0 0 0


“Mother once told me of the great Shaka, uniter of peoples. A great warrior who fought the white-hats for our land. However, Shaka is long dead. Mother is long dead. Those who I’ve held dear are dead.” Nomzamo looked up beyond the canopy of the trees to the evening sun.

“Intulo has tried to tell you this, Nomzamo. Why don’t you listen to Intulo?” Intulo’s tongue stretched out of his mouth not quite reaching his upper cheek.

“What are you doing, Intulo?” Nomzamo chuckled.


“I’ve ssseen other lizards lick their eyes, I’d like to think it’s most pleasant, but I haven’t been able to pull it off for thousands of years.”

“Perhaps, you ran too fast Intulo. Not only did it dry out your eyes, your throat muscles contracted so as to keep your tongue entrapped.” Nomzamo looked at the dirt, and hopped off the log she was sitting on.  “Then, maybe Shaka could have been immortal. Gotten rid of the white-hats once and for all.”

Nomzamo walked amongst the trees the beads of her skirt swaying a little as the wind passed. Intulo careened to keep up with her.

“Intulo think you praise this Shaka too much. One immortal man does not change the world in this way. Intulo has seen it. Lunwaba visited a class of men.”

“Where are these men, Intulo? I have seen a white-hat die. For surely it is not them.”

Intulo hiss-laughed at the proposition, “When I say “class of men”, Intulo means something much different than a “race of men”, like those of the white-hat. These men, are in shape only, that is on this world. They come from Endaweni Emnyama, the Land of Shadow.”

“The Land of Shadow? Intulo. I would like to hear what kind of place this is.”

“It is home to a struggle between the forces of Evil, and the forces of the Sky, though it is closer to the Evil and shares many properties.”

“Have you been to this Land, Intulo?”

“Before, yes. Though, I don’t like to admit it.” Intulo’s stomach growled. Intulo caressed his blue scaley stomach, but smiled in a way that made Nomzamo shiver down her spine. “Intulo is hungry. When is dinner?”

“Intulo will have to work for dinner. You do not make it easy on me, making me take care of you like you don’t have powers from the Sky.”

“Intulo told you, temporarily...” Intulo waved his hands in the air stalling for time. “Divorced.”

“I told you, it didn’t sound as consensual as you made it out to be, and then you tackled a bushpig. I was hoping to get you to do it again. Intulo isn’t the only one who gets hungry.”

“But, Intulo is the most important who gets hungry to Intulo.” Intulo pouted his blue lips showing the yellow seam of the interior of his mouth. Nomzamo, pouting a little herself, stopped dead in her tracks and popped Intulo on the nose. Intulo instantly put up his clawed hands in defence. “What was that for?”, came the muffled reply.

“Being selfish Intulo. I can only expect you’ve been sent to be reformed so you can be given back your powers. I’ll be the first to congratulate you in finding the best teacher in all of the Land. Now I suggest you find out from your lizard brethren where we might find a meal. I will ready the spear.”

Intulo’s form began to compress and rearrange itself into the form of an agama. This started in his legs shifting his bipedal form down closer to ground level, followed quickly by the arms. The head and body were affected near instantaneously. By the time he looked like a regular reptile, his coloration and scale density would shift into two or three distinct patterns before settling into his new form. The lizard flicked his tongue out at Nomzamo before scurrying off into the trees.

The call of a whistling duck announced the beginning of Nomzamo’s time alone. The sound of a drum began to echo through the woods. Nomzamo began to flex in time with the beat. Another drum began to accompany the music, and Nomzamo began to step in time with the beats. Before long, the drums were many, and the constant movement from Nomzamo had gotten her blood pumping. Thats when the singing began, Nomzamo was soon dragged this way and that by the music of the Hundred Voices. They sang of the beginning of The Great Hunt, and wished Nomzamo luck on her endeavor. Nomzamo ran up and down logs, gyrated utop rocks, and shook her chest at butterflies. However, as Nomzamo thrust her spear into the air a final time, the music died down, and the Hundred Voices grew quiet. What remained was the constant beat of the drum moving Nomzamo forward as she saw the blue agamas in the distance.

