The Cow Speaks

"Your concern for your future," says the cow,
"Is foooooolish.
Are you not also here for a single purpose--
To feed the belly of the world
With the milk of your love
From whatever teat they choose?
Sometimes the extraction hurts, it's true,
But better give the milk away
Than have your utter burst.
And the fences, those are for your benefit.
Really, pay them no mind.
The longer you look through them
The less you will enjoy the pastures
And the more like a prisoner you'll feel."

She Is Real

Can you truly be real?
For if all my desires merged with reality,
Would I not cease to be?
And yet I see that it is you I touch,
Flesh so earthly and yet divine,
And I do not mind disappearing,
So long as I disappear into your eyes.
And there I am determined to stay,
Hidden away from all the world
Except all the beauty you allow me to see.

Upon Looking at the Sky

I arched my neck to look at the sky,
Which was a mistake because I have a bad back.
The pain was more than equal to the pleasure.
Actually, there wasn't much pleasure at all,
Besides that masochistic pleasure which all aging men feel
When their bodies begin to wither.
That pleasure which speaks of wisdom
And intellectual and spiritual growth.
I am quick to disregard those pleasures.
Give me the full expanse of clear blue sky,
The roaring ocean which I might frolic in like a child,
The great view from the mountain top,
Which my own strong legs have allowed me to reach.
Take away wisdom, and what are you left with?
Only beauty, and grace, and the wondrous foolish knowledge
Of freedom.

My Shadow

I order the dinner,
My shadow flips the bill.
I drink the wine,
My shadow vomits it up.
I tell the lie,
My shadow feels the guilt.
With a shadow like mine,
Who needs lackeys or an army?
To conquer the world, all I need do
Is finish this poem.
My shadow will do the rest.

The Stars

Last night, because I was drunk,
I decided to take a detour on my way home.
I climbed my way up to the lookout
On Ohio Road, and watched the city bustling
Like an overworked machine.
"How disgusting!" I thought.
"Someone needs to take a rag to this city.
If I were in charge, I'd shut this place down,
Start fresh."
I looked at the sky:
Black.
Somewhere behind the filth, I knew,
Were the stars.
And, because I was drunk and feeling like a pagan,
I lifted my flask to the sky
And toasted the stars
For leaving their imprint on our collective memory
Before we made them impossible to see.

Sanity

Sanity has a way of diluting every impulse,
Of keeping the heart from making too many leaps.
It spreads a shadow over the eyes of passion,
The light that does get in like that of a late afternoon.
You can feel the sun going down on your life.
You want to hear the wild music
And dance burning at the pit of your soul
Just once more.
To not know the vague truths you now know.
But to cross that line now, in fact,
Is the only step to take.
You do, then step back,
And find yourself more sane because of it.

Awakening

Each evening, when it's time for bed, I awaken
From my waking slumber of languishment
And suddenly, my voice lifts,
Waking the restless dead.
I watch them dance
As my song unwinds--
Their playful antics goad me on.
My grandfather Saul, stoic in life,
Laughs like a madman, feasting on earthly delights.
All the gods are there as well,
Performing feats beyond recounting.
They rub my head, and say,
"You do this well!"
And I smile, and raise my voice
Which echoes against my walls like a bell.
Suddenly, I am awakened again,
This time by a banging on my wall, and a shout:
"Shut up!" it says. "I'm trying to sleep!"
And then the ghosts are gone,
As I lay silent, all too aware
That I am but one man.

She Had Grace

She had grace, but little patience
For my lack thereof.
The night of a party she'd stand before me,
Dressed in her green sequin dress
And necklace of pearls,
Look me over with her beautifully painted eyes,
And with her graceful hands, bedecked in gold rings,
She'd fix my collar,
Wipe the lint from my jacket,
And wince at a stain on my shirt
That I would have sworn was invisible.
At the party she'd practically float across the room.
From her tongue wit would spring like sharp diamonds
That never failed to pierce the hearts of the jealous and the dumb.
Oh, the look she'd give me when I would interject
With a foolish remark!
Her blue eyes were like two icy tongs around
My heart.
But later, when we'd returned home and were
Lying in bed, she'd kiss me
And let me share in her grace
Before laying her head down to sleep
And dream her unfathomable dreams.

