the hero entered the unknown

offered up life and soul

a labyrinth of darkness

carved, covered walls of madness

left behind by failures

to free the Queen and save her

the road to hell is paved

hues of blood, black and dark blues

a maze to test intelligence

direction and common sense

follow the little details

the story starting at the cradle

his father told the fairy tales

since his first earthen day

of a princess cursed at birth

a pretty face with no worth

beyond her heart of selfish

surely there's a reason

the Maker would set down traps

to lead soldiers into many mishaps

the Queen, though, must have some power

to help the lost in their dark hour

of choices and roads stretching out

what are these glyphs all about

[ I ]

a cradle, a crown, a throne

"the cradle when she was alone"

the curse came at night

a terrible fright

deprived her of mother and left her alone

[ II ]

a rose, a book, a thorn

"the thorn, her father forlorn"

spoiled the brat senseless

she robbed him defenseless

instead, became the thorn

the last road to choose from

before the great quest

which made the brat act

at her true best

[ III ]

the butler, the wizard, the boy

"the one who brought her toys"

of great worth in nature

below, far, her station

it was the wizard and his coy

tricks and treats

up until her curse would make him bleed

Dankness limp like water slips from black-rot joists and rusted metal above, festering, ever dripping, a-moldering the slick clay leading down to the river below and infecting his saturated skin with untoward disease. The stench of stagnancy fetes the air in his lungs and reddens the whites in his eyes, but he does what he can to placate his urges, rubbing at sores with crooked hands and patiently waiting, a hunger building inside him that food can not, that mere sustenance would never, placate.

The meth is worn off, the heroin a distant, blessed memory. Through knotted muscles and collapsed veins only icy anxiety courses where chemical bliss once flowed, an anxiety trembling for the next rush, troubling his mind and other delicate organs which had come to depend upon numbness for survival. The greatest of despairs had found him here in this best of hiding places when he heard it, the drum of feet, “Oh Glory, Glory be!” He pulled erect onto blistered, rotted feet.

The sound of innocent footsteps approaching, a deliverance of hope for the lost, a ghost of what once was! He slaps at his crook’d hands, one with the other, quelling their eagerness. Putting them to use, he grasps the joist and lifts his head above, squinting into the light for a look-see. A boy! A boy! It is with difficulty that he waits, his eagerness filling him with natural narcotics; adrenaline and dopamine easing his troubles. He lets go, dropping down, his eagerness made known through a dance. Eager hands slap again, demanding patience, dreadful patience of one another. The footsteps grow closer… ever closer, til he can stand it no more. When he spoke it was through an unfamiliar, gravel-filled voice.

”Who is that? Who trips and traps? This bridge requires a toll!

State your name and name your game to satisfy ”The Troll!”

”I am Billy Kidd.”

Something stepped into the boy’s view on the far side of the bridge, strangely rubbing it’s hands together as if washing them in invisible water.

His fearful feet pause. It is a man such as the boy has never seen. He recoils with disgust, but cannot force his eyes away, as it seems too awful to be true.

Excited hands slap and clap in front of it, their motion strange, and unwordly.

”Billy Kidd! Did you say Billy Kidd? Ahhh, a sheepish name for a sheepish boy! A high pitched squeak, like rubber from a door stopper laughed out from his fetid throat. He was quickly beside the boy, his hands slapping, closing the bridge’s distance with a lively pace despite his seeming moribundity.

