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I really should be doing something else. Anything else really. Running around in the moonlight, howling and pillaging throughout the countryside. Hiding under a waterfall, ready to ambush unsuspecting travelers. Wandering the earth, watching all who pass by in city and sea. Maybe I should tackle something we are tiny

in the water
smaller

than a 50-ton
whale

from the sky

specs

of flexing
skin

while the whale,
blinks, is

an eyelash
breaching

onto ocean
wrinkles.


[bio note: It was whale season in Hawaii when Nicole Miyashiro visited there in February. She loves to travel, yet the last time she drove a car was probably sometime in 2002. Occasionally, she posts work at nicolemiyashiro.com; her other work appears in Pearl #36, ParlorJournal.com, and Philadelphia Poets.]a bit more simple like getting out of bed and going to work. I could walk out at the end of my shift and not stop until I reach something more interesting than this. He tried to remember who had talked him into this. this piss-poor idea of going into the woods and playing hide and seek. three hours ago he was warm and drunk in the laundromat-turned-bar thinking about fucking the brunette with the big tits at the end of the bar. unbuttoning her shirt. unhooking her bra. hiking up her skirt and pulling her underwear aside (hopefully a thong) then sticking his dick inside her. The whole time she has that same half-smile and vacant look in her eyes that she has now. he's just pounding away. fucking her with


hey buddy come on. it'll be fun.

what?

dude. stop fucking that girl in your head and let's go.

go where? fuck no i'm staying here.

you've got no shot with her. come on man.

alright alright. whatever. this place is dead anyway.


he studies her ass for yanking material after stumbling home alone again then follows his buddies onto the icy sidewalk. half-skating to the car.


where the fuck are we going. it better have some hot chicks.

aw fuck no. screw chicks.

yeah that's what i want to do.

eh, whatever. it ain't happenin tonight buddy. so just come with us. it'll be fun.


this was no fun at all. his buzz had worn off. he was sitting on a cold rock. knee deep snow was all around him. he stared at his set of footprints leading to his current seat. it was the only thing to look at. staring at trees is no good. he knew they screwed him over. they had left him there to get cold and sober then laugh about it the next time they went drinking.


fucking assholes

_

FUCKING ASSHOLES


not even a flutter of wings or rustle of anything left alive in this emptiness. yelling any louder isn't going to help. fuck.


goddamn i need a beer. even schnapps would be ok at this point. sober cold and lost isn't where i want to be.


i'm so screwed. it's too fucking dark to find a way out of here. i'm too fucking cold to walking through that fucking snow again. fuck.


they'll be back for me.


fuck. I could go out drinking all weekend long, stumbling from one hole to the next. Flirt with the neighbor to my left, the one that plays club music every morning, and have a one night stand, then avoid taking the elevator for weeks afterward. Instead I might just lay here for another few hours. Thinking of words to write, but with no ambition to make themselves known, they stay stagnant in my head. And so, with everything conspiring against me, I’ll live the perfect, most authentic and self-actualized "I'd buy myself a cabin on the beach, I'd put some glue in my navel, and I'd stick a flag in there. Then I'd wait to see which way the wind was blowing."

from A Happy Death by Albert Camus [from angie]
imagined life right here from my bed that anyone has dared to dream.

To dream, perchance to sleep. Sweet sleep that haunts me. Stalking me from the corners of rooms. Running down alleyways to escape me. you know, that's the nature of an addiction, right?

constantly pushing and pulling until it gets what it wants, until it convinces you to fall. until it takes everything you know in life, chews it up, devours it, pukes it back up, and then spits it in your face in a mockery of unrecognized chaos, laughing at you for everything it took away from you.

it's still there, always, always pushing and pulling, even on the road to recovery. it never, ever, ever, lets you forget that you are an addict, and no matter how strong you are, there is that constant nagging reminder that man, any minute, you could fall again, and everything you worked hard to build back up can just be torn down again. things you spent months and years trying to regain - your sanity, your life, and everything that comes with it - and just like that, gone again.

you spend your life keeping that monster at bay, constantly pushing when it pulls and pulling when it pushes - trying to find a balance. that's all. just a motherfucking balance.

[jn]Pushing and pulling. Waiting in your raincoat, you check your watch. It's suitably late. You sit inside the diner, looking out the window at the slick parking lot, and you know he wondered how you could have called. He had almost hung up on you, left you to the endless dial tone, but then suddenly changed his mind. "See you in ten minutes," he said in that gruff Batman voice that used to be a top-ten turn-on. You agreed to meet at the diner a couple miles north of town.

