I excused myself
from
the clouds of smoke
and five dollar Coronas
I had to pee.
The mirror was moving
because
I couldn't see straight
but I saw something
in my eyes
in the mirror
that moved
that moved me away
A firm talking to
talking to yourself in the mirror is lame
but
there were only 2 people who
could have gotten me out of it
one was absent
the other was me
so i went for it
i told my eyes to stop drooping
to start shining
to make sure everything went the right way

-lbr

the day the desert touched the sky.

(as published in Shortcuts, the UMass literary magazine.)

The sun was threatening to leave early, it was waving some sort of doctor’s note, or late pass, or some other poor excuse. There the two stood, side by side, but not touching, not even at the shoulders. Well, not really. Not physically, anyhow. Any person who wasn’t walk into walls blind could see the red strings that connected them from every angle, attaching them so that no one could miss it, but no one could really see it either. No one who needed to, not yet. They stood together, side by side, watching the colors that flooded the ignorant light blue sky, the pinks battling past the yellows, the clouds fighting on top of all of them, the final unity of the three. The unity was her favorite part, but he didn’t know that. He had never asked what she liked best about the sunset. But had he, she would have told him it was the unity of the colors and the clouds and the universe when it finally agrees that the time is right for the colors of the light to change and stop for a moment to enjoy the view from the sky.
There was something false about the way he was smoking his cigarette. He executed the proper process, could even blow rings, but there was something in his exhale that said he wasn’t quite telling the whole truth. She stared out into the sunset, wondering if the clouds ever felt the way she did right then. The tearing of souls was ironic, the light breaking the apparent bond that lay between the peaks of the mountains, the light breaking through the seemingly attached clouds that hung over their heads, like the guilt that hung over hers. It was the sort of deep seeded guilt that would probably never go away, unless she did something extreme about it, but that was unlikely.
There they stood, again. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the moment in front of him. He could feel some sort of string tugging, around his shoulder or his elbow, wherever it was in between that her head found its place in meters on his arm. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked down to the top of her head. Her hair was crazy, but smooth. It reminded him of the way music wrestled its way out of his speakers, and made him wonder if she ever felt she’d want to hide behind her hair. With the way it hung over her face, she could, fairly easily. Just take it easy, take a breather and relax when necessary. Maybe now was one of those times.
If she felt like something was wrong, she would have known. Most likely. There was a definite possibility of misleading entities finding their way into her thoughts again. The cigarettes next to her were a pleasant distraction from the dull arguments that her thoughts seemed to conjure up. She found it necessary to avoid all involvement of wizardry with her future plans. What could really be accomplished with such a heavy frame of mind setting back what made her herself? There was a reason for all of this, but she couldn’t remember what it was. It got lost somewhere between her Bedsheets, the Bathroom, her Closet, her Clean Clothes, the Stairs, the Car, the Parking Spot, and now, the Current Standing Spot.
He suddenly smiled, remembering what he had seen in the car on the ride over. Her nails. They were painted a light purple color that reminded him of nothing but serenity. Kind of what she reminded him of. He noticed this, and realized he needed to stop reminding himself of things, and just let things go the way they were originally headed, before his dumb memories interceded. Sometimes, these thoughts are wrong for the time of day. What was with his obsession with time today? He knew that it didn’t exist, that it didn’t need to, that it was just a piece of information people used to torment each other and themselves, with numbers always spinning like slot machines through people’s minds, making their minds into train schedule and meeting appointment times and the price of a cup of a coffee at every store within a mile radius. But it didn’t matter. He knew what he needed to do, and fully intended on doing just that.
“Remember that time in the city?” she asked him, using his cigarette to light her own. He remembered. He remembered the restaurant and the dress she had worn and the smell of the spring that was hanging in the cracks of the sidewalk. “No.” he lied. She thought about the table they sat at outside and the perfume she had worn and the smell of spring that had been hanging in the cracks of the sidewalk. It was the first time they had argued, over who should have been the next candidate for the democratic party. It had been nothing substantial, just a realization that they wouldn’t always agree on everything. They had never expected that they would, but weren’t actually expecting it when it actually appeared in front of them, jumping out from behind a stone wall at them, laughing when they startled. That was six months and twenty three or twenty eight days ago. Things had progressed nicely, they had made sense of the fact that they couldn’t always agree, and even occasionally enjoying a disagreement if it sparked some sort of interest.
To her, the beach meant everything. The waves and the sand and the sunlight’s honest sort of reflection off of both meant clarity and reality. There was nothing had could calm her like a day in a bikini slathered in lotion and wearing sunglasses that could have ended World War I. Her resolve was strong to stay out of a War with him, but something was false today. She had seen it as soon as she’d stepped off the last stair and onto the ground that promised her absolutely nothing, seen something that just didn’t look right and while she didn’t know exactly what it was, she intended to do what she needed to do and not break into a house where she couldn’t have found the exit even with a flashlight. The truth was, there was nothing wrong with him. But there was just nothing special about him either. She found those entities she had thought of earlier creeping into her thoughts now. Creeping slowly, but surely enough that time could have stopped and no one would have noticed in their slow creep either. She could have written an entire literary criticism on how his character had developed thus far, and even done a presentation on the continuous change that was bound to occur over the course of a timeline.
He knew he was wrong. He was so tired of waking up and knowing he was wrong, and he was tired of listening to that song that they listened to in the car together, and he was even tired of hearing her voice, when she knew he was wrong too. Things were wrong, just wrong, and nothing else. What a shame to have such time wasting skills and nothing to make up for them with. The spiral in his head was starting to change direction, and things were starting to change in the distant colors of the sky that were still pretending to hide behind the mountains, when all they really wanted was to wait for him to see them once more before they giggled away. They threatened his plans, the way they looked at him like that, almost like they were asking him not to do exactly what he wanted to do, trying to tell him it wouldn’t end as well as he envisioned. The vision was hazy, but it didn’t matter now, it was a vision that would be carried out, and a vision that would be carried out, even if it had to be just based on the principle of the thing. He wondered if she suspected it, if she could see its parking lights through the fog, moving slowly towards her, slow enough to be careful but not slow enough to not feel ambushed. He hadn’t even meant for things to happen this way, but sometimes the fall of the dice has everything to do with gravity and nothing to do with the ways he wanted things to fall. If everything was always falling into place, it wouldn’t ever be called falling, it would be called dropping in for tea, or stopping by to say hi.
Waiting was the hardest part for her. She had spent so much time waiting already, she was bored of watching ticking minutes and tocking seconds and letting a clock control her life. She knew he didn’t believe in time, and quite frankly, while it seemed like a good way of avoiding necessary constraints, she thought it was a stupid idea with absolutely no basis or thought process involved. Just because he couldn’t follow a simple theory of counting and organizing didn’t mean it didn’t exist, it just meant he should spend more time reading and less time doing what he did best. Her anger at him was one of those things that weren’t really what they looked like, that her anger in particular wore a really well stitched costume that hid the little lines that swore that they would give up even the best of dressers. Clothes that had been ripped out of dresser drawers, where they’d laid forever, waiting for a moment of use, and needing to perform in a way that made the light flatter their complexions. She wasn’t angry at him, she was angry at the things that happened that were out of his control and hers, and she was angry that he didn’t care that they were out of his and her control and that he wasn’t trying harder to find the lowest common denominator. The middle seemed to be the most important place for them to meet, but now suddenly he wouldn’t even cross the street until he’d pushed the crossing button at least four times and waited for it to change on the sidewalk. This kind of nonsense would never happen on the beach, she thought, reaching to the depths of pockets that definitely would provide something that she could need.
He looked down at his arm, and noticed a bright red line reaching from her arm to his. It was a brilliant, glowing red that reminded him of fire. It put a warm spot on his arm where it connected him to her, and warned himself that this was the one and only time that this conversation could occur. He turned to face her, stretching the red line that connected them. He took a deep breath and put his hands on his shoulders. “I’m not voting in the election. I don’t want to back any of the candidates that I can choose from.” She stared straight back at him. “I know that. That’s not the problem. The problem is that you can’t expect change that you’re not going to create. There’s nothing wrong with objecting to an evil, but you can’t object without having a better plan and being part of a bigger idea. And that’s the same reason that we don’t have anything more to talk about.” Her relief was overwhelming. His embarrassment was overwhelming. He had known he was wrong but not this wrong. And that’s what happens when you don’t tell the whole truth.

