Day twenty-one

The End Cliche

My heart is broken,

crushed, shaken, shattered,

stirred, smashed, or any

other amount of things

that's done to ice. I am ice,

cold and fragile. Melting

with each second of exposure.

I am Novocaine numb. I've failed

to keep you. Held too tightly,

suffocating. Pain is no longer

an option. I hate you, I love you

I wish I could change you,

but the problem is that I still

feel for you. I imagine that today

was just a bad dream. Tomorrow

you will call me and I'll come

over. We will be happy. This

is just a delirious dream,

a quiet delusion. I want to forget

you. I want you to pretend

that I never existed. I

was not good enough

for you. I gave everything I had

but it was not enough. The heart

makes all decisions final like a signature

on a contract that's never broken.

Our relationship was a movie,

and finally the cursive words

fly across the screen, signifying

the end. The end. The End.

15:00

Day twenty

Goodbye

I am on top of a granite

mountain. My back against

the wind, I slowly wave my

right hand. My farewell

to you. I love you, but,

always the but, you

don't love me. There

shows no signs on your face

no quiver of the lip,

no tears. It's not fair

for me to keep you in

a jar like a lightning

bug. Your glow will die

in the morning and I

will be filled with regret.

I don't want to hurt you

if I touch you, you may

fall apart like petals off

an orchid. I want to dive

off this mountain, fling

myself into the abyss

below, but I'm a coward

and afraid of heights. I

want you to hold my hand

just as you did in the beginning-

to share the excitement

of something new again.

I wonder what you will do

if we will ever meet again

in this life or the next,

if we will be two passing

strangers on a city street.

Goodbye, love.

17:18

Day nineteen

Free write

(Images that come immediately to mind)

Wind against autumn leaves

Trees on burning with color

Cold air, pumpkins, hot chocolate.

Jackets and sweaters. Breath

puffs like cigarette smoke.

The beginning of school.

five a.m. school bus stop.

Gathering worms on the side

of the road after rainfall

for the class fish tank. Katydids

for the pet praying mantis--

who mimics the wind. Female

mantis eat the male after mating.

Avoid the graveyard grasshopper

romalea guttata. Touch their

black carapace and risk

death like the black widow.

Red bottom, squeeze them

until they pop. Today Katrina's

second landfall. Superdome.

Yesterday, Martin Luther King Jr.

I have a dream speech. Did

it apply to Asians? All men

and women were created

equal. San Fransisco. Butterfly

swords. Nonsense. The buzz

of fans. White noise. Black noise.

Static crackle of the phone line.

The backspace key. Delete.
Redaction. All endings.

15:27

Day eighteen

Sentimental

I love you.

Your chest expands

as I hug

you and I

feel you breath.

The smell of

your hair reminds

me of botanical

gardens. Your voice

is music of

course. Your eyes

the color of

two swirling oceans

blue and green.

you are nothing

less than perfect.

It's too easy

to say these

things. Too cliche

to say cliche.

But nothing I

say means anything.

It's the silence

that says everything.

The way we

both stare into

each other devour

another in stillness,

The pure silence

of the world

surrounds us both

and nothing disturbs

this purely human

harmony. Only our

smile or laughter

compels us to

return. like ripples

in a pond

and remind us

we aren't in

a fleeting dream.

15:11

Day seventeen

Images

Outside the window

a doe moves her ears

startled by the rev

of a passing car.

The computer screen

inside glows, not like

embers, but like daylight

captured in a box.

My hands type on

a black keyboard un

naturally dark. The

color of night? No

the night is a deep

blue. The color of

coal perhaps. My desk

looks nothing like

the tree it came from.

Wood grain painted

on its smooth surface.

The room I'm in

feels like a box. I

wonder if there are

natural squares besides

mathematics. A lamp

dimly illuminates

a dark corner- an artificial

candle that won't

flicker. How far away

can I travel from you?

I will return feet

bare on cold earth

and breath. Listen

to the sound of

trees and the sound

of your quiet voice

next to me. Telling

me that I am

not a lie. That

this is reality that

I am a part your

cycle. That I will

like all things, die

only to be born again

in a different form.

