I’ve heard about butterflies, but there are spiders in my stomach.

I tried home remedies to exterminate,

Now I’m sick

And high.

It’s that rush of too much chocolate,

And coffee and t.v.

And that first drag off a cigarette,

After a big meal, cooked with soul.

Once it was a beach fire,

A warm, bright beacon,

secure in its ring.

But in a moment of divergent gaze,

It breached its pit,

Morphed into a fierce inferno,

And made ashes out of my beautiful world.

The ripping flames rolled over me,

I was blinded.

My skin was burnt, scarred.

Alone

I stood and I shivered.

Love was gone,

And the air froze in my lungs.

As my world burned, I squinted against the brilliant light, my nostrils crinkling from the stench of roasting flesh. Without prejudice, the inferno incinerated everyone I had grown to love, resent or despise. My cracked lips contorted into a smile and I thought to myself “It’s a good thing I’m fireproof.”

@LEBass

It’s the perfect time to rise.

Peanut butter seats reclinin’

On my mind.

Fame and fortune desired.

All I need is you so baby I’m fine.

Haven’t stopped dreaming bout your eyes.

Gave ourselves the chance to do this right.

Take our time and last all night,

Babe I’m yours and you are mine.

Feeling’ so high I’m flyin’.

I hope this lasts forever,

It’s the perfect time.

Who can lie?

Love’s fucking crazy!

One minute it’s perfect,

Next minute we hate it.

How can you bring out my worst,

And my best?

My triggers pull your triggers,

I go insane - act a mess.

I have heartache and pain,

from our disconnect.

Seems like just yesterday,

I was kissing your neck.

In a solitary cell,

I prayed for you.

Dreamed you’d be tossed in by the CO,

And I’d have my way with you.

But I’ll never tell.

Gotta’ stay away from you.

I get three meals a day,

And I sleep on a cot.

So many hours to think,

What we had - what I lost.

What I threw away,

Acting without thought.

I’ll admit I’m ashamed,

That the one I love best,

Was treated the worst.

It’s my biggest regret.

They say when one door is closed,

Another is open.

Not when locked in cinder block,

Unless you have magic potion.

…Worry not sir and miss,

You child’s in no danger.

Take heed of this letter,

Though I’m merely a stranger.

Currently - he’s safe with me

Don’t dare speak this to a soul,

Nor contact the authorities.

Breach of this plan - Derek will forever sleep.

The reunion instructions will be sent,

Pending this plan be executed with discretion.

He’ll be clean, healthy, warm and fed,

Simply follow my directions.

I require one million dollars - unmarked cash,

In hundred dollar bills - stacked in a black leather bag.

Arrive at the corner of West and Park,

Outside the Gallery is a newspaper stand.

Place the money in the bag,

And the bag in the stand.

Two am tomorrow,

And you’ll get Derek back.

I’ve given my solemn word,

That I’ve no ill intentions.

This transaction shall be smooth,

Should you complete the aforementioned.

Once the money is counted,

You’ll receive instructions to unite.

Beware deviation of the plan,

And Derek shall die without a fight.

I promise I’ll care for him well,

Yet he naturally missies you two.

He hates my cooking - says I smell,

And my face looks like dog-doo.

Since It’s clear your son is spoiled,

I mustn’t end without mention,

His bright eyes show signs of toil,

And he shared that he lacks your attention.

For money may be,

The only fix that I need,

Derek needs time and love,

From Mommy and from Daddy.

Above finely catered meals,

And nanny’s fluffing satin pillows,

He needs parents who hug him,

And who lock up his windows.

To you I’m a schmuck,,

Perhaps even a goon.

But I once lacked attention,

Yet ate from a silver spoon.

The baby boy with the spoon,

Becomes a man with a sharp knife.

Please don’t force me use it,

For Derek needn’t die.

A suggestion to consider,

Derek believes this merely a game,

Shall the truth be revealed,

His psychosis may be your blame.

Thoughtfully yours,

The Jagged Coast Kiddie-Snatcher

Having haters is a sign of

Your true greatness

Society wont reward homeostasis

to the fake shit

The higher path we choose

We rise above

We transcend all this

And if you see your dreams divided

Like a million stars,

Scribble it out

Burn that shit down

And rise up like a Phoenix

Spiral up and spiral out

Puff on mythical clouds

Fly carelessly

’Bove inaugural sized crowds

You and I best know

haters only hate themselves

I see you carelessly fly

High above those stuck on the ground

And baby girl, don’t be scared of gravity

It’s keeping us grounded

But our souls are still free

Rainbow energy just dancing around

I got your back

And I know this world can be mean

Believe me when I tell you

That you’ll always be a queen to me.

I know one day you’ll see,

and live all your best dreams.

They say its where the heart is.

Mine must be broken and shattered,

A billion jagged pieces scattered.

Ground into the sand of beaches,

Who’s beauty was blocked by melancholy.

