It was dark. There was no line between the black sky and the black land, and her headlights didn’t cut the glare nearly enough.

Her eyes burnt from the tears she’d shed not a half hour before. Nobody could cry forever, even if the heart felt it.

She drove alone, in a silent car. The radio had never worked for her, and she’d gone off and forgotten her disc-man at home. How very unfortunate.

So it was dark, her eyes burned, and she was alone.

It had been a going-away party, this reason for her driving two hours one way and driving home in the dark. It was a going-away party for a brother, and even as she pictured his face-and the faces of the other family members present, her burning eyes began to tear again.

So it was dark, her eyes burned, she was alone, and she was heartbroken.

Name me any more pitiable creature, and I will name you an impossibility.
She tried to sing herself a song, but the words wouldn’t come, so she began to spin stories from the air.

She began with herself, in the dark night, driving in a silent car with the exhaustion pulling at her like an ocean current. She straightened her arms against the wheel and leant her head against the chair. She closed her eyes most of the way, peering from between her eyelashes at the bug-splattered windshield. It was horribly dusty. It was a wonder she could see anything at all out that window. Another bug hit with a dull thud-a sound that always made her cringe- and left a yellow smudge. She tried to wash it away, forgetting that her car had no windshield fluid, and ended up just streaking the corpse across the screen.

He’d asked her what was hard about going home, she thought quickly to distract herself from the stench of death coasting through the vents from the smear her eyes tried to squint through. She said it was hard seeing what a family was like, then going home to a family that wasn’t one. She was rather ashamed, but she’d gone as she’d always done with those questions-fobbed him off with a lesser issue.

It wasn’t a lie, she justified.

It just wasn’t the main issue.

She let a different Voice ask her what the issue was.

“You already know”, she told Him.

“Tell me anyway,” He said. “Spin me a story from the air.”

“It was at writer’s camp, actually. A little camp nestled in the woods, where writers get together to enjoy writing, and enjoy writing together.”

“One activity was writing to music. Pieces with no words, or with unintelligible words played, and you wrote whatever it gave you. One song . . . whatever it was, it had a beat. Techno, maybe? The picture I got was something . . . different. Something my parents wouldn’t approve of. Just one snapshot of an image. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t tell him . . . it was-”

“Go on,” He said. “I’m not worried.”

“Sorry. Well . . . there’s this one part . . . this one area, right below the ribs, on the side, right above the hip bone . . . it’s flat. She was a belly-dancer, you see, this picture. And I saw her moving, dancing. Yes, it was sensual, it was sexual. I won’t deny it.

But I saw her own hand on that place. To me, it’s a more intimate place than a great many others. Her hand was dark, exotic, and she wore bangles.

Then. Oh, then. From inside the dancer I saw another woman uncurl. She reached her hand out, and when the music was the most intense, the dancer-woman closed her eyes and shuddered, the inner woman reached out her hand and placed it against the dancer-woman on her own skin. Only a thin little membrane, as easily burst as a bubble, separated the dancer from the . . . woman. The music began to unravel itself, and the inner woman glanced fearfully around, and began to draw away. The dancer’s eyes jerked open, her mouth split open a sliver, and the music stopped, just as the inner woman curled back in her little ball and went back to sleep.

Later, the dancer put back on her burka, and left, walking a step behind her husband, eyes on the ground.

For that one moment, sensually and seductively, in front of an audience, she’d found the woman that she couldn’t be often enough.

Then she’d curled back in, for her own protection.”

You have another, He asked.

Well . . . you were there, though. You know this already!

Tell me anyway, He said. Spin me a story from the air.

It’s hardly from the air. The day we were leaving, Savannah showed me something. These little ferns. Tiny little things, hardly something anyone would notice.

Watch this, she said, and ran one finger gently along the tips of the little fern.

The arms closed in, hugged themselves against the stem, almost immediately.

I was entranced, and between the two of us, we soon had the whole little area alive with movement, hugging and un-hugging.

When do they open up again, I asked her.

When they think we’re gone.

They did it for their own protection.

You have-
For their own protection . . .
Daughter, you have-
Her eyes gazed out the window, and she straightened.
Her eyes glazed over with angry tears. For my own protection, she said. I hadn’t time to take off the mask for the party, then put it on again before coming home. Two hours just wasn’t enough, so I had to keep it on in front of them, I had to draw in, and stay drawn, right in front of them. She bit a lip. They’d seen the inner woman, they’d known her for two weeks, and they didn’t even NOTICE! They didn’t notice she was gone, and that it was this little . . . burka covered, masked plant standing in front of them, pretending to joke!
Daughter-
They didn’t even notice! He wanted to know what hurt the worst. Well . . . I guess he’ll know now, won’t he? I-
WAIT! LISTEN TO ME!!
-can’t believe. I just can’t believe none of them caught it. I made it so obvious! It’s-
I’M RIGHT HERE
-like I was completely alone in there! Wearing this stupid mask-
I’M RIGHT HERE!
-drawn in like some little . . . turtle or something!
TALK TO ME, LITTLE TURTLE!!
Her tears began to fall, and she stiffened more against her seat.
For her own protection. For her own protection. She shook her head.
SPIN ME STORIES FROM THE AIR, LITTLE TURTLE!
I’m . . . I’m right here.

