Dim

Forty pictures of my past have been taped to a hotel wall.
Yellow, amber, red and white the signals fill the width of the room.
Wait.
There is a wire extended from her arm under the bed into the bathroom. A cigarette burns on the mantle. Four bottles of jack have been smashed into the shag carpet.
I am disconnected from my feet as I walk over to the wall.

Forty pictures have been taped to the wall.

Melodrama

Bitter pills. Peeling paint. Burned toast.

The ashtray is overflowing onto the kitchen counter. The scotch is down to it's last swallow. I can hear the familiar sound rumbling slowly up to the sound of the waves outside. I know that soon the sound will grow closer and more insistent inside. It's all just a matter of time.

Wall Lake

The night light flickers as the breeze pushes through the afternoon. Years are stacked and pushed to the corners. The bottles chime in the paper bag. The sound echoes like a ringing bell through the kitchen out the window and over Wall Lake.

My Brain One

my brain began drawing plays in the sand my brain sifted through pebbled sand my brain soaked it's hands in a white oily wax my brain talked with a small man in the back of a small diner about things of small meaning my brain would sit under a spot of tea and throw snow balls at speeding cars my brain forced the old men to watch my brain is an ocean my brain tried to drown the forrest

Someday you won't Need to Know

Upstate New York.
Ropes and wires bind them to the hoods of pickup trucks and maroon pontiac firebirds.
The mountain tops are lopped off from the rolling November air.
Calm.
The town folk sip from cups.
Framed in the diner windows they watch as the offerings are inspected by the local authorities.

four one by ones

The field was grey. For as far as I could see there were round stones in different shades of grey. The sky was a pale blue.
Stacked neatly by my feet were four one by ones that had small orange tags staple to their ends. Written in small cursive on each tag read, "begin here."

I wanted to Tell You.

The rain has been falling for over an hour. The radio fills the 300 square foot apartment with voices and the random canned sound bite. Jamie is running late. I slip on my boots and notice a small drop of yellow paint has dried next to the heel. Outside the blue line screeches to a halt and falls silent. I look at the far wall and notice the sun is crawling over the shelf of pots and pans, it's around 5. Jamie is running late.

Rustle up the Trees

Early morning gives some light to the crawling critters of the night. The night rabbits become bunnies and the grey little monsters, squirrels.

The rain is beginning to let up. It's time to make the walk to the bus. Justin will be waiting for me with two cups of coffee and a bagel to share.

Render.

They only started to listen after it was too late. The train was an older model that was seldom seen by the people on Wintel Hill. It was noon and far to late to begin any conversation let alone convince the town sheriff that all was well in the sleepy town.

The River behind the House.

Water, door, tablecloth, tea. At noon they will pull up in their mint green chevy nova and let the engine idle.

the way it's always been

Every day we meet at the same 

bench at the same time. 

Often we sit side by side, sometimes we sit across from each other.

We talk. Or we don't.

These details are irrelevant to us.

And every day, after the bench we walk the parameter of the play ground until the bell rings. 

We do this for the simple reason that it is the way it's always been.    

-ks