America was always the land of promise,

Crossing the blistering frost,

the frozen Bering Strait,

Thousands, upon thousands of years ago.

Man was always the opportunist.

Necessity driving,

and humanity spread,

Down South Past the Klondike,

Down the Rocky Mountains, To the Peaks of Monterrey, and the Hills and Volcanoes of Poas, to the Golden Green and the Pulsing Veins of the Amazonia, to the Andes Range, and Patagonia

Down to the Land of Fire,

La Tierra del Fuego.

What fierce a land it must have been.

Where mighty beasts roamed,

Unnacustomed to human hunters,

Driving species to exctinction.

(Where have we heard this tale in America before?)

America, where no roads were paved,

where the jungle breathed freely,

Before the birth of -isms.

Industralism.

Capitalism.

Social Darwinism.

Before the Goddamned Manifest Destiny

and the white man's holy right to rape and pillage and expand.

But perhaps it is all men

who pave the road to destruction.

The comings and goings of a proud people boasted in the plains full of wild buffaloe, Cherokee and Comanchee, and their sacred land.

The Aztecs and Mayas and their architechtural wonders, their brutal way of life, they too expanded far and wide, collecting tribute from conquered lands and people.

Before the befoulment of Pizarro,

the Incas fought a bloody civil war,

between brothers,

A great civilization wrecked for power,

Easy pickings for men who conquered seas,

who conquered steal,

who brought disease.

America is a history of transatlantic enslavement,

Of Steel And Fire paving way

For Man to Opress Man.

Colonialism.

It was not until Bolivar,

Manuel Hidalgo,

and O'Higgins,

that a people were set free.

To what?

And then came Guevara, and Castro,

to liberate the Cubans from Batista,

to what?

And then came..

And then came..

The history of man is those of conquerors,

the history of America wrote these pages

in blood, sacrificed in pain and misery,

the desecration of a people,

WE, killed an entire people,

wiped them out until they were a smudge on the earth.

WE, enslave and overthrow,

shackle and liberate.

You may say, "I did not do these things"

But we are born of the same quilt,

Man is man,

and so we are cursed to the duality.

America, the land of despoilers and saviors, of tyrants and salvation.

America is the history of man, the neverending wheel of good and evil,

Perhaps it is not a wheel but an arc,

And "the arc of the moral universe is long,

but it bends towards justice"

“We’re going to have to let you go.”

“Why?”

“We don’t need you here any longer.”

I’d never been to a place like this. The man led me to a small room with a bench for me to sit on and white glaring walls. He told me to wait. They would be right in, he said. I had no idea how any of it worked. My heart was racing. I felt a little sick.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? The train ride back was quiet. I had enough savings to last a few weeks.

The first girl came in. She wore a black dress, long plastic nails, and a plastic smile. She sat across from me looking confident.

“Hi, I’m Laura. I’m a very open person and I like to try new things,” she went on about herself, but I couldn’t get past how hard she tried to be liked. It didn’t feel real, “So, do you have any questions?” she said.

“Uh no”

She stood up, smiled again, and walked away. I’m sure she rolled her eyes as she turned her back to me.

It felt quick. I recoiled, unsure of what just happened.

I made it to my street. Winter winds gave way to the coming spring. Leafless branches drooped down in front of me and flowers looked to bloom. I opened the rusted gate, past the bricked wall, and up the stairs to my apartment. It was freezing inside, everything insulated by the bricks.

The next girl came in.

“Hi, I’m Bethany,” she sat down, “I like to get down to business and have a little fun.” She seemed nice but very ditzy. She reminded me of a little girl. She had heavy makeup like she was trying to look older and pigtails draping over her shoulders. She like to let the last syllable of every word linger just a little too long.

She got to the end of her introduction, “Do you have any questions for me?”

I shook my head.

She smiled and walked away.

Maybe this is a good thing. I can spend my time writing and reading. It’ll be good to take a break. This is a good thing, I reassured myself. Hollow steps rang across the empty apartment and echoed back from the gray walls. I reached for my collection of books and picked up the heavy one with the red cover. The weight felt good in my hands. I sat down on my bed and the mattress rolled against the wall.

The next one that came in was gorgeous, but she was so skinny. She looked like she hardly ate. I felt sorry for her. I shook my head right as she walked in. She froze. Her lips curled into a sad countenance. She sighed and turned around. I really felt bad.

The next girl had dark hair draping over her forehead, just above the eyebrows. She must have been in her mid-30’s. I wondered how she looked when she was younger. Had she grown to be beautiful or was this her state of decay? Her dress was silver and sparkling with glitter. She had an alluring sway to her step. She sat down and studied me. I had turned away many of the girls already.

“Hello, darling, I’m Caroline,” she said, “I want to take care of you. I want you to feel special tonight and let everything wash away, and for you to relax.”