-LBR

Dinner at 2AM

The grandfather clock sounds to remind me that it is time
Time to have the silver spoon in my right hand
Stirring whatever mess I've made this time
With a book of dreams in my left.
I stand against a strong white counter
Stronger than you think
Resting
Waiting
Watching
the hands on the clock move faster now
Daring me to make a mess of its dangerous cycle.
But it will not have the best of me
And neither will you.

-LBR

Much Adieu About Nothing

They bore in on me,

A procession of aspiring professionals with notebooks and backpacks,

An army of bloodthirsty freshmen led by generals of general education.

They bore in on me,

Crazed by the race for assimilation, haunted by their fear of disdain,

Replacing "what ifs" with "what if I don'ts," and leading with only their noses.

But you were the savior, the martyr, the one,

The reason I got out of bed.

You were the sunrise but now you're falling fast

And I fear now that the morning won't come.

I've been building you a bridge; it's coming apart at its seams.

In my sleep I've been burning the foundation and the bracing,

Unhinging the suspensions, and I find it fascinating

That my own worst enemy is me.

I never dreamt I'd have it all so clearly laid before me,

And I'd never think that if I did, I'd handle it all quite so poorly.

I guess I blew my chance again,

Just like last time, and the one before,

But you are still my rising sun,

You're still my New York City flower.

So when I leave this concrete jungle

I'll bid the whole damn place "adieu."

But you, you I won't e'er forget,

And I hope you won't forget me, too.

a.l. knox

I. Bridgeport
I don't see any bridges or ports
Just broken bricks and worn luggage that seems to be fading into the tracks.
The glass is so dirty, no one cares that the bridges and ports are begging for help.
Maybe the bridges were burned
Maybe the ports perished in the smoke of the burned bridges
The racket of a city begging to be saved shakes the tracks to their tiny toes
And we continue on, screams echoing behind our tickets.

II. The River
The smoke stacks are pouring out their souls in the form of greasy gray sadness.
They watch the people fishing on the rocks
Watch them try to catch some meaning or reason.
It's an inside joke between them and the marshes across the water
Their detailed plans for destruction are hidden away in the gray smoke that pours from their pipes
I caught them pouting as the last car passed them without paying tribute.

III. New Haven
A jungle made of metal and browning stones
A village built from steel and concrete
and the backbreaking labor of a thousand machines.
The sun comes out but only to see its reflection in the glint of the steel metal jungle.
How selfish.
I need a cigarette. Now.

IV. A Pause or maybe an interruption.
Behind the sick sneakers and the mirrored eyes of a writer
is a secret.
What is the secret? How deeply is it seeded?
When paths collide for a reason, everyone seems to lie.
Making up addresses and following an endless trail of giant yellow dots
I'll have to wait until Springfield to figure this one out.

V. A Track Change
A hesitant start, an unsure beginning full of questions
The other side seems greener, has more colors
and more desire for attention.
The ghosts are hiding in every twist and turn
As the pace changes so does my word.
The hillside slopes down to here
Abandoning me in the middle of 2 passing trains.
I am ready for this change of direction.
I am okay with falling down this way.

VI. Wallingford
These fences are barbaric.
The rust is threaded with medieval metals that slice confidence like bread.
This town is half asleep.
Its colors pretend to be cheerful
But the cars are dozing off in the lots
next to the men napping on splintering benches.
The railroad ties tie the town down
Holding it in place until the next train jolts it from slumber again
I wonder what simple living is like.

VII. Traffic on the Air Waves (Meriden)
I want to sit under one of these trees.
Sit between the bricks and cry for a while.
Fingers holding my forehead in place while I wonder why I do the things I do.
Those yellow flowers are promising me that everything will be okay.
I close my eyes and feel the branches get tangled in my hair
I feel the salt drying up my skin
Slipping past my fingers
Running down the only tracks they know of.
Be strong. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Let go.

VIII. Somewhereville, Connecticut
I didn't catch the name of this town.
That's okay though, names don't mean anything anyway.
Apparently they only drink Bud Light here
That must make tap water feel uncomfortable.
At least the river is moving
The ducks sure seem to enjoy themselves here
All I see is ladders and mounds of unfinished business.
The parking lots are empty.
Maybe I dreamed this one up.

IX. Adventure Spirit
There is no way I am going to chat with the writer with AIDS in his legs.

X. Hartford
I see the guts of a city hanging down to its chin.
This city whispers in my ears
Giggling out its secrets like we are little girls at a slumber party.
I like the curves of the bending metal
Framing the face of a sweet smile
Blue eyes to go with blue skies
of proud eager importance.
We could all learn something from Hartford.

