"Mint Simons"

               “There are only two kinds of people in this world,” says the old man sitting at the bar. “Those who don’t know a thing but pretend they do—”

The old man sits across the way with a glass in his left hand and a purple neon light glowing above him—“and then there’s people who don’t know a thing at all but don’t even know it.”

I sit at the corner of the bar. My head hangs toward the wooden counter covered in a dozen years of stains and scratches, and for the past ten minutes I’ve been hiding small, quick glances between the scratches and the old man. I think he caught me a few minutes ago. I naturally jerked my head the opposite way as if I didn’t notice him. I hate that. If someone catches me looking at them I try playing off innocent by doing the exact thing I shouldn’t. I make it more obvious than if I had just casually moved my head to the side and looked at the waitress or the neon signs on the brick wall or the ugly woman in the green dress across the way.

The old man at the bar wears a black suit with one of those thin black ties that detectives wear in the movies. He’s also wearing a pair of shiny Mint Simons dress shoes. I always wanted a pair of Mint Simons. There was this old man named Tom Delmarler who always came into my father’s shop wearing a pair of Mint Simons. He would come in to check on his nudie magazines we were selling for him and I always knew it was him because his shoes made a tapping noise on the tile floor. It sounded like he glued two pennies to the bottoms. Old Tom Delmarler fell off his balcony one night last year and died. My cousin told me his wife pushed him off for selling those nudie magazines.

The old man at the bar has a skinny neck between two bony shoulders. The neon lights put all kinds of shadows on his square face making it look as sharp as a razor blade. He talks as if the whole town is listening. In my mind I can see old Mr. Perry, the lawyer who used to live on Chesterwoods Court, waking up from all the noise. I see him coming out of his three story townhouse with his fancy red robe flying above his legs as he runs down the lane. He comes bursting through the doors and takes the old man by the collar and strangles him to death. “I’m trying to sleep you moron!” Mr. Perry screams. Old Mr. Perry was my father’s lawyer. He’s the one who divorced my parents. Mr. Perry died in his sleep a few months ago. My cousin said it was just a cover up story. He said he really died from some new disease they call “Propaganda.” It was a shocker for all of us. I’m sure he had a pair of Mint Simons. He was rich.

“Don’t you know what I mean?” the old man at the bar says to me. I look up slowly, pretending like I hadn’t noticed him sitting there. “People don’t know a thing. They really don’t. They talk all day about money and who cleans their teeth and who won the horse race and this and that. Then they’ll all nod their heads up and down as if they care. They go on about the musicals and plays they go to every night with their whores and they always stand around in hotel lobbies with their wrinkled old fingers in their pockets playing with their coins.”

I’ve always wondered why old guys in suits constantly have their hands in their pockets.

The old man at the bar keeps talking. “And the whole time they’re looking around trying to remember which woman they want to sleep with or if their hair’s still in the same place they combed it. Then they’ll start staring down at people’s shoes. They’re always looking at people’s shoes and seeing if they’re shiny or not. Don’t you know what I mean?” The old man is talking really loud.

Then in my mind I see old Jim Reynolds, that mean banker who married four times. He had an affair with his neighbor’s wife and Mr. Perry’s second wife and Mr. Perry’s maid. I see him in my mind running into the bar with his hair all tangled and greasy from his queer hair product. Then I see him throw a bottle of beer over the old man’s head. “I’m trying to sleep you old bum!” Old Jim Reynolds went to school with my father. One night my father saw him beating up two black boys in the courtyard. My father showed him a thing or two that night. Old Jim Reynolds got caught counterfeiting money in San Paulo two years ago. They found him dead in his cell a week later. My cousin told me they found a spoon in his intestines. He must’ve bled to death or something. I’m pretty sure he had Mint Simons too.

The old man at the bar starts talking again. “Shoes are supposed to be dirty.”

I look back down at the cracks in the counter. Then my eyes shift down to his shiny shoes.