15:04

Day sixteen

Playwriting suspended for the moment. Stole stuff from bill for this one. the one that shakes a spear.

Broken

How frail the heart is

when it's about to break.

You could crush it like a dead

leaf, dry and brittle. How the leaf

crumbles delicately

into bits of detritus that break

down smaller and smaller

as the pressure rises. I know

you don't love me. But I

am a fool, a shadow

that dances under

a candle. I can't breath

as I lay like Giles Corey.

What will make this better?

There is nothing.

17:23

Day fifteen

Inspiration

* * *
PART 2

* * *

(Duende shakes his head. Angel sighs with relief)

Duende: So get on with it. What whimsical request will you wield from us?

(Muse takes another swig of wine)

Muse: I've lost my touch. I've hit the wall. I pound on it, but the damned thing keeps coming back.

Angel: Well now, we've all hit walls at one time or another. It just takes time.

(Muse's voice angers as she points at Angel then Duende)

Muse: Well it's easy for you isn't it? *hiccups* You have wings, you can fly over the damned thing. And you... you can just burrow underneath like a vole. It's *hiccup* soo easy for both of you. What can I do, but play the occasional lyre. You know they don't even make those instruments anymore. *hiccups* I've had to use a keyboard! A keyboard of all things! Stupid electronic contraption.

Duende: I fail to see what your problem is.

Angel: Oh don't be such a tart Dew. She needs our help. Have you tried praying? It always helps me. Lord please strike down this wall in front of...

(Duende raises his hand and interrupts her before she finishes the prayer)

Duende: Please stop, my mind trembles from the trash you are touting. She doesn't need to pray. Perhaps a more sensible option would be best.

Muse: Oh?*hiccups* And what option would that be?

Duende: It seems like you've traded your lyre for the bottle. It doesn't take a genius *Duende laughs coldly* to see that.

***
End Part 2

***

Just worked a 11 hour shift. I'm dead. Will write more tomorrow.

27:06

Day fourteen

Broken up into different parts. This is going to be a project I suppose.

Inspiration

A ten minute play

Cast of Characters

DUENDE, A hooded man much like the grim reaper obsessed with death

ANGEL, A bright and bubbly very spiritual woman with large feathery wings

MUSE, A drunken and sexually aroused woman in a toga

* * *

Time:

A spring sunset

Place:

An Italian Countryside

Setting:

A hillside overlooking a small town.

There are a few olive trees and tall grass.

Inspiration

(LIGHTS UP, There is a loud shaking sound like an earthquake. Duende enters from center stage trap door. He makes a motion like he's wiping dust off his robes)

Duende: (Mutters) They're always ssoo damned late.

(Duende stares at the little town in the distance. Angel slowly descends from behind Duende and startles him)

Angel: Why hello their Mr. Grumps. Good to see you on the surface. (She smiles)

(Duende jumps, turns around, then moves his hands like cat swipes and hisses then in a loud voice begins speaking)

Duende: I could've killed you woman! You don't know what type of power I hold. Civilizations have bowed down before my might! I have been called Mictantecuhtli, Osiris, Nergal, Hades...

(Angel holds up her right hand and interrupts Duende before he could go further)

Angel: Oh do please spare me the lecture Dew, I've heard it three thousand and two hundred and fifty two times to be exact, not counting this one of course. Heaven bless you. I hope you haven't waited too long. *she smiles* You look so cute when you're angry.

(Duende shakes his head)

Duende: Spare me your exx-ull-tay-tions, Angel. Where's that damned Muse?

(Off Stage loud hiccups are heard followed by singing. The song is a poor adaptation of Rhianna's Umbrella)

Muse: You can stand under my um *hiccups* brella / ella ella, ay ay ay. / Under my umbrella / ella *hiccups* ella ay ay ay.

(Muse staggers from stage right and takes a swig of wine from the large bottle in her left hand. Wine drips all over the front of her white toga. Duende shakes his head again and Angel nods and smiles)

Muse: Why hello darlings *hiccups* I've just come from a marvelous party. I hope I wasn't too late.

Duende: You're nearly half a millennium too laaate. I don't like lingering with the living for sooo long.