Mutiny Against the Sky (For Ethan)

The two of us climbed the hill
In mutiny against the sky.
"Come down from your high perch," I yelled,
"And give us a fair fight!"
Then you started grabbing at the clouds,
And laughing, I did the same.
Then there was a flash of light,
And it began to rain.
We looked at each other in disbelief,
And sprinted down the hill.
All the way home we laughed at our defeat,
Our desire for mutiny quelled.

Chasing Crows

On a cool Autumn day, a murder of crows
Is gathered in a courtyard.
Ignoring the passers-by, I sprint and chase them,
Knowing full well I won't catch them.
I just want to see the black mass scatter
And hear the beating of a hundred wings
And the low caw of half as many voices
Beneath the vault of clear blue sky.
How do the passers-by perceive me?
I wonder amidst my joy.
As if I were a lunatic, perhaps.
But, I think, there is nothing crazy about this.
I am the chaser-away of bad omens,
Confronting evil head-on.
Let the others scoff.
They will look out their window later today,
And there will be the crows,
And anxiety will tear at their hypocritical minds.

Two Devils

Two young devils, after years of separation, met one evening to take a stroll. Both were eager to find out what the other had learned in his experience tempting mortals to sin. Though, as is the case with friends, one was more eager than the other, and it was this first devil that proposed the question.

            “If you had the choice,” he said, “between tempting a bright young man to sell his soul for power and tempting a beautiful young woman to sell her body for money, which would you choose?”

            “Easy,” replied his overconfident friend, “I’d choose the young man. I’d be winning a soul, whereas, in the latter case, I’d be gaining nothing but wealth. And as we all know, a soul is a very substantial thing, whereas wealth is nothing but an illusion.”

Seduction

My body makes no bold assertions
And neither does my gaze.
Is it any wonder that I speak to you now,
Lust given full reign over the sound of my voice?
Yes, my darling, I gave you no choice.
Though your skin remains aloof,
Your mind is moistened by the penetration
Of each word.
I can only hope that when all is finished,
A seed will have been planted
And a memory formed.

Bells

Hear the bells, the chimeric bells,
That mark, once again, this same destiny.
Fainter and fainter they've become
As we retreat into the past
Away from death, unholy death,
And from a distance, reshape our dreams.
Hear the bells, the distant bells!
Who's to say we will hear them again
And fulfill our latest destiny?

Night Fishing

Here I sit in my little wooden boat,
The sky above me dark, except for the moon
And the stars.
My line remains slack--
The fish aren't biting.
All that stirs are the frogs
Whose croaking can be heard
From across the pond,
And the reeds, lined by moonlight
As they sway in the spectral breeze.
It doesn't matter if I catch a fish or not.
Soon, the dawn will throw its net over the sky
And I will be caught
With wonder, and true reverence.

Lust

If lust is truly the root of all sin,

I must be firmly planted in the world of vice.

When a beautiful girl walks by, I cannot look away.

Like sugar on the tongue, she dissolves into my eyes

And lights up my brain.

And if she gives me a smile,

Like a tightly wound child’s toy

My soul springs towards the sky.

Some say I am damned.
I say, flesh is my salvation.
Better to taste the pleasures of this world now

Before the flesh has rotted away
And prayer is our only affections.

Winter Robin

Brave little robin, it takes courage
To stay here in the mountains
All winter.
Even though your brother tells you tales
Of the spring-like breezes down south,
You prefer to stick out the snow
And the bitter chill of the winds
In your adopted home.
Your downy coat must be very thick
And your heart very stout
To fly in the face of such winds.
And yet, I must say, I am happy
To hear you sing
Those cold mornings
When I must shovel the walk.

Dream

Last night, perspiring, filled with fear,
I awoke to the evanescence of a dream.
There was a doctor, and a diagnosis,
And then a thousand needles penetrating me at once.
"You're cured!" I heard the doctor say
As the poison burned my blood.
Then, awake, I searched for the sound of my pulse.
For a moment, it was absent,
But my breathing was heavy
If not somewhat alien.
I was not myself--somehow more alive,
Yet filled with the presence of death.

Owl

In the middle of the night,
I was awoken by the sound of an owl
Hooting outside my window.
I put on my slippers
And walked outside,
But the sound of the door was enough to spook him,
And off he flew.
The sound of his wings
Gave me a start,
And I watched him soar off
By the light of the December moon.

