Dark bits.

You are chained in a dark cellar. The only things within your reach are a newborn infant, plastic utensils and two shotgun shells.

You can smell gasoline and hear the faint screams of a woman coming from somewhere above.

The baby is too young to even crawl. It is crying and trying to turn on its stomach without success.

the only light comes from your watch. it shuts off every six seconds and you have to press the button to turn it back on.

Someone in the darkness keeps whispering something about the seasons or the weather. Sometimes the voice seems close, sometimes distant.

There are no windows. The air is thick and you feel as if you are dying of thirst.

At some point, the baby manages to roll over and for the first time you can see the back of its head.

There is absolutely no hope of escape.

Now get some sleep.

The afternoons start to surrender, and the long night opens in previews. Under the bright kitchen lights, something stirs. Well fed and clean, small parts of us yearn for black and white, and the unwelcome touch of a cold strangers hand in the small hours.

Later, October becomes dull. Drab. It is that fifth spoonful of chocolate ice cream. You begin to lose the taste for it, but you keep plodding along, until the bowl is licked clean. The wind sips at the small provisions of joy left over from summer's carnival, leaving only grey and ice chips on your plate.

Near the end, moonlight rushes in like the tides and we begin to howl. The old tales, fully awake, are dark moths drawn to campfires, the best parts staying just beyond the orange light.

Time for one final dance to the music of creaky doors and footfalls on frost.

Always there is the false heat - the October afterbirth that lingers for days. The lake walkers swarm one last time, feigning ignorance. Defiant in t-shirts and shorts, they walk the paths with strollers and dogs, ignoring the soft scrapes and shuffling whispers  of the dead, masquerading as fallen leaves. In the end, though, the dead always show their true selves.

The promise of blood spilt on schoolyard tarmac brings a taste of Bradbury and memory of dandelion wine.

A perfect morning.
Deep blue sky.
Soft sunshine.
Just the right amount of breeze.
The perfect mix of summer and fall.
The seasons embracing farewell.
The bland and now forgotten taste of normalcy.
Casual smiles and nods.
The world taking one last clean breath.

I sat down to write a poem,
about an old lady who was all alone.
But then I heard a creaking door
and thought about a blood stained floor.
Not fresh, but old, forgotten stains
washed out by a thousand rains.
I wondered about sacrifice
and screams that die in dark of night.
And then I thought, 'does death remember
the heat of life in late December?'
So in the end, I never did
sit down to write that poem.
Instead I left that poor old lady

in the dark and all alone.

Sunday
pancakes and coffee
on a veranda on a sunny morn
the smell of rain and the color yellow.
A drizzle of honey on warm familiar lips.
Summer, stay a while
sit beside me for a spell before you let me go.

the small hours are coming!
the small hours are coming!

they bring gifts-
doubts
failures
resolutions

what was the name of that movie?
with the guy who looks like Matt Daemon.
You know the one.
where whatshername sleeps with the other guy.
No Google, that's cheating.
But the small hours are here
and
no one is watching.
So Google.

A broken sky weeps over a lonely road,
and for a moment all the world is a Texas ghost town.
My sinister muse,
reeking of rusty iron and fresh screams sits beside me one last time.
A funeral dirge plays flat through the AM radio.
Then fades like a dying car engine.
It leaves a lesser night, a poorer world.

Never cross the albatross,
on a cold and windy day.
But if you dare confront the beast,
these words you must first say:

"I do not mean you ill,
or cause undue alarm,
but it's cold and lonely on this hill
and I've no feathers to keep me warm."

Then keep your peace, and quietly pray
for the albatross to fly away.