I wanted to believe her, but I shook my head. She looked confused and gave up.

The man walked in again.

“That was all of them”, he said, “did you like any of them?”.

I wanted to ask to see them all again or to have them all lined up but that felt demeaning.

“Can I have a moment?”

Dark brown in the bottle sitting on the windowsill. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t find a reason to stop myself. What did it matter anyway? So what if it was the morning? I didn’t have anything to do tomorrow.

The last girl. She was pretty.

Another glass of whiskey

She seemed like she cared.

Maybe I’ll go by the shop and buy another bottle.

I stood up and went to the front desk, “Excuse me. The girl in the silver dress. Her.”

“The girl in the silver dress? What was her name?”

“I forgot”

Only 5 PM and I’m still awake. I should go out tonight. I stepped into the shower and the warm water turned scalding hot and the room turned steamy. I closed my eyes under the stream and felt the heat wash over me. It felt like it was all I needed, the heat, the warmth. Eventually the hot water started to run out and the colder water accompanied me and sobered me. I decided I was thirsting for another drink.

I started shaking. I couldn’t even find a woman I liked. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to go anywhere. The girl in the silver dress, she had a reassuring smile, after all. Maybe she’s what I need.

Swaying and stumbling in my empty room, dressed up to wander the night I smoked a cigarette and watched the smoke in the dimming sunlight. How beautiful it looked, caressed by the sun, slowly shifting until it vanished and only the light remained and even that would slowly vanish. How quickly things came and went.

“I think she just had another customer. Would you like a drink, we can send the girls back into the room?”

“Sure.”

Dejected, I sat back down, sighing a heavy sigh wondering what the hell I should do next. If I couldn’t have her, what was the point?

The man showed up at the door with a sly look, “Is this her?”

I looked over and she was dripping with sensuality, her face had a look so sure of herself, so certain that I wanted her, like she knew I would come back begging.

“Yes, that’s her”

I stepped out the door into the cold night with nothing to carry me but my own feet, nothing to look forward to except what I could make of it. In a way I was almost hopeful but really, I just needed something, anything besides the four walls I was cooped up in all day. I smoked another cigarette and listened to the beat of my steps making their way to somewhere, anywhere. It was Wednesday. Most people didn’t have much going on today. I needed sound, music, laughter, anything but silence. I wanted someone to talk to and to drink with and to work this out. That would make it better.

“Come with me”, she said, and turned around with that delicate sway she boasted. Almost tripping over myself I took my steps following hers and started to tremble and shake. I was really doing it. My breath became short but I had come this far. She led me to the front desk.

“How long would you like to spend with Ms. Caroline?”

“One hour”

I paid the man. I didn’t want to think about how much I spent. None of it mattered. I was terrified but exhilarated by her. She was worth it.

A long line filled with people waiting to go into a small bar. It seemed perfect. I stepped into the line giddy with who I might meet inside. For all I knew the love of my life was waiting past the door, or maybe in the very line we shared. I traded steps, shifting side to side to keep myself warm, when I saw him, a co-worker, or ex-co-worker.

I waved and smiled.

Nothing.

Maybe he didn’t see me?

I called out his name.

He gave me a half-baked smile and turned around quickly distracting himself with his group.

“What a dick. Can you believe this guy?” I said to the person in front of me.

“Why?”

“That guy works with me, won’t even look at me.”

“No. Why do you think I care. Leave me alone.”

We walked up the stairs through the dimly lit place. Her high heels clicked on every step and the sway never left. It was getting hard to breathe. This didn’t feel like me. This wasn’t something I would do. I felt wrong but I couldn’t turn back. Not now. I was sliding down a hill with a rope by my side but I wanted to see what was at the bottom.

She asked me a question.

“What was that?” I said.

We got up the stairs and into the long hallway with closed doors and I could hear the moaning and creaking of beds and grunting. We kept walking until she found her room and we walked in. It was freezing inside. I started shivering harder.

“Oh, darling. Are you cold?”

“I’m alright.”

“Well, don’t you worry. I’m going to take care of you. I’m just going to need to check you to see if everything is fine.”

She went over to me and I was standing there, shaking. She reached for the button on my jeans and unhooked it, smiling at me, and slid down my pants slowly.

“You’re gonna be alright, babe. Don’t worry about it. Relax, breathe.”

I did.

She pulled my briefs down and bent down to her knees and inspected me. I didn’t dare look.

“Looks like you’re good to go.”

Almost an hour in the line and I wanted to go home. I was so damned drunk and tired. I couldn’t keep up. I decided to stay. Going home meant being alone. I braved the crowd and the long line until we made it into the place. It was shoulder-to-shoulder, almost impossible to maneuver without bumping into someone.