A Poem

This isn't a poem about the ephemerality of life.
If it was, it would end now,
To highlight the importance of living your life
Instead of distracting yourself with poetry.
This isn't a poem about love, either.
If it was, it wouldn't feel so cold and matter-of-fact.
It's not a war poem,
Or a confessional poem.
It's not about a memory
Or a particular image.
In short, this poem is what it is.
It is about itself.
"So what can be gained from it?" you ask.
I'd tell you, if I knew how it ended.

Work

When things were easy, I'd ask myself all sorts of difficult questions.
I had the time and the energy to think things through.
I'd wake up at noon and ask myself something like,
"Why can't the pleasure I derive from my dreams
Be stored in me for use throughout the day?"
And just because I had the time,
I would stay in bed and try to figure it out.
Now, I wake up at seven,
And I ask myself, "Why can't I stay in bed?"--
A relatively easy question to answer,
Which I do, every day, with a grunt and a sigh.

Carrying the Piano (For Rob Ingram)

He carried his piano up eight flights of stairs, I heard,
On his back, all alone.
It was the first thing he brought to his new apartment,
Before his bed, which he rarely slept in,
Before his couch and chairs, which he rarely sat on,
Even before the cage that his pet canary lived in.
Supposedly he said he owed it to the piano,
That it would have done the same for him if it could.
For, you see, they had wept for the same sorrows
And laughed for the same joys.
They say when he finally got it up there,
He played, and made all the neighbors pause
And thank the heavens for their luck.

The Wind

What more is there to the wind
Than the shaking of branches and the rustling of leaves?
What more than the sound of the wind chimes
And the enveloping caress that seems to move right through you?
What more than the voice that speaks of autumn on the edge of summer
And summer on the edge of spring?
What else besides the lingering desire for change
And the wonderment that there is no end and no beginning,
Just a circling breath born of divine lungs?
What more is there to the wind
Other than the fact that we are here to feel it?

Empathy

It was shocking to me when I realized I could have empathy
For the flies that get caught in my overhead lamp
And die from lack of air.
The mere fact that I could put myself in their shoes
And imagine myself standing on a scorching hot glass surface,
A relatively giant bulb radiating a hellishly bright light above me,
Surrounding me the countless dead bodies of my cousins,
All who came there because instinct told them there would be food--
Absolutely shattered my own beliefs on the limitations of my mind
And actually, for a moment, made me sympathize with an insect.

The Next Moment

Stop! Can you feel that? Stillness.
The universe is giving birth to the next moment
And we are expected to deliver it.
Pray it is not stillborn!
Even an aeon of weeping won't satisfy the mother's grief.
Let the moment be loud, kicking and screaming!

More Spirit than Body

She is a form needless of all form
For in substance she is more spirit than body
And beauty that blinds one to all else than love
Pervades the space in which she walks.

Like clouds that drift through crystal blue skies,
In infinite wisdom, she decides
When to bless our earthly eyes
With the rains of her refreshing gaze

And when to strike with blinding light
Her appraisal of our souls with godlike rage.

As certain as the thunder's crash,
I know myself in her eyes
And all my life has been a fruitless search
For beauty, which God might give me for a prize.

The Moon

Like a crotchety old man, the moon
Looks down on us with disapproval.
We who once worshiped it have come to
Sticking flags in its surface.
Ungrateful slobs, it seems to say,
Who talk of moonlight dances 
And moonstruck lovers and moonlit bays,
You still tie down the lunatic 
When he wants to go out and play.
He looks down on us with heavily furrowed brow,
Smoking a star-tipped cigar,
And thinks to himself,
If only mankind hadn't made it this far.
Sometimes at night, when I am busy
Penning something at my desk,
I hear him chuckle as if to say to me,
"You alone I bless."

Pushing Words

I often feel as if I've been writing the same poem
Over and over.
Like Sisyphus, I am pushing these words
Up the same dramatic arc,
And when I let go they fall into the same empty silence.
The praise always seems the same and never enough
Like a glass of whiskey that leaves you high, dry,
And completely cut off from the rest of society.
"But what about the oeuvre?" you say.
"Every poem is an addition to a much larger construct."
But I say, Where is the diamond in the rough?
Where is the poem that will be held up to the light
And placed in the canon next to
Poe's The Raven and Eliot's Wasteland?
I'll tell you where.
It's right here.
I am done with merely pushing words.
I'm at the top of the hill and I'm not coming down.
I'll stay right here and recite these words
Till Zeus himself reprieves me
And takes me to Olympus
To give me his laurel crown.

