Just a Story John said, "Why don't you call me back when you get to the point?

" Angela hung up the phone and cursed his voice while vowing never to talk to him again. That was a hour ago and now she's sitting on his lap smiling and laughing. "Is this really the last time we're going to see each other John?" "Yes. We are too good to each other. I won't be able to write about lost love and stuff - unless i lose you" "You're not funny. I'm being serious" "Me too" Angel grabbed John's face and squeezed his cheeks together and said "you're such a jackass!" and their lips touched and melted into time and everything around them stopped existing. John pulled back and looked her in her eyes of passion and said "Come on!" then grabbed her hand and stood up. "Where are we going?" Angela asked even though she knew the answer. John didn't answer he only led her up the stairs and into his dark room.

They hit the bed continuing with the kissing that got them into this whole mess. The kissing that people write whole books about. The kissing that solves all of lifes riddles. And before either of them knew it the kissing had turned into the creation of all their past emotions coming back. Neither of them wanted that but it felt to good to stop. And so, they did what grown people do and soon they were passed out in each other arms. Angela woke up first to the sound of a garbage truck outside she laid there for a little while thinking about what a mistake she had just made. She wanted to jump up and run out of the house before John woke up and never come back. But something about being in his arms took all her power to resist out of her. She'd never felt as good, and she'd never felt as bad. As she laid there thinking John woke up and looked at Angela and they both smiled as ugly as a morning can make two people. John stretched and yawned and then looked at his shoulder then his chest then felt his neck. There was teeth marks all over his body.

"Dammit! Baby, watch it, with all that biting girl you might give me cancer!" "You're an idiot" she said. And i suppose that i was.

A sad cardboard box Am I still a man even though I'm still scared of the dark sometimes? She seems to think so. I showed her my fear in the emptiness of two full mouths. My hallways have dark shadows deep in a memory better forgotten, but too evil to forget. This shelter has leaks. When it rains I hold buckets of sex spilled from past loves under the drops of sweat. Her effect on me is dropping. But my glimmer of hope is that the sunshine will last longer than any memory she still has of me.

This is Fucking America The television blares in the background no one is watching it, but it just feels right to have it on it's American to have it on. I think some Neo-con-artist is on there painting some pictures. Selling dreams to people frightened of nightmares. Maybe they can sleep well tonight. But, tonight I have to walk around a warehouse all night to make my $300 paycheck at the end of the week. I wish i had no friends and no family, and nobody that knew who i was. That way I could just walk the earth and not worry about food shelter and water. Would I die? Most likely. but we all die. What's 30 or 40 extra years? Shit - the Mayan calendar ends in 2012.

It just ends... like that. No one can really explain why. I'm not going to attempt to either. The whispers in the wind are turning into screams that only the deaf can hear. I am not blind, but I don't see the same picture as the man with contracts in his eyes. Money signs and g-strings. Once upon a time, man could walk freely wherever he wished. He could build a home in a forest and never be seen by anyone except the animals. True reflection could take place. But all that looks like it's done.... And I'm done... Off to play my trumpet by myself... Laughing at my own joke... Going to bed early... Shadow-boxing myself... Hopefully I win... Or at least lose like a bull...

Called Out I've called out of work the last two days. I'm going to get fired Soon. I won't mind. My girlfriend will. My stomach will. My parents will. My landlord will. The government will. The bill collectors will. God will. But when all of them aren't looking? I'll smile a little.

Wrote This one For Her The alarm clock laugh cannonballs me across the room towards the snooze button. I hit the off button instead. I'm pissed at the sun. Standing in the middle of my bedroom shirtless freezing. Staring out the window. I see my neighbor warming up his car. We've talked before; he once told me about how every morning he gets to work 30 minutes early so he can bang his secretary. I hate the bastard for that. Not because he bangs his secretary and he's married I'd do the same if I had a secretary. But the fact he felt the need to share his life with me, a secret that never needs to be revealed. As if he was waiting for a high-five A a "way to go champ" That is what disgusted me.

I'll talk sex with a female all day long but when a man starts talking to me about what holes he likes to lick it makes the tornados in my gut howl. My neighbor pulls his car out the driveway and maneuvers down the street towards the slugfest traffic. I find a shirt in my closet throw it on. Pick up the phone and call work. "I'm not coming in today, I'm sick." I crawl back in bed and stare at a crack in the ceiling. One day it'll all come crumbling down and hopefully I'm here in this very bed being rode by my... secretary.

