Kung Fu youth,
utilizing
euthanizing
feelin’ goooood.
Verbalizing
paralyzing
sock it to me.
77 in the shade and
goin’ nowhere but up.
Simulated
stimulated and
the pipes are bursting.
Carry me home
on your Kung Fu
Sword.

Tuesday Night

“May I have a ‘T’, please?”

“Oh, yeah… there…are… THREE OF THEM!”

(I can sit alone watching the Wheel and drinking a beer while you hide in the closet. Come out, come out, wherever you are, rings in my head. How silly of you to hide like that.)

“I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.”

(Just once I want to hear, “I’d like to buy a fucking vowel, Pat.”)

“I’m sorry, Marge, there’s no 'you'.”

Lunar Screams

The moon hangs suspended within its own silhouette. She can only hold on for so long before letting go and falling into the darkness. The air rushes past her long, lean body, as she watches the white, glowing moon becomes the size of a distant star, insinuating a pin prick. Unable to move or turn her head, she can’t see the black abyss below. Blinded by darkness she’s consumed by the sound of the wild wind. Her eyes are bulging in terror as the arch of her back strengthens in an effort to resist the pressure. The wind suddenly flips her over. She tries to open her eyes but the wind is too much. It enters her mouth in between silent screams, suffocating and spinning her out of control. A second attempt proves more successful but what she can’t see becomes more terrifying than the falling. There’s nothing below.