XI. 20 minutes from Springfield
These woods remind me of home
Make me want to curl up on a blanket in the sun
Lose myself in words on a page that don't belong to me
I'm home I'm home I'm home
It's okay my home has no name either.
We give away our old clothes and shoes too
Cover the tired, time tolled backs and feet
I love to share.
I've got to find the key to the lock I put on myself.
Damn loose keys.

XII. Springfield Itself
It is actually a field of spring.
You could watch the sunrise or the sunset from those riverside benches.
Is something wrong Springfield? Are you okay?
You just look upset. Nevermind.
I can already see signs of my finality.
This journey is nearly over.

XIII. Flashback
Be still, racing heart.
Settle down while I do another.
Another day, another regret
Another bundle of meaningless paper.
You change me until you snub me
But at least I've always got another.

XIV. Admissions
My handwriting is now sloppy.
My fingers are too slow.
A five dollar Corona was the only way to escape from the memories I do not miss.
The man with the AIDS in his legs is smarter than I am
Has twice as much experience as I do
I am guilty of many things
Please forgive me for my wrongs.

XV. Nearing the End
The conductor told me about an hour
After we left Springfield.
But I am still learning, still looking for the piece I blatantly missed.
I am not ready for the end, I have only just begun
I wish I didn't mean that in more ways than one
Oh fuck, I promised myself I wouldn't rhyme
Now I am two steps over the line.
We're moving so slowly, but it's okay, I need this.
I am not ready for the end, I have only just begun.

-LBR.

Falling

It smells like May is just 'round the corner,

But December still hangs in the air.

I've been falling now, for months, and the ground is approaching quickly,

Looming beneath me, no elastic net for safety.

You wrapped my feet in concrete, but I was the one to dive

Head first into you.

So I dove, I sunk, I drowned, and you never felt me splash.

I went down quietly, silently vowing to never come back.

So the water was churned, and when the great wave came

I cut my losses and rode it to the hills -

And when the rip tide tugged at my ankles, I clawed at dry ground

But was dragged back into you.

I tried to flip the hourglass back over, but the sand has turned to stone

And just won't fall the way it once did.

You're at the ledge, and I'm waiting at its base with my arms wide -

I've been trying to catch you but you're far to stubborn to take the plunge.

So fall, I'll catch you.

We're running out of time; the ground is coming at me

Like a freight train,

And I don't want to go it alone.

So let yourself fall,

Let's hit it running.

-a. l. knox

you call this an election?

It's a drink that will listen but those who listen will drink
There's nowhere to go but up.
The downward spiral seems to be infallible but
But there has to be something else
Other than space and time and empty thoughts that go nowhere except back to their beginnings.
The start the middle the stop.
The three phases that make the phrases that build the mazes
and smoke keeps pouring out of the vases without leaving the slightest traces of what comes next.
Throwing away the idea of no next seems like the way to go but the best?
The best comes after the rest of the guests have left and you can't help but feel bereft of...something
Even though you liked her vest it will never mean she passed your test, she sickens me oh she sickens me like your voice sticks in me when all I'm really asking is that you fix me
Since maybe one day you'll miss me.
Trust is one of those things that can't be combined with others
Its success rate has declined in my mind and it's straight difficult to miss it when you're all sorts of entwined because it always seems to be coming up from behind when all you wanted from it was to be wined and dined.
When comes the stop? I can't just keep taking it from the fucking top it's just time to close up shop.
Slightly let down by a passing sun
Sinking slowly behind mountains I will never see up close
It's such a shame that the day ends in such a way.
It could just say a polite goodbye that would leave everyone and everything at ease and peaceful and still but NO
It disappears with a furnish and a flourish and a few too many frosty ones
Leaves everyone wondering what they did wrong why it happened so soon
and the only answer I can give you
Is fucking global warming.

-LBR.

making sense out of nonsense.

Pretending is something that comes easily to her
No one would ever dare be caught teasing her
Would lead to a road block that could never end.
She isn't me and I'm not her, but when has that ever stopped us?
The barriers are coming down, sweetheart,
and the monsters that eat sweetened hearts aren't far behind.
Makes me wonder why you're so blind, it's not hard to understand a logical mind
But its what you like, just like time.
I know you lied when you said it didn't matter
It's constantly driving you crazy, you mad hatter
The facts just keep getting sadder, and it's all because you never really mattered.
Not to me, not to the stars, and quite frankly I'm only concerned as far as
where you end and I have begun to begin.
The sky tells me it only goes from one to where I will win.
I can see the spiral in the distance these days
Where it's points end and reflect off the golden rays
The sun will be the first to deny you.
You shouldn't have lied with the stars reflecting in your eyes
This is your last chance to change, to believe that you tried
Not even that can keep you alive.
What I'm seeing is what makes me keep believing
that leaving is what needs to happen, or I'll just keep seething
out anger in long trailing pieces
when all i want to do is be dreaming with someone whose brain is teeming with ideas about
steady breathing and will stop needing me to be everything but one piece.
I know what I'm doing this time.

-LBR.

Stephanie (Cut the Shit)

I.

My heart drops, hides somewhere between my knees

Like a scared cat,

And I feel like a child playing make-believe -

Losing terribly.

Stephanie says I ought to cut the shit and get my priorities straight.

I always hated Stephanie.

II.

You said you'd leave the window open but now I'm kicking down the door.

When the splinters fall and the dust settles, I'll wait no more than

A split second before tearing myself apart in the foyer.

I need to get away from you and this place and all these machines.

I need to stop getting so lost, myself, in between dreams.

I need to breathe fresh air instead of nicotine and THC.

I really ought to cut the shit.

III.

Life gave me what it did and now I'm left with pitchers and pitchers of sour lemonade -

And only one straw.

It's my mess now, I know, but sometimes

I hear the hills whispering, "Cut your losses and run!"

My response thus far has been to hide,

But I've been stretching my calves and feet and knees and thighs,

And now I feel my battered, broken lungs thirsting for city life.

IV.

It's funny the way things seemed

To work out like frayed strings tying themselves into knots:

We'd be disbanded by the wind if not for the tangles and ties,

The snarled fingers, the locked eyes,

But together we're stronger than alone we'd ever be.

I think it's about time we cut the shit and do something about this.

-a.l. knox

this is not a metaphor.

It's somewhere buried deep under the sea
The sea that half exists as the other part of me
Gives off light that is bright and seems to make things right
For a little while anyway until it's time for the fight.
What comes and what stays
What you'll see and what you won't
I'd say go through the trouble to find out but
instead I'll go with don't.
It's not worth the trouble and the sand disturbed
No matter what it looks like it'll never be what you deserved.
Now we're on the subject of deserving?
I find this matter rather perturbing in that
Things happen and they never stop
So you may not come out on top, but as long as it hits the spot?
what the hell, i'll let this beat drop.
It's just the way it sticks and the way that it stays
always one step ahead resisting me with passing days
At first I thought what a silly phase but now I'm thinking the problem is in that phrase.
Staying up drinking passes the days
Gets me by in so many ways
Looks like I'm stuck in this fucking maze but God I do love just staying in a smoky haze.