(Angel faces Muse she puts her hand on Muse. She covers her face with her hands as if weeping)

Angel: Oh darling he exaggerates. It isn't yet evening. You're looking rather *she hesitates* lovely.

Duende: Death is not an eggss-ager-ation.

(Angel turns and faces Duende for a moment)

Angel: That's nice dear.

(Duende shakes his hooded head again and then points at Muse)

Duende: Sooo why have you sssumoned us soo sssecretly in this sstupid placcce?

(Muse shakes her head in imitation of Duende)

Muse: What's with all the cahrapy *hiccups* ccondescending consonance, Duende? Spent too much time in that hole of yours?

(Duende replies emphasizing the letter B with each breath)

Duende: Your always with the jokes *Shakes head* you should Best treat me Better or I'll Bury you BI

(Angel interrupts before Duende can finish. She then spreads her wings out. Her voice quavers and is high pitched)

Angel: Now now, let's not fight. We came her for a good purpose. We wouldn't have been summoned if it weren't. I'm sure Muse has a perfectly good explanation. Don't you Musey?

(Angel turns to Muse. Angel's hands make a gesture as if she were presenting Muse an award. Muse takes a huge gulp of wine.)

Muse: Well, Well, *hiccup* Well what was the question again?

(Duende shakes his head again and Angel shakes her head as well)

Muse: Oh right, we're here because *hiccup* we're here because. We're here because...because

(Duendes foot stomps the ground. Muse and Angel act as if though there's an earthquake. Angel floats up a foot from the ground and Muse clings to an Olive tree. Duende shakes his head again. His hood hides his facial expression and speaks in an angered voice)

Duende: I have already missed three bull fights, missed the agony of a musician's spirit *his voice tappers in sadness* Missed the last dying thoughts and words of a hundred and four year old man. *Anger returns* Do you have any idea how many times that happens?! It's not every day a man decides to live that long!

(Muse covers her mouth to hold back her laughter. Angel sighs and looks as though she is cleaning one of the feathers on her left wing. Muse then clears her throat)

Muse: So are you going to let me finish, big guy? I called you *hiccup* here because I (she hesitates) I need your help.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED: END PART ONE

* * *

Actually had fun writing this one.

1:30:05

Day thirteen

I wrote an email that took about an hour to write. It is private so I will not post it. In it's place I'll add a poem I revised today.

Little Pigs

for Katrina.

Years after the burning of the Bad Wolf

the offspring of the third little pig

flourish on the Gulf Coast.

The nation reveres the three little ones—

They build eco-friendly high density straw

huts, carbon fiber inlaid hard wood

cabins, and steel reinforced brick domiciles .

They light bonfires every night and sing

Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf.

The big bad wolf. Who’s afraid

of the big bad wolf, certainly not me!

* * *

The old She-Wolf awakes from her slumber

finds that her youngest lies dead across

the sea in a foreign land and mourns.

Her thoughts clouded by revenge.

Stomach empty, rum drunk,

she slowly staggers across

the ocean—her anger

smolders steadily like burning

coal and she screams, little pigs

little pigs let me come in!

* * *

The little pigs confident

in their technology chant

their holy mantra not by the hairs

of our chinny chin chins.

She reaches the pig coast

and heaves and breathes and huffs

and puffs with all the fury of a mother’s

anger and blasts a flurry of air against the little pigs

and with one final gasp for air, dies.

* * *

The survivors looked out at sea.

The barren bleak landscape lay before them

and the largest of the little pigs yelled,

We shall overcome and we shall rebuild!

And the littlest of the little pigs whispered,

But, what could be stronger than brick?

Day twelve

Fake Sonnet 1

My brother has no limbs to speak of, no

eyes sit evenly on his face, no mouth

or nose. But as he looks at me I go

into a dark trance and my mind flies south

to the grim past where things were much better.

My brother is a black computer screen--

A Nostradamus mirror. I have seen

the gray past, the future is in a letter

to you and it lies on my desk behind

photos we took together at the beach.

My brother watches and stares to remind

me of my fatal mistakes and with each

second on the clock that tick tock, tick tock

I find myself immersed in writer's block.

