She sat down in that chair, and I seemed to be down wind of her perfume.  I got a sweet whiff that almost knocked me out of my seat, and it struck me to let loose a nervous, uneasy smile.  Sally was just sitting there, chewing her gum as if it were a stale chunk of beef jerky, working her jaws so hard that it made mine tired just looking at her.  She’d only been sitting there for a matter of seconds, but to me, it seemed like forever.  “The joint is slow”, she said, so she was just taking a break from a hard day, and getting off of her feet, you know?  She asked me for a cigarette and it took me a second to react, I was so damned nervous.  She noticed it too, and I hurried into my pocket, pulled out my rumpled pack of smokes, and shook one out for her.  Her fingers were lean and sexy as she grabbed for the cigarette and eased it between her red colored lips.  I tried to keep my sweat drenched hand from trembling as I flicked the knob on my lighter.

She drew in a long, tired drag from the cigarette, and rested her pretty head on her shapely hand as she blew out a steady plume of thick, hazy smoke.  The smoke drifted lazily into my direction, and slowly danced about the rim of my drink as I was staring down into it.  When it was done doing its swirly jig, I looked up at her to find her staring right back at me.  It kind of made me feel funny at first; I mean, there I was a at Harvey’s bar on a slow night, the best broad in the joint was perched at my table, and she’s staring right into my whites.  At that point I didn’t know what to say, so to break the silence, I asked her if she wanted me to get her a drink.  She flashed me a quick and sly smirk, and I took it as an easy yes.  She took one last drag from her smoke, that final drag that took it down to the nub, and jerked it into the ashtray.  I told her I’d get her that drink, and she stopped me as I was getting out of my chair to get it.  She told me that she’d grab it, and for me to wait at the table and relax.  I looked at her with cool, sharp, foxes eyes as she said that and eased out of her chair.  I watched with lustful, horny, lonely eyes as she walked back to the bar to fetch her drink.

Twenty years imbalanced-
twenty years spent roaming the stillness and
bedding down in a locked room-
twenty years imbalanced-
a steaming brew boiled within those walls,
bubbling over, and staining the pot with its
drippings,
bubbles rose to the surface and exploded
into nothing-
spirits rose and fell like ocean tides,
and emotions rode those waves like daring
surfers in search of that unattainable thrill-
thoughts and hopes and dreams appeared and
dissipated like gobs of rain under a hot sun-
twenty years imbalanced-
parched and afloat, drifting along choppy seas,
surrounded by irony, and unable to take a sip-
the know how just wasn’t yet there-
so he treated himself like a book,
and became an encyclopedia-
detailed, methodical,
and yet dusty and unread,
his pages stained with longing and mystery-
he learned to read himself, word for word,
until a detailed silhouette materialized-
a volume was left open on a table one
morning,
close to an open window-
a ripe plum purple morning, threaded
with the orange mists of dawn, and streaked
with whispering winds-
winds that meandered through the window and stirred
the sediments of dust and waste-
an eager gust crept along the table and
managed to turn a page-
twenty years imbalanced-
twenty years unsteady, unguided, unheard-
twenty years locked behind silent, mirrored walls,
examining and learning the words of himself-
the opening of that window flipped a page,
just a random page-
with a new one resting calmly beside it-
a new chapter-
waiting eagerly under
the brilliance of the rising sun*

I watched her as she smiled at me and asked me how my night was going; to tell you the truth, I don’t even remember a word she said.  I don’t even think that I knew at the time.  I was just staring into her eyes, big eyes, and wondering what it would be like to kiss her.  I didn’t think she’d ever go for a guy like me, but I could dream, right?  Her dress hugged her body like a towel wrapped tight just out of the shower, and was spotted with the stains and spills of the night.  As she was talking, my eyes took control and began to follow the dips and sways, and hills and valleys of her body.  She had a pair of tits that would make an infant hungry, and she was showing those babies off, too.  She had an ass like two feather pillows, and I laughed to myself as I thought about how nice it would be to take a little nap on them.  I looked up at her face and didn’t realize that she’d stopped talking, and noticed me checking her out like a fucking pervert.  She was still smiling, and I flashed her a red faced, embarrassed half smile.  It was all I could muster.

She said she’d be right back with my drinks, and I watched her stroll away to the bar.  The funny thing was, she looked back at me.  I mean, she looked back at me, and there was just enough sugar in that glance to put a small grin on my face.  I’m no looker, I know that; I’ve got a face like a dead mutt, rotting and sitting in the sun for too long.  But she looked back at me.  My old heart jumped and did overtime right after that, and I had to wipe the sweat off of my trembling palms just so I could light my own damn cigarette.  I kept looking at her at the bar, staring at her really, under the brim of my hat.  What was she thinking with that look?  It seemed like a fucking hour before she got back to my table.  I mean, I just got two lousy drinks, you know?  But she brought me my drinks and sat down in the chair across the table.

