Malicious and vindictive
– neither teasing nor in repartee –
Your words, like the dying sick, live
In the acrimonious things you say.


There’s a sticky silence in the incense smoke of the cluttered bedroom. Slight tapping of a keyboard, little Morse Code transmissions from fingers to screen. The only noticeable notion of existence. The tapping of the typing falls and rises in lurches and swells, too erratic to be an ebb and flow, too steady to be tremors. It’s still dark. And from our little places, we – being nothing but flies on the wall – are able to sense that our mysterious night-time writer is very, very, very lonely.

Re-position. Better view. Reassess.

About thirteen pages. Not too bad, for a carcass. Appears that he’s using Times New Roman: a classic. Single spaced, so it’s a little hard to see from afar. But at this point, perhaps as if he knows he’s being watched, he starts to type faster, more ferociously. You know, that “violent, grunting, teeth girding, hot dog! motherfucker – HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME AT CHURCH, KIDS , because that sweet, seductive Devil is comin’ to your bedroom” kind of writing that can only really be accomplished when there’s nothing in the world one can say.

Intrigue. Get closer. Inspect.

Well, thirteen pages – coming up on fourteen now – it may be, but alas! ’tis all for not. Our deranged and desperate typist is nothing more than, indeed, a typist. As if a hired hand to individually write apology letters and recall notices, he has spent thirteen – but coming up on fourteen – pages typing an estimated fourteen thousand words (what? we’re flies in this situation – how good can we be at counting?) all in repetition. Just repetition. Repetition upon repetition upon repetition. He’s taken words and made patterns of patterns. Patterns in the patterns of his patterns that pattern his patterns. And he has repeated the patterns of his repetitions, and patterned his repeats into his muscle memory. Stuck in a repetition compulsion, repetition, repetition, in a pattern of patterns, over and over, again and again he writes and rewrites: “I’m sorry”.

Disappointment. Originality. The flies die, and the story ends.


Two Minutes

For the first time in his life he was running to get to the train. His weekly train pass – $21.75 for seven days, folks – expired in roughly a minute, and he knew that the next train into the city was scheduled to come at “exactly” – liberal use of the word on the part of the transportation authority – at the same time his pass expired. So, a tense and thrilling situation of man versus the clock: the makings for any great story.

Yes, indeed he was running out of time, running with a body out of shape, and running from a life out of luck. But in this moment – when he was panting and gasping, coughing and slobbering over himself, pants yanking down with every stride because he forgot his belt – he found solace in its perfection as an example. Cause for why, in this moment, while running like a physical dullard to beat a train for the first time in his life, he was resolutely glad that he was running.

He ran along as fast as his little, wobbly legs could flee. He tripped and caught himself, almost rhythmically, on every fourth or fifth lunge forward. His shoes – clearly not intended for running – smacking and flopping awkwardly and obnoxiously whole the while. But he didn’t, for obvious reason, care about the humiliation. He didn’t care that he was panting and gasping like a fool. He needed to get to the train at all costs.

And he did, eventually, get to the station. He flung open the heavy glass doors (that did nothing for retaining the station’s temperature), swung himself to the turn-style, and fed his weekly pass into the slot. Pass Expired.
“Fuck me”, he gasped, looking up at the electronic light board, reading that the next train was currently arriving. He turned quickly to the automated kiosk to try and buy a ticket. Alas, along with his belt, he had also forgotten the last few scarps of money that he had littered about his tiny apartment. He cursed loudly, and some heads turned, but he didn’t care. He looked around frantically scanning for train station security. None in sight. And so, for the first time in his life, he hopped the turn style.
“Hop” might not be the exact right word, actually. It was much more of a strained and embarrassing mounting; a clumsy and floundering hoist of body weight over a mechanical barrier. But despite the obviousness of his petty crime, none of the other commuters in the station seemed to notice. So, with only a few moments to spare, he had made it to the train.

He jogged, well, stumbled forward to the end to the train platform. As he blundered forth, he could see the train coming from a distance. He kept going, closer and closer to the end of the platform, sweat skimming down around his eyes sockets, his hair flopping and sticking to the perspiration on his forehead. He arrived at the end of the station platform as the train was barreling in about twenty feet away now. He had made it, and he felt relieved. His running had paid off. The train thundered oneward and began to squeal with breaking. And this was the sound he heard as he took a deep breath of victory. For the first time in his life, he felt in control, like he had succeeded. And as the train skid across the final feet of tracks leading to the platform, for the last time in his life, he stepped forward – not into the train, but in front of it.

You awake next to a warm spot,
And that empty darkness grows hot,
Loyal abandonment recalled, forgot
And there’s a lover where a person’s not.

An unattended party, you’re the host;
With open doors, unlocked, left closed.
The fading warm-spot starts to roast,
And the thing that touches you the most
Is the formless finger of a former ghost.

I hope your lips are lonely,
That they feel abandoned
And they’re quivering.
I hope your bed is cold at night,
I hope you’re fucking shivering.

I hope your giant heart falls out,
Slips like mine out from my sleeve.
I hope you chest cavity caves in
Every fucking time you breathe.

I hope that you find people,
That there’s a line, a streak for you.
But most importantly
I hope you know
That I hope none of this is true.

He broke his smile and took a shard,
Made a handle with a jumper cable.
He knew that he had made it hard
But never thought she wouldn’t be able
To see past all his anger barred
Within himself.
But his surplus of  poor mental health
Slowly made her unstable.

He wanted everything to work out fine
But by this time, she didn’t want to live, too.
He realized that ever “yours” and “mine”
Was just further pushing his shiv through
Her chest, her heart, until it hit the line
And she was dead,
But right before, she said
“I love you and forgive you.”


I broke the sun and took my run
Gallivanting in the dark.
I used a word to shoot a bird
That was once my favorite lark.
I smashed the earth, and all the mirth
Of life died with a goodbye spark.
Then I took my joys in spilling poison
Over all the flowers in a park.

I killed the bees and fell the trees
With a manipulating ax.
I stomped the grass and and in my pass
Left a brittle trail of tracks.
In a moment hurled all the world
Into the deep volcanic cracks.
With the rest I can live,  but  I won’t forgive
Myself for what I did to the lilacs.


She couldn’t breathe – the room was spinning,
An so when she saw that fissure, she
Dove in saying “In was fun in the beginning
But the rest was endless misery.”