Nomzamo followed a group of between two to three dozen blue-headed, orange-backed, yellow-tailed tree lizards as they scampered through the trees, down and around branches and roots, until they reached the banks of a stream, and their fleetness of foot seemed to abandon them.

Downstream there lay an ostridge on her side in an obviously pained state. The drum beat in the back of Nomzamo’s head leading her to close in on the ostridge. The coarse raspiness of the bird’s breathing couldn’t penetrate into Nomzamo’s mind, and when the time came Nomzamo pulled back her hand. The spear penetrated the side of the feathered body, and at first there was great panicked movement. However, it made it less than a meter away before falling again, this time indefinitely.

Nomzamo retrieved her spear and wiped it off in the grass. Intulo had changed back while Nomzamo was focused on the kill. His lizard followers were waiting curious to their reward. Intulo went to the rear of the hen as Nomzamo retrieved her smaller blade. She made sure that the blood drained properly while trying to ignore the fact that Intulo seemed to be diving into the back side of the hen. Intulo, eventually covered in blood due to the rending from his claws, came up with an egg. He took it to the bated consortium and broke it for them, letting the reptiles lick at, and consume the yolk. Intulo came back to the body licking his claws, as the agama consumed what they wanted and dispersed.

“You could use a more… precise method of extraction, Intulo.” Nomzamo wasn’t exactly sure if she should critique her spiritual companion when he was in his current, gore-covered state.

“You can be as precise as you want.” Intulo looked tired, and a little ashamed when he somewhat asked, “I need you to do the thing for me.”

Nomzamo grimaced, but nodded. She drug the ostridge further from the creek and then began to gather wood. Nomzamo hummed to herself as she did. It wasn’t quite dark yet by the time she’d gotten it lit. She then prepared the ostridge. She stuck her blade in near the keel and cut all the way back multiple times to expose the organs. One by one, Nomzamo extracted the major organs: liver, heart, kidneys, digestive parts. These were all burned individually, with a small saying on the part of Nomzamo, “To Intulo, My most helpful guide.”

Nomzamo knew the offering had worked, because the smoke had no smell, and Intulo visibly puffed up as the offerings were given. By the end, Nomzamo could have sworn that Intulo was an inch taller than he had been before. With Nomzamo’s offerings complete, Intulo pitched in to help cook a meal for his handy companion. Nomzamo honestly wasn’t sure the Intulo actually found the things he contributed to mealtime, but he would disappear for minutes at a time, and then return with vegetables wrapped in strange leaves and bury them close to the fire.

When the meat was done, Intulo dug up the vegetables revealing some tubers and beans, now tender to the touch of Nomzamo’s flame-cleaned blade.  Nomzamo ate all she could, and Intulo went to wrapping up the hen’s meat in the strange leafs he obviously was in no short supply of. There were some things that Nomzamo felt comfortable asking Intulo about, the strange things that the pseudo-deity said or did, but when it came to the things she’d rather not do without, as Intulo seemed the most fickle of his kind that Nomzamo knew about, she refrained.

Nomzamo and Intulo sat for a little while in silence, before she got tired and curled up in the crook of tree roots. Intulo ascended the branches and hung from his orange and blue tail. Nomzamo was almost comfortable when Intulo smacked his lips before speaking, “What do you want to do Nomzamo?”

“Sleep.” Nomzamo replied as she turned her body a little to have the roots around her hug her tailbone.

“Not right now.” Intulo insisted, “Think bigger.”

“I don’t know Intulo. I can’t bring back my family.”

“No,” Intulo sighed, “You can’t.”

“I’d like to find the white-hats who killed them came to justice.”

“Find it?”


Intulo let his tongue slip out of his mouth and let it dangle before unsuccessfully seeing if it had stretched enough to lick his eye. “What if you could do something about that, bringing them to justice. Would you want to do that?”