I said about a thousand ‘sorry’s’ trying to get to the bar. Two rum and coke doubles and a shot of tequila. Behind the bar, where all the bottles stood was a mirror. I stared at myself and saw how grim I looked. I was being squeezed on both sides by taller men and hands reached over my shoulders to pay for drinks and I stood there, grim and serious, staring at myself while everyone was rowdy and giddy.

“What’s the matter with you?” said the guy next to me.

“Had a rough day.”

“Here let me buy you a drink. Company card,” he winked.

That lifted my spirits. His drink came before mine.

“Here you go. Cheer up guy.” He turned around and cheered and hollered going back to his group of friends and spilled the drink he gave me. The rum soaked my jeans and I reeked of liquor, more so than before.

My drinks came. I took the shot and carried my drinks to the corner of the bar that seemed quieter. There were chairs and sofas and an empty seat waiting for me. I sat down and sipped on my drink staring at everyone having a great time, laughing, and dancing, and even the people sitting around me seemed engaged and thrilled by their conversation. I tuned it all out and drank.

Some pretty girls smiled at me as they walked by and I smiled back. I waited for one of them to sit down next to me, someone to change everything, I just wanted someone to care, but I just kept drinking.

Eventually I looked over at the girl sitting a few seats away. She was very into her conversation. I was too drunk to care.

“Excuse me, miss. What’s your name?”

She rolled her eyes and said her name.

“You having a good time tonight?” I said.

She nodded, without looking away from her friend.

“What were you guys talking about?”

“Oh, nothing. We were just leaving.”

She told me to lay down on the bed. She asked me what I liked. I didn’t know. I had a rough day, I told her. I just don’t want to think anymore. We can do that, she said.

I sat there for hours, in the same place, going only to the bar and to the bathroom for a really long piss. And then it was time for the place to close. We were herded outside, and I felt so empty. So many people around me, people I could speak to, if only I knew how.

She carefully slipped her dress off and it fell like it was sorry to depart from her body. And she moved next to me and nuzzled into my shoulder and put her hand onto my chest and started caressing me. She sighed and slid her fingers across my chest and my stomach, “You’re very handsome, you know.”

I scoffed.

“No, really!”

I tried not to breathe so heavy, my breath reeked of liquor and cigarette smoke.

She kept moving her hands up and down across my upper body, every time moving further and further down.

She kept complimenting me, but it felt sincere, even though she knew nothing about me. She asked about my life and I answered and little by little the tension slowly eased. I didn’t tremble anymore. I didn’t shake. I didn’t feel sick. I felt safe and comfortable and I had a beautiful woman next to me who gave me all the attention in the world.

She played with her fingers drawing shapes with her soft skin against mine, never reaching my groin but always dancing around it and every time she did, I secretly wanted her to get closer and closer.

We kept the talk light.

I felt the blood going to my groin and the pressure building there. It was getting harder to answer her questions and to focus on what she was saying. All I could think about was her hand, the finger, the playful finger that did what I wanted it to do until it didn’t but kept getting closer and closer each time.

Without ever touching me there she had me more aroused than I had been in my whole life.

“Do you want to have sex?” she asked.

The question confused me. That was what I came for after all, but it almost didn’t feel like what I knew it actually was.

I nodded.

She climbed on top of me and I slid into her. The warmth, the rush of pleasure from the building was coursing through my entire body, right from the beginning, until she slowly eased herself all the way down and she rested her hands on my chest moaning pleasurably until she relaxed and I was entirely inside of her.

It started slowly, building speed, every time moaning, rolling her eyes, and I struggled to hold on, to make it last.

We thrusted together, time after time, lost in space, forgetting the world around me, forgetting everything and anything that ever mattered and existed solely within each other and our every movement, the touching of her skin, her hot breath against my neck, her lips against mine, her breasts pressed against me, her hair flying up and down in ecstatic pleasure.

When it was over, I laid down on my stomach, exhausted, and we laughed.

I felt so sleepy, utterly spent from the entire day, the lovemaking, everything.

I sighed a deep and heavy sigh, and she used her magical hands to run her fingers across my back, drawing and sketching away at my back with those delightful fingers.

All I wanted was to feel like I was worth a damn.

A woman finally made me feel like a man and all I had to do was pay her.

And when my hour was up, I thanked her profusely, she kissed me on the cheek, and I stumbled out of the place. Cigarette in my mouth, I wandered the streets until I found my way back home to my bed where I laid there alone. I looked up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling from the rustling branches and the wind whistling and I fell into a deep and restless sleep.

Please, if you’ve got ANY sense at all just stop. Stop reading. I should have listened, but I didn’t.

If you start reading this and start feeling a little funny like a little ball forming in your chest, just a little pressure - listen! If you feel it growing or maybe like something is wrong about it all STOP reading. Maybe a little lightheadedness? A little tired? You feel it? I just couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know what the hell it was all about.