The boy closed his eyes from the horror, and pushed out his palms to ward it off, but it had him grasped by the wrist in an iron grip and was pulling him. Billy set his feet to resist, he was a strong lad, but the grip grew tighter, the pulling more violent ’til he was pulled along. His mother had warmed him of this very thing, had told him to never, ever come to this place; that the wild grass across’t this bridge only looked greener than what could be grown with his own hands. He had only wanted to try it though, Billy had, just to have a taste…

Billy Kidd woke naked but alive. Dream-like were the mem’ries, trance-like the now, but there was the feeling of floating, then and now, of flying both with fear and exhilaration, but the dream-flight was done. Now it was submerged floating, heavily buoyant, exhausted, sick. In the crook of his arm was a mark, a bruise, deep and black with an eye at it’s center, an eye as red as the troll’s. Billy needed his mother, but could not go home, not like this naked and marked. He wretched into the slimy clay, and wallowed in the filth below the bridge until he adopted it’s smell and it’s look. He waited there, curled and cold, the drips finding and festering him, too sick to stay, too ashamed to go.

The deepest of despairs had found him here in the best of hiding places when Billy heard it, the drum of feet, “Oh Glory, Glory be!” Billy pulled himself up onto rotted feet, his clawed fingers slapping at one other in anticipation.

His voice sounded unnatural from under the bridge’s dank hollow;

”Who is that? Who trips and traps? This bridge requires a toll!” He said.

So, state your name and name your game to satisfy ”The Troll!”

She was paused, her eyes wide as she recoiled from him in horror. His hands slapped excitedly as they awaited a name.

”I am Capri Corn,” she managed, as Billy rushed to make her acquaintance, eager to show her the greener grass.

Her wrists, elbows, her cutoffs, ponytail. The warmth of the asphalt on her bare feet. I think the heat had got to me. She was so cute, so beautiful. I wanted to brush the pebbles and dust from her feet, kiss her, say "I love you," and get us to the nearest place to sleep. I put the car in Drive again and rolled up next to her. "C'mon, Laurie, get in the car. I'm sorry."

Again she stayed looking straight ahead but this time gave me the finger. I pulled onto the shoulder again and and let her get small in my headlights. This time I waited until I couldn't see her anymore. I turned off the car, got out and took in the stars and crickets and heat. The moon was a yellow pearl. So much beauty we could be enjoying together. Looking at the moon I also saw her wonderful butt and her tender thighs as she stepped over some small lump in the road.

If I were to zip by her, would she make it to the next off ramp? Who would pick her up? What then?

Back in the car, nothing but wind.

"I'm sorry I called you a whore."

"I'm sorry I called you a stupid bitch."

The side of her face. I touched my knuckles to it.

She was asleep and turned away when we pulled into the Motel 8. When I pulled the seat back she squeezed my wrist.

All they had, or so the lady said, was a double with two queen beds. I went up and pulled back the sheets before I carried her up. I slept in the other bed but in the morning I got in with her and we spooned and I held her and then there we were again, trying not to gross each other out with our foul mouths, filthy tongues, and sweat and grime.

I was raised on the notion that deeply embedded in every soul there is an ugly thing - an inescapable wretchedness. It is born of a hundred thousand inconsequential, long-forgotten injustices. It is a thing that calls out for love in whatever form it can get and howls in rage when fate throws unexpected trials in our way. It beats against all our ideals and ideas of self worth and the worth of others until there is nothing left but a wound in need of some kind of dressing. A toxic love can cover this wound and hide it from the world, but it is not clean. It will fester. Make our blood boil. Make our minds go numb. Make our hearts feel lost. How intoxicating a thing like this can be - how wholesome in its imperfection - beautifully dire - horrifically dysfunctional - how human.

a porcelain dining set draped upon a lonesome tablecloth.

I am inclined to elucidate the embrace of

two wineglasses,

a toast to the inevitably, meaninglessly profound.

The rims of the glasses ring upon contact

the contents teetering over one another.

A droplet succeeds escape

licking the cloth with its red tongue,

a hush falls as they intertwine.

Someone tries to set their glass upon its now prominent impairment.

to conceal the wine's desperation.

now mottled with ruin and disgust

The rest is consumed

yet the droplet remains.

it is tapered to solemn clotheslines

brisk winds set to chill its crisp warmth

the tablecloth is tossed

but not without the wine to pair with it.

He came to me, smug,

placing the glass jar

on my desk and asked,

"Half empty or..." "Stop.