The whole way to the Whatley diner you kept rehearsing the conversation, what you would say. You don't even remember exiting I-91, just pulling into the parking lot below the massive red and blue neon sign, reading simply "Diner," which dwarfed the flat restaurant. A Kullman model, the diner looked like a hood ornament, all chrome and angles.

When he arrives, Darrell parks near the line of big rigs, and you finally see him as he steps out of his BMW. Summer drizzle cascades in tiny sheets from his English raincoat as he walks up the steps and through the entrance. He is so handsome you begin searching the placemat, reading trivia. You pretend to be captivated.

Lines of green neon behind him hug the sweeping crease in his cheek and makes him look like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas for a moment. He locates you and walks to the booth. "I guess that makes me a Who," you say, standing up. He ignores the comment, sits down. Darrell puts his raincoat across his lap, drops wetting his trousers. Your coat, a birthday gift Darrell bought on final clearance from Ames, lays stuffed in the corner.

The waitress approaches you for the third time, and you're certain she'll resume glaring where she left off. He orders tea. You ask for espresso, as always. The waitress explains that you're in a diner, they don't have that kind of stuff. "Coffee, then," you say. "Black. Preferably from a pot that's twenty hours old." You smile; she rolls her eyes.

Darrell never knows how to begin talking. He looks down at the table for a few moments, and you freeze up, too. After trying a few times, opening your mouth with no words, you finally say, "You are looking well." You regret it immediately.

"Thanks," he says. Darrell doesn't press it. The waitress returns with the drinks before you say anything else, and you are thankful for the interruption. She asks if you guys need anything else. You manage to say no as she turns on a heel and heads away.

It's awkward. You wanted to avoid this. Part of you wants to adopt a smoother tone, like a classic film, but instead you reach across the table and hold his hand for a moment. He wants to pull away, but doesn't. "We could always tango," you say, sweeping with one hand.

"Sure, truckers love that sort of thing," he replies, then changes the subject. "I'm not sure why I came."

"Maybe you were curious," you say. "Something to do with closure." A couple across the aisle stares at you both, at you touching him, and Darrell finally pulls away. He always hated when you touched him in public.

"Maybe."

"Well, I met Vernon at a museum." You're talking too much, not drinking your coffee, just poking grounds with your water-stained fork. For a moment, you look at him, his wide, full shoulders. His hair's honed style, black walled with gray. He drinks his tea without sugar; you remember that. Long, slow sips.

Vernon was managing the campus bookstore at Smith, and something between you clicked, you say. "I was just so lonely." You glance away, up to the chrome hanging lights, which look like stacked hubcaps. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. "You never smoked before."

"Well, let's assume that some things have changed." He smokes like Bogart, and you can't stop thinking about movies. Darrell always hated that.

"You're right." It's been a year you keep reminding yourself. For the next few moments you feel foolish. You want to leave and abandon this. "I'm sorry it happened," you say over the din of silverware and chatter. "I mean, I know that won't fix it."

He lets smoke drift from the side of his mouth. "You mean that you left me?" He asks to himself, then answers. It was always one of your pet peeves. He says your being sorry doesn't fix anything, but it helps - a little. "I'm married," he adds at the end.

"Your wife answered the phone," you say. "I wasn't sure that you would take my call."

"I thought that I owed you that much. Anyway, she knows about us." He shrugs and sighs. "That's past though."

"Do you want to go for a walk, Darrell?"

He pulls money from his wallet and drops it on the table. Then he says no. "You have five minutes. Get it off your chest, and be done with it."

You had hoped to spend the next few hours together, walking down the street, catching up. You would tell him how although you met other men, it always seemed to end horribly: screaming fights and make-ups; then nights of empty sex; and then the end. It always left you thinking about Darrell. At that point, you would have wanted to ask if he still thought about you or other men, but you probably wouldn't. You're a coward, even in your own fantasies. You would hope he'd have wished you happiness, but he probably wouldn't have. Even in your fantasies, he's aloof.

"I'm so sorry, Darrell," you say. "I just thought this would go differently."

"Yeah," he says. "But this is real, not some film." Darrell smiles for the first time tonight, looking at you. But then stops, thinking better of it. You both walk to the door, knowing it's over. You had wanted to explain, more for your sake than his. At the end, you try to hug him, but he offers a simple handshake instead. With a firm grasp, your hand meets his. You hold on too long, as always.