34:22

Day eleven

A reflection

Day eleven and I'm already struggling

to write poetry mostly. I suppose I can write

nonsensical rhetoric, but I don't want to. This is not

a poem. I will try not to add metaphor

or image. This will be a free write I will not

control the sound or the rhythm. I am not

a baker of words. I am not a painter. Writing

is so difficult. How does it come so easily

to others? It is both painful and relaxing.

It is exhausting. Fumes. I suppose I am

free writing. So far eleven days have passed

I don't feel a change. Why did I start this again?

Am I crazy?Was Plato right? We tell lies all

the time. Is the sky just a sky that's just a sky

or is it a blanket, an ocean, a canvass, is it made

of glass? I'm lost. Struggle. I need to read

Percy Bysshe Shelley's "A Defense of Poetry" again. His

initials remind me of peanut butter. And I'm

sometimes caught calling him peanut butter

and Shelley. I sometimes sit here not knowing

what to write, watching the seconds flicker

off the digital stop watch on my computer screen.

It's counting upward and I feel a sense of urgency

that time is suddenly racing to an end and I

am nothing but a traveler on this pilgrimage.

Standing still feels too wasteful. How little time

we have to know ourselves. The old couple

that buys coffee from us every morning

knows. How I envy them, but everyone has

their secrets. My fifteen minutes have elapsed.

I think I'm done for today.

15:15

Day ten

It would be easy to say I am at a loss of words when I see you.

My eyes deceive me, they see what is not there. The way

you glide like a ghost when you walk. Your hair dances

as if held up by the wind. And when you speak, the sound

of the world grows quiet, and you and I are alone when we

are not. My senses are careless, crazed by the mad rush

of endorphins clamoring to the brain from the pituitary-

mountain climbers racing to the peak. My knees weaken

as though, I myself, have climbed. Uncertainty

always shadows me, stalks me and laughs. How ridiculous

do I look, I wonder, perhaps like a child who's lost his

pants and doesn't know it as he runs naked. Crazed men

thunder struck, dumb plucked, the gaze of stupidity in my eyes.

But for you, it's worth it-- the quiet sense of bewilderment, the same

reaction a doe gives when it watches a driver screech to a halt

at midnight on a dark road-- it stares completely lost, then snaps

into action leaping away. I want to say I'll love you forever,

but I know that when the car finally hits I'll die.

17:27

Day nine

Fatigue

I am tired. The energy from my body seems

to slowly leave me like the colors of maples

in the winter. How vibrant they once were-

charging into winter with crimson fury.

I imagine people in sweatshops in third

world country feel this constantly, it gives

me no comfort. What kind of sound does

a starving child make during the night? Or

do they make any sound at all? Are they quiet

saving every last bit of energy pushing forward

like those maples facing cold dead nights? Is it

the sound of falling leaves splashing into soft

ground? I hope I will never know. Yet, I sit here

and complain, belly full of food. Exhausted from

clerical labor. My ancestors cringe in their

graves when I grumble about a hard days work.
My soft hands would tremble under the weight

of the plow, the swing of the ax. Would I survive

a day, sun cracked against my bent back, under

sweltering monsoon heat? I am too lazy, too privileged

to know what tired really means. Today I hunch

over a computer screen in an air-conditioned home.
I live like a king, but dare to say that I feel like the poor--

not like the shanty town shacks of a national geographic

photo, not like the beggar in the urban sprawl who hasn't

showered in three weeks, but like a spoiled child

who cries when he gets no dessert. I do not know

of pain and weary. Yet I complain and complain

and complain.

