No Our

Clock strikes eight, on the hour, twelve hours after waking up late at eight. Day has turned to night. Still sit idle.

Eyes opened at 8 o’clock in the morning to the sound of a bird chirping outside the window. Or was it the sound of the lamp by the bed going click-click-click, or the kitchen clock tick, or hum of the fridge.

Chirp of one became chirp of several – the chorus of the world. They and the world awoke all at the same time, and the quiet of the night burst into song. It is all.

For one could lie in bed forever like this. Let the drizzle softly tap the metal. To lull or to wake.
One sits alone.
Between the hours.
Between the tryst.

New Publications

My dual monologue, “God is in the Ceiling,” from my completed collection, Myths & Meditations, and two hybrid poems, “sunrise. sunflower. unblinking eye.” & “Father Said,” from my collection in progress, Specter, are now published in the 15th Year Anniversary Issue of Big Bridge Magazine. The link is available in the Bibliography.

Running (Introduction)

You’re running. It’s dark, not pitch dark, not because to call it that is all too easy, but because it’s not so dark that you can’t see anything. You run in the dark rather than the bright because light is harsh and distracting. You run through run-down baseball field overrun with dead grass and weeds, yet you pick up speed. You spot someone else (you thought you were alone) who like you, is running very fast, so fast that you can’t make out who. The sky predicts rain. Notice I didn’t say it looks like rain. It doesn’t rain, but you smell it. You’re running and it seems not fast enough, endlessly. At last, you come upon a chain link fence. The fence is very high with no means of exit that you can see. Instead, two fences meet to form a formidable corner. There’s yet another runner, not the same as the first. This one isn’t really running, but is there, and aims an automatic weapon of some sort, yes, with a sharp edge pointed at you. You know what you must do. You can’t stay on the ground or surely he will peg you. You climb the fence. You hurdle yourself over and so does the first runner right after you. This isn’t what it’s like, Jackie. There’s no room for metaphors. You’ll say this is about me. Why then do I say you? I you, believe me Jackie, this is no simile. What’s your real name? Jackie? See? Stands for nothing. Just Jackie. You know a good book that you love? That you can’t put down, but have to keep reading, savoring every phrase of meaning? It isn’t and is you. You keep reading Jackie. Run Jackie. You say you can’t. You’ve never really tried. One runs for fitness, another to win a race. Neither is running. Notice I didn’t say neither is really running. Neither is running, period. You’re running. You make it over the fence without getting pegged. You run down a dark, twisting alley, nearly pitch-dark. The asphalt is slippery because now it has rained. You run into another chain-link fence, and there once again is the non-runner, the just there, with his automatic weapon aimed directly at you (at least it seems it’s aimed at you, even though there’s another runner, maybe two or more out there, and you’re certain that he’s after them too, not just you). This fence is even higher than the first, and at the top are sharp spikes, and loops of wire. Notice I didn’t say like anything. Spikes so sharp and wire so tight that if you try to hurdle yourself over, you will certainly be impaled. You watch as another runner – you don’t know which, as it’s nearly pitch dark – is pegged to the fence before even making it over the spikes so sharp. Yet your legs move you over the fence, for they are made to run. Gripping the wider part of a spike, you hurl yourself over the fence.