“I wouldn’t object to it, but it sounds like a little much Intulo. There are many white-hats, and I don’t have any way to know which ones are which.”

“I’ll help you Nomzamo, but you’ll have to trust me that this is part of the plan.”

“The plan?”

“The Sky has a plan, for everyone, and you’re apart of my redemption. You know that right? I am in your debt.”

“When do I get to collect?” Nomzamo playfully inquired.

“If you do this with me, hopefully, by the end we will both be satisfied.”

“You’re being vague Intulo.”

Intlo laughed, “I know. It’s something that I’m proud of. It takes a lot of work for a spirit like me to disguise his words. Many of us can’t tell lies.”

“That sounds like a great place, no lies, no white-hats. Are there any wars?”

“Only one,” Intulo replied. “And, it’s the longest war that’s ever been waged.” Intulo had a smile cross his blue lips, revealing his yellow gums. “But, I remember it being nice. The war is only some places, and the plane is vast.”

“Can we go there someday? After you’re forgiven?”

“Sure, Nomzamo. If you’re keen, we’ll start tomorrow.”

“Are you telling me we’ve been amongst the trees for two weeks, and we’re just now starting?”

“Only in earnest.” Intulo breathed heavily and scratched himself behind the ear. Nomzamo had almost decided he was going to be quiet, and shut her eyes before he started again, “Can I ask you a person question?”

“Go ahead, Lizard.” Her tone started Intulo who opened his eyes wide.

“How long has it been since your blood day?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Nomzamo asked rather calmly, if not sleepily.

“It would be too dangerous to start on that kind of day. Human physiological concerns.”

“What’s physiological?”

“It’s a type of magic. Don’t let it bother you, just answer the question.”

“It was before we came into the woods, but we should be fine.”

“I’m sure it will be. Thank you for answering. Lala Kahle, Nomzamo.”

“Lala Kahle, Intulo.” Nomzamo closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

In her dream, there was a rocky, gray land devoid of life. There didn’t seem to be a sky above, or else it was the blackest night Nomzamo had ever seen. There did seem to be clouds, but it confused Nomzamo how she could see everything so clearly, when it was so dark. From over a hill, Nomzamo heard a snarl. She quickly mounted the hill, and dropped to her belly to see where the noise had come from. She saw an encampment, with wooden stakes as their border the tiny village had two huts. There was a great fire burning in the middle, and near thirty people huddled around, most wielding spears pointing out.

The great beast looked to be almost two meters from paw to shoulder, and nearly four and a quarter meters long. The black furred animal had gashes all over it’s pelt. Some led to still-open wounds, where Nomzamo could see the muscles contracting. The massive thing looked to Nomzamo almost like a jackal. It snarled as it was standing at the small entrance into the tiny village. It’s black lips gave way to pink gums and tusk-like fangs. It’s ears stood up rigid, except that the left one was marred, looking to have the tip bitten off. A scar adorned his left eye, though the ocular orb seemed undamaged. Nomzamo couldn’t see the other side, as her outlook only gave her a bit of the picture.

She felt like she laid there for hours, enthralled by this otherworldly standoff. The fact that people lived in such a place was mysterious to Nomzamo, as they didn’t seem to have any of the same natural life-giving ingredients that kept her alive. Nomzamo observed the rough dry earth, and wondered if there was ever rain here.

Suddenly, one of the men got brave enough to rush the black jackal, though Nomzamo was convinced that if this was a jackal it was the most muscular jackal she’d seen, even when comparing that it’s massive size was obviously in favor of that conclusion. The speed at which the hulk moved was so concerning to Nomzamo that she fell half-way down the hill again, before regaining her composure and getting back to her viewpoint. As she was climbing, she heard the shrill screams of a man. Nomzamo mounted the hill and saw a body being swung left and right in the beast’s mighty jaws. The cries slowly stopped, as the new sound of crunching bone echoed across the arid land. When the last whimper from the man had stopped the black jackal dropped the body. What followed was a cheerful yipping noise, not to be drowned out by a woman in the tiny village that began to moan in anguish. The giant black creature then did, what Nomzamo compared to, a dance. After shuffling his feet left and right, the beast put his front two paws on the highest of the pointed stakes and then let himself urinate at the base of the encampment.

