretary and receptionist for something, though at the moment he didn't know what it was.

He reached for the knob, and took a deep breath as he turned it. Somehow, talking to her took a lot more energy than it used to. At one time she could renew him with energy, and now she seemed to suck it right out of him. He opened the door and stepped into the front room. The secretary in question leaned over her desk, trying to sort through all the piles of paper in vain. It made him wonder why she bothered.

"Do you need something, sir?" She glanced up at him curiously, the light from the lone lamp in the ceiling reflecting of her glasses. Her eyes shone blue, starkly contrasting with all the faded golds and browns that stained the office.

At first, he didn't respond. He just stared at her, wondering how they had come to this. Maybe her age made a difference. It certainly didn't when they first met, at her interview. She had stood out from the rest, then. Maybe he shouldn't have hired her to begin with. It's not like she had the most skills or experiece....but she had a smile that made him melt. To go with it she had a voice that could make any man's head turn, or at least it seemed that way at the time. Now the mere sound of it made him want to hide under his desk.

Even with all that, he still hadn't worked up the urge to fire her. "Do you have any AAA batteries?"

"Er...sure." She seemed like she wanted to shrug off his odd request, but she still needed to work on her acting skills. Rumaging through the bottom drawer, she found a few batteries. "They might work, but I don't know. They're kind of old."

"Like everything else in this place." He muttered, then he added at vollume she could hear: "Next time keep fresh ones in stock." Hopefully he wouldn't allow her a second time. Hopefully he'd finally scrounge up the willpower to let her go.

The phone rang. He waved his hands, in hopes she would get the hint and tell the person on the phone that he   was out of his office. She didn't. Picking up the phone, she chimed "Patterson Private Investigation, this is Kelsey. How may I help you?"

Patterson bit his lip, as he watched Kelsey take notes on the pad in front of her. He should have seen the red flags the first time they met, but he didn't. And now he had the chance to pay for his mistake every time they worked together. Like now, for instance.

"Oh, yes, just a moment please." She looked up at him expectantly, and he wished he could hide.

Patterson summoned up the nerve to take the phone from Kelsey's hand. He dragged it up to his ear, and cleared his throat. "Patterson speaking."

"Portland P.D. We have a case for you."

He rubbed his face tiredly as he scrounged his brain for an answer. "You'll have to give me more to go on than that. I'm not telepathic."

"Remember that gang homicide case a year ago?"

"They already convicted somebody. You're wasting my time." He started to hand the phone to his secretary so she could end the call.

"Wait!" The officer pleaded.

Sighing, Patterson brought brought the phone up to his ear. "What is it now?"

"It made the news, remember? And now, a somebody's committed a murder nearly identical to it, even when the convict's still in jail."

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to muster up the patience for this. "What's your name, Officer?"

"Peter Randall."

Patterson rubbed his forehead. "Listen, Officer Randall, that homicide happened because of a gang fight. It's probably just a copy cat killer in the same gang. Call me when you have a legitimate case for me to work on."

"Just come and check out the crime scene. It's too similar to have been done by another person. I'll even buy you some coffee."

Pinching his eyes shut, Patterson thought it over. "Alright, but it better be some good coffee."

Shadow Fly

This is a shadow fly.

It lives in slights of hand, behind sun rays, stars, and souls.

A shadow fly eats spirits, slips, and stews.

It likes searching, sneeking, sliding, and swimming in dark lagoons.

It sings, shares, strikes, and slips into sentences like Freud.

Today it slithered into the shadows of my subconscious,

Screamed, and slipped into my poems.

When Opportunity Knocks

The other day she knocked on my door. I glanced through the peep hole and didn't recognize her. She never came often, and it had been quite a few years. Knocking with a smile on her face, she seemed to sense my interest. This had to be a door-to-door salesman. She couldn't be coming to me.

I turned the knob and glanced at her through the crack. She seemed...nice, but in an unnerving way. When she asked to come in, I hesitated. My house didn't seem right for her, so we went for a walk.

She led me across the street and down a few blocks, and we talked about my life. Strange, for she hardly talked about hers. The whole world felt different with her around. Every scent, every sound, every sight seemed to overwhelm me. Did opportunity make everybody feel this way?

She led me to her house, opened her door, and invited me in. Again I hesitated. Frowning slightly, she motioned me in. I stuck my foot in the door. Tapping her foot impatiently, she waited. Still, I didn't go in. The time didn't feel right, the place didn't either. I left, hoping she didn't lock the door when she closed it.

Hair

It's funny how we put so much into it,

 Building a tower of hairspray and gell,

Letting it cascade down our shoulders like the venerated Nile,

Shining it with oil like we're polishing a golden calf.