If you really want to know I’ll tell you I kind of liked it.

I liked the little chill down my neck and the tingle in my spine. The ball in my stomach felt different, new, almost exciting.

I liked how my chest felt a little tighter. It was almost nice to be a little scared, to be a little worried.

It made me feel special until I felt like it was watching me.

You know the feeling.

For all I know it’s already started.

He might be watching you right now.

In the corner of the room.

Under your legs.

Making you tingle

Listening to you breathe

Sitting right behind your shoulder.

Huddled in some subtle place just in the corner of your eye.

He’s the one that makes the little sounds you always hear.

The tapping

The scraping

The indisdious grinning

He’s always smiling.

So, don’t be scared.

But he’s watching you now.

I know you can feel it now. Something is wrong. Isn’t it?

Yes... he sees you. He likes you; I think.

He tells me he’s going to stay with you for a while.

Don’t be scared. He likes it when you’re worried, he says.

That’s him. That’s what he does. He makes it funny at first but then you can’t stop.

I would advise you to look around. He can’t hurt you but he is watching you. He scurries off if you look around

But he always

ALWAYS

Comes back.

If you’ve come this far I should tell you a few things now.

The man will follow you forever. He’s with me now and he’s with you. You might not see him, but you feel him.

Don’t you?

Behind you, around the corner, peeking his beady little eyes, just barely out of sight but he’s in your head like he’s in my head.

You see him now. Close your eyes, Maybe.

He has his little games he like to play.

We’re playing right now

Fun. SO fun to see you

Hunched over your screen

He loves it when you’re alone.

You’re not alone right now. Are you?

Well, it doesn’t matter anyways.

He has his games for everyone.

For me it’s at night. When I brush my teeth and my bathroom door is closed. I can only hear the bristles against my teeth, but it masks his steps. I can feel him like you feel him now. Somewhere, somehow, watching, listening, grinning, watching you fiddle and tap your legs.

I hunch over the sink and close my eyes and I can picture him. The swirled crazed eyes and the wild hair standing over me, watching me with devious lips and the gray and dark just hovering, watching me, enjoying my fear and when I open my eyes He's gone

I’ll tell you one thing.

He really likes you.

He says he’s wants to see you

Tonight?

Tonight.

Don’t keep your eyes closed too long. Don’t be scared of him

He just likes to watch.

"The gods have truly blessed us today", said He.

He and She stood on a pile of rubble. This they inherited as a dowry. Their pile of rubble stood taller than some of the other scavengers who were still left. For this they were grateful.

"What a glorious day it is", said She, "It seems I can almost see a shade of blue overhead."

So grateful were He and She for the weekly offering of stale bread the Overseers have provided. They had only crumbs left. The crumbs were placed in a pile between them. He and She sat, thin as nails, watching the rising smoke and the sea of white and gray spanning endlessly. They fed each other the tiny crumbs, savoring the smallest respite from the dust that coated everything now. Everything tasted funny in those days.

The overarching grey hung thick in the air and coated the stale bread. The thick dust got into the open scabs and cuts of He and She. So much metal, metal beams sticking out from the rubble, metal twisted and broken. It was so easy to walk and find oneself with open wounds. The wounds always went yellow and filled with pus. Everything got infected. The dust got into their eyes and they blinked and blinked to no avail. Some argued it was easier to close their eyes indefinitely. When they breathed, they wheezed, and similar to cold wintry days the steam through their nose rose elegentally but was mixed with more dust, soot, and marked by desperation.

He and She were in love. There wasn't much left to hold on to. They fed each other crumbs and they loved each other.

"Oh, darling. It is truly a splendid day here with you" said She, "Have another bite", but the crumb stuck to the dry lip and he had not the energy to move so the crumb now clung there dangling helplessly. She managed a meager laugh.

"Oh, my love, look!"

An amored car, pristine with tinted windows, massive and imposing was making the rounds. It came revving the loud engine. She stood up and patted Him on the shoulder with the gentlest touch.

"I'll be right back, darling"

And she ran barefoot through the broken glass and the broken homes that stood pulverized with only metal beams and door frames left, visages of the old days.

The armored car opened the roof quickly and extended the robot arm. Even the piece of machinery seemed disgusted by the conditions it was exposed to but it listened to the man inside pushing its buttons.

Her mouth watered and she felt the unbearable grumble and pain in her stomach. The robot arm extended its fingers right infront of her, and like a rich man throwing a penny at a drunkard freezing in the street, threw the bag of stale bread at her. The robot arm retracted quickly into the car and the car sped off, desperate to finish it's tedious duty.

She took the bread and took a bite feeling delighted.

On her return to Him she was beaming, "Darling! Look! More food!"

The same men responsible for the nuclear winter were heralded as heroes for the measly stale bread. They thanked them - the ones that killed them all, the one who pushed the buttom and released the hell and the firestorm, they who killed them slowly, day by day.