My Intentions

What I really want to do through this poem
Is steal your soul.
My hope is that by sending you this strange, arcane message,
You will come to worship me like a god,
And in turn, that your entire life span
Will be added to my own.
Please, however, don't let that frighten you away.
I'd like to think of myself as a benign god
Who will take your soul and treat it to a warm bath
And a cup of tea
Before absorbing it through my giant mouth
Which at the moment is moving to the rhythm of these words.

On the Death of Robin Williams

Laughter is the jester's just reward
As are the tears he never gets to see.
Both tears and laughter he himself reserved
To complete his craft with symmetry.
On the stage before the world,
The lights have finally dimmed.
He laughs till he weeps now
At peace with one and all.
The laughter and the weeping,
His craft, and his life,
Now inseparable.

A Troubled Muse

A troubled muse has brought me here
To a place where we can be alone.
She claims I've been unfaithful to her,
That I've been dabbling in unholy arts
And putting pen to paper on a lark
Despite the fact that I've been with her all along.
She weeps and I coo softly into her ear
Some lascivious verse
From off the top of my head.
Then, her ineluctable smile appears
And kisses me and takes me to her bed
Where all night long I sing a most inspired song
That gives birth to joy in the hearts of the dead.

Storm

I am awakened by thunder and am resolved to know
Who I've been these passing years,
What I've learned and if I've grown.
For the thunder steals all recognition
Of who I am, except perhaps the fact
That I have grown no less used to death.
And since I am strange to myself to my very bones
My eyes grasp the faintest thing they see:
A window in the mirror, and a flash of light
Reveals the promise that once made me real:
To burn with truth, and learn to kneel.

Just Enough Light

In favor of too much darkness
I have chosen just enough light.
I would often wander around at night
Expecting the shadows to come to life
And sweep me off to my eagerly waiting destiny.
Now I walk under the sun
And believe that I am destined for the here and now.
And when the sun goes down
And the shadows lengthen,
I greet them as old friends
Who are learning to get along without me.

Awake!

Awake! The dream is spent.
All is learned, now seek to mend
Your broken life, and seek to earn
The dream of night.
For sweeter are the dreams that come
When honest work has lead the setting sun,
And lessons come in the morning light
To give away before the end of night.

To My Lover

To dissolve into a fleeting sun
And pass beyond all shadow
And to remain alert on the edge of eternity
A backless eye greeting the past, present, and future
Is to live like this, unburdening my soul to you,
Who feigns sleep now, your head in the crook of my arm.
May I never wake from this purifying slumber
That keeps me bound to your peace.

The Zinnia

Into the deep gloom of my lonesome heart
The zenia casts the glance of its electric eye.
Its ruby-sprinkled inner sanctum
Opens for me and I espy
The ether of a second sky.
Eclipsed by its beauty, I burn like the sun
Till my kindled heart leaps from my chest
And the memory of my love returns.
Enthralled by the nectar of its gaze,
I blossom and sing to the birds
Who then repeat my song
And fly off from the linden tree
To travel far beyond the clouds
To share the song of the love-bringing zenia.

Someone You Know

Right now, someone you know
(And it isn't the person you're thinking about now)
Is thinking about you, and hoping you are thinking about them.
They are imagining embracing you
In a world where the colors are brighter
And the air sweeter.
They are making plans to call you up
To tell you how much they've missed you
And that they are dying to see you.
And now, someone near them is tapping them on the shoulder
To tell them that they are next in line
For a movie ticket, or a bottle of wine,
And lo and behold
They've forgotten you,
And chances are you will stay forgotten
Till you see her at the reunion
Or perhaps on the street
As you're hurrying to get to the zoo,
A child dragging you by the arm.

One With Nature

When I am one with nature,
The rats in the cellar don't bother me.
Neither do the roaches in the sink.
The mosquito on my leg can suck all day till I'm aenemic
And the fly can perch right on my nose.
Even you, my love, could spit in my face
And a rhinoceros could impale me from behind
And it wouldn't matter
As long as I was completely bound to the spirit of nature
As I am now, listening to the cuckoo sing.