But it's dead, deader than Elvis,

(Depending on who you talk to)

Deader than Jesus was

(though we've never found the body)

Deader than C.S. Lewis,

(though we gossip about him like an old friend.)

In fact, when the barber snips it off,

We wouldn't feel it any differently

Than if he used a claymore or a pair of scissors.

We know it's just dead skin,

Deader than Elvis,

But we don't believe it.

Spotlight

See me? No...look over here! Gah, not there either. Over here. There, finally. Hey, I look just fine normally, it's just that this light is blinding me. I hate attention, and yet I crave it. My entire life I've been caught between the need to leave the curtains and stage fright, the need to belt out the notes and the fear of being heard.

What's in it for us that want attention, but don't? Is this what normal is? Being stuck in between anonymity and celebrity? Failure and greatness? I think the light can be turned off now, it's blinding my eyes.

The Day I arrived at the 13th Floor Part III

I stepped through the door, and once again blinked at the brightness of the room. How could anyone even sleep in here? My eyes traveled along the padded walls, but not for long. The only occupant in the room quickly demanded my attention. He had blond hair, one green eye, and one blue one. Or, at least it seemed that way at first. They seemed to change like lights at a dance club.

"Hi!" He greeted cheerily. Standing up on two legs, he walked over to inspect my elbows. Leaning each way and that, he nearly fell over once or twice. You see, his arms had been fastened behind his back by the straight jacket.

I didn't quite know what to say. 'Hello' just didn't seem appropriate. "So...you test straight jackets?"

He nodded eagerly. To demonstrate, he struggled, and writhed. The jacket didn't come off.

"So it works pretty good, then."

More nodding. "Oh, one thing." He stepped closer. "Could you unlock this for me?" Turning around, he showed me the buckles holding the jacket together.

I blinked. "Wouldn't defeat the purpose of testing it?"

He didn't move away. "No! That is the purpose."

Until I left the floor, or the room, anyway, I figured I had nothing better to do. I grabbed the buckle and undid it. "How long have you been working here?"

"Long enough." As soon as the buckle came off, a smile exploded off his face, sending his teeth scattering around the room. Hours later I still found pieces of teeth in my hair. "I'm free!" He dashed toward the door.

Finally it occured to me that I should probably ask for directions out of here, but the straight-jacket tester had already disapeared. I moved to follow him out the door...but it slammed shut. Sitting on the floor, I wondered how I would find my way out of here. I walked to the door, but the inside didn't have a handle. I walked past each corner of the room, checked the ceiling and the floor, but still I didn't find an escape.

And so I picked up the straight jacket and I put it on.

A Swim

He gulped one last breath of air before the water engulfed him. It was cold, freezing cold, and it numbed his skin. Moving his arms and legs he swam some distance before he surfaced.

The waterfall gushed swimming pools of water only a few strokes away. Morning light shimmered upon the slow moving current. Needing a rest, the man floated on his back and watched the lush green leaves dance in the breeze. Moments passed by as he pondered what he needed to do when he returned home, what his love asked of him, and the meaning behind it all.

At last he decided to return. Stroke and stroke he pushed himself upstream. He lingered one last second before he leaped out of the river. Liquid streamed down his skin as he moved from the shore to the grass above. His hand swept across the ground to pick up his towel.  Quickly he dried his body off. Loose garments glided over his body. With one last glance at the water, the man returned to where he had come from.

A Matter of Perspective

No, No, No.

You've got it all wrong!

That isn't a bunch of ribbons

It's a lion's mane

We harvested from our hunt last week.

Those aren't agates, they're opals of some grand sultan,

And we're keeping them safe while he's on vacation.

And that, my friend, isn't any old jar of wax,

It's what we seal our declarations of war with,

Before we fire our arrows,

And we seal our peace treaties with,

So we can end the wars just in time

For afternoon tea.

The Last Supper

I wonder what it'll taste like,

The last school lunch you'll make for me.

Will the juice be as sour as some of our disagreements?

Or will it be as sweet as the first hug after summer camp?

Will the potato chips be as salty like the tears you cried

On my first day of school, my first graduation, the graduation to come?

Will the fruit have the fiber you've backed me up with since I wrote

My first story,

My first poem,

My first song?

Will the sandwich have the meat of our

Dinner conversations,

Our television commentary?

Will the paper towel be as clean as the

Clothes you washed for me?

Will the lunch box look put together

In spite of a long night, a short sleep,

And an early morning?

Will it feel cold like your hands

Out of poor circulation?

Or will it feel warm, because it close,

Like you've held me, and will hold me

That morning?

Visiting Hours

The air danced about her shoulders cool and crisp. Her eyes fought to stay open. She had been up before the sun! Her feet glided across the damp lawn. It had been years since she had been here. As she walked, she kept her gaze straight ahead. Fragrant scents came from flowers carefully placed on either side of the path.