“What’s a man going to do with clean shoes when he’s all sick in bed?” says the old man. “What’s he going to do with a gold watch when time runs out?” He looks at his gold watch and stands up.

The Mint Simons make a tapping noise when they hit the floor. It’s the same sound I would hear when old Tom Delmarler walked in. I peek down at them and they reflect the light of all the neon signs.

Then a man across the room shouts to the old man at the bar.

“Hey pal!”

I keep staring down at the Mint Simons.

“Hey pal!”

The entire room is quiet now. I ignore the shouting man hoping he’ll stop and leave the old man alone. I don’t feel like seeing a fight.

“Hey, kid!”

I turn around and the shouting man is looking at me. “Tell your old man to go home!” he says.

The old man at the bar spins around and looks hard at the shouting man. The two stare at each other for what seems like an hour. I look around the room and see a dozen frozen faces and big white eyes watching the two men. In the distance I hear the faint buzzing of the neon signs hanging on the brick walls.

In my mind I can see old Mr. Sangerly who used to sell houses on Lexington Avenue.  He comes walking into the bar and pushes the old man down, kicking him in the face. Then old Mr. Sangerly starts throwing bottles and glasses at the shouting man. The glass cuts him so much you can’t even recognize him. Mr. Sangerly rented my father a little office off 2^nd Street. He kicked him out a month later because some old man said he’d pay more. Mr. Sangerly died when he was just thirty-nine. My cousin said he stabbed himself in the temple with an ink pen.

The old man sits back down and spins around to the bar. He faces the bartender and pushes his empty glass to him. “Fill her up,” he says. The bartender grabs a bottle and fills the glass.

I scan the room and see that everybody has gone back to their drinking and gossiping. The really ugly woman in the dark green dress is sitting on the shouting man’s lap. Her face is all covered in make-up. I hate it when girls wear make-up. They look like clowns. She is kissing him and rubbing her hands all through his hair. I hate it.

The old man at the bar looks at me and says, “I ain’t your old man.”

I am quiet for a few seconds.

“You know that don’t you?” he says. “Don’t listen to that fool.”

My eyes search the counter and find a long crack in the wood. They follow the crack until it stops near the edge of the bar.

“Did you hear me?” the old man says.

I look over at the old man and open my mouth. 

“I heard you,” I say. “But I don’t know what you mean. You left my mother about twenty years ago.”

“Who told you that? I never had a wife. I never had anything.”

“You had money,” I say. “Just like those old guys wearing suits in hotel lobbies.”

            I look at him for a second. I hang my head toward the scratches on the bar. Then I look over to his shoes.

“Where’d you get your shoes?” I ask.

“I made them.”

“What do you mean you made them?”

“I make shoes. That’s what I do.”

               “You make Mint Simons?”

“For six years. Always wondered why they sell.”

“What’re you doing here all by yourself? Don’t you have any friends?”

               “I used to but they all got rich and dumb.”

               “And what about you? You look rich.”

               “There are two kinds of people in this world, kid. But you ain’t my kid, got it? There are those who don’t know a thing but pretend they do. Kinda like you. Then there are people who don’t know anything at all but don’t even know it. Like that idiot over there.” He points to the man who had been shouting. “I saw him down at the old Westcott docks last week unloading these boats full of all kinds of useless junk. Queer hair products and beard trimmers and nail polish remover. He was cussing at these boys walking by. They were the boss’ boys. He got fired on the spot. He saw me down there ‘cause I had some leather coming in I was picking up. Sometimes you just got to keep your mouth shut. You don’t know when stuff like that’s going to happen.”

 He stops talking and it is quiet for a few minutes. I try to listen for the buzzing of the neon signs over the laughing and talking and the sound of pool balls but it’s too loud.          

“So which group do you fall under?” I ask.

               “Both. I’m done pretending,” the old man says.

               “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

               “Don’t let the suits and ties fool you. Their skin tears as easy as yours.”

He throws a few coins on the counter and stands up.

“And never talk like you know what’s going to happen,” he says. “That’s when life will prove you wrong.”