"Oh what a glorious day it is, indeed!"

And the crumb still hung on the man's lip unmoving, unflinching, growing cold, pale, and still.

The bacon is frying, there is no alarm, and the sun is shining through the blinds just enough to get the pink petal hue on the horizon. I dont sit around in bed, groggy, stretching my legs or hiding under the covers. I don't reach for my phone and scroll through the endless stream of content. The bacon is frying. The smell is good enough for me. I get up and make my way to the kitchen, instinctively. It is no battle. It is inertia, movement, right off the bat, I'm ready to go.

The wood floor under my feet is always smooth. I never wear shoes. It feels right to feel the Earth beneath me. There's no constant hum of cars going about their business, or the honking of the early morning commuters, only the quiet chirping of birds, the rusting of leaves, the stillness of the morning.

She's there, in her blue underwear and her oversized t-shirt, she's focused on the pan and lost in her thoughts. She looks lovely standing there, frozen in time, all mine. I love her thick-rimmed glasses. I know she's blind as a bat and thank the stars that it worked out for me that way. Her hair is wild and the locks sit on her back untamed, unkempt, just the way I know her to be.She hears my quiet footsteps and the world starts to shine because she is there and I am hers.

"Good morning" she says and the warmness inside of me amplifies by her simple smile, her adoring eyes, the genuine gaze of a woman who loves me.

"Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Coffee's on the counter."

The steam rises from the red barrel-shaped mug and tastes sweeter than ever knowing that she made it for me, without ever asking, without ever mentioning it. It is a simple labor of love and it is these small labors that keeps love alive, that make me realize how lucky I am.

I kiss her on the cheek and sit down at the table. There is a stack of books infront of me and they all excite me, the names of legendary writers on the spine, their mythical prowess with paper and pen alluring as ever, already the words ruminate in my mind and hypnotize me. I grow hungry for the words, the masterful craft that nourishes every fiber of my being, all on those pages - the questions of the universe and the folly of attempting to answer them.

I sigh and look out the glorious window; it is autumn. The leaves are changing but I am like a rock - stable, sturdy, confident. I glow at the burst of yellow and red. I feel sorrow for the emptying trees but rejoice in the cycle, time will bring back the lush brush, the grass will be back soon, but for now the snow is coming and the wintry winds too but I have my books and my coffee and the bacon. What else does a man need?

"I think I'll work outside today before the real cold comes" I say.

"I'll be back in a few hours. I have a few errands to run. You have the house all to yourself."

She kisses my forehead the warmness spreads downwards, all through my skin. It's the simple things.

"Have a lovely day" I say

The hammock hangs from the tree. It is heaven to be suspended, to sway back and forth, to be part of the tree, the roots going deep into the Earth, and it is her prowess that keeps the gentle rocking afloat. There is a hushed breeze, it disturbs the papers infront of me only slightly, but the cold is a reminder. The chill keeps me from complacency, it keeps me going, the momentum, and suddenly I don't feel the world around me at all. It is hypnosis.

The words come with difficulty at first, I am still in my head, still finding the perfect words, still being human, flawed, imperfect, but the more I write, the more I become less of myself. There are pauses but soon they dissapear. I am finding the flow, there is nothing else in the world anymore, I have lost control, the straining of the wrist, the constant movement of the pen, the ink struggling to keep up, there is nothing to it at all now; it is momentum, the constant movement, inertia keeps me going now, and I cannot stop it, nothing can stop it until it has run out of energy but I never let it go that far. It is vital to never empty the well but to leave a little water left to keep the drought away. I am dreaming, the medium is monochromatic but the wave that pulls me here and there, that lifts me up to lands unknown is kaleidoscopic, it is heaven to be lost in myself and the universe.

I can feel the reserves depleting, I am getting to the end of my rope, the hypnosis is starting to vanish and I am being dragged back down to Earth, the colors begin to come back and the hazy stupor does not have its hold on me.

There is little left and I decide to stop.

For a moment I have lost the fear of death, there was nothing that ever mattered more than the words that I wrote. Perhaps the words are mediocre, useless, only important to me, but it does not matter. There is a slight hint of guilt, it follows me constantly, perhaps I should do more, perhaps I should have done better, but then I know that I am human again, that I am back to my flawed self because in the hours that I was lost with the pen there was no doubt, only flow and miracles, creation. Even the shoddy craftsman looks at his work and says, "Tomorrow it will be better". I did the work. I did what I had to do and that is all a man can do.

My duty ends there with those words, now the day is free and I am its humble companion.

I look up to the branches and the falling leaves. There is no need for fantastical escapes for me, everyone has their own. Mine is simple because after all it is the simple things that make the biggest difference. A snowflake can bring the avalanche, a drop of water can bring the flood, a single breath can make all the difference, and for now I look at the falling leaves, the quiet of my home, my finished work, and keep swaying side to side and smile in the simplest pleasure of silence.