This act was met with groans of the occupants, and then a group of ten men and women who saw this as their opening. The face of joy that Nomzamo witnessed on the black jackal’s face was interrupted when a spear entered his thigh.   Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pack of them, and unflinchingly rolled over snapping the spear off and crushing the thrower in the process. The ooze of the life-fluid onto the beast’s fur churned Nomzamo’s stomach, and she could scarce believe that anything in this land acted predator to such a force.

The fur-covered gargantuan bared his teeth and bull-rushed the center mass of the tiny village’s main contingent, knocking many of them into the main fire, but not without injury of his own. He turned tail, accidentally letting his rear graze the pyre, but was met with the rest of the group that had moved to attack earlier. Two men threw their spears, and then ran behind the barricade while a group of five women bravely sacrificed themselves in a tight formation that got more solid blows into the beast. One of the women had planted her spear perfectly. This suspended the beast over her for a split second, before she was swatted away by his paw. A little more momentum and the shaft snapped.

Nomzamo then noticed a little girl, around seven, dancing around the fire. While the adults screamed, wept, and were torn apart, the girl joyfully skipped and spun around in the wide circle of burning wood. Eventually, there were no adults to speak of left standing, though a few were grievously injured and crying out in pain. Nomzamo got closer to the scene of the gore. One man in particular was yelling in a language Nomzamo didn’t recognize, but both of his legs seemed to be broken, and one of his arm bones protruded from his skin.

The beast went from person to person ripping out the throats of the fallen, and stepped over this man. He lowered his jowls to the man’s face. The beast pressed his teeth against the sides of the man’s neck until the man could no longer bear the combined pains, and passed out. It was after the sickening crunch and gloopy sounds of falling blood, that the valley seemed silent for all but the beast’s breathing, and a low humming from the little girl dancing at the fire. Wondering what sort of girl could be so calm, Nomzamo edged closer.

The beast entered the tiny village, walking raggedly, and bleeding from his many wounds. The girl stopped moving around the fire, but her body was in constant motion, as she approached the beast. She made a ‘coo’ at the black jackal as she reached up to begin to remove spear fragments. After every removal, the little girl gave the wounds a small kiss, and Nomzamo could see previously bleeding wounds immediately staunched. The gargantuan winced when the weapons were removed, and eventually had to lay down for the girl to reach the injuries. Nomzamo was too curious for her own good, and had gotten relatively close at this point.

The black giant sniffed the air, and began to rise, however the little girl put her hand on the black fur, and rose to face Nomzamo. Nomzamo met eyes with the girl, and began to flee back up the hill where she had previously been watching from. As she turned behind to see if the girl had followed, she ran into a small figure, knocking it over, and getting tangled up into it.

She struggled against the figure, as when they were both on the ground they began to grapple. The figure was curiously strong for it’s size, and as Nomzamo lost, she saw the blood-flecked grubby face of a small girl. Her skin was a strange hue that Nomzamo had not seen before, as Nomzamo struggled against the pin the girl examined Nomzamo, and eventually started to lower her head. The girl opened her mouth and drew closer to Nomzamo’s face. The girl’s teeth got visibly closer and closer to Nomzamo’s right eye, and reflexively Nomzamo closed her eyes. She could feel the hot breath of the girl on her eyelid, and felt the girl reposition the pin, freeing up one of her hands. Nomzamo beat at her attacker, but the girl took her fingers and spread Nomzamo’s eyelid opening up Nomzamo’s vision to a descending oval of darkness.

3 0 3

Words do no justice


I dreamt in poetry last night, I cannot remember a single word but I felt the art in my bones. Tried as I did to recall the pentameter it eluded my thoughts, fleeting shadows of metaphor and beauty. But you were there. This I know.