At last she stopped. One tombstone stood in front of her. She kneeled in front of the stone as her eyes drifted over the words, without reading them. Her hand lowered a single red rose to the cool earth.

No words left her mouth as she remembered the name on the tombstone. Tears began to fall from her eyes adding to the dew drops below. She touched the stone, wishing she could touch skin, warm skin. After a few more minutes she gave the grave a nod in farewell. Then she left, again ignoring the graves on either side, eager to forget the dead.

This is Where We Draw the Line

Yeah, you look all pretty in bright red shoes,

But who do you fool?

What are you selling, really?

Your music, or your body?

Your body, or your soul?

Your soul, or yourself?

You brag about how you changed from pastor's kid to a pop icon,

Like you changed from jeans to a mini skirt,

But you don't fool me,

With your juicy lyrics and swaying hips

With your black hair and your cherry lips.

I think you fool your eyes, your ears, your hands, your feet

And you think you're having fun,

But we both know you sold that too.

Frolicking

The sunlight bounced off the dancing current. Meanwhile the water gurgled and giggled its way downstream. Once in a while it would drop and splash, but it didn't mind. Beside the playful rapids a lone figure dashed to keep up. Its small bare feet pitter-pattered on the soft, warm grass. Small young squeals erupted from his mouth as his eyes followed the birds flying high above.

His blonde hair bounced as the boy scrambled up the bark of a nearby tree. He raced up the branches, as high as he possibly could go. When at last the boy poked his head through the trees the birds had become mere dots on the horizon.

Yet, the breeze wafted a familiar smell that caught his attention. He could smell the woodstove cooking dinner. In the distance, across a cornfield, the boy could see his home, with his mother waiting at the door. His adventures would have to wait for another day, it was dinner time.

The Day I Arrived at the Thirteenth Floor Part II

For a moment I couldn't see anything; the light had left so many purple and green spots in my eyes. I glanced back toward the elevator, trying to ride my head of the dull ache. Who knew that elevators could leave me with a hangover? A few moments passed and the dull ache waned, and I shakily stood up. How could I ever guess an elevator would irk my fear of heights?

I guess I found it most odd that the elevator doors never closed, even after all that time, until after I stepped out of the elevator. Thirteen steps out of the elevator, and the doors snapped shut, and the elevator, shaft, ropes, and all dropped through the floor. Curious, I turned around and walked back the way I came, and peered into the hole. Heat blasted my face so intensely that I couldn't open my eyes. Glancing upwards, and I saw clouds and heard birds singing.

Rubbing my eyes, I explored the thirteenth floor. So far, besides the creepy elevator, everything seemed pretty normal. The elevator opened  onto a hall wall, with office doors, windows, and brass name plates lining it on each side. I turned to my right and read the nameplates as I went by. They started out pretty normal as well. A doctor, a lawyer, a shrink had the offices closest to the elevator. The further I walked though, the stranger the occupations of the owners of these offices became. Frame thrower inspector, balloon blower, professional lip-syncher, the name plates read. Finally, I reached a door with a profession I couldn't ignore: straight-jacket tester.

I leaned my ear against the door and listened. Inside I could hear singing, off-key, but clearly someone at least tried to sing beyond that door. Knocking on the door, I listened more. The singing stopped.

"Wash your elbows before you enter, please." The voice requested.

As I blinked in confusion, a slot opened up next to the doorknob. Like a drive-up window at a bank a canister popped out of the slot. Inside the canister I found a washcloth and some hand sanitizer. Shrugging, I squeezed a dab of the anti-bacterial gel onto the cloth and rubbed my elbows. A camera over head buzzed curiously as it watched my progress.

"Thank you!" The voice chimed.

And then the door opened.

About Me

I am a dreamer,

A believer

A thinker

A dancer

A writer

A inker

A blunderer

A liar

A sinner

A server

A mirror of the Savior.

The Day I arrived at the 13th Floor Part I

I've never been superstitious. Sure, I always think twice before walking under a ladder, but it's not because I believe in bad luck. It's part of the reason why I've never understood the lack of a thirteenth floor in a building. Even when they change the floor numbers, there's still a thirteenth floor, it's just misnamed. I hate rising past the thirteenth floor for this very reason.

So one day I stood in an elevator of a building that reportedly lacked the unlucky floor. My eyes stared at the buttons in boredom, wishing I had laser vision so I could make the buttons melt. At least that would be entertaining. 9....10.....11...12....13....I blinked. That 13 button hadn't been there a second earlier. The elevator continued to rise.