In the empty apartment stood Henry leaning his head against the window, like a fallen branch, solemn eyes watching the world go by.

He looked out as one hand dangled unceremoniously to the side letting the other hand steal all the glory by bringing the glass of rum to his lips.

It was Friday, five minutes before midnight, half the bottle of rum was gone already. His apartment, once a comfort, had now become his prison. The self-made cell was the glaring white walls and the stained window.

When he decided he was sufficiently drunk and full of melancholic longing, he watched the busy intersection three floors below him. He listened to the dull hum of the engines and the men going about their serious business wondering where they were all going. He saw the silver cars shimmer under the pale moonlight, night dwellers roaming the cement roads in search of something. The object of the search was never the important thing. The important thing was to be searching, always searching. Henry felt at home with those seekers but conceded he’d never be like them. Fears of grandiose ambition lead to the easier path of apathy. He found the rum to be an adequate companion for his only undertaking of window watching, letting the time tick by, lounging around, decomposing, dying a little every day.

He looked across from him at the parking lot and the restaurant with the patio. He envied the jubilant attitude of the patrons, drinking their beer and whiskey, smoking their cigarettes. He looked down and saw a party of people clinking their glasses, celebrating, placing their sincere heavy hands on welcoming shoulders. Henry caught up in the excitement, lifted his glass of rum and clinked it with his stained window, envisioning himself with the crowd, and his hopeful eyes turned into a grimace. His room was empty, he wished even to be among strangers, to be amongst some rowdy laughter, or even to smile at clueless lovers locking hands under the yellow patterned lights. He relented his silly dream, pursed open his lips and let the honeyed rum wash down his bitter throat.

At the striking of midnight came the mysterious message. Deciding to go back to his desk to pour another glass of rum he saw the conspicuous piece of paper laying on top of the wood. He closed one eye, thereby enlarging the other, squeezing his chin into his neck like a turtle, or an old man trying to read without his glasses, getting the blurred letters to become clear:

“Twenty-four-hour time limit.

Flight.

Instructions: Concentrate and levitate”

Henry thought long and hard about the meaning of the message. After thirty seconds of strenuous concentration he decided to go back to his window and draw up the mysterious paper to some previous drunken stupor.

He dragged his sorry legs back to his favorite spot, and let the sweet honey colored rum pour down his throat, and stared longingly once again through the muddied glass.

He imagined what it would be like if he could truly fly. Oh, all the places he would go, all the things he would see and do. It was a momentarily cheerful thought. He closed his eyes evoking that soaring flight, dreaming of being far away from here and then he felt weightless. He opened his eyes and saw that he truly was flying! He levitated only a few inches off the ground, but it had surely been done.

He tried it again and he flew even higher and it was easier to control his movement and direction. He floated down to the ground and his heart was pumping, his mind racing. He had to go somewhere. He couldn’t waste this gift just flying around in his room if the twenty-four-hour time was to be believed.

He went to the window, stains be damned, and pulled it open. He put one leg out getting ready to go out into the world feeling a blast of cold air which made him stop. He wasn’t sure where he was going to go. He put his leg back in and slumped back on his bed.

Henry thought first of that strong river in the valley where he went fly fishing all those years ago with his father. He hadn’t been back since, but it was the first place he thought of. He remembered that long drive at dawn, father and son exchanging yawns and anticipation at the catching of fish – a friendly competition. They stopped at the riverbank and hauled the boat into the stream right as the sun was rising, giving an unprecedented glow to the silver water, now turned gold. They never spoke all that much during the procession but relished in each other victories and laughed at the inevitable failures. He didn’t miss the fish all that much, or the wintry river, but it was the remembrance of the face his father made that burned a hole in his chest. He never saw that look anywhere else but there on that river. It was a serenity, a shining sternness and acceptance of the river, basking in that glorious valley amongst nature, amongst kin. It was the flowing of the rapids making them pure again. He wanted to go back to the place and remember that face from so long ago.

It would be dark now, he thought. It was hundreds of miles away, he thought again. And the father he longed to see was dead and buried far away from the river.

Henry decided to go for more rum. This time drinking straight from the bottle.

Another place to go then, he decided.

He thought then of those docks, walking side by side with her. She was young admittedly but there was something about her that made Henry full of life once again and hopeful.

They walked from one end of the docks knowing it would be the last time and so he cherished every smile, every flowing strand of hair, he admired. They laughed, distracting each other from what they both knew was coming, that fateful goodbye.

“We should steal a boat and sail the seas”, she said.

“I don’t know how to drive a boat. Do you?”

