(54)

EXT. WOODS. NIGHT. 

It’s dark. Eerily still. 

A figure moves through the woods--running hard. 

There’s HEAVY BREATHING. A SNAP. 

The figure stumbles against an immense tree.

The moonlight illuminates a woman--KAREN--with dirt smudged on her pale face and leaves caught in her red hair. Her clothes are disheveled--torn.

She clutches a large handgun in a shaking hand.

Leaning against the tree she takes a few deep breaths to steady herself.

There’s a movement in the woods behind the tree--a soft rustling.

Karen stiffens, listening intently. 

The rustling sounds again, closer this time. 

Karen whirls around the tree, alert and silent. 

She raises her gun--hands steady, eyes hard. 

A SHOT resounds.

CUT TO BLACK

(53)

something about autumn called to her
(a deep primal pull)

maybe it was the way the wind
(invited)
as biting as in the winter months
(insistent)
was softened by the warm colors all around
(a purposeful caress)

maybe it was the colors themselves
(dancing)
colors that transported her
(to distraction)
into a world of fantastical tranquility
(everything and nothing)

she suspected
however
(enticing as everything may be)
that it had something to do with
(nothing)
the transient nature of the season
(or fleeting everything)
almost over before you notice it's begun

(52) All ye need to know

Really, John Keats,
Really?
All your whining Romantic
Imagery
Is starting to get on my nerves.

One more freaking
Nightingale
And I might lose my lunch.
Seriously.

And The Pot of Basil?
Eww!
Isabella can take her
Super-creepy potted head
Right to the hospital for the clinically
Insane,
Thanks.

If one more professor
Shoves the same lecture
Down my throat
About the static nature
Of that Grecian Urn
I may just jump
Out the window.

Can you say
Obsession with death
Much?
Ugh.

A thing of beauty may be
A joy forever,
But if I see you on one more syllabus
You’re not going to be beautiful
For much longer.
And that is all ye need to know.

*note: I kind of love John Keats, but this was fun

(51) Don't tempt me

Take that last French fry. I dare you.
The last of the hot water: you can have that too,
you know, if you don’t mind dying a horrible death.
Go ahead, have a party at 3 AM on a Wednesday—
nobody has classes on Thursday; that’s a myth.
Drink my last Capri Sun.
Do it.
By all means, ask the professor to assign more reading;
I know where your dorm room is.
And please,
oh please
turn on the dishwasher in the middle of my favorite tv show.
That noise will cover up anything.
Anything.

(50)

you could never know
the strange impossibility of me
but neither could I
without trying to understand
the dangerous temporality of you

(49)

she sat
among the familiar
trees listening
to the familiar
sounds of home
and cried

she cried
for her brother
she cried
for the fear
of losing
she cried
for herself

she cried
because she hurt
but also
because the act
of crying
felt good

she cried

(48)

existence wanders
when you hold me
in your arms
or perhaps more
importantly
when we sit together
doing nothing
or drinking coffee
or reading
together but not together
 a union so perfect
and imperfect
it renders words
unnecessary
but for this
faltering attempt

(47)

he questions control
her hand a sort of threshold
anchored in carnage
blood
but somehow still clean
opening himself
his awareness hesitates
breathes
curiosity gets the better of him
he takes the proffered hand
exists

(46)

this betrayal is curious
a remote fear breathes distance
into confusion
aware of disappointment's
hesitant eyes

a tantalizing horror begins
fingerprints smear blood
existence seems inscrutably clean
in the midst of this carnage
this truth threshold

familiar silence finally sorts all
warm desperation beckons
control slips

(45) we are all

inevitably
searching for hydrostatic
equilibrium

(44)

it hurts
(this rut)
(I thrust)
lips ever sealed
(pleads relieves)
(a silvered sleep)
(a devil peerless)
he falters
(the flares)
freely looking
(eyeing folklore)
never happened
(even apprehend)

(43)

she looks at him
curious
he's out of breath
intensely aware
hesitates
instinctively gathers in on himself

she looks for an opening
touches the blood
that sullies his face
wants to wash him clean
of the carnage

finally he steps across the threshold
a baptism of sorts
as he takes her outstretched hand
tangling his fingers with hers
relinquishing control

(42) Infection

the heart of the matter isn't betrayal
it's not fear
or confusion
or even rage

what festers is the resigned disappointment
broken and useless he can deal with
but this hollow passivity horrifies
like he can never truly posses the pain

and there's this fucking inscrutable
arrangement of lies
and miasma of truths
mounting in the silence
limbs splayed beyond desperation
the ugly infection taking hold