-lbr.

you asked me for my thoughts.

Cold fingernails cling to cool cement
Cement that waves goodbye to the stairs and the sun and the stars
Not everything can always be where it wants to be.
How do such good manners turn into such anxiety?
A well-mannered lady never falters
Faltering, in the eyes of a gentleperson, is the same as fleeing,
And neither will be looked upon kindly.
The cold fingernails grasp tightly onto the manners they follow
Hoping desperately not to be left behind
With the riffraff and other broken dreams that lay in that disgusting heap of nothingness.
The cool cement tries to calm the anxiety but naturally
Well naturally their scientific properties cannot coincide.

-lbr.

consequential meanings and other hereditary disfunctions.

Rising tides meet blue eyed skies
The way the towers lean into your lies
Next to a swarm of noisy fireflies-
Enlightening, but leaves no room for a surprise
Even the fireflies can see the lies behind the skies of your blue eyes
And guess what?
They aren't surprised.
I'm not surprised when you go unrecognized.
If only you weren't so...internalized...
by which I mean selfish, but it's exactly like what you devised.
The beginning, middle and end come exactly as planned
Couldn't have done it better myself without my toes planted in the sand.
You keep snapping back to my wrist, you're just my favorite rubber band.
Not even they could hold up my life longevity next to my patience's brevity without the heat rising steadily, but I'll just keep on pedalling
Until I find the end
then I'll finally stay with you, my friend.
We'll probably both be frayed at the ends
We'll probably need a stitch or two to be on the mend
But it's always for the best in the very end.

-lbr.

that was a mouthful.

The waves catch me by surprise every single time. Just because there’s sand between your toes and arches and heels and ankles doesn’t obligate the waves to crash all around them. It’s like the Rainbow Fish, with the shiny scales, the crabs and lobsters and jellyfish all staring away. Not that the Rainbow Fish would ever mind, except maybe when she’s shy like she is sometimes and likes to know that the dots connect on the other side of this ugly bridge, with the swampy water stains branded into the casual wood. It’s an adventure of sorts, it is the Never-Ending Day and the dim starlit nights that for some reason you just can’t stop talking about. Which, in all practicality, is annoying when the story must be told over and over, but the point never really seems to poke its head all the way through the clouds. And who could forget those clouds, and the way they shudder right above our heads, nestling into our uninviting hair. It creates a need for better security, a more stable view from an alternate perspective so that the point may, at some other point, slither out for just a quick dance, then to return with an equal amount of velocity. The demographics are desperate, desperately in need of a change, a new flower, a new tomato garden, maybe just a whistle here and a snip snip snip there. But it has to be so much more, so much closer to home, and closer to reality and further and further away from the glass concept of time. Don’t bother telling me that time is an oil drum concept, I know I could prove you wrong in no more than five minutes. Minutes you will waste wondering why you meticulously count seconds and minutes and hand movements and noise! How can anyone hear anything over all that numerical racket.

Losing one’s mind is frequently considered dangerous, but sometimes it’s necessary to leave the realm of comfortable and completely let go, until it is unfortunately once more time to grab hold and take care of business. But the business must be attended to, even in the event of a holiday so misconfigured and backwards that moral ethical philosophy itself would spit on it, and throw the trash from under their mildewy backseat of their car onto the sign announcing the holiday. The trash is definitely rotting, and the holiday is only a few paces behind, so things will soon be lucrative at the Distillery of Disgust. Time to make an investment, perhaps. Maybe a large one even. But no. The refrigerator magnet stuck to your back just keeps pulling you back…and farther away from the “x” next to which your signature belongs. The refrigerator magnets, so all the colors can blend together against a common, lesser skin. The funhouse mirrors twist and turn, throwing off the concentration of all parties involved, forcing the fridge to make that weird buzzing sound it makes when it just wishes it could fall through the floor and disappear into some sort of basement or storage container, preferably of the portable nature. But the waves. They catch me by surprise every single time. I’m never ready for them even though my toes and arches and heels and ankles are filled with sand. All the sand me realize that the dark isn’t nearly right without the stairs that keep the light in fair strands, and that I really should figure out how to wind them into my hair, so that they can stay comfortably and still shed every drop of their brilliance on any interested bystander. How expansive the dark seems when the light moves on to something else. Regrets are nothing but cares you forgot you once cared about, and are best left out of most headlines and memoirs.

Nothing wrong with a mid-day adjustment, never did any harm, with the exception of the reservoirs that may live one day to see the real fall of Atlantis, the fall of this whole entire planet that exists somewhere outside of the smooth walls you wait behind, with a smile so phony that I would put money on it being manufactured by Verizon and shipped overnight to you just so you would never have to actually have a plan. Or a meaning, or purpose, or any sort of importance really. Except for me to change your mind, make you see what I see. I’m telling you that there’s a whole lot of good in tiny tunnels we’d call veins out there, it’s just been muffled and suppressed and intrinsicated. It was mangled in the jaws of a miserable coyote, who was dying for prey and was met with papery disappointment instead.

Incurable disappointment of such gravitational force make it feel like Mt. Rushmore will collapse on top of every major city and squeeze out whatever life remains with the soapy bubbles from the car washing rag. Watching someone slowly propel just a single fingertip over the slipper silver iciness that exists as some crazy chemical symbol, but could just be referred to as chrome. The word sounds in my ears with the faint tink sound that a fingernail on a chrome piece typically performs like an act. I never thought I could learn real muscle from candidates of this kind, but it is natural for me to cross streets without looking and other ridiculous, unnecessary springs that love to pop up when I have finally decided to get some real rest. The grass will be in full bloom by the time I get these gates closed and locked up for sure. It’s the drag of slow feet across a slow patter of linoleum, that may or may not be exactly stain-resistant. The glory of seeing just a single light flicker on, even if it is just a for a second? Reading the dictionary definition as a prologue would have sufficed just fine. Makes life a little easier, easier to stretch from your shoulders to the hanging potted plants, easier to live through the storm that isn’t clearing up, easier to say “Hey fuck it man, you’re just being a huge pussy,” even if it does need to be said in the mirror.