“No but we’ll become pirates and make enough money to hire a captain. Then we can lounge on the deck and be fed. We’ll make a trip of it”

“What’s the plan then?”, he said

“We’ll go where the wind takes us, taking all the gold we can. During the day we’ll catch fish and at night we’ll make love. If we can’t sleep I’ll curl up in your arms and we can count the stars, and we’ll go home as soon as we’ve counted them all.

And they made their imaginary plans, laying fictional paths where they could pretend they had more time. That’s how they spent their last moments, wishing they had more time. Then the bright orange light of their short-lived love started to turn gray until it was completely black. Her face melted into the crowd and he never saw her again.

He thought maybe he could go back there, to the dock, and smile at the pretty lights of the city, and the quiet reflections on the water.

Henry found out she got married recently and was expecting a baby.

He didn’t see the point in going back to the dock anymore.

And that was how the next hours went by for Henry. The whole time holding a spectacular power that came only once in a lifetime, the power to roam freely, unencumbered, and follow his heart’s desires but it had changed nothing. He found a place to go, a magical moment that he held dear in his heart, a sacred moment, a sacred face, and decided against it because the memory was too pure.

And that was how the night went for Henry until the dark became alight with the rising sun and the rosy petal dawn.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise sober”, said Henry aloud

He promised himself the next sunrise would be without his faithful friend, the rum, but that day would never come. At the sun’s rising midway through the morning Henry fell into a deep and restless sleep lasting over twelve hours going in and out, drinking more rum and smoking a cigarette before he fell asleep.

He finally decided to get out of bed when it was close to midnight again with his pounding headache and wishing he wasn’t alive. He went to his desk to smoke another cigarette when he saw the note once again, granting him the power to fly.

Leaping from his chair, desperate to do something with his flight he leapt from the window, remembering the time limit, and flew into the night. He finally flew through gentle skies and when his time was up, he closed his eyes and thought of that strong river and the shimmering dock ready for the end.

I am so gruesomely ill,

The prognosis a grim and bleak affair.

Nothing works the way it should,

things are backwards,

always misunderstood,

I'm dreadfully sick,

and nowhere to turn,

give me medicine,

give me herbs,

give me anything

to soothe the pain.

When the pills,

and the men in white coats,

give me their two cents,

and I am prodded,

and

stuck with needles,

drained to a pulp,

when I am nothing but bones

and taught skin,

my dry lips struggle

and

I say

ENOUGH!

I shall die, we all know

it is true.

For my fate will be

passed on

to you.

Then,

give me that elixir

give

me

words,

words to ease that mortal dread,

give me

metaphors

to make sense

of untimely birth

and untimely death.

give me

alliteration

so my tongue may dance

once again.

Give me

poetry

so I may

hold hands

with

death

and welcome

it

with grace.

We the lucky few, they said.

What a load of horse shit.

Before you get all judgemental on me I didn't even want to go to this fucking place, ok? It wasn't up to me. I was chosen for no other reason than someone reached their hand into a hat and out of billions of other names they picked mine. It's all just dumb fucking luck.

Look at a map, and let's say you were born here, on this spot. Oh lucky you! You got wealthy, educated parents, they treat you nice and all. Mom doesn't pull out the belt anytime you misbehave and Dad doesn't give you a black eye after a fifth of scotch. No, you had it good in that life. Nice cushy school, nice little friends, any kind of food you want. Your 16th birthday present was a nice car, well whoop-de-fucking-do.

Well, this other fucker, he was born somewhere else. Oh, he was born in the bad place. Yeah, over here. You were born to a home that had no running water, starved from nourishment to make ends meet. No education for you, oh no , you have to work to help pay the bills. Hell, you might make something of yourself, sure, but goddamn if the odds aren't against you.

It's all the luck of the draw. Born here, good for fucking you, born there, well your life is going to be a steaming pile of horse shit, and you'll be begging for the sweet release of death from this bullshit prison of a life.

Sorry, I'm just upset right now.

There's a lot going through my mind. It's just not fucking fair, you know? No one ever gets a goddamn say about anything in this life. You might be in the prime, the fucking peak of your life. You might have the perfect girl, got the nice job and the corner office with the blinds so you can jerk off in there if that's what you're into. You got a lease on a new car, boss is happy with your work. You feel like you're heading somewhere. You're not sure where but you're on the right track.

Hell, you even thought about starting up a family with this girl. Even though you promised to not bring a child into this fucked up place. Why not make another deranged bastard like me? Surely, I can do a better job than my parents did.

Well, too goddamn bad.

An asteroid the size of texas had to just be whipped out of space from who knows where and head straight for earth. The human race just had to keep going, I guess. No, we don't accept the annihalation of our species, we ruin our world and then go on to the next one.

Guess fucking what? I got chosen for this circus of a show we got going on here. Someone just pulled this pile of shit right out of their ass and served it up on a platter and served it up nice and hot for us.