I nod.

“But don’t let not knowing get you down,” he says. “You got at least another sixty years on you. I got another twenty or so to go. There’s a lot more I’ll be doing than making shoes. We both got time to work on it still.”

I nod again. I watch him walk towards the door. His shiny Mint Simons make their tapping noise against the floor. I can hear their sweet noise over the laughing and talking and pool balls. I watch each step against the wood and see his feet disappear out the door.

I stand up and push my stool under the bar. I put my fingers in my pockets and play with the coins. I pull out a few and drop them on the bar. I nod to the bartender and he nods back. I look over and see the ugly woman still playing with the man’s greasy hair. The woman is really ugly. I walk over to them and they look up at me.

“Don’t talk like you know a thing,” I say.

“What are talking about, kid?” the man says.

“Don’t talk like you know what’s going to happen. That’s when life will prove you wrong.”

The man and ugly woman just look at me in silence.

I turn around and walk toward the door. I hear a sound of screeching tires coming from the street. Then there’s a thud and a crash. Suddenly, a young boy charges through the front door. He stands in the dim space with all the cigarette smoke and neon signs glowing around him.

“Somebody help!” he screams in panic. He points toward the street outside, his chest pulsating up and down. The whole place is quiet and the ugly woman’s hands are clutching the man’s greasy hair.

“Somebody help!” the young boy screams again.

I dash out the bar and see a large circle of people standing in the middle of the street. I push my way through the mob, moving my head side to side, trying to peek around the shoulders. As I squeeze between the bodies I hear them mumbling softly and see them pointing at something on the ground. I fix my eyes on the pointing fingers and try to catch a glimpse at what they are pointing at. I find two short ladies at the front of the crowd and look over their heads. I see a small black car sitting in the middle of the street. I look down. Two legs are sticking out from under the car. Limp against the black asphalt are two Mint Simons.

"The Bird is Blue"

Let us suppose that you and I are in a small room that is divided into two sections by a wall. In the middle of this wall is a door. You and I are standing on one side of the room, that is, on one side of the wall. From the other side of the wall we hear a bird making very loud and strange noises. We cannot see the bird; we can only hear it. The bird is so loud that we can hardly hear ourselves speaking. Finally, the bird’s wild singing becomes unbearable. We are curious as to what sort of bird could possibly make such noises so I, being the more curious one, decide to go and see about this bird. I proceed toward the door, turn the knob, and enter the other side of the room. As soon as I enter the other side, the bird stops singing. Upon noticing that the bird has suddenly stopped singing, you call from the other side of the wall, “Did you scare the bird away?” “No,” I reply, “it is most definitely still here. But I do believe, however, that I have certainly scared it.” “Well,” you say, “make your observations and come back over here to share them with me.” So I begin to study the bird. I examine its features closely—its wings and feathers, claws and beak. I pay the closest attention to its color. I then return to the other side of the room. “Is the bird still there?” you ask. “Why of course it is,” I reply. “It could not go anywhere now, could it?” “But if you did not scare it away, why did it stop singing?” “I wrote it all down,” I say and hold up a piece of paper. “I wrote a poem about it. Everything you need to know is right here.” I hand you the piece of paper and you read:

The bird is blue.