Ignorance

I do not know the name of the hue,
But I have seen it and can describe it
In the rain-washed grass lit by the sun in the late afternoon.
Or the color, like a violet but not quite,
Surrounding the gray dead leaves in the subtle shade of the trees
Which I also do not know the names of.
I do not know the names of the flowers that line my walk
And there is no one around to tell me.
I could go inside and look it up,
But no, I'd like to stay ignorant for a little while longer
Just so I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin
And think of the things that are important to know.

These Words

Had they heeded the words of the first poet of peace,
There'd be no war, and no need for poets of peace.
Had they heeded the first poet of love,
There'd be no hate, and no need for poets of love.
Therefore, I say,
Heed these words.
Whether I am a poet of peace or love
Or even a poet of complete banality,
Listen, take the words to heart.
For whatever they carry (and I do not know what they carry)
They are, essentially, the fruits of my soul
Ripened so that they may no longer remain on the bough.

On Leaving My Home "Never to Return"

"The further you go, the more wretched you're going to feel,"
I heard myself say as I walk along a road
Which, supposedly, had no end.
I had started out to liberate myself.
From what, I wasn't really sure.
With no destination in mind I thought the cares
Would just melt away as I went.
But now my feet ached
And I was beginning to wonder what I'd eat.
Death seemed to creep in around me.
Suddenly the cares of life seemed less cumbersome.
It was still far from morning.
No one would be missing me yet.
I turned around
And when I arrived,
I told everyone I had gone to watch the sun rise.

Obviously Insane

Everybody knows that the man who lives
In the rusty body of the old VW van
Is crazy.
He does not wash his hair or brush his teeth,
And when children pass by him in the street
He hands out pieces of his underwear,
Saying they are tokens
To get into Heaven.
And to the grownups he says nothing
And keeps his head bowed.
Sometimes he gets angry, though,
And yells at the clouds.
One day they came and took him away.
When he came out he was a different man.
In fact, he soon became our nation's president.
He was impeached, though,
For freeing all the animals from the zoo.
Now he's back, and he's looking for you.

A Flower's Good Taste

When I was a child my mother told me,
"Rain makes the flowers grow."
Not long after, she bought me a flower
And told me to water it often.
Being a child, I was confused,
For the rain didn't come "often," it seemed.
So I waited until the first rain came
And took my flower out for a drink.
An old man with an umbrella happened by and looked at me queerly.
"No need to get all wet!" he said,
"You can give your flower water from the sink!"
Because he was a stranger, I ran quickly to the back of the house.
Awhile later, I learned that he was right.
But still, even now, in the back of my mind,
I know that ever tasteful flower prefers
The nourishment of rain over plain tap water.

Light

That secret scribe, light,
Inscribes the eternal hallowed verse
Of beauty upon our waking eyes
Through the green translucent leaf
And down upon the robin's russet breast.
Oh light, that shields the world from mystery,
That gathers our thoughts, and sets them free,
Whether by moon or sun or lamp or star
You return my longing life-starved gaze
With a vision of my endless powers.

Moment of Clarity

Perhaps it will happen here, when I flick the light switch,
Or now, when I glance out the window
To see a child chasing a bird down the street.
Maybe it will come with the mail
In a letter from an old beloved friend.
Or better yet, when I receive a call saying my mother is dead.
I know, I should take a walk.
It's much more likely to happen outside than in.
Maybe I'll find it in the trees
As they're blown by the wind,
Or a flower--that's what flowers are for, right?
Or maybe I'll find it here, alone, seated at my desk
When I finish this poem.
Or better yet, when I get the chance to send these words
To you.

Presumptions

He made her laugh, therefore I'm not funny.
I made her laugh, therefore I'm a clown.
She looked with longing into my eyes.
She must want to know if my friend loves her.
I touch her hand and she begins to tremble.
She must be frightened, or the wind is too cold.
I kiss her mouth, and she kisses back.
Either this is a dream, or the end of the world.

The Watch in My Throat

A watch sticks to the back of my throat, insisting
I speak and pronounce the time:
"Time to live! Time to shout! Time to cry!"
The odd looks I get keep the watch ticking
Till the hands stop moving
And the breath of my shout rewinds it again.