I said goodbye to my Ma, quit my six figure job, sold the goddamn car, the fucking car... At least I got to fuck my girl one last time before I left, but yep, that was the last time that was ever going to happen. She's probably fucking our neighbor Randy by now. I sure know how to pick 'em.

Now we're stuck here. They sent me, for no reason, just pure dumb fucking luck. They sent the best scientists, physicists, chemists; the practical people too: engineers and whatnot. They sent the scummy politicians with enough money to afford this place.

Everyone knows this thing is coming for Earth and the rich and wealthy are saving their ass, leavin the boat to sink, and goin to the next one. So, everyone's going ballistic right, the regular people. There was goddamn anarchy. We were all going to die anyway. They came up with this brilliant scheme. One person from every country gets to hold a lottery and that person gets to represent their country and continue their tradition for "posterity".

My number came up and I said yes because I'm a coward.

And you know what the kicker is? The damn asteroid missed earth by about 3,000 miles. Must have been quite the fucking show seeing that thing fly by. Imagine front row seats to the destruction of humanity. I woulda sat on some golden beach and swallowed all the uppers and downers my body could handle, the works, you know. I woulda gotten absolutely blasted waiting to get blasted, ha.

Wish I coulda seen it. Well now were all here, with a half assed plan. We're probably, no.. definitely gonna end up dying on this red stinkin rock. So yeah, I have a right to be mad, ok? You wanna make me feel guilty for saying yes to it, alright, maybe thats fair. But look who's laughing now. You all get to keep breathin that nice fresh air while I stay in our "quarantined oxygen zone". You get to go to the yankees stadium and watch a bunch of idiots throw a ball around. You get to go to fuckin Paris and fuck some french babe at the top of the goddamn thing yelling "Liberty!" at the top of your lungs if that's what you wanted. I mean you get to go to the fucking sea and just float on the salt water, letting the waves wash everything away. I don't got none of that. All I have is red, red and more red. Here's to you, Earth.

You are the exception,

The spectacularly divine,

Innocence, permeates

through wailing cries,

bursting ear drums,

proclaiming, and

assuming life,

drawing breath,

that sweet air.

Before the indoctrination,

unaware of absolute condemnation,

forced to adaptation,

more foreign than a space station,

thrusted into dislocation,

you are the only innocent generation.

You are pure, unaware, unassuming,

bright rays of sunshine on a midsummer's eve,

a tiny seed, through which

a glorious tree will sprout

Infinite possibility,

demarks your arrival,

from now on anything CAN happen,

and anything MAY happen

except for me,

not, that was not for me,

my heritage was not life,

my inheritance was blame,

how can a sapling grow,

with out water to feed it,

without the nurturing of the sun,

without ample space to grow,

how can it succeed, when it is peppered by hail,

subjected to drought,

stomped on and berated,

it is a failed cultivation.

my spectacular entrance, my first act, in this play

was the death of my mother,

and for that this little babe will never be innocent.

Ours was a brief romance,

like comets drifting by, never hitting the mark

until finally we met,

two stars destined to collide, first so close,

in lover's embrace, like all things,

forever changed by clashing with another, then off to heavenly trajectory

Look at the moon,

even with the naked eye,

we can see the scars and bruises,

unmistakable on it's surface, the collision of thousands of space rocks,

leaving the moon battered and marked,

yet undeniably the cynosure of the night.

Ours, was a brief romance,

only brushing,

only a hurried taste,

a transient hold, and gone,

but still unquestionably heavenly marred.

There was no magnificent collision, no brilliant cosmic fire,

it was only a year later,

I learned, your true tragic desire.

How dazzling the blazing star is,

we yearn to see its flame, to admire its resplendence, to trace it grazing across space

our awe, of splendid nature,

the creases, the mountains, the freezing plains and seas, so graceful

It pains me to know how brief your flame was, like the billions of stars and heavenly bodies,

we can only know so much,

It wasn't the path meant for you,

you flung yourself,

drowned in the bleakness of space,

the utter loneliness of it all,

I feel shame, for I knew so little

I feel shame, for I tried not hard,

Though, the extent of my belief,

begins with miraculous life, and ends with cruel death,

I can only hope you are at rest now,

no pains to ail you,

no monsters to torment you,

only peace,

tranquility,

"hush now, sweet thing" I wish I could have said

"Do not weep, you can sleep, that eternal sleep".

No, I can never see your transcendent flame,

what could have been I'll never know,

what you might have been, will never show

but these words, so meager, and unjust,

for what words can ever fairly compare to life,

though we must try;

life, so fragile and warm, the blanket of our dreams, the clouds of our hopes,

I know this: though your flame be extinguished,

carry it I will,

for the nights,

the lonely lonesome nights,

it is all I need to give my life a little light,

I need only look at the sky,

and think,

of the ode to the lover I'll never know