15:17

Day eight

Part of a larger project I'm working on with the TF
The formatting is off from the original :(


After school, Tad and I always ride our bikes
around our neighborhood. We are free
from our parents and for a few short hours
if the weather’s nice, we glide out into the streets,
pick a direction and ride hard. The wind slaps
against my face urging me to go faster. We wheelie
and curbs and skid into sharp curves.
jump
When I see you, I into a light pole
crash
so hard my head
spins
tumbles I hear
jumbles
the sound of Tad’s voice calling my name, a faint echo
rings in my ears. Then I notice I’m on my back. I’m ok,
a little bruised, but my cheeks feel bright red. Did I just
smash into a parked pole? The guys are never going
to let this go. Then everything comes back to me. You
were sitting under a tree. I could barely see your eyes,
were they in tears? I’m dizzy. I look back at the tree
but I only see gnarled roots, a few pine cones
and wandering butterfly. Where did you go? Then when
I’ve lost all hope, when I think you were another dream
I hear you call my name from behind me. That sweet
voice trembles and I know that I’m not dreaming, that
I smashed myself against a large pole that not even
a blind man would miss, that I embarrassed myself
and looked like ridiculous like a live turkey invited
to thanksgiving dinner. I wish I was dreaming.

30:52

Day seven

Karma in a can

I have bought karma in a can and sprayed

it's sweet scent against my heated body.

I wait for good fortune to come, but nothing

happens or at least hasn't happened. I imagine

the whole universe bending and contorting

like a rain droplet falling from the atmosphere.

Tomorrow it will not rain and it will not

be too hot. There will be no traffic and my

job will not be a job, but a career I love.

Oh magic spray, work your wonders. How easy

life will be when those five numbers

finally match on my lottery ticket. I will

build schools and sanctuaries for poets

and feast every night like European kings.

Savage karma, how cruel it is to balance

life with haves and have-nots. Today

I cracked open a fortune cookie and read

"You are a creative person." No fortune

just a mild statement on a rectangular piece

of paper, which like an adolescent child, I always

add the words "in bed."

16:42

Day six

Feeling rather uncreative today. So I turn to answering two questions a very good friend asked me earlier in the week.

Where is the line between writing your own experience in a poem and writing an experience that others can relate to? How important is it to create a line or phrase or idea that everyone easily relates to as opposed to one that is true to you and your life?

First off this is a tough question I imagine that every writer asks themselves this questions at least once in their lifetime. To me writing poetry is the act of writing your own experience in a poem. I've always viewed writing poetry as both a selfless and selfish act. I don't purposefully write for a specific audience, or at least I don't consciously. There may be universal themes in poems I write, but those themes aren't forced at the forefront of my writing. I think it's very important to create lines and phrases that are true to you and your own life as opposed to something that everyone easily relates to. Perhaps in songwriting creating lines or phrases that everyone easily relates to would be more acceptable in my eyes. But this does beg the question is there a "spiritus mundi" as Yeats refers to, where universal themes and symbols are shared by all? Is there a collective unconscious that links all humanity as Jung has proposed? It's not our job as poets to directly answer these questions, I do think it is our job as poets to reveal these questions and make the reader contemplate on the infinite possibilities. But, that's not what the question asks. I think there is some importance for a reader to understand the experience that you are writing, but I don't think directly relating to it is as important. Everyone has varying tastes and take different meanings and connotations from poetry, so to even attempt to create some type of universality would be an insurmountable task. You want your poem to be accessible, but you don't want it to be too revealing. I say, if its true to your life- write it! - it gives readers new perspectives on things, and reveals new ways of thinking. Aside from the fact we won't know what everyone will easily relate to, I think being as true to yourself as possible in poems is important. We are too tied to our own individual perspectives that we fail to see and even want to understand why certain people do things. We just shove it off as if it were taboo. "Oh, look Johnny has a tattoo on his wrist" one might judge Johnny to be a trouble maker. And that "one" person doesn't realize Johnny got a tattoo after his sister died after a long battle with pancreatic cancer, in memory of her (I know very sympathetic example). I don't think that last bit had to do with anything, except a side rant. But anyways, I think my head hurts from thinking about this, because I doubt myself even as I write it. All artists want to gain recognition from as many people as possible, to have lasting power. I don't think forcing yourself to cater to individuals is a good idea. Success should come organically and naturally as opposed to forced. Hopefully this is organized enough to make sense.

34:04

Day five

The Dark Mistress

She lingers against the bayou

and fears loneliness. No one loves

her sleek skin, her curdled hair,

or the way she clings to everything.

She's traveled to every part of the world

and she is both loved and hated

like a child who's needed by her

mother, even though she's nothing

but trouble. The world needs her

and she needs the world to exist.