Change is one of those things that comes balled up like hemp, and as it unravels, it seems to coincidentally entertwine everything at their seams. Their seams? What happened to our seams? I almost mastered the stitch, but you told me only spinsters could be seamstresses, which is about as great as walking around with a hula hoop in your skirt. Hopefully, the wind stays steady at my back, hopefully my eyes stay relatively open, and hopefully the sand will never wash out of my toes or my arches or my heels or my ankles. Hopefully, I’ll expect the waves when they crash around me, like I always do.

-LBR

rooftop dreamin'.

Look how bright the day has gotten
Since the last one
The one before it wasn't so good either.
What's done is done
Can't change the facts or the weather or the color of your eyes
The backdrop behind your eyes
That color can't be found anywhere else in the world.
It's a crazy ocean of so many kinds of water
The water should just be that warm all the time.
Get done what needs to get done
It's what puts the wind in my hair and the salt in my lungs and a smile on your face
All I need is some open space and something distnat to look at
Seemingly so far off course but
the trails all connect at the end
even if all the dots don't quite get there.
God that sunset
from the rocks built up like dreams
carefully placed together to make a ledge
for watching the sun say the day is going into the dark side.

-lbr.

walking under the influence.

The beat of footsteps is slower now. Traveling along the same pale stones with a different feeling in mind. Today is not like the last of its kind, the same day ending with a shallow, empty "y", only going as far as tomorrow. Day by day, footsteps slowing, feet hurting at the end of a trail that doesn't end up ending. He sits, she smiles, because in this 50 minute period, she will not have to think about him again, never again will she let this happen. Hard hearts, harder details, the sense was made over there and you didn't make any of it. Changes in climate always make for changes in feeling, and maybe one day more than that. But not today, nothing will change today, except for the footsteps that seem to keep slowing.

-lbr.

snowfalls that come with bloody fists.

Pull yourself together, you crazy rotting fruit.
Your insanity is annoying.
Handless fingers meddle with your brain
You should control them, or send them away
But instead you let them stay.
They twist your veins, get them caught in the membranes
That are trying to control your brain.
They mess with your mind, add ketchup to your pie
You are such a mess.

-LBR

a mission worth dying for.

She walked slowly at first, ignoring the brisk wind that slapped her coat around her, her sneakers making the cracked sidewalk sound like eggshells. Her heartbeat was in her ears and pumped furiously into her fingertips and she asked herself again if this was a good idea. Loud sirens and angry car motors whipped around her face, burrowing into her ears, implanting themselves in her thoughts. She breathed deeply, exhaling loudly and touched the pack of cigarettes her pocket held for her. She touched her other pocket, looking for the green Hula girl lighter she hoped it still held. It did. She took out both, ripping the cellophane off of the box's outside, and crunched the foil that stood between her and the package's contents. Flick the lighter, pull on the cigarette, exhale, she reminded herself firmly. Her hands shook against the cigarette's filter and she drowned out the whispers in her head telling her to turn back with the rhythm of her fresh sneakers against the gravelly sidewalk, listening for the inevitable scrape that would tell her she of course was nervous, as though the sound of her heart in her ears wasn't enough. She put her mind back to waking up that morning, her balcony door open and the crashing waves cooling her heated thoughts, the way the sheets and he held her carefully, and how the stillness vaguely reminded her of the streetlights flickering glow on the benches below. There was something else, but she couldn't remember what it was. She remembered hearing the phone ringing, his low voice asking her collarbone what time it was, and then the voice on the answering machine, the same voice that had forced this adventure upon her. She chuckled to herself. Adventure. Yeah, you could call it that. She walked faster now, reaching to her back pocket to retrieve the slip of crumpled paper that explained her final destination, and told her she wasn't far. She flicked her cigarette into the busy street with the resounding snap of her fingernail. A shiver shot down her back from her shoulders all the way to her tailbone, and she reluctantly started up the stairs. The door creaked open, the same way her mind was creaking open to let in the realization of what she was doing, and it slammed against her back; forcing her and the realization inside. The round plastic impressions in the floor were meant to give the walker traction, but instead reminded her of a pirate ship. The deck swabbing, the clink of the rum bottles, and the constant taste of greasiness behind the molars. Brazenly, she proceeded to the desk, and a woman resembling a dinosaur asked for her name and purpose. She set her backpack down softly, hearing the weight inside shift. The drought in her throat only allowed her to croak, "These." She unzipped her backpack slowly, letting the sound echo through the room. She plunged her hands inside, knowing it was too late to run, and pulled out the contents, flinching as she placed them in front of Dinosaur Lady. Dinosaur Lady pulled the stack toward her, and opened the top one. "Overdue, I see." She spoke over the top of her glasses. "I'm sorry. I just had to know what happened in the end." She fumbled in her coat pocket until she found a five dollar bill. "You can keep the change." She placed it on top of the stack and grabbed her backpack, on the defense. Dinosaur Lady smiled, a smile that seemed like it might crack the dry skin that surrounded the hot pink lipstick. "It's okay, darling. We all forget to return books sometimes. Nothing we'll take your library card away for, though." She smiled back, and followed the exit sign back to the safety of the sidewalk, and away from the chaos of dinosaurs running a library.

-LBR

swallowing rocks.