Girl Resting in a Chair

Ah, yes, she dons a supple form.
Sliding into each other, the muses
Engage in blasphemous acts.
Coerced, they engage my tongue
And spread their venomous traps.
Ah, but now she's gone
And I've hardly had time to penetrate her
With my song.

When the Plane Goes Down

I'd like to think that if the plane went down
I'd spend my final moments contemplating the infinite,
But I know I'd go screaming holy hell like the rest of them,
And I suppose that would be more fun.
We spend our lives contemplating,
Waiting for the right moment to attract everyone's attention.
When the plane goes down, you'll be screaming for attention,
But the person in the seat next to you will only hear his own screams.

Stuck

What is this wretched filth at the back of my throat?

Cough! Hack!

It is the phlegm of life’s injustice.

I can barely breathe now from its consistency.

Those who are honest are burdened with more truth than they can bare,

While the liars walk free

Earning fame with their crimes.

Someone told me once that life is a journey.

Now, I am stuck in the bog,

And I am only sinking.

Here now, lift me up, if you will.

Take me back to the road,
But shield me from that which stalks me

That I might breathe easy

If only for a while.

The Lightning Witch

Once there was a little boy named Jimmy Bominsky who had a very severe and seemingly irrational fear of lightning. During a storm Jimmy would get out of bed and go to his parent’s bedroom. “Mommy! Daddy! The lightning witch is outside my window!” Well, of course, as all parents will when their children begin to complain about witches outside their window, they told Jimmy it was just his imagination. But the fact was, there really was a witch riding down on bolts of lightning to spy on little Jimmy, for Jimmy was a spectacularly beautiful child, and the lightning witch wanted to add to her collection of rare, beautiful children, which she kept in a special room in her palace in the clouds.

                One night, during a storm, as Jimmy lay in bed, the lightning witch came down and tapped on Jimmy’s window. Jimmy looked, and the witch smiled a most horrible smile and held up a beautiful ripe fruit, the kind of which Jimmy had never seen before. Jimmy heard her cackling voice through the window. “My little precious one,” she said. “Open the window, won’t you? It’s awfully unpleasant out here. Wouldn’t you like to try some of this fruit?”

                “Go away!” cried Jimmy. “I’ll never let you in!”

                “Well,” said the witch, “never you mind. I’ll just leave this fruit here on the ledge. You feel free to try it anytime you like.” And with that the witch was off shooting into the sky on another bolt of lightning.

                Day after day Jimmy gazed longingly at the fruit outside his window, till finally he could resist it no more. He took a bite of the fruit and thought, “Well isn’t that tasty!” He was just about done when, to his great surprise, little hands began to stick out of the core of the fruit. The little hands tore and tore at the flesh until they broke through, and out popped three awful looking demons, with scaly green flesh and mean yellow eyes. The demons reached and grabbed for Jimmy’s lips, and when they got hold of them, they stretched his mouth wide open and climbed inside. The demons forced themselves down into his throat, and went down till they reached the pit of his soul, where they could use their talents to wreak havoc on his life.

                The next day Jimmy went off to school. On the playground that day, Jimmy spotted Michael Saunders bending over to tie his shoe on top of the play set. Jimmy, to his own great surprise, kicked Michael in the behind and he fell all the way from the top of the play set to the ground. When Michael told the teacher what had happened, she sent Jimmy to the principal’s office. “You have behaved very poorly, young man. Frankly, I’m surprised at you!” said the principal, who proceeded to suspend him.

                On the car ride home from school Jimmy’s mother was scolding him. “I know I taught you better than that! You should be ashamed of yourself for such cruel, thoughtless behavior!” Suddenly (and he had no idea why), Jimmy reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, pulling the car off the road. His mother shouted and slapped Jimmy hard across the cheek. But Jimmy was madder at himself than his mother was.

                That night Jimmy had to go to bed early, with no supper in fact. He lay in bed and gazed out the window. Just as it was nearing dark, a thunderstorm began. The wind outside was blowing the trees around in a mad fury. The rain was swirling around so violently that the air seemed to shake like the cage of a wild beast. It grew darker and darker and the storm raged on. Finally, there was a flash of lightning that shot right past Jimmy’s window, and seated upon it, floating in mid air, was the lightning witch. She looked in with her horrible, wide black eyes and smiled like a hyena honing in on a meal. Jimmy hid his face in his pillow.

                “Don’t be scared, little one,” said the witch. “I’m not here to harm you!”