You stand looking at the piece of paper, studying each word. The bird is blue. “This is quite puzzling,” you say to yourself. You begin reading the poem slowly over and over. ‘The bird is blue.’ The bird is blue.’ The bird is…blue! Blue…blue…blues…blues? Blues! Ah! The bird is blue! The bird is sad! The poor bird! He was singing so loudly, and strangely, and when you walked into the room the bird saw you, and it was afraid of you, and it stopped singing, and then you began to stare at it and study it and it felt uncomfortable and embarrassed and then it became sad and…blue! It then began to sing much more quietly because of its sadness. Why, it began to sing the blues! And then you observed all of this and you wrote, ‘The bird is blue.’ Such an interesting poem! Very deep. Very deep, indeed.” You then immediately place your ear against the wall. “What are you doing?” I ask. “I am trying to hear if the bird is singing?” you answer. “Well of course it is not,” I say. “Why do you say that?” you ask. “Did we not hear the bird singing earlier, just before I walked through the door?” I ask. “Yes,” you answer, “but then it suddenly stopped when you walked through the door. I was trying to hear if he had begun to sing again, perhaps much more softly than before.” “Wait a moment,” I begin. “You just said that the bird is a ‘he.’ You called it a ‘he,’ did you not?” “Yes,” you answer. “But how do you know it was a male?” “I don’t know,” you reply. “Did my poem say it was a male bird?” I ask. “No,” you answer. “Well,” I say, “then it is not important to know whether the bird is a male or a female.” “Well, since you are the only one who has seen the bird,” you say, “please do tell me what you saw. How large was the bird?” “Large? What makes you think that the bird was large?” “The bird was singing awfully loud, don’t you agree?” you say. “Yes, of course,” I reply. “Only a giant bird could sing so loudly, right?” you ask. “The bird was making an awfully loud noise, indeed,” I reply, “but that does not necessarily mean the bird was large.” I pause for a moment and then say, “He was actually quite large, but my poem did not say that, therefore it was not important for you to know the size of him.” “What did you say?” you ask. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Just then,” you say, “what did you just say?” “I said he was quite large, but—” “He?” you interject. “You said, ‘he.’ So it is a male bird?” you ask. “Yes,” I answer, “it is a male bird, but my poem did not say that, therefore it is not important for you to know that.” “So it is a large, male bird?” you ask. “Yes, but he is also blue.” I answer. You then proceed to look back down at the piece of paper.

The bird is blue.

“Very interesting poem,” you say. “Yes, it is quite interesting,” I say. “The bird is blue,” you say aloud. “Yes,” I say, “but the large, male bird is blue!” “Yes, yes,” you whisper, “he is quite sad now, isn’t he? I do wish he would start singing again.” “Why do you insist on saying that the bird is sad?” I ask. “Because the poem says he is blue, of course,” you answer. “But just because a bird is blue does not mean that it is sad,” I say. “You mustn’t make such assumptions. My poem says nothing about the bird being sad. He is simply blue.” “So he is the color blue?” you ask. “Yes!” I answer. You pause for a moment to think. “Well, why is the giant blue jay not singing, then? Explain that!” you cry. “Blue jay? Why on earth would you think that it was a giant blue jay? Why, the bird was an ostrich! A giant ostrich!” I exclaim. “An ostrich? Why, that is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. A living, breathing, blue ostrich!” You laugh. “No, no, no!” I shout. “Why do you assume the bird is alive?” I ask. “Did my poem say he was alive? Do not be speaking about things you do not need to know, and certainly things you do not know for sure. There is no need to be making assumptions about things you know nothing about, have not seen, or of which you have no proof. The bird is dead! When I opened the door I startled the bird and he fell off the top of his giant cage and into a large bucket of blue paint and drowned!”

"Until the End of the World"

The end of the world happened on a warm summer evening.

The woman sat alone on her living room floor.

The doorbell rang.

She jumped, startled by the bell. She looked toward the door and saw the    

silhouette of a man through the glass. 

It rang again. 

She slowly stood and tiptoed toward the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Julie! Let me in!” said the man.

She opened the door and the man barged inside.

“Richard?” gasped Julie. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at

your apartment?”

“Julie, I heard the alarms going off and I had to make sure you were all right.”

Julie looked at him, brow wrinkled.

“Well,” said Richard. “Are you all right?”

Julie laughed. “Of course I’m all right. I was just doing what they told me

to do—sit quiet and wait. I was 

just—wait, why are you here? Richard, everyone’s supposed to stay inside

their house when the alarms go off.”

“I know, Julie, I know. But I had no choice.”

“What do you mean you—?”

“I lied. I didn’t come over just to make sure you were all right. When I

heard the alarms going off I just 

knew I had to come over here. I came here because I have to ask you

something and, well, this is my last chance.”