The image was spring mist and pastel blur, shifting heart-swells carried me aloft. I felt you rather than witnessed and that was far more tangible for the viewing. Perhaps there was not poetry as verse or couplet but movement and sensation, the enchanting poetry of your soul infused with my dreamscape. Whatever the truth of brushstrokes laid on masterpieces of desire, we were there and poetry was your sweet breath across my cheek.

I dreamt in poetry last night and awoke to find the stanzas contained no words, only you.

1 0 1

What's a dream like you doing in a place like this?

The sunrise I take in through the tongue,
clouds tasting like distant mountains,
looms over flat daily expectations-
I want to climb through to distant adventures:

the mornings there will each taste new;
I’ll wake up, greeting the sun as it learns again how to stroke the world;
it’s always so gentle at first;

fog will swirl in valleys below me,
and birds will break through it, traveling in shapes, marking the wind with their journey;

I will jump over logs and boulders, 
as I did in my dreams,
and in youthful games;

I’ll run into the fog,
catching paintings in the movement
of the air and its water around me,

and I will find a quiet place to sit,
where I will wait for the fog to clear,
and the trees and everything with them will dance so slowly into sight;

the world, then, will be mine,
though I could never own it,
and I will be conquered by travels
into its most graceful refuges.

But now, I take in the sunrise far away from there;
there are no mountains here,
save the clouds which leave me dreaming.
A dog barks;
the houses are close together;
the land is flat, and the sun will soon bake the air into stale humidity;
there are wars far away;
there are televisions on everywhere, and cell-phones to fill the gap;
there are lies abroad and lies at home- I know-
but I take in the sunrise,
it speaks of dreams,
speaks of home.

0 0 0

The Late Worm Gets the Bird

I always hated starting my poems like this, but
the other night I had a dream.
The first time I had seen you in 2 years.
But every shot of you
was from low angle view
like some sort of subconscious director
was influencing my perception
Still, unlike most
I find it hard to find much nice to say about you
(except that you were attractive.)
I know I once could,
but now
I'm unsure if your true nature
is either too known to me
or too obscured by my opinions.
Though your father told me
while we were both drunk in Mexico
"You're a lot better to her than she'll be to you; get out."
So maybe I was right about you
or maybe your father knew something about the situation I didn't yet. 
I remember you used to tell me about the boys you'd date
And certainly you knew how that affected me.
I always felt like you loved to watch me squirm.
How long did you think I'd sit beneath you
and be your little worm?
But one day of course
you'll fall to the ground
and I'll rip apart your corpse. 

0 0 0

3:35 a.m. / 2:25 a.m.

3:35 a.m.

I open my eyes in the dark
and the light of the silver moon
falls in a sliver across my pillow.
It lays there, like it belongs there,
a well-kept secret baring its beauty,
like you.
On my back I look at the window,
the corner where it snuck in
just to spend a minute with me,
wishing it would touch my bare arm
with its smooth beam,
a stolen piece of the night,
wondering what else 
I’ve lost while I sleep.

2:25 a.m.

The moon falls through slats
and I catch the slender beams in the palm of my hand 
but they refuse to be contained
so I tell you instead about the poem I wrote
at 3:35 in the morning, about the moon
without mentioning that there was a poem.
That moon made me think of you
and although I’ve never tried to catch moon beams
from your bed before, I think now I know why.
In the morning, barely awake, you wrap your arms
around me tighter
and you say that you want to wake up every morning 
just like this, with me,
and now I know what I have been missing
while I sleep. 

2 0 2

NSFW Detour Into Prosaic Madness With Dreamsicles And Free Weed At The End

 I wake alone in the corner of a dank room of concrete. The exit leads into what appears to be an underground bunker, dim and stagnant. This is contrasted by the bustle of unhinged youths frivolously cavorting. The air is heavy with dope smoke and sweat. They are contorting in every corner, paying no mind to the senseless intercourse littering the floor. There are robot sentries along the walls. 