                Jimmy looked up and yelled: “Oh yes you are! That fruit you gave me had an awful poison in it, and now I can’t stop doing bad things!”

                The witch continued smiling, though her eyes narrowed quite a bit. “Now, now,” she said. “That is a shame that you got a bad one. Usually my peomins are quite pure, but of course, there is always a risk…But I have the cure for your little ailment.”

                Jimmy perked up. “You do?” he cried. “Give it to me.”

                The witch began to look a little downcast, though she was still smiling. “I would, but it’s in my castle. Come with me and I’ll give it to you.”

                Jimmy considered his options and decided that he couldn’t go another day with the sickness inside of him, so he told the witch he would go with her, as long as he could bring his trusty friend, Ted, the dog, along. The witch agreed. Jimmy, holding his dog, climbed out the window and sat down behind the witch on the lightning bolt. It was so hot it almost burned his bottom. The witch let out a horrible cackle and…poof! They were off. Jimmy could see nothing but darkness and mist as they flew through the clouds, except for the occasional lightning flash that would fly by. But the sound! Never before had thunder sounded so deafening to Jimmy before. Ted, the dog, nearly jumped out of Jimmy’s arms at the sound. Eventually they rose up above the clouds, and Jimmy gasped in amazement at what he saw. Perched on top of one of the clouds was a huge black castle with three massive spires and an embattlement with a sinister looking gate. As they approached, Jimmy thought he heard the sound of screaming coming from within. He was beginning to regret his decision to come with the witch. Ted began to whimper in Jimmy’s arms.

                The gate opened for them and they entered the courtyard. It was made entirely of black stone, and there were terrible looking dogs chewing on what appeared to be human carcasses. Jimmy looked away in terror. They then entered through the massive doors into the castle itself. Like the courtyard, it was made entirely of black stone, and the only decorations were tools of black magic—bronze mixing bowls inlaid with jewels, mirrors that reflected only what you wanted to see, wands made from gnarly dead branches, and shelves filled with corked bottles containing every conceivable ingredient. They floated up a staircase and down a long dark hall, at the end of which was a wooden door. They stopped. Jimmy could hear the sound of moaning from within.

                “This is where I keep the antidote,” said the witch. With a gesture from the witch, the door flew open. It was pitch black inside.

                “No!” said Jimmy. “You’re lying!” He tried to jump off the lightning bolt, but the witch grabbed him. Ted, however, managed to escape, and he ran down the hall. Soon Jimmy was lying on the ground in the dark room, and the witch bolted the door from the outside. Someone stepped on Jimmy’s hand, and he stood up. The sound of hundreds of little boys crying filled his ears. Jimmy couldn’t stand it. “Enough!” he cried, but no one heard, and the crying continued. Suddenly, above him, a giant light turned on, and the room was illuminated. The crying stopped. Jimmy looked up. The room was circular, and near the vaulted ceiling, there were narrow passages lining the wall. A wailing sound was coming from these passages, and they grew louder and louder each second. Then, from each passage came a wispy looking ghost carrying a platter of food. They circled the room and dropped the food on the floor, and all the little boys fought hard for each scrap. When Jimmy observed the ghosts, he could see that they were all young boys like himself. One of them looked almost exactly like him. The ghost stopped and peered into Jimmy’s face. “What’s your name?” he asked.

                “Jimmy Bominsky,” Jimmy replied.

                “Bominsky? Who’s your father?”

                “James Bominsky.”

                The ghost’s mouth and eyes opened wide, then he put his hand to his face. “James Bominsky is my brother,” he said. “I am your uncle, Charles Bominsky.”

                Jimmy was stunned. Of all the places to meet his long lost uncle!

                “Oh, Uncle Charles, won’t you please help me out of here?”

                Uncle Charles sighed, then began to laugh, then began to cry.

                “Uncle Charles!” Jimmy cried. “Please! I need your help! Isn’t there a way out of here?”

                “There is,” said Uncle Charles. “It is through the passage which I came out of, but that leads to the ghost dungeon, and there is no way out of there.”

                “Oh, but there must be another way!” cried Jimmy, more to himself than his uncle.

                “I’m afraid not,” said Uncle Charles. “The only other doors are the one you came in through, and that takes a special key to open, and besides that, there’s only …”

                “What?” asked Jimmy.