I had to bury her beneath the turf on State Street. That new housing complex, you know? They never got around to finishing it. The turf there is so soft, so fresh, and green, and I had to put her body deep in that damn damp earth.

She used to wait the tables at Harvey’s, back when I was on the road for the freight company. Harvey’s was your typical road stop toilet; small, dingy, beer soaked tables, and a floor so sticky you’d think it was paved with chewing gum. The tables stank of dirty rags; mildewed rags that had been used to wipe the same pissy tables all day. The seats were crispy with peanut shells, shells from some dumb bastard that was too damn lazy to brush them off. The walls were covered with washed out, yellowed photos of wild and rowdy biker heroes from the old movies. I used to stare at those walls when I wasn’t staring into my drink. Daydreaming, really, of a life that I knew I’d never know. There was even an old jukebox up against the wall near the bathroom that seemed to always be playing love songs from the fifties. God, I hated those. And the bathrooms were a trip; trust me, you’d rather take a piss outside.
Sally worked the tables at Harvey’s, and was the only half way decent chick in the whole god forsaken place. I used to look for her when I stopped there between jobs. She would smile at me from time to time, and her dimples and long, straight hair would give me chills. I would stare at her and take long draws from my cigarettes, and wash my loneliness down with a long sip of booze. I used to get pretty boozed up until I met sally. She came up to me on a cold day in November; I was freezing my ass off, had just dropped off a load in Hogan, and was making the long trip back home. Sally was there that night as I hobbled in out of the cold and shuffled my way to my usual table in the back. Harvey’s was damn near empty that night, just a couple of other schmoes in there, all alone and staring at their drinks. She came up to me and asked me what i wanted to drink; I told her that I wanted a double whiskey and a beer.

autumn leaves on a great wind,
fresh, like spring blossoms-
a lifetime of thoughts,
ending in a brittle gust-
what a fragrant dream*

Window panes caked and packed
tightly with snow,
us entombed within its center
like snails within a shell-
our warmth generated by ripples of
laughter,
and fueled by the smiles of wine and tea
and warm chocolate-
these memories of history are
the faces remembered when age has filled
our bones with dust and longing-
these are the pictures that our minds
will not forget-
each flake of snow a tale weaved
from many yesterdays, a spider web fashioned
out of crystal, and sunlight, and strands of
comfort –
these are the pictures that our souls will
never forget*

Random words tend to materialize on the
wings of an autumn breeze-
scattered letters become sentences,
questions fuse with answers,
and ponderous thoughts develop into
daring plans-
the doubts of summer, those swirling dramas
and negativities, the stress and the toil
that clogged our systems like ragweed and
dander, dissolve under the clarity of October
winds and November breaths-
each step is a new chapter in an old book,
read and re-read many times over,
its pages crinkled at the edges, and yellowed
with age-
each autumn is another chance
to be free,
to discover,
and to move forward*

I disappeared with my thoughts behind a stray
tuft of cloud,
sentiments tucked tightly under my arm as I
stole away into the soft stillness of that airborne
mass-
I plunged into its gentle depths,
a spirited dive into a mysterious silence-
I was alone in that space,
floating with the herd, when
I opened my box of thoughts-
a cold wind swirled and scattered them
like old photos left on a desk and tossed
by a soft summer breeze-
I saw the events of my life collected in snippets
like old film slides-
some colors faded, some rich and still full,
and as bright as the day that they were made-
I saw that, in life, we are sometimes guided
by the twisting and winding of the wind-
children of the universe, whose directions
are often determined on the fly-
wards of fate-
the sky reminds me of that*

James Cameron has explored some of the deepest depths
on earth-
but so has anyone that has lost a loved one in a
catastrophic event-
Edmund Hilary ascended the highest peak in the world-
so has anyone that has received a donated organ and a
new chance at life-
so many are emotionally crippled,
spiritually paralyzed,
and motivationally alone
that they forget the ways that one can overcome-
we are the first letter in our own sentence, and our
actions become our words-
those words become a regimen, and beautiful
paragraphs fill the novel of our lives-
one day, we’ll look upon that volume gracefully
and with pride,
accepting of both highs and lows,
and comfortable in the knowledge that we are all the
authors and biographers of our own personal text*

The clouds do not hear us,
yet we wish and gaze upon them-
from the comfort of our seats, we float alongside them,
free of the reality that binds us-
in our hearts we drift with them,
free of the past that clings to us-
in our minds, we are one with them,
willing, able, and independent-
the clouds have carried many of my dreams-
some have been lost within their ample tufts-
others have been carried home-
while others still have been stolen and have
never been returned to me-
up high they remain, scattered amongst
the expectations of all dreamers-
it’s a kingdom up there, high, and rich
and majestic-
a powdery mass of anticipation, of hopes,
of fragile imagination-
how many cares have I sent into them-
how many problems have they absorbed,
and hopes have they digested-
how many wishes have been kissed into
their masses and rained back down upon us
as a collection of liquid aspirations?
I think these things as I look up into them*