 Our eyes lock on a lascivious theme. Introductions lead to corners. She lights up and leaps, wrapping her legs around my waist; fingers locked behind my neck. But apparently I am too old to participate. The robots take me away.

 There are rolling hills with jagged ravines cutting the countryside into slivers. Some jutting up into the clouds. I tried to reach an inaccessible settlement, stepping off a crag and falling into an invisible liquid. I swim, but take enormous elemental damage, reducing my health bar nearly to zero. The current was electrified, and I had to turn around. 

 At the bottom of one of these low-lying slivers is a small cottage, isolated and inviting. As I approach I see a figure playing with a small child beckon and turn inside. Knowing not where I am or why, I enter without knocking. The portentous smell of weed greets my senses. The room is in dark contrast to the luminosity outside. 

 She sits in shadow, back against a pillow-arm. She is beautiful; curvy and thick, with long black hair and lashes to match. She offers a toke which I gratefully accept. We bond in the dark for perhaps an hour. I think she is thirty, maybe thirty-five. She giggles like she is half that. When I place my head on her generous chest she releases a tempestuous moan. Her mannerisms suggest she has been long alone. I unbutton her blouse halfway down and lift a breast from its cup. I grasp her hips and pull her flat on the couch. 
 Something dramatic changes, however, as I pull her into the light. Her hair now carrot-stick orange. Her once dark lashes now comically false; improperly attached, clockwork orange and curling to lick her forehead and cheeks. Her soft, pale complexion now a circus of glitter. I calm myself, dissembling my confusion with skillfully placed hands. I resume unfastening and shift my right hand south. 

  On the way, I feel an anomalous prickle and a slimy corpulence. I look down to see a fresh wound - stitches zipping a stretch of flesh, with what appears to be a length of intestines slinking out and laid wound around and stapled onto her belly. Connected at the end to an organic sac that doesn't resemble any human matter I am familiar with. She says casually she just had gastric bypass surgery, which begs more questions than it answers. 

 I'm pretty much in full panic mode. I fortify my resolve and continue. She squeals as I gently run my fingers over her clitoris, curling slowly inwards until I feel an anomalous prickle, pointy and thin, jutting out. She tells me it is a tampon but I pull a toothpick from her vagina. I help her achieve climax with no apparent discomfort on her part.
 I collect myself in the bathroom for what seems an eternity, thinking of a tactful way to depart. Oddly, she now appears some twenty years older. I walk from the bedroom into the den where I find her advanced in age again - possibly ninety years now, stooped and quiet, sitting beside her daughter with needlepoint implements in her ragged hands. I drink heavily in the adjacent room. I return to find her a tree.

  I am now writing a short story in the child seat of a shopping cart. There is a computer to my left and a computer to my right. Two women walk by, one asks why I am scribbling on paper. I tell them both PCs are infected with malware, but I can clean them if they help me down. I ask them for a Linux boot disk.     

1 0 1

Wet Dream


she knows I watch

through the lattices

and lets me

softly, silk slips from her shoulders

elegant - shimmering

steps into the pool

the waters blessed

as she slinks into its cool

radiating ripples, clear crystal blue

swallow this woman I love

I watch – adore as she ascends

each line and feature

each moistened curl

perfectly dripping

as if made expressly for me

lush body shines

as I watch her dry

each touch imagined my own

gently caressing

her fingers excite

reveal her desires

as she hears me

express my own

and smiles her knowing smile

her robe, silken,

whispers to her skin

the love I send


as she walks away


1 1 0


Sitting here throughout the days

I close my eyes to see your face

That crooked smile and those wicked eyes

An imagination; my own mind's lies.

But should I blame myself for this fantasy

Of love, and care and company?

0 0 0

the mirror.

As the waxing crescent slips behind the curtain of another amethyst dawn, Apollo’s sphere shifts with a royal grace back to its cotton-lined azure throne. Burning arrows of light rush toward the frame of a singular window, first soliciting the corners where the guarding drapes become lazy, in hopes they won’t be so quickly reflected by the demeanor of the room.  Hands of a neglected alarm clock solemnly flag down the attention of another lifeless day, giving it permission to land into existence. Before I was forcibly removed from the premises of a greater realm, I was a dancer.