12:12 PM 77 degrees a slight chance of rain doing magic tricks with responsibility making it dissappear. in the summertime the women wear more flesh than clothes and i'm more aware of their existence. and i enjoy them regardless of if i'm sitting on a park bench watching them glide past or laying next to one in bed at 12:12PM on a tuesday.

This Is Faith Tornadoes in my gut Twirling out of control hungry to break a home. The home wrecker. She was his until I drove my charm into her dreams took my hands off the steering-wheel and let her do the work my friend tells me to watch out someday an angry husband will find me and my madness will meet it's match he's right and in about a hour i'll be slap-boxing with fate once again i'll be dancing naked with another darling of danger a scarlet of sin the unfaithful. His wife interrupts our silence to ask him when he's leaving for work "in about a hour" he says. she tells him he should leave early because traffic is bad today. I agree.

What She Sees couple behind me in traffic. the wife is 40 something her elbow is on the door panel and her hand is resting open on her cheek. her eyes are fixed on the sky. the husband is a business man staring dumbly at the road ahead. I watch for 10 minutes and they fail to speak. I play house with them. the wife has recently been reading how to add intimacy to your pathetic marriage the husband has a secretary on the side and only stays married because he likes bad breath in his face in the morning. shes still looking at the sky her husband looks over to look at what shes looking at he sees the blue sky, some clouds and a dieing sun. but thats not what she sees.

Evidence of Evidence of Life The hands of yesterday are no friend of mine. I am no sad maniac. I am no happy addict. I am not content or disappointed. All I know is when I get off work my shoulder bones hunch forward in unruly pain. I also feel the haggle of an empty stomach begging to be fed. Instead I introduce Vodka to Orange Juice and they have a racial war in a small plastic cup. Im sorry belly of death I have only more pain for you.

They Paint Lies They rest under Ivory trees. They speak of strawberry patches and life. They use words long forgotten except by the snobs. They annoy me with their ways. With their irrelevant pencil. I rest in a room of clutter. I speak of spoiled milk and death. I use words that I use in everyday conversation. I annoy them with my ways. But if I did write like them it would not be toilet bowls of lies, it would be something like this: The rays of a candle light corridors long darkened by endless torment. Men have died to claim to be martyr's. Martyr's have died to claim to be men. My fingers concluded long ago they had no desire to write about either. Spirits tiptoe in sandpaper houses. And even in death, they still complain about the blisters on their feet. Ill acknowledge now that wasnt a good mockery it contained too much truth and life.

So This is my advice to those who think we are still living in the 1800's: Your high-class vocabulary means nothing without life experiences. You need to STOP sitting at home reading thesauruses. Go outside, find a dark alley and walk down it. Because there, more than anywhere else you will find life.

Yesturday Body still a little warm the face still has a certain flare his heart's as silent as a city alley during a blizzard. His candle is still whole but the fire that burns the wick is mute. Arms crossed with a face of no more. His wives broken spirit hovers while emotions run down her face; a kiss is planted against his forehead. She has done this many nights while he slept, but tonight will be the final one. She wipes the pain from her eyes while stroking his pale cheek. I keep waiting for his eyes to open. No hug can make this better. No man can beat this no matter how big the muscles are. We punch the clock all day but time never flinches. I struggle with this. I'm sad but not crying but i feel like I should be.

Lazy Logic The naked corridor breathes with sorrow when you're not around. I hate the man who hates the man who loves with truth.

She Wasn't Much, Meaning She Was A Whole Lot Cancel the order I don't want your love. The rain on the windshield has me realizing I just wanted one show not the whole circus. Now this lion laughs with a little more certainly. And if you don't want to disrobe i'll rebuild the alarm I broke and move on to the next house preferably one build on sex drive; Where the grass might not be greener, but it sure doesn't hurt as much to walk on. So walk on my little candle stick jump over yourself to reach the exit. Kiss nobody else with your ice cube bite. I was frozen in your bed unsure i'd ever move again. But ice eventually melts and so do memories.

This Little Poem A cigarette a match a slow death remarkable.

She Says She says, "you gotta do something with yourself you need a purpose!" I say, "why?" She says, "you can't just lay around all day staring at the ceiling" I tell her, "sometimes the ceiling makes more sense than you." She thinks i'm trying to be funny and she doesn't like my jokes. "Don't you want to find peace through god?" "no, i just want to have dirty sex with her." "can't we just have a serious conversation for once?" "i'm being serious". "so you're just a perverted sicko?" "no, i'm a perverted sicko with a god fetish." she likes to show me how hard she can slam things. "what about kids?" "they're taught to worship mickey mouse and Babe ruth" "and?" "they listen and worship mickey mouse and Babe ruth." "so you don't want any?" "Not if they worship micke..." "OK I GET IT!"