Pent up, underground, alone

in the darkness. She waits

and waits to be discovered.

And although she is considered

unnatural by many, she is Nature-

the detritus left behind, the decay

of nature herself. And when she

is let out of her cage, unsupervised,

unwatched she reeks and reeks.

She wants and wants to be wanted,

and it is true that many think

that we can't live without her-

she is blood she is momentum.

She controls the way the world

moves. How wrong it is to say

she is addiction, because addictions

can't be controlled. We control

her, but sometimes when she's out

of control like a rogue bolt of lightning,

she burns.

15:42

was tired :(

Day four

The hierarchy of the bookstore.

Kaine: Deity and patron of all books

Gozaymus: The right hand of Kane and enforcer

Em'elee: The left hand of Kane. Kane's avatar.

Managers, Specialists, and Associates.

In the beginning Kaine saw that man could not remember the massive amount of information that was accumulated during man's lifetime. He wept as generations had to relearn everything the previous generation had learned. He sighed as he saw the same mistakes being made. After 42 generations, Kaine grew weary as he sat from his throne in the clouds. He took some of the vapor from clouds and some flashes of lightning and molded them into an airy spirit he named Gozaymus. "Go forth Gozaymus!" Kaine shouted "and teach man of writing and of letters". Gozaymus twirled and floated down from the clouds to the earth where she met a farmer playing with sticks. Gozaymus took the farmer's hand and guided it, etching letters into the ground. The farmer had thought he was possessed, he could not see Gozaymus, for she was invisible. And thus writing was created. Then the book. Then shortly after the bookstore. Generations had passed and Gozaymus served Kaine, though she grew weary, for spreading words and writing became an arduous task. One night, she came to Kaine, exhausted. "Kaine! my lord, I shall need help in my task. I have never once asked for help since my creation, but I am fading. "Kaine laughed, his voice created thunder. "Yes child, you shall have help on earth!" he boomed. Kaine took his left hand and from the clouds extended it to a shepherd sleeping on a barren hillside. The shepherd woke to find he was endowed with knowledge of all the books of man. Kaine pointed at the shepherd and spoke. "Every generation shall have a champion, he or she shall be called Em'elee and they shall be charged with assisting Gozaymus". With that said Kaine slept, for he grew tired. It is said that when lightning flashes, you can hear the echoes of Kaine's snoring. Thus forht Gozaymus and Kaine spread the word and the bookstore evolved into what it is today. One day Kaine will awake and smile and bring forth joy to all of man, but until then the word must be read and spread. Em'elee created the titles of manager, specialists, and associates to proved care and cleaning of the bookstore and it's patrons. When a book falls forth from a shelf it is most likely Gozaymus. She still wanders bookstores to do the bidding of Kaine. If you shout her name "GOZAYMUS!" in a bookstore. It is said that you will become more learned as though you have read three books.

19:04

Day three

5 Words: bottom, retro, simple, swallow, though

The simple song of a swallow

wakes me and I see you

in retro bell bottoms. Last night

we danced like poppies swayed

by the wind, though we weren't

beckoned to sleep like in the field

near the city of Oz. No witch

or wizard stalked us. I dreamed

of a masquerade full of wild

things. Lions on their hind legs

curtsying, a long dragon with

twenty four legs attempts

the Charleston, a giant praying

mantis doing the Macarena.

Where are you going? I ask

in apology. Away is all you say

and like a single snow flake

in a bare hand. You melt.