The day tasted like it was going to be boring. The air tasted stale, the store was stagnant, and I was only half awake. Then there was blackness, covered in dirt and the smell of old food and pavement. The jacket hung around the drooping shoulders of a man with a huge smile and a wildness in his eyes that I could not make sense of. Unlike the woman recklessly flipping through kid's jeans like dog-eared magazine pages, he was not clutching a Starbucks cup of caffeine that tasted like money, wasn't trying to get better cell phone reception by shoving a Blackberry three quarters of the way into his brain, and wasn't carrying any packages that should have been made of recycled credit card statements. There was a mysterious bulge in the side of the coat that protected him from the infectious materialism that hung lightly in the air, threatening to trap anyone who let their guard down. He spoke frantically to Justin, desperately trying to figure out whether or not he could have the black backpack that hung over our heads, like the guilt that hung over mine. As they talked business, I drifted into my own thoughts, regressing heavily into the guilt that washed over me in waves, wondering yet again, if I could have saved her, had I just noticed that she needed me. The clicking of the computer keys brought me back, forcing the guilt back into the bricks that rested on my shoulders. "$44.67, please." Justin spoke softly, an intonation that I rarely heard in his voice, and as I turned to look at the two, I saw Justin's ghosts of the past drifting out the door. The man reached into the inner pocket of his coat, and to both mine and Justin's surprise, he withdrew an envelope of cash, and laid the requested amount on the counter. I grabbed him and held him tightly in my arms, whispering in his ear that I was proud of him and that no matter what he had lost in the past, no one could take that away from him. He looked me in the eye, the wildness in his gaze almost intimidatingly real, and told me to stop judging people, and realize that the goodness of people would come out if I set up a proper stage for it. He began to slip out of my arms, fading into the floor, and I screamed-cried-begged him not to leave me there, but he continued to fall. I clawed angrily at the floor, determined to help this man and get him a better life, shouting at the top of my voice that he was a good man, that whatever miracle had brought him the envelope had made him good enough to spend the money on something useful and had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol. Drugs and alcohol, the two things that could have made his reality more bearable, but no, the money went to a backpack, a container that would hold the things he held most dear, hold his stories and his answers to the questions I had not even thought of yet. I was wasting it, throwing away what he probably had dreamt of for years. He was falling faster now, smiling and telling me not to worry. My frustration was growing exponentially, ticking upwards on the bulletin boards of stock prices, and I screamed louder now, offering to help and give him anything he wanted, if only he would stay. Thousands of pairs of hands grabbed at him now, pulling him away into the darkness, my tears forming puddles around his ankles, covering his sneakers that looked like they might share my date of birth. I fell to the ground crying, praying that my tears would bring him the luck he needed. "Have a nice day, sir." I blinked, and Justin's words brought me back to the scene before me. The man thanked Justin thoroughly, waving, smiling, nodding, gratefully. I watched him turn and swagger out of the door, feeling the pieces of my heart that he'd left shattered in my chest poke bones and organs. I stared at where he'd stood, at the nonexistent rivers of my tears where his feet had been planted. I prayed for someone to take care of him, and walked dazedly into the back room.

-LBR

fireside gambling.

A distant star in the sky,
Fades with time, like the glow in your eyes.
When you push back the curtain, with your fingers shaking
Wondering if looking to the star is the first mistake you’re making.
Feeling the glass against your nails, thinking to all the thoughts snaking
Through and through your head.

Lean back and breathe deeply
Take the time to get your head straight
In the midst of time, it won’t wait
But you can’t either, it’s time for you to initiate
The change that will rest your head easier in the night.

Breathing the blue light, watching the light from the window fall
Across the floor and the ceiling and the sky and the tall
Curtains that want to ban you from seeing something so small
That is in fact not small at all
But will one day fall.
The light that glows is the one that comes out at night and shows
Everyone what they need to see, for one night it
Covers the holes and makes the good seem to grow
And multiply into a real equation that everyone can see
And then know that they can be what makes us all feel so free.

The change is always the hard part,
But in the end it’s inexcusable to ignore all the holes
Unless you sew up the holes in the bottom of your souls
Down to the soles of your sneakers that have survived all of time’s tolls,
But they’ll stay on, just keeping on with the roll
Of adventurous spirit.

It takes a special sky to change your mind
To show the parts you try to ignore, only seeing the pieces that are torn and
You can’t seem to fix with just one kind
Of desperate measures of change with the only things you find
In the back of your closet under the clothes and snow boots and tennis rackets.
Deep in the depths of the reds and blues that twist and wind
Around each other and through a strange terrain of tiny pieces that build a puzzle
Deep in the puzzle there is a bit of seamless good
That should make us look past the dark black and put
The green at the top of the list simultaneously unclenching that fist and I know you could
Just see it if you look hard enough past your self-effacing mist.

The adventurous spirit is the troublesome one,
Because it’s hard to put away, it’s hard to time it out, it’s hard to know when its time is done.
But the time is now to pull back the shade
To look to your poker hand, and win with that spade, seeing them all
Laid out across the table, smile on your face
Proud of your victory, proud of your pace and the fact that you never left a trace
Of truth across your lips to bluff your way into it
Into the spirit that will make it all worth it.

-lbr.

A Dream Transcendental

Saturday morning, eleven o'clock,

The sunlight cascading through the branches and treetops -

From the heavens to my window -

And all I can think about is the way your hair catches the sun,

The way it lays on your neck when you sleep, rising and falling

With each breath.

All I can think about is the way your voice sounds,

The way your breath feels warm and soft on my neck,

And I wish you'd whisper your first words to me when you wake.

In sleepless delirium I saw you here, but I lay alone.

When I rise - sleep clinging to me like static electricity -

The overwhelming sense of gravity offers much-needed lucidity.

Here, on this wintry Saturday morning, somewhere in the midst of suburbia,

Standing half-naked, half-awake, still transcending romance and reality

Like a dreamer set loose in 'real life.'

I see that there's something different about you, something that I can't quite

Put my finger on, something into which I'd desperately like to lose myself,

Disappear.

The First Draft of Forever.

The waves in my ears
And the soles of my feet
are the only things I really need
To get by
To get to you
Salt breeze in my teeth
Sand on my knees
Let me come get you for my adventure.
The trees seem to glow
My strength seems to grow
With every step that I take away.
I'll never leave you this way
This step step sprint way
You're the part of me that never goes away.
Swirl of flames
Your favorite drinking games
Our old band names.
You never get old
I'm not getting younger
You flatter me when I have a drink in my hand.
The drink in my hand
Takes me to dry land
Or maybe nowhere close.
You though
you're always close
Between the strands of my hair
Behind my eyes stuck in my ears I really don't care where
You'll always be there
Like a photo album of all time and I swear
That you'll never get damaged, I'll take such good care
of you, each part of you like a part me even though that just
makes "us" into "we"
Take it easy, you're just my memories.

-lbr

cartoons in black and green.

It starts with a letter
That I can't quite remember
Not here
or Now
or Tomorrow.
The draft gets so strong
When the stairs won't stay still.
The movement makes me spin in circles
Until my head is dizzy
and my brain won't stop scrambling.
Connecting the dots
With a neon line
that trails from me to there.
Finish the line
Find all the dots
I dare you.
Such things can't be discussed without a Long Island Ice Tea.

-lbr.

the day the planets shifted.

Spherical skies spilling with comma shaped clouds
Spin doctors to witch doctors
To which beat doctor to rhyme doctor.
Spherical skies spilling with metaphorical mist
Free your mind let your mind be free
Trace the tops of your teeth break the barrel of time
Trip and trail away.
Spherical skies spilling a golden glow
Breathtakingly blinding binding belonging
To the spin doctor to the witch doctor
Unexpectedly also the beat doctor and the rhyme doctor.
The weather prediction says bright and shiny
Breezy and cool and honest
And that’s what it’s all about.

-lbr
(this is supposed to have a beat behind it)

A Footprint Loosely Carved

You seem to hold it in so well, but sometimes when you exhale

I can smell the fear creep from your nostrils,

And sometimes when you speak I hear it sneak past your teeth,

An uncontrollable yelp, desperation crying for help.