Home is smashed like bottles on the side of the highway,

Leaving tiny puddles of beer residue,

growing mildew.

Shards stuck in tire grooves of passing cars.

It’s buried deep like treasure,

but it’s just a dirty secret.

Under murky water where the fish don’t even swim,

And dungeon like basements where few will dare to go.

It’s caked under the front seats of your car,

like that milkshake that spilled and dried up,

The sour smelling stain that nobody can blot away.

Stuck to you like glitter that never comes off.

Ashes pouring out of the fire-ring the morning after a storm.

It’s in all the places that make you cringe,

Because you’re alone,

But know you’re being watched.

“Cheryl, it’s our last day and we have to be on the launchpad at 8pm sharp.” I nagged my bestie between her fourth and fifth wardrobe change.

“I know, I just want to look good for the pictures.” Her composure and tone soothed me while somehow stirring my anxiety. It was like uppers and downers at the same time. I didn’t let her distract me from my goal. And that was what to do on our last day on our trip to Earth.

“What pictures?” I asked.

“Of us. It doesn’t matter what we do, we’re gonna look fabulous. At least I will.”

“Of us doing what? What do you wanna do?” I asked her for what seemed like the 60th time.

“Let’s take a walk through an ocean town!” She perked.

I rolled my eyes. My head leaned to a tilt. And i added aggressive side eyes.

“Dude, we’re in fucking San Francisco.”

“Exactly. It’s a city not a town. Let’s go to a cute little town. Why not cruise down to Santa Cruz for old times sake?! We can even stop in Davenport for a really, really small town and see if the Roadhouse is still open.” She was beaming now. “I love their lasagna!”

“We spent the first 30 years of our lives in Santa Cruz. We were priced out a decade ago. Do you really want to get expensive, warm Budweiser at Days Market and drink it out of a brown bag at 3rd?”

“Oh my god! I miss 3rd! The views of Seabright Beach. All the sunsets,” Her eyes rolled back and I knew it was all downhill from there.

“Don’t forget the sunrises when I worked nocturnal shift and went there to unwind.”

“I wasn’t there so it doesn’t count.”

“We’re not in space right now, does that mean our home doesn’t count?”

“Dammit Mike, it doesn’t matter right now. Why you being such a downer. We have plenty of time, lighten up.”

“I’m just kinda bummed. I don’t wanna go back to space. I wish we could have afforded to live here still.” I admitted.

“I know. I feel kinda deceived. The idea of the Space Colony seemed a lot more exciting than reality. It’s so cold, and dark.” She said.

“Hey at least you get to work in the garden dome. It’s full of light. And plants. The loading dock is the coldest place on that vessel and most of the lights flash. Don’t get me started on all the beeping alarms, it’s crazy making.” I complained.

“True, but we’ve saved enough money to make the trip to Earth every single year we’ve been up there. When did we ever go on vacation when we lived in California?”

“Maybe living in California was the vacation.” I offered.

“Remember when only rich people could go to space?” She chuckled and took a swig from a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

“Now it’s the slums of the solar system.” I chuckled.

“But nobody else knows that!” She assured.

Then she did something only a true friend would do. Cheryl kneeled down as I sat on the edge of the bed and extended her hands to me. One of them to pass me the wine, the other gently landed just above my knee. Her Bambi eyes met mine with compassion. It didn’t matter that we were about to be tourists in the same town that we couldn’t afford to live in. We had a home, and each other, and we were generally happy. Plus, having an extraterrestrial ID gave us an adventurous mystique and instant popularity at every bar, taco shop, night club and street food vender we told. Cheryl called it the “panty-dropper”. It sure seemed to work out for her.

And by the way, the Roadhouse in Davenport was still open and the lasagna was still good!

I‘ll train year round to run marathons. Then charter a hot balloon and soar above the great planes with my man and our grandkids.

I‘ll own the most energy efficient and safe grandpa car around town, but on Sunday I’ll take out the classic Cadillac and cruise around with the top down. My hair will have gone from brown to gray to white, but my mind will stay sharp.

We’ll live in a Spanish style villa with a vast central courtyard. In the mornings I’ll tend to the tropical garden then meditate as I gaze at the passionfruit and palm trees. Some days we’ll be down at the lake on our houseboat, but spend most of the day out on the jet skis.

The grandkids will finally convince me to skydive, and I’ll wonder why I didn’t try it earlier. And when the rapper that I ghostwrite for goes triple platinum, I might finally have the dough to take the whole family on a space cruise. They’re getting less expensive every year.

I’ll have observed my partners culinary expertise long enough that I’ll surprise and even impress him when he comes home from throwing knives to find me making his special tacos with handmade tortillas.

I’ll write every night, and proudly display the novels, short story collections and screenplay credits that I’ve acquired.

The mailbox will fill up with former members of the non profit art center I founded; invites to gallery openings and awards ceremonies, marriage and birth announcements. I’ll still instruct neighborhood paint nights and give generously.