"Let go," he says, then turns to leave. His walk to the car is controlled, shuffling so little gravel you think he floats. He doesn't look back once.

You wave like a circus clown as he drives away and then spend a few more hours wishing and wandering. You think about him until you are tired of it. The streets are quiet, and the traffic lights pointlessly turn green, then yellow, then red. You had hoped to settle so much, but even the rain and all of the cinematic trappings couldn't rescue your attempt at one more night. On the corner, a crosswalk sign flashes "Don't Walk" to no one in particular. A stray cat limps through a parking lot, and you decide to take it home. Some company. But when you try to walk over, it flees, slipping into a storm drain.

Finally, you give up and go home. The living room couch and a late night movie offer little comfort. Pathetically, you jerk off, trying to think about Darrell, but giving up and opting for someone less complicated: the bag boy at the grocery store.

Then you watch The Planet of the Apes. It always comes on when you stay up late. The film is at the part when Charlton Heston has entered the Forbidden Zone; you know what will happen next. This movie has welcomed you home after too many bad dates, too many nights when you'd rather have slept anywhere else. Finally, you turn it off. Again you think about calling Darrell, but at this point it would be a sequel, pandering off the original. No, you're stuck with a one-shot.

As you drift, you play out that Apes film in your head. Heston was beautiful as he shaved off his beard and mounted the horse to leave. Your end could have been like that too. It was supposed to be a ride-off finale, sun setting, lover close by. But you knew how it really ended: no touches beneath the covers, no kiss in the driving rain, just a desperate moment on your knees.

[shawn proctor | even in your fantasies]Even in my fantasies. Luring me in with caressing low whispers in my ear of consuming, flushed, enveloping dreams that sends an I'm carrying a piece of you with me. Luckily you didn't wake when I took it, considering I had to yank it out of you. Luckily you're a sound sleeper, dead to the world, locked away in your dreams.

At first I had it wrapped in a piece of plum colored silk. The inky purple-red made you shine, especially in the moonlight. I'd lay it on the pillow next to me and whisper sweet nothings to it until I'd fall asleep, smiling. I even thought you moved once, like a quivering, but I realized it was me from delight at having you at my beck and call, even if it was only one small piece.

But having it wrapped up wasn't tangible enough. I needed to be able to touch you whenever I needed the thrill, the reassurance you gave me. So I carried it in the small front pocket of a sweater I'd never really liked, until I realized how easy it was to reach in with one finger or my whole hand and stroke you, resting all cozy inside. Sure, you started to collect lint, but that only added to your charm. Almost like a little fur blanket to keep your warm when my touch couldn't.

Then I dropped you, once in the grass in the park. Under a shady tree, we were having a picnic together. Such a lovely early autumn day. I was trying to raise you higher to see the bird chirping in the high branches when you slipped and fell. Tumbling away from the blanket and into the high grass. I thought for a second you were trying to get away from me, but I found you quickly and laughed it off. You can be such a naughty thing sometimes.

The second time wasn't nearly so whimsical. I was in the elevator of my building, riding up to the 16th floor. There were 5 other people in the elevator, but that didn't stop me from spend some quality time with you. I was passing you over my fingers, like some people do with a quarter. I could feel the layer of lint becoming thicker, picking up dirt and grime within it. My arm was at a strange angle to be doing this little game with you, and the man next to me bumped it when we made a jarring stop at 14. You sprung out of my pocket, like a jumping bean, and landed between my foot and the woman on the other side of me. She looked down and looked at me with a strange look on her face. Confusion and that pale sickly look people get right before throwing up. I gave her my friendliest, most innocent smile. Why, it's just a prop for a magic trick, I reassured her. You know, I magically pull this off the unsuspecting mark and they think it's really from them. Ha ha. I don't think she believed me, but she nicely pretended to. Then the doors slide open at 16. I stoop down and in one motion, scoop you up and walk into the hallway. Wow, that was a close one. I could have sworn she wanted you all for herself.

Finally, came the night. When we could consummate our love. Manifesting the incorporeal. Our physicalities joining together in a blissful union. I sprayed the sheets with my favorite perfume, lit some candles around the room, and made myself look like an angel. All for you. It was heavenly. The caresses. The heartfelt words. It was all too much. Then I took you inside me. The anticipation and weeks of waiting were worth it. My body never felt such delight. I shuddered and moaned and trembled and sighed. No one ever made me feel like that before. Honestly. I would never lie to you about that. The only problem was you were kinda scratchy in there, with all the dirt and link rubbing around. But that's a minor inconvenience to put up with for the chance to be with you.