You wear faux-confidence like a mask,

Hiding the void saved for whatever identity you hoped to find -

But never did.

You pretend to be a real person, but I see through your glossy facade,

I've got you figured out.

You traipse linearly through time looking neither forward nor back,

An empty shell in search of a new set of insides,

One to replace the set that departed as abruptly as youth.

So when truth finally hits you like a torrential rain,

Don't masquerade that void with your learned obscurities,

Let it fill the remainder of your half-empty glass,

Let it wash you away like a footprint loosely carved.

-a.l. knox

harvesting some sort of feeling.

We were meant for this.
Meant to look out the windows into the sunset and see the whole future laid out before our eyes
Laid out to show their Sunday best pinned with flowers to coat collars
Holding in place what may never move anyway
The security of the lake
That will never touch the ocean’s sand
That will never interfere with the annual penguin march.
We were meant for this.
Meant to hold our heads back enjoying the lights and the trees and the smell of the breeze
That floated through our smoke to tell us it is time for autumn.
The responsibility
Of shuffling lightheartedly through leaves
That we can’t let upset us for fear of getting nothing in return.
We were meant for this
This time of need and of hope and sadness and struggle between ourselves and our new molting skins
Because everyone knows that there’s nothing more frustrating than your stripes being crooked and in the wrong place and wondering why we were so drunk the past four nights.
There comes a crossroads in the path to what is real and what should be real
Where it’s hard to let go of what hurts and helps and harms and horrifies and hastens and halts.
But in the end, things always looks better from the beginning.

-lbr

shaded but lingering.

Shades over my eyes, my eyes are disappearing into the flaming floor. Where are they going? I am wondering lamely, as I watch Golden Eyes walking into the sunset, being swalled up into Forever Forest. I wonder now if there is anything to make those eyes of solid gold turn around and start running but I can’t think of any particular reason I would want that so I shrug and follow my eyes once more. We journey along a ruby covered road. The rubies glint at me, daring me to challenge their senseless glow and I am about to when I feel it. Soft prickly rain. The kind that makes you wish you had worn something with a hood to calm the hairs on the back of your neck, tell them to stop standing quite so tall. The rain takes me by surprise but it is such a relieving surprise because it shoots down my guard like an empty backpack does to a full stomach. You can never be too sure where you’re really going, but I stare into an empty purple wall and think of those two beautiful blue candles anyway and take off upwards. I’m soaring, shoulders spread like a morning stretch waiting for the sign that it’s starting. But I am just waiting, waiting, waiting and to pass the SK waiting game time, I part my lips for a cigarette and close them tightly, unable to wait for the next breath to fill my lungs to capacity, the way those fire engulfed blue candles burn my dreams and turn them to ash. In the flame of my fire I can see the candles’ cousins, nieces and nephews…which will never be quite as great but great in a gentler way that I know I can keep up with. I have trouble keeping with grace placed before me, following it through x-rays that show perfect bones and ballet excercises that will increase the flex in the grace. I cannot see this for what it is only for how loud and long it echoes in the back of my head and how heavily it weighs on my conscience that I have treated you so badly. And equality lessens nothing, just gains strength against me, resisting seamlessly, trickling through porous quilts stitched from a pathwork of lost love and the inevitability that it will bite again. Your happiness will never pay for your love, only sacrifice words and lung contractions for something as impure and immoral as a ruby encrusted road. Your tears are metaphoric and they will drown you as the Titanic drowned its own propellers. The sounds of hollow hearts are not meant to be heard but hidden on one of the two paths you must ride down. The mirror of the stars is huge and I am as tiny as the sand on last 4th of July’s beach towel that no one will ever find because I am too small to matter to such an incredibly exquisite mirror. But I don’t like this and before I can reason with my hand it time travels in light years upwards and shatters the glass and the heart of the mirror, so tall and telling. The glass and hearts shards fall into my eyes and I wave goodbye to the once beautiful expanse that has become nothing in my eyes and I know in this frozen second that I will never change. I see a swimmer, smooth capped, slick limbed, diving divinely through the waters of cold innocence, looking for some sort of treasure so I hope and hope and hope and hope and cross myself quickly for luck. Time, time, time is coming back and I rush into the tunnel that will take me to present time, a safety net of sorts that scratches at my sheets and pulls at my necklace while I sleep soundlessly, reliving what I hope I didn’t just observe.

-lbr

Needle in the Hay

Tomorrow's the day.

I've been anxiously awaiting and dreading the day

For weeks now.

Tomorrow we are no longer what we've become,

Rather, we'll revert to what we once were.

After all the leaps and bounds we've made,

We'll be home in our boring suburban towns,

Spending time with our boring suburban friends,

And I'll miss you.

A moment of silence is probably deserved.

A moment to silently wave goodbye

To whatever it was growing between us

Like marigolds growing in New York window boxes,

A lucid profession of beauty

Swimming in all this sludge and slime and pollution.

They grow it thick enough to swallow a person without chewing, you know.

So while I stand day after day and night after night by the window,

Curmudgeonly cultivating,

You wander the cracked streets and broken sidewalks of this cold, polluted city,

Planting chemical imitations of tulips and hydrangeas - little pieces of yourself, really - 

In piles of sand and decomposing garbage,

Only to burn the seeds and sprouts in a futile attempt to replenish heat lost

As a result of that guy

And all the things he took with him, the way he left a void somewhere deep inside you.

So search,

Crawl on your hands and knees if you have to,

Scour the earth like a haystack,

And if you ever find your needle let me know.

In the mean time, I'll wait

And watch as our marigolds grow, whither, and decompose,

Feeding life like wisdom to the soil

So that someday a garden may grow so grand

That it clears the pollution from our minds

And picks the garbage from our hearts.

-a.l. knox

I Tied This Brick To Your Letter, For Sublety

You really ought to be shaken,

Held tightly by the wrists or shoulders and shaken

Until sensibility returns, finds some orifice through which to enter.

Hell, I'm not asking you to read my mind,

Maybe just stop getting so lost between lines.

I'm lost between your eyes,

Each deserving more attention than I can offer without neglecting the other,

Each reflecting things about myself that I'd rather not be exposed to.

If you ever bump into your lost, wandering senses

On a city sidewalk or the inner workings of your mind,

Know that I found the answer quickly

And have been patiently awaiting understanding,

Awaiting reciprocity.

We were made for this.