Did you drink from it

or fill it halfway?"

New York says nothing to you as you wander the frost alone,

during the strange-feeling

and all too fleeting

beginning of the new year.

under the dusty, smoggy winter sky,

street lamps bathed in a milky haze

drunkenly lean against cement.

their halos flicker as snow blows in twisters,

in tandem with cigarette butts and

old frozen leaves.

burrowing through the dark, wet, earth,

a python creature of metal and plexiglass howls under your feet

and above your tousled hair

towers of glass and copper meld together, chameleon-like,

falling into one another with

the whiskey now softening your eyes.

this is not a place that has

any

place for you.

it doesn't need you -

it should barely even want you:

but,

in spite of it all,

you can go for a walk here and never want to return home,

somehow serene in the wild storm of changing things.

it might be that the chaos of these infinite streets matches some unresolved chaos within you:

it might be the liquor in your chest that makes you feel how

everything is happening

all at once.

every moment, particles fly through slits unobserved and cars

crash on highways and flower petals flutter and people kill

themselves and water for coffee boils and willow trees sway and

weep and dogs bark bloody murder, and there are too many

people, and they shout at each other, and then at themselves, and

then

at the snow

fluttering down the streets.

they cannot live without a reply.

only you know that the city speaks a language you can't understand, and only you know there is no sound more beautiful.

it is January first and your flask is empty.

In a long white gown, I stood gingerly,

Four beings, in one room with me,

All of which looked human, tall and if I must say,

Quite handsome,

All was quiet,

Lights of white were positioned everywhere,

Floor made of metal that was like aluminum

But, it felt like nothing beneath my bare feet,

A language inside of my head, not English,

Yet, I understood it,

Animals petrified behind glass panels,

Different species from each part of history,

In my mind, I wondered what these beings wanted with me,

The room had monitors, like flat screen TV's,

Earth flashed up then it was metallic symbols,

One of them tenderly nudged me to write on the screen,

With hesitation I repeated the pattern of four symbols I had seen,

My mind started to fade, as I felt a pair of cold hands catch me,

When I awoke, I felt groggy, drugged even, in a haze,

Vivid in my mind was the memory of those star people,

And that place.

Swirls of grey brood in the sky above my little head, imminent danger lurking in the wind. There's now a strange hole up there, the kind that throws you up into another world: puffy white clouds, sunshine, rainbows, only to bring you crashing right back down. It seems to me exactly how life is. One moment everything can seem perfectly fine and the next you're right back where you started: in your very own shithole. So I guess that's what it looks like. A shithole. Ready to throw itself at the ground and mercilessly devour everything in its path.

I don't know how I came to be here. I guess it was my mind that brought me to this place, though I can not, for the life of me, remember being here in real life. It's a lonely place. I'm picking soft, white daisies growing on moist, dewy grass. The plains stretch for miles, beyond my sight's reach. There's a plateau behind me and the grass on it seems to be freshly cut and shaved. Minty aftershave lingers in the mist that seems to be growing heavier by the minute. It settles in my chest, almost suffocating me. It takes every ounce of energy in me to turn myself around, maneuver past the chubby ducks in the pond, nibbling at pieces of floating bread and lay myself flat out at the top of the plateau. My bones ache, my muscles are heavy, I can't move.

It's when the first few droplets hit my face that I shake myself awake. They feel like bullets, piercing my heart, where it aches the most. I try to get up and run but to no avail. It's too strong, I can't survive it. The annoyance at my lethargy, mingled with this irrational fear makes me twist and turn in bed. With crusty eyes I try to glimpse the face of the clock, faintly ticking beside my head.

3:16 am

I groan softly. Another dream gone by, another night wasted. Will I ever get my happy ending, if only in my head? Probably not. But maybe that's the point. You gotta fix what's out there in order to fix what's going on in there. Or is it the other way around? I don't want to know anymore. I just want to sleep.