Frantically I pressed the 13 button, but of course the elevator had already passed it. Finally, the door opened to the floor I originally chose, but now I had changed my mind. I immediately pushed the door close button, to the dismay of the person wanting to enter the elevator car. I pushed the 13 button, and the car dropped. I had to hold onto the wall, and sit on the floor for fear of being thrown.

With a final lurch the car stopped, and the elevator chimed in snide victory. Shakily trying to stand up, I watched the doors open with a burst of light.

Introducing the Model

When you look at me,

Do you see the blemishes?

The scars?

The tears?

The fat?

The freckles?

Or do you see the airbrushes?

The pixels?

The hairspray?

The makeup?

The clothes?

Do you see me? The real me? The me that likes photography in the sunlight, the me that likes chocolate on teary nights. The girl who hates her smile.

Heart-Felt Notes

Dear Bibliophile,

I've heard you have a special affection for those things called books. If the rumors have any veracity to them, then why not me? I don't mean to sound pretentious, concieted, or histrionic, but I feel a bit neglected. I'll have you know that I have quite the spine, the smarts, though I've been known to be a bit thick.

I can change, I promise! I'll rewrite every word enscribed on every leaflet between my two ends. Shakespeare has timeless sonnets, and I'll quote every love poem he ever put forth in writing if you will just open me and read these words off my pages! Or the Odyssey, perhaps? I'll tell every stanza in epic proportions so that you'll never be able to put me down.

But, if you only like picture books or pop-up books, I'm afraid I can't help you. Such things have always been beneath me.

Loquatiously yours,

Identifying Your Insecurities, By Richard Laughlin

Through Rose Stained Glass, Prolouge Part II

A soft hum lingered near the ceiling. Pastel hues drifted down on sparkling dust from the stained glass windows facing each other. Row after row of pews separated the two sets of windows as if snug in a warm embrace. A lone lectern stood on the stage at the front of the room, bearing a carved cross on its front panel. At the moment the lectern stood alone, empty as most of the room, save one person.

Said person sat one pew back, with his face in his hands. Besides the fans overhead, the room could only hear his soft, relaxed breathing. He didn't notice the stain glass windows, since other matters seemed much more important at the moment. After a few more moments in seeming silence, he opened his eyes. As he lifted his eyes to the rose-stained rose window at the top of the front wall; the pink rays cascaded down his blond hair like children on a water slide.

A smile bloomed on his face. "I'll go."

The door in the back of the small church opened with a soft creak, and a taller figure walked into the sunlit room. His steps echoed off the walls as he made his way down the aisle. A moment passed before he reached the second to front pew, but neither of them noticed. He stopped by the younger man's side, with his dark hair making the blond hair stand out even more.

"Been in here long?" The man with dark hair asked.

Rays of Hope

The Sun rose higher and higher,

Seeking someone.

Her rays stretched out farther and farther

Into the farthest reaches of the sky

But only found empty space

When she wanted to wrap them around the Moon and hold her son close.

"He's gone off to war,"

said the Stars,

"You can only see his dark side now,

But he'll turn back soon."

And so the Sun shown a little brighter

Praying her son would come back safe.

And as soon as her son came around the corner of the Sky,

He'd reflect her hope for all to see.

In Honor of Free Comic Books

The other day I had to save some kid from a gang fight. I can't tell you enough how bloody those things can be. It's near impossible to get the stains out. It's not like I can go to a drug store and buy any old stain remover either. Last time I checked they didn't manufacture stain removers for flame-resistant, polythermal waterproof fabric. Sure, I could've gone with something a little easier to maintain, spandex for example. But I have yet to meet any single villain who would take spandex seriously. Besides, spandex can be a little uncomfortable.

Anyway, I have to make stain remover myself, or make more capes. Usually, buying andor making new capes is easier. So, if it looks like I'm buying a bunch of chemicals at a hardware store manufacture illegal materials, I'm not. It's not like you'd believe I'm a superhero anyway.

Mumbai Mud Fight

Forget about all of that, we've a game to play.

Smear some mud on my face, and I'll smear some on yours.

See? We're even.

You and I,

Me and You.

The eunuch down the street and the slumlord over our heads.

Just like before, before the days of movie cameras,

And reporters breathing down our necks,

Fake sheiks, and real ones too.

Back when only a few people knew my face, and fewer cared.

So let's cover our faces with mud,

And see if the cameras notice the floods,

The chickens flocking to the tops of their coops

The people flocking more and more to our metal tent homes

And the milk jugs and plastic backs flocking about our feet.

Funny, as you dunk the gray water on my head,

It makes me think of the spotlights on the stage

Red curtains instead of corrugated walls

Silk instead of patches

Jewels instead of the mud

I'm about to smear on your laughing face.