It was dark. Her eyes burned. She was alone. And she was heartbroken.
Name me any more pitiable creature, and I will name you an impossibility.

For who can be happy when a woman sleeps inside?

I can’t believe, today, that everything seems to be run by people in suits who sit in far-off, air-conditioned offices and make important, life-altering decisions about people and things they’ll never even see.  Why is it we even give power to these yacht-owning, $1000 suit wearing, would-be-eating-garbage-from-a-pail-if-their-mommy-and-daddy-weren’t-millionaires morons?  It’s almost as though we befoul our own T.V. dinners, then eat those same dinners while the suit-wearing, blank-faced golf gadflies watch and take notes.
And now that you mention it, who are these pasty specimens of the upper class, anyway, and why to they get to be in charge?  I’m sure there are people far better equipped to run things around here, and they’d do a far better job.  Take me, for example.  I’d be great at this.  Let the buck stop with me if you want things done right.  I’m no elitist.  I’m a very fair person.  I’d make damn sure everyone got an equal piece of the pie, and that pie would taste good, too.
Which is more than you can say for most of the pie around here.  Bullet-proof crust, syrupy filling, too much sugar.  It’s like people learned to make pie from the back of a Hostess package!  What ever happened to those flaky crusts that my grandmother used to make?  Or filling that actually tasted like fruit?  Or even had fruit in it?  You might as well be eating glazed cardboard half the time.
And honestly, you are.  Everything we eat can be reproduced by chemicals.  I once had a chemistry teacher who made something out of esters and ritz crackers that tasted exactly like the MacDonalds apple pie.  No joke.  My parents always said you are what you eat.  And I have no intention of degenerating into chemicals and crackers.  Gross.
It’s those stupid, money-grubbing techno-crats that cheapen our food.  Trying to save money so they can renew their subscriptions to the golf course while we sit back and mindlessly swallow what they shovel at us.  Canada has their boxing day, where bosses and employees switch positions for a day.  Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.

Okay. Start from the top. A 3 letter word for “youngster”. LAD. I think that works. And now down. 4 letter word for “Rhett’s hangout.” Huh? Oh well, moving on. Eight down. A 4 letter word for “Moon Goddess.” Let’s see if LUNA works. Eight across is a “racing circuit.” That’s definitely LAP. Fourteen across is Ms. Thurman.” A three letter word, starting with U, for “Ms. Thurman.” Who writes these? Seventeen across is a “doze.” How about NAP? That fits. Moving randomly now- Eighteen across is “Popeye’s Tattoo” That’s an anchor, right? Let’s look at some words that intercept it, just to be sure. Here are two easy ones which do. 12 and 16 down- “Sparta’s rival” and “flower containers.” ATHENS, and POTS, respectively. Those intercept “ANCHOR” alright. Moving on now, Twenty-three across. “ominous signs.” OMENS. Twenty-nine across-”squirrel food.” NUTS. Thirty-three across-”Fay’s role in ‘King Kong’.” What the hell? A 3 letter word for ”Fay’s role in ‘King Kong’?” Moving on. Sheesh. Twenty-six down is “cousin’s mother.” That’s AUNT. Fifty-four across- “foundry refuse”- SLAG. Slag metal. And now- Forty-one down- “stubborn one.” It could be MULE. What’s Forty-one across? “Soda Fountain Treats.” Blech. 48, 52, and 55 across are nice and short, though. 48-”function”-USE. 52-”rumor, perhaps.” Is it LIE? Seems sketchy. I’ll go back to nine down, “a Delhi nursemaid.” 4 letters. Ummm. Thirty-nine across is no better- “Coptacetic(hyphenated).” How could it be hyphenated? It’s only 3 letters long! I’ll calm down, do something nice. Like fifteen across- “like tin.” It’s 9 letters long. What does that even mean? “like tin?” Not so easy after all I guess. But wait! What’s this? Two down-       “Make ____ ____ for it.” Make A RUN for it. Hah. Three down- “kind of jockey.” 4 letters long, begins with D and ends in C.  I’ll come back for that. Twenty-four down- “bean sprouts bean.” Begins with M-U and is 4 letters long. Eh. Twenty-five down. “Sicily’s eruptor.” Why I know this I have no idea, but it’s ETNA. Mount Etna. That’s good, but what about Forty-seven down? “like waffles.” 4 letters, as usual, with the third one a fat “G” Man, this isn’t like scrabble at all.  This stupid crossword uses slang and proper nouns like they was going out of style. I think I’l re-read the comics for the Eighth time instead.