A few days later, in the lobby of my building, I suddenly feel very ill. Doubled over in pain is more like it. I clutch the wall for support. I clutch my abdomen to keep in whatever it is that wants to come out of me. Are you rebelling against me? Is this retribution for our night of passion together? Did you give me some sort of nasty disease? You told me everything would be ok. And I'm in the middle of yelling this at you when the same woman from the elevator comes over with that same look on her face. No, no. I'm sorry about shouting, but I'm in a great deal of pain and I need a doctor. She scurries to the doorman's station while a particularly violent spasm shoots through me. The pain you give me is just as intense as your pleasure and I'm not sure which one I enjoy more. Although the next stabbing pain makes me question that. I hear sirens. The woman and the doorman stops one of the EMTs while the other comes over to check on me. Why are the three of them looking at me? No, the pain just started now, but it's really horrible. Like an alien is going to burst out right below my belly button. Why is the other one talking to me like that? I'm not crazy. Only crazy people are spoken to with those soothing tones, so as not to alarm them. Why are you checking my pocket? I've got nothing in there. Don't listen to that woman. It was a prop for a magic trick. What do you mean what have I done with it? That's none of your business. The pain makes me throw up a little in the back of my throat, but I choke it back. I don't want to offend or alarm you, even if the pain is bad. What are you two doing? Why are you holding my legs? No, no, no, NO, NO NO NO NO. That's mine. You can't take it from me. It belongs to me. We belong together.

The pain is still there, but I feel so empty now. I cry from the pain in my body and the numbness in my heart that's settling in quickly. The EMTs wrap a blanket around me and place me on a gurney. What are you going to do with it? Do you promise? Promise me it will be waiting there for me. I'll only get better if it's there with me. And promise not to clean it off. The dirt is part of its charm.electric chill through my whole body.

My whole body settles into a heated flush. Glowing. Smoldering. Heated so thoroughly, anything I touch is scorched.
My whole body slowly cools. Tempered. Serene. The strength hidden well by the litheness I use to maneuver through the world.
My whole body moves and rests.
My whole body expands and shrinks.
My whole body lives and dies.
My whole body eases down into the earth. Sinking. Molding. My head, my heart, my bones become part of the earth again.
"It must be my spine," he thought with his head against the wall. The rest of the morning he rose like a sunflower or a lamp. Dusk wilted the stem in his favorite weather, sideways and grey his head fell off. The earth was damp, thick he sank. Dirt drawn to the wet cavities of his skull told him of rocks and fire and the warm soft innards of worms. Green seeped from his irises until his eyes took in the color of dust. He felt so dizzy, drained in one day of fluid and sky. Knowing the sky never answers, he'd call out, expel noise thought and spit but it'd just moisten the soil in his ears. On the fourth or fifth day pressure pushed his eye and his hair uncurled to draw nutrients from low ground where a young boy had buried a fish. This sensation distracted him - taking root was dimly like having sex with the earth. When the pressure broke his eye he thought only warmth, stretching, bees. The seedpod burst only bzz, pff. In autumn there were potatoes every color of the rainbow though he didn't see any at all.

-----------------------------

And then one early sunny day young Eliza realised all the space pie had been in her head, all along. "Mirth and magnificence and sexy trees," she mused. Unable to eat her own head, Eliza ran around the WHOLE WORLD twelve times until her feet went pat pat pat on the skin of a big ripe round plum. The plum was delicious/until the skin broke and she vanished with a squelch. Eliza was delicious. The moon chortled glee, as it had suspected the earth of being a little-girl-eating plum all along.

[erich]
My whole body ceases to be. Reposed. Nonexistent. I am finally at peace and incorporated back into the everything.

Everything is not every thing. Nor is anything any thing. Nowhere might be no where, depending on your geographic location, but anywhere is never any where. Compound words compound the problems we encounter through our travels, through our standstills. We can only go so far before we ricochet back then further than we thought we could, as long as we don't end up in someone else's trajectory. Because I like being in your sphere of influence. The way your gravity influences my tides. The subtle way you move around me, which makes me wobble and tilt. You tantalize me with your movements, your non-sensual sensuality. There is one course we inevitably have to follow - an intertwined orbit, drawing us nearer, luring us in to our combustion, collision and destruction. And I will treasure every second of my annihilation because it will be a part of you.