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The first time I heard "Sour Girl" by The Stone Temple Pilots, it was only a lyric or two until the familiar slap of the snooze button muted the wakeup call. If it was any other day, the all-too persistent ring from her cell phone would have coaxed us out of our Saturday slumber. Those days she would groggily wipe the sleep from her eyes and stumble over to the dresser, picking up the call and convincing her husband that "Yes, I am safe," and "Yes, I know I shouldn't sleep so late." That phone call was absent that morning, replaced by the words that echoed through my mind. What would you do What would you do if I followed you What would yo

“Where were you last night” is a question that's never asked anymore. Staring out into the ubiquitous darkness, Karen realized that she never heard the question posed to her after The Collision. There was no 'last night' anymore, and there would never be a 'good morning'. Karen sighed as she looked at the rippling reflection of Luna off the water, the only sure sign that Sol still existed, a sun that she would never see if she was lucky. The only ships that habited the sunlit side of Earth were the hydroponics bays upon the remnant aircraft carriers of the nations of yesteryear. Indentured servants and prison mates tended to the cr

Sharks do not hunt in landlocked states or so we're led to believe. She walks the sidewalk slowly encircling the park inspecting her prey. Lithe female forms entice her as the beads of sweat drip down their cheeks and run down their arms. Her steps remind her of his bike ride one week back. He sent pictures afterwards. He's never been the first to send pictures. He's not her type. It never stops the sharks. They smell blood in the water one part per million. They feel electricity Ampullae of Lorenzini and sense excitement. Landlocked sharks feel blood in the air through heat on the skin. Electricity through sparkl

An era of eternal paperwork flutters through my finger tips slowly working its way to my head - felt warm, inside, in the wintertime; and summer fills itself with cool water world memories of bikini day felicitations between female bodies that caress like feathers. It's an overcast February, and snowmelt freezes to ice. She reflects, each flower that grows from the ground like Gaia's gifts defying a barren wasteland, and the way she looked while across from me - she's rainbows and marry-go-rounds and other ends that I keep chasing. Every night she's never around, I dream of her hands and her hopes and wonder where her astral form's off to no

He didn't know where the transition started. Step, step, out the wooden door. Frosted glass, indented impression Shuddered and squeaked back to its frame. The news was dense Heavy, free weights he used to press. They have machines for that now. Strap in, dial up, push hard. He knew the words before they formed: The diagnosis of dormant years. Instincts drive to dodge forged bullets But watch turtles crawl to their feet. His muscles involuntarily rippled As the shudder snapped his spine Figuratively - I might add Iron his muscles pressed held him together. The doctor's office is now down the hall The steps still come, but now

The thick syrupy coat of liquid seeps down her throat, stinging on its way down into her stomach. She cringes in pain as it washes over the dry sores and cracks in her passageways that have been plaguing her for several days. She tries to relax her breathing and her muscles, reclining once again on the sickly warm couch and wrapping herself in the layers of blankets and sheets. The familiar warm feeling of alcohol burns in her stomach, and she prays that it would act soon enough to bring her back into the foggy and delirious state of inebriation and intoxication that she's drifted in and out of for days. The clouds start forming over again,

He rises up with a start from his bed, rolling off forcefully and crashing to the floor. He cries out from the force of the fall, only to whimper when the waves of pain start up from his chest and wash over his arms and legs. He opens his eyes, only to be confronted with the milky cloud of film obscuring his field of vision. He closes his eyes and rubs his eyelids furiously, attempting to wash away the cloudiness from his eyes. As he opens his eyes, a small fragment of film remains left, but now he sees something much more horrifying: a mass of rotting human flesh on the ground, oozing slightly coagulated blood into his freshly installed car

One less book to parade around. One more medication to heal. Sometimes one's biggest cure Hurts more than can appeal. I've forsaken love many times It's grown back for me to feel. Trying to help those in dire need I've only more pain to deal.

The steam fades from the mirror. I'm confronted by myself Rather, the non-myself The self that everyone else sees And touches and tastes. I wonder sometimes. What really lies beneath? If I really know the clockwork. I'm still digging through skin and muscle Just to glimpse at the grotesque within. I am an animal, after all. Nothing needs to lie beneath Except bones, blood, tendons, tissue A desire to protect, a desire to procreate And a lust that's brighter than burning magnesium. I wonder where love came from. Perhaps it's the desire to lie beneath One particular specimen to protect the aftermath Of the proliferation of the

It keeps happening. Small wisps of witty lines float into my thoughts, acting as the kernel of a poem. Words wrap themselves around it hugging each other tightly: long lost friends passionate lovers last goodbyes. It rolls up faster than a snowman's base, rises up slowly steadily as the sun, vibrantly shining the orange full moon. Time passes: a minute a day a week. I sit down to write the words. As I grasp at them they dissipate into nothingness as if they never really existed. An illusion the farce stinging slap to the face phrases that were never meant to be. Yet later, unexpected at another time another place