There was a pause.

“Well, what is it?”

“Julie Whitmore, will you marry me?”

“What?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“But I love you Julie."

“How could you ask me such a question on a night like this? It’s the end of

the world and you want me to marry you?”

“It’s a perfect night to be married.”

“It’s a horrible night to be married! Why would I—”

“Think about it. It’s our last night on earth. We could get married right here

this very minute. You won’t 

have to plan the silly wedding or spend money on the reception and we

won’t have to bother with our 

horrible relatives. We won’t have to deal with any of that nonsense. There

simply won’t be enough time 

for it. It’s a marvelous idea. We could marry right now and commit to each

other for, for, for the rest of this 

night, and we could sleep here at your house—”

“Ah! You don’t want to marry me. You only want to sleep with me. You’ve

never been with a woman and 

now you’re taking this last chance to get me to sleep with you!”

“No, Julie, no! I want to sleep with you because I love you. I really do. You

must believe me.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.”

“The alarms went off and it’s the end of the world and now is the time to

marry if you’re ever going to.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Richard, I could never live with a man like

you. You can’t keep a job. 

You don’t like children. You always comb your hair in public. And besides,

I don’t even love you. So how could I possibly live with you? Now, please

go before I—”

“But that’s what’s so wonderful! You don’t have to live with me. There is

no tomorrow or any length of life ahead of us at all. We will simply be

married for this one night. The alarms went off, Julie, and tonight is all we

got left!”

“But what is the point of marrying if—”

“Oh, Julie, please don’t think too hard about this.”

“But it’s just one night. Love is forever. If there were a million days left

would you still want to marry me?”

“Well, I suppose. Oh, of course I would, but I know you do not feel the

same and that’s why I’ve come here this night.”

“All you care about is sleeping with me because you’ve never been with a

woman. You’re a grown man 

and still a virgin and you would feel ashamed to have died and not known a

woman. Well, I’m not falling for it—”

“You’re right, I’ve never been with a woman, but I’m sure I’d be very good

at it. I’m a very good looking man. All the girls at work think so.”

“I will not marry you because of your looks and I would never marry you

just to be married for one night.”

“You’re afraid of love, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re afraid of marriage?”

“I am not!”

“Then you must be afraid of love for one cannot be without the other. If

you have one then you must have the other.”

“That’s not true. Love is not just about being married, nor is being married

just about love. Love and marriage are not legal agreements to be signed on

the dotted line. You don’t have to be married to me to love me, Richard.”

“What?"

“You don’t have to be married to me to love me.”

“I can love you without being married to you?”

“Of course you can. Can’t you just love me from the sidewalk or from the

doorway?”

“Well, not really.”           

“Ha! See! You just want to sleep with me! You don’t really love me.”

“But I do! I can feel it!”

“But love is not a feeling. Just because love may arouse the senses or come

with many physical pleasures does not mean—”

“Ah see! You believe it is a pleasure as well! Love is a wonderful, joyous

indulgence! Love is most definitely a physical thing. It can weaken the

knees and tingle the flesh and change the world! Love can change the

world!”

“Oh, now stop it.”

“Julie, my love, do not waste this night. This is our last chance.”

“Richard, you are very good with words. But I would never give just

anyone my last night and certainly would never give away my love to just

any man. That man would have to prove to me that he truly loves me.”

“I’d do anything to prove to you my love is real. But there’s just not enough

time.”

“Oh, is that the problem? You just—”

“I’d cross canyons a thousand miles wide! I’d climb every timber and

mountain of rock! I’d stop the world from spinning just to hold you! I’d

count every grain of sand to have you just this night!”

There was silence.

Julie turned her back to Richard.

Richard waited.

Julie crossed her arms and looked down to the floor.

“Julie, let’s be honest,” whispered Richard. “You don’t want to die and

leave this world only to have never known love. That is a horrible way to

die. This is the end. This is the last chance.”

Julie