                Uncle Charles leaned in close, to make sure no one else could hear him. “The death door,” he said.

                At the sound of these words a shiver ran down Jimmy’s spine. “What’s the death door?” he asked.

                “Well, you see,” said Uncle Charles, “not every boy that comes in here survives. Actually, none of them do. Many die from starvation, others from illness or lack of air. And when they die, the death door opens and the dogs come through.”

                “The dogs?” asked Jimmy, remembering the vicious brutes he had seen in the courtyard.

                “Yes,” said Uncle Charles. “They come in and take the dead bodies, and bring them out to the courtyard where they devour them.”

                Just then, the sound of creaking was heard. Uncle Charles looked, grew very frightened, and flew back up through the passage. Jimmy looked, and saw part of the wall lifting away from the floor, displaying a ramp that led down into darkness. All of the boys in the room backed away to the opposite end of the room in fear. The hideous black dogs came running up the ramp and into the room, barking and snarling viciously. Jimmy watched in horror as they dragged the dead bodies from the floor. But—could it possibly be?—under the mass of giant back dogs, Jimmy spotted the small white body of Ted, scurrying into the room, and in his mouth he held a large golden key! The little dog jumped up into Jimmy’s arms and Jimmy held him tight. “What have you got, boy?” said Jimmy as he set the dog down. He took the key from Ted’s mouth and held it up. “This is the key. I know it!” He went to the door and put the key in the lock. He turned it and, viola, the door opened. “Run, everybody! We’re free!” The boys rushed headlong for the door. Jimmy and Ted were the first ones through, and they ran down the hall as fast as they could. Then Jimmy remembered, he still needed the antidote! “But where could it be?” he thought. Ted started to bark, as if he had read Jimmy’s mind, and was saying, “I know where it is!” He led Jimmy down a hallway to the right, to a little wooden door with an old, worn-out knob. But suddenly, before Jimmy could put his hand on that knob, a hundred little lightning bolts flashed in front of him, and the witch appeared.

                “So, you thought you could escape, eh? I see you’ve let all my children go free. For that, I’m going to send you to the ghost dungeon.” She raised her wand as if to cast a spell, but then, the sound of wailing was heard. Jimmy turned, and coming down the hall were the ghosts, including his uncle Charles.

“Just wait right there!” cried Uncle Charles.

The witch began to laugh, quietly at first, but then it grew louder till it reached a most horrible cackle that pierced Jimmy’s ears like the screeching of tires. “You think you can stop me? You, shapeless, lifeless clouds that you are? No, as long as I have my wand, all of you are under my command!”

And at that, Ted—the boldest little creature that ever stood by the side of man—ran and jumped headlong at the witch, grabbing the wand right from her hand. The witch, in shock, screamed “You rascal!” at the dog. Then, the ghosts, lead by Uncle Charles, began to swarm around her. “No!” she screamed. “You awful children! How dare you turn on me! I shall return! You beware!” The ghosts lifted her off the ground and consumed her in a cloud, inside of which lightning flashes could be seen. The cloud finally dissipated, and in its place was left a rainbow, as bright as if it had been lit by the sun.

Jimmy and Ted went into the room and found the antidote on the shelf. It was easy to spot, as it was marked, “Peomin Antidote,” peomin being the fruit which Jimmy had consumed. They then exited the castle. The dogs, now that their master was gone, were turned to stone, and all of the other little boys were standing on the cloud, wondering how to get down. “What do we do?” they all asked Jimmy. Then Jimmy remembered that he had the witch’s wand. He stuck the wand out and used all the force of his mind, and out shot a lightning bolt. He and the rest of the boys jumped on and they shot right back down to Earth. All the boys returned to their homes, and Jimmy and Ted went on many adventures, using the power of the lightning bolt to save the innocent and to punish those who inflicted harm on those who didn’t deserve it.

               

               

               

By the Fire

An eclectic summer of lust and boredom

Sounds good to me now in this winter of slow-developing truths.

Making way for the snowfall, I plant myself like a rigid peapod before the fire

And correlate the odds of ever sprouting through the silence and the dark.

The lone song I know has turned brittle my bones

And my eyes have gone hollow from the singing of it.

I remember well, all too well, my childhood’s melody,

How lust was freedom goading me on

And boredom the sun-warmed grass’ soft embrace.