19:33

Day two

Chuck

On my first day at the shop they put me next to a guy they called Chuck. He was an older man, his full head of hair a mixture of grey and white. He smelled like a downtown bar. Piss and alcohol, but he seemed happy. "So where you from?" he asked. "All around I replied". I was tightening screws and twisting wires on some sort of device that looked like a plug. He was injecting some tubes with some mg0. Magnesium oxide, white powdery stuff that looked like cocaine. After a brief, but awkward pause I asked "So how long have you worked here". He glanced up and said "Well... about..." Before he could finish the shop manager, Dom, came from behind us and yelled "What the FUCK Chuck!". At this Chuck replied "DOMMM!" and continued as though nothing had happened "ten years I'd say". "What was that all about?" I asked as a continued tightening the wires. Right wire for positive, left for negative I repeated in my head. "Well Dom has something against me, I don't really want to talk about it". Chuck looked me straight in the eye, his breath slapped my face hard. He smelled as if he had just downed a bottle of hard whiskey. After a few minutes Dom came back and yelled again "What the FUCK Chuck!" and again Chuck replied "DOMMM!" This continued two more times and I finally got the courage to ask Dom, who happened to be the shop manager, why he hated Chuck so much. "He's lazy and stupid and always comes in drunk." Dom said pointing at Chuck. "How many whores did you sleep with last night Chuck?" Dom laughed, but his face turned serious... "Don't be late again you idiot" And just as quickly he left screaming his battle cry "What the FUCK Chuck!" to which Chuck screamed back "DOMMM!" "Whores?" I asked. Chuck looked down "Well they aren't exactly whores, I just find them alone on the railroad tracks and I give them a place to sleep and they take care of me." I was surprised Chuck answered with honesty, the man had left his dignity behind him. James, who sat across from us who I didn't notice because he was so quiet, said "Chuck, you forgot to mention that they steal your stuff and take your food" Chuck muttered "They don't always take my shit, and besides I'm moving at the end of the month" He looked at me with a grin "My daughter turns 18 and I don't have to pay child support anymore, I'll have a enough money to get into a better place" "You have a daughter?" I asked. "Yeah I got two kids, my ex has them. My son's already 20 and my daughter turns 18 next month. They live in Pennsylvania. Dom walked up from behind, almost as if he were running the rounds at a hospital... a perpetual cuckoo clock. "Pennnnnnsilvania Pennnnsilvania! What the FUCK Chuck!" Instead of his usual retort, Chuck said something different. "Hey man! Don't talk about Pennsylvania that way... I'm from Pittsburgh and the Steelers are King!". Dom just repeated "Pitttsburg! Pitttsburg! What the FUCK Chuck!". And finally Chuck conceded and yelled "DOMMM!". "Does this happen every day?" I shoot a glance at James who seems oblivious to the chaos. "Yep" was his reply. Later at lunch I found out that Chuck comes to work everyday drunk. That he and Dom absolutely hate each other, but the big boss Bill has a soft spot for Chuck and can't let him go. Chuck can't drive anymore because he got a huge Dui. He said "I had a car once, but it got wrecked". What he forgot to mention was that he was piss ass drunk and slammed his 76' Chevy nova into a Mexican convenience store. There's irony in that. No va means "No go" in Spanish. James took me aside and said "Chuck's a good guy, he's got heart, but he's an alcoholic. You know he was in the Navy at one time and he built a Harley from the ground up, he ain't stupid, the whiskey makes him stupid". I was thinking "Thank god this fucker isn't violent". The rest of the day went by, Dom and Chuck bantered back and forth and I learned to ignore the sound, they were just background noise. And that was the end of day one.

27:59

And so it begins...

Savannah Night

City of romance,

Startles me with antebellum streets--

the smell of pralines invite us

from candy shops, invisible hands beckon, wafting

grazing our noses. The clop clop clop

of the horses and the bell of an old town trolley--

strangely rhythmic against the light slap

of river water against river walker.

The summer heat hugs my body--

it drenches us in sticky sweat.

We stroll through walls of tourists--

schools of fish that swim in endless

circles. How easy it is to be lost!

Hands tight together we manage

to slip through and watch the shore

The water travels east.

I imagine

Somewhere far away in the west,

where all rivers begin

a giant elephant raises his trunk

bellows loudly like thunder

and spews water. The slight

squeeze of your hand pulls

me away from dreams.

An old man sings

My Girl. You sing with him.

His voice tells a story

of a broken heart--

And though you sing the same

song, your voice tells another.

How easy it is to fall in love here!

But to stay-- to tight rope walk,

to juggle fire, like street performers

day after day for tourists, the same

rote routine, recreating new

excitement-- would it be impossible?

31:21

Stopwatch from:

http://www.online-stopwatch.com/