I was partnered only with swirls of versicolor light; perhaps they were natives of the dream galaxy. The name of the song that surrounded us while we waltzed through sheets of misty constellations escapes my memory, but the melody sometimes licks at my ears when the room is silent enough. I must have transitioned back and forth between this earthly reality and the more grandiose, quixotic one about three good times before my waking spirit finally got the best of my body. I am but a marionette of bones in the first hours of consciousness, and this particular morning is no different.

My exhausted half-corpse is summoned to its weary feet by a wintry chill in the room, a quietly invited guest of the window that should have been closed six hours prior. Before I have a chance to stand up straight, I am paused and pulled into a trance, stultified by the song of a neurotic robin on the other side of my wall. His incessant nagging only furthers the accumulation of dread in my mind. My attention quickly loosens from the grip of the torturous tune and refocuses on a slow escape from my shadow filled chamber.

Sliding stiffly toward the exit, I stare down at the dull manner in which my fragile fingers reached for the copper handle. It finally touches my palm; I clasp it and slowly seduce the decaying door ajar. 

2 0 2

Cafe Brevity

Some crestfallen young man
in the rinky cafe on 9th and Hennepin
pulled a gun on himself
in the building's only bathroom.
Selfish, it is.

I had been speaking to him,
he was lost in life,
no map, no directions.
He had been crying -
his eyes were red,
slightly swollen,
not something you'd expect
from a man wearing
a top-dollar suit.

He was at a wedding,
the wedding of
the woman he loved,
and he wasn't the groom.
He recounted years
of faithful loyalty,
his love for her
was spoken poetry,
all he had was her,
and all she didn't want
was he.

This was the only woman he'd ever love,
he said.
I asked him,
"Never another woman in your life, huh?"
"No. She is perfect, and not mine."

It was apparent
the kid had never slept with a dream before,
loved a dream,
fucked a dream,
and woke satisfied.

"I'm in the same boat,"
I told him,
"Life goes on. You meet another one and - "
at that, he threw his coffee cup to the ground
and ran into the bathroom.
The giant brown steaming puddle of liquid
could've just as well been his own piss, the coward he was.

The patrons were staring, all of them,
I was suddenly on an empty stage
in a theater with full occupancy.

I put my money on the counter,
wiped my mouth with my sleeve,
and left the premesis.

Just outside the cafe,
I heard a loud, deafening crack,
but still teeth-shaking.

I knew what had happened.

My brain told my legs
to flee the cafe.
My legs didn't listen.
The patrons were frantic,
running to and fro,
all trying to leave the building at once,
they were a swarm of flies on a rotting corpse,
suddenly disturbed.

I opened the door to the bathroom.
At first, I thought the wall's normal color
was red, and the few spots of white
were a mistake.

I've seen a lot of shit,
but I've never seen so much blood
in such a confined space.

The police came,
I told them what happened,
I told them the conversation -
the reporting officer didn't seem to care too much
about the details.
The murderer and victim
were one of the same.
A woman was crying,
she was cute,
early twenties,
thick-rimmed glasses and lips
that'll plunge you into the ocean of the night,
a thousand kisses deep,
I comforted her,
but I needed to get home.

I open my door.
Remove my jacket.
Remove the shoes
from my tired feet.
I undress in the bathroom.
I shower.
I dry up,
I go into my bedroom.
I light a joint.
I think of my own problems,
so similar to the young man's,
unrequited love,
fear of dying alone.
Unrequited love
is worse,
it leads to dying alone.
I take a few more hits
from the joint.
I pass out for a while.
I awaken.
I look at my phone.
I debate myself
on whether or not
I should call her,
or text her,
and tell her how I really feel.
I think of the young man,
of life's truthful brevity.
Maybe I'll tell her tomorrow.
Tonight isn't a night
for truetalk, I tell myself.

is the lottery.
You need to be in it
to win it.