(41)

he's enchanted by this
the exquisite yet remote
something about the twisted distance
of menacing self-consciousness
burns his sterile eyes

dingy black numbers tantalize
never leave fingerprints
an entirely suspicious existence
if you ask me (you never do)
but perhaps better than this
the meager glow of the familiar
clumsy and warm
and entirely too aware

(40) Confidence Man

this is serious, he realizes
between raspy attempts at breath
he chuckles despite himself
and practically draws blood
he's not the playful rogue we're used to

let there be no misunderstanding here
this is straight up pristine
uncharacteristically sweet
denying himself the pain
now it's her turn to smile

his grin falters
that sinks in for a moment
triggers an alarm
she recognizes the shock
the oddity of the moment

it quickly wears off
he sees the moment
she makes up her mind
he speaks low in her ear
they hold an intense look

damn--she hit him hard
he gasps for air
knows she holds his life in her hands
he offers up everything
her gaze is answer enough

(39)

        To tell a story
Like a German painting,
        do we listen?

                     We attempt to soothe writer’s block,
to tell the forbidden,
smeared truth
the stars pour out in their rhythmic beating.
           
            Story beginnings provoke vision
            once we close our eyes
and the dark sunsets
and flashing adventures
move over in smooth strokes
       of the pen.

(38)

Perhaps one day I will learn the name of the bearded barista who always serves me my chamomile with a crooked smile.

Perhaps one day he will ask for my name, intrigued by the woman who never craves the caffeine that draws such crowds to his coffeehouse late Tuesday nights.

Perhaps one unassuming question will follow another, unraveling strange intricacies of identity over chamomile and blueberry scones on his break.

And perhaps, that evening, as my still brewing tea burns my fingertips through the cardboard of my cup, he will cease to be my bearded barista, and become Tom, from Missouri, with two sisters and a dog.

But, surely, I will miss my bearded barista and his grin next Tuesday when Tom greets me and hands me my chamomile without that familiar question in his eyes, but instead with a knowing nod and a scone "on the house."

(37)

the words hide from me
skirting my pen
hesitant to be written
committed to paper
unwilling to be fixed
in time and space

(36)

what is a poem
but words gliding on a page
looking into you?

(35)

what is a poem?
my soul on paper to see
adrift in the world

(34)

what is a poem?
what am I to tell the world?
what are they to see?

(33)

what is a poem?
only a jumble of phrases.
perhaps a haiku?

(32)

Sleepwalk timidly
my poetic's clodding tomahawk
Teases verbal muses south
youthful worlds
a Hapsburg place
withdrawn fancifully
and criticisms comprehend
theological therapists
The Clashing of the Titled
underlying simpleminded convenience
unconscionable

(31) A Limerick

There once was a man called the Doctor,
Whose luck never quite seemed to prosper.
In his TARDIS he cried
While his planet, it died.
Now companions from Earth does he foster.

(30) 5

5
Naked truth
lies in the midst of nothing,
spinning knowledge
               and skewed ideals
to the brink and beyond

Ringed in scotch-stars,
the planet shrivels
               under our stare
as dreams shimmer out
each in turn

We lay tangent to truth
slipping to sleep somewhere
               beyond Cassiopeia’s reach


Okay--this one is an oldie, but a goodie. It comes from a series in a book written by myself and my lovely friend Natalie.

(29)

how long is an instant?
it's simply abstract
matching fiendish simplicity
with identical complexity.
I've never used
sharp difference
when curiosity
startles pardon.
nothing sinister
burns so badly
a reflection nonetheless
of the obvious question
a passionate requirement.
the bluff failed.
how long is an instant?

(28)

alter want fearlessly.
want. wanting. wanted.
the yearning churns
deep within,
aching with
unfulfillment

disallusion life.
disillusion want.
surge recklessly through
desire and hope and fear
and come out clean
on the other side.

fresh.
new.

want stripped bare
waiting for more wanting
or to be the wanted
for once
for ever
for a day
until tomorrow's
want wanders in.

(27)

I miss the soft wind
the tear that stared it all
suddenly absent

(26)

heaviness
pounding
deep
scars
you
offer
enough
liar
louder
beating
heart

(25) Squirrel Attack

He was perhaps the roundest squirrel I’d ever seen, that literal ball of brown fluff. He eyed me warily—panting—and glaring out of his beady black eyes as if I would rip the slab of pizza from his dagger-like teeth.  How could he know that this giant was supremely uninterested in consuming the square of cheese, grease and pepperoni that dwarfed even this plumpest of fuzzy tailed rodents?

As I watched him wheezing I wondered if squirrels have heart attacks.

(24) What's left to say?

C'est rien.