"So, you do realize you're an asshole?" "everyday you tell me i am" "and do you think you are?" "sure, babe" "well, what do you think of that?" "nothing" "nothing?" "yeah, that's about all i have left." She ends by telling me she hopes she never ends up thinking like me. I tell her my beliefs are my diseases and they're transmitted through the brain and not through sexual organs; so she has nothing to worry about.

Sometime Clown They ask me to tell them some jokes But i have no jokes to tell I make them laugh by paying attention to what they're saying and concentrating on what they're really saying their posture their tone their hope gone when they turned 7.

Wake Me When It's Time To Live Recycle that smile girl while i turn your parallel universe crooked. I don't tell lies until the sun goes down then I with my eyes not with me words. Laying there looking like i'm sleeping; really i'm just practicing for the casket. Dreaming of no dreams. Only you in a summer dress bent over a water fountain drinking my soul.

Half Way To Death I feel like i'm half way to death pushing my charm into her vibrating passion thoughts don't stray mind focused on making sure the back stays arched like the bridge i crossed to get here there was a line drawn in front of the bedroom door she dared me to cross it warned me that her man was twice my size. there was a line drawn in front of the bedroom door she dared me to cross it told me that i'd fall in love once i got inside her velvet well she was right her man was twice my size and I did fall in love but not with her. she was good she knew all the tricks i was a candy store and her tongue put me out of business

but her man was twice my size and i fell in love but not with her.

Elegance Tired hands loose thought... sex............... is........ a...... grab.... bag grab it.

A Friend It was 1995 I was 14 and living in Shreveport, Louisiana with my mom and step-dad for the summer. I was the only white kid for 2 miles. Michael was a 12-year old boy. He had a speech problem. He stuttered and slurred his words; on top of that he had a jungle thick southern accent. We'd play baseball in an abandoned church parking lot. White people would ride by occasionally and dream of killing us race traders. Black people would walk by and just be confused. I was normally the pitcher. Not because i didn't like hitting, but because i liked to pitch. That, and Michael was the only people i knew, so I tried to keep him happy. I'd throw the pitch, he'd normally miss; yell back something. I didn't know what, it didn't make sense to me. I'd pick some random answer mumble it back, and hope he didn't notice. He never did. So like i said, he'd normally miss. Of course, he'd blame my pitching but i knew it was his bat speed. I offered advice:

"choke up on the bat" "swing earlier" "keep your eye on the ball" none of my advice seemed to help but he'd get a hit here and there and that kept him happy. One day he grew angry after he missed more than 20 balls in a row. He threw the bat at me. I said "ok, we're done" and we went inside. When inside, Michael started throwing a fit. My step-dad was asleep so I told Michael to shut up... He didn't... I grabbed him and squeezed he struggled to get free I squeezed him harder. His screams lost their power. He started to calm down, then he started to cry right there on my shoulder. I knew this wasn't about baseball. I felt for him, i felt for him the same way a good father feels for his son. He never knew his dad, and really Michael didn't know his mom either. All she knew was crack, and how to get it without working. He had no parental guidance; no hand to guide him; no hand to hold him when he cried;

no chance. For five minutes he cried. When he was done we went into the living room and watched some T.V. The rest of the day was peaceful and we never mentioned the tears to each other. The next days was my last day there. Michael came by to say bye. I was playing a video game and he wanted to play it too. I told him when i was done, we could play together while the roaches watched. He didn't like that, he wanted to play NOW! A small irrelevant argument broke out between us; i ended up getting my way. He went over and wrote something on a box I had some things packed in. I acted like i didn't notice him doing it. Later that day we said our final goodbyes and when he left, i rushed back to the box to see what he had wrote... Sometimes kids are born with no hope. Michael was one of those kids he had no legit chance to make it. His family was nothing but drug users and pushers. He couldn't speak right in a part of the south that's still segregated and openly racist. Add Michaels unruly temper, and lack of anyone who cared about him, and shit detective, you got another crook to catch. To this day I wonder what happened to Mike. I might be the only person left on this planet who does.

The other day I was cleaning out my closet with a friend. She came across the old box that Michael had the message on so many years ago. "Who wrote 'fuck you honky' on this box?" she asked. "A friend" I said A friend.