-a.l. knox

2 Days and Counting

Sorry about choking on you this morning.
I felt my lungs seal up tightly
Not wanting to allow the feeling to enter.
They resisted, fought the good fight,
But in the end the snow will always be dominant over our human needs.

Sometimes resistance will keep you powerful
But sometimes you have to recognize that it’s not worth the fight.
When the fight consumes you
Holds you to the ground
Choking you because it’s got nowhere else to go
That’s when you know the path is getting too overgrown.

When thickets surround you
And you’re ensnared in vines that hang from trees
When they just want to pull you up by the wrists and shake you
Shake you senseless
The same way your friends want to
That’s when you know its time to throw in the towel.

I’m still sorry about choking all over you this morning.
It must have been gross to watch.
I just couldn’t keep the thought in my lungs
Maybe i should have excused myself to the bathroom to cough like that
Instead of spewing you with a cough that now just worries you
Especially when you see it in me.

We’ll be okay, kid.
I’m not too worried, and you shouldn’t be either.
We’ll get through it, kid.
We always seem to come back.
I’ll watch your back because, shit,
I know you’re watching mine right now.

It’s just the way things have become in the here and the now.
And it’s nothing to lose sleep over
We’re something special, kid
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-lbr

Love Robots

I've seen stronger men than me fight and fail for you,

But I won't be deterred by their bodies strewn

Lifelessly about the pathway to your eyes. No, I'll march defiantly past,

Guided by a noble heart and noble intentions.

Unscathed, I'll let you fix me.

Locked in, confined by our bodies of steel and aluminum,

The battery powering my heart runs dry, and my pulse falls weak,

But when we kiss our glasses click like a metronome

And my new, love-powered heart begins to beat.

Here I wake, 'lone again, ponder visions of robots and love,

And wonder why I torment myself, wonder what's happening in my head.

Every dream is similar; we live happily ever after,

But the façade is jarred to reality the same way every time;

I awake, alone in my bed.

-a.l. knox

The training wheels are Coming off.

There must be something in the water
That's throwing off the sunrise
Making it dull and unnoticable
to all the people walking by.
They walk by and sneer and
talk about how much nicer it could be.
Well,
I think they could be nicer
There's nothing in the world like seeing the
start of the day splashed against a boring backdrop
That comes to life when we smile at its truth
Nod wisely at its hospitable gesture
And understand that it's only there for us to stand under.
The banner of the day
Dripping slowly down our spines
As we sit
and watch
and wait
For the message it has already sealed in a personal envelope
One for each who dares to observe
No one will go unnoticed
Not unless they turn a cold shoulder
When all they had to do was lend a hand or a word where it was needed.

-lbr

Seventy-Five Percent

Sometimes, I feel like a huge mess, 

Like a wash of chemicals and neurons and atoms

And all that other sciency stuff, 

That 'stuff' that makes up the human body.

We're seventy-five percent water,

Right?

It's all just mixed in rough proportions,

Piled up on top to give me dimension.

I feel for the first time

Like the product of millions of years of

Random events,

All shaping the evolution

That lead to the present-day

Human being.

Not modeled by any divine being or reason or order,

Just a random chain of events.

Myself, specifically, the one in question

Must have snuck through

The defective detector,

Snuck through and escaped, disordered and dismembered,

A mess of chemicals and sawdust, probably,

A mess, no doubt, a mess.

-a.l. knox

Holograms and Bedtime Stories

Sometimes things vanish because they don't fit into the puzzle, so they disappear as quickly as they were dropped on your doorstep. I can taste unimportance behind my back teeth and I can feel an eraser on my back always, taking a small enough piece of me that I probably won't notice, but sure enough, it's there every day. I'm so exhausted but I'm never tired enough to let my eyelids touch and pure darkness is so hard to find these days anyway. My shopping cart just wants to check out on the express line because it doesn't care what it forgot anymore. Its list is as complete as it will ever be.

-LBR

The Moon and the Things it Failed to Expose

Rising slowly, high into the sky, the moon compliments the galaxy and the stars, displaying reflections on the windows of houses and of cars, leaving the daytime to struggle, to try to discredit “misconceptions and lies” about the temperature of the earth, and it’s unwavering rise. But at night, ah, the night, the lack of light tends to put the world to sleep, but not me, counting neither seconds nor sheep. Making not a discernable peep, I abandon this slumber and saunter secretly to the street, where I rely on my feet and their pace to lead me away into this evening’s lasting embrace. Disgracing my home and those who gave me life is far more taxing, considerably less relaxing
than a certain matriarch would claim concise. I don’t claim freedom of guilt or of shame but the blame, pushed by the hilt to my name is a vicious attempt to instill self-contempt.

This day, the sun stays away where it rests, and the moon fills its place like an understudy kept backstage, waiting for this fateful of days when the sun, this show’s star, instead of rising with a blaze remains, sunk beyond the horizon like eyes realizing what happened and what it is that they’ve seen: a scene, no doubt, of tragedy and travesty, death and disdain, the sun saw something, a silhouetted stain, a man in pain with nothing to lose and less to gain. The sun watched the pained man explain to his wife that he loved her ferociously and nothing would change, and the man’s wife believed he that she vowed to stand by, but the tears in his eyes blew a hole in his disguise, proved his words lies. Recognized, his grief would be lovingly received, but now the sun grieved, and the man’s wife lost faith that the man’s life could be saved.

And as I walked with my flashlight on the third straight day of night, pondering the inner workings of life, the rights and the wrongs and the maybes and mights, a sight fell before me, illuminated. Right on the sidewalk, piled up in a bloodied heap, as plain as day (had the sun not hidden to weep), laid a man, or what remained after three days of night, what remained after this man’s drunken struggle with strife, after this man’s skewed perception of life, after this man turned on himself the knife, and their he lay alone, collecting sand and stone eternally, concernedly pressing his arms and his chest straight against the ground, so that sand, stone, and the rest will, as long as he resides there, not be found. Be he moved, the bits of sand and stone fit snugly into indentations pressed into his rotting, elastic skin by the very bits of sand and stone held within, and the stones, like orphans, are torn and taken from their sidewalk home.

The moon, of course, playing the role of the sun shone brightly until dawn when the widow’s weeping was done, and the sun rose again, and the world again arose, and the widow wore black clothes, thanked me for the closure I’d exposed, and before she was gone she sang me this tune: “If I can let my life go on, then surely, so can you."

-a.l. knox

The Beginning...

This will, with time, become a place where Laura B. Reiman and I can post poetry, prose, short stories, and anything else that either of us feel at any time like writing. We hope that you'll find solace here, browsing between words and implications, and that maybe we can, in some way, inspire you to create.

-a.l. knox