I wrote this one at camp and am wanting to move it into a new draft, but wanted some suggestions before i did…

The Unforeseen Peak

An Ecuadorian guide brings me to the remote village

We hike for hours through green underbrush

Tall trees are umbrellas against the sun.

He walks in front of me, scythe flashing

as it cuts through ferns and young trees,

occasionally lopping off the head

of a lurking serpent.

The trees split after seven miles.

Sweat has left an oblong shadowy patch

between my shoulder blades.

The oil derrick no longer pumps.

Its rusted legs are toothpicks next to thick trees.

From its lowest cross-bar, the village women

hang their weaving looms, four to a side.

They pull dyed wool from gunny sacks

and meander it through, backward, forward,

making the cloth that will

cover their children’s bare backs.

The derrick wobbles in a swift breeze.

My sleeping bag sits,
Curled in on itself,
The opening raised up.
It’s shouting something.
Tomorrow, it’ll be stuffed in a trunk,
Then thrown in back of the stairs closet.
It’s safe warmth
The last on the list of
Things to think about in bored moments.
An orange blanket hangs out it’s mouth.
It’s vomiting something.
It looks so much like a puking caterpillar
I want to laugh.
But anything discarded
Cannot be funny.

Camera “A” and camera “B” people live for me.

Tom Jenkins and Alex Dvorak do what they do for me.

So does the State of New York, and the transportation system of London, England.

After Phylis steps onto the train,

I am their hope.

Me, and others like me.

They do what they do

So I can glance at their name on a screen.

I do what I do, partly for the music.

Partly for the Pirates of the Caribbean snapshots

That spit themselves onto the empty seats after the credits.

And partly so I can read peoples names.

And wonder why they do what they do.

I’m one of those

Who sticks around to watch the credits.

Here I am.

Plopped unceremoniously

Back into my own world again.

Like the marionette

Whose master drops the control

But catches it at the last moment

Before the audience uncovers the charade.

I pick my head back up

And try to continue where the play left off.

Postscript:
Am I the only one that noticed the freefall?

I attended the trial of my eyes.

Convicted them myself.

They plead guilty

For crying for the book ending

And not a life.

For showing derision blindingly

Rather than opening eyes with deepest compassion.

For blinking away tears

That should have lived a long life,

Ran a long way.

For baring deepest secrets,

For sharing secret shames,

I put my eyes on trial

Last night.

And cried all through the sentence.

The music is vaguely Beethoven.
All somber brass and
Light-hearted strings.
The perfect backdrop
For vivid, if unnatural, thoughts.
The music flows behind me,
Even as the car radio falls dead,
Stopped by the car door,
As I flee to my room
To analyze my cowardice.

They had known this day would come
A bright light came forth In the sky
the light split into seven pieces, seven colors
And each into a different weapon slept

The valley of light was no longer safe
The Dark One now knew the power of the light
he would not strike again before he had destoryed
the vessels and weilders of it

The lights had to be hidden
Thus the journey of the seven began
The seven traveled to spread the light
One day the light would be restored but till then the light parts would remain hidden

The dwarf carried the light of Courage
He went to the Mongor Mountains
Deep to the heart he went
Here it would lay protected till the light was needed

One Dryad went to the east
To what is now the old forest
The light of nature would sleep here
He gave his light to the trees to protect

The other went to the west
In the Forest of the Secrets where the guardians lived
Already many secrets were kept
What other place could be more suitable for the light of secrets

The phoenix flew to the south to the mountain of his kind
in secret disguised his trident
There He died and rose from the ashes
Forever to hold the eternal light in its hidden form

The Son fo man went to the glen of Aurora
His was placed the light of purity
Behind a wall of knotted vines
Someday the weapons of light would be needed

The Daughter of Man followed a path to Northwest
She took the light of wistdom to the northern most part of the mysterious wood
Here she set up residence In her house she hid her weapon
barried in the bottom of a trunk

The king traveled northTo the Palace Quinta
The home of the northern wizard
Beyond the labyrinth Enigmas
He placed his sword into the wizard’s hand

She would hold it
Till his heir came for it
He went away never to be heard of again
But one day his heir would come and lights would be called for

This is the account of the seven weapons of light
All hidden all secret All waiting to call for their holders
When the darkness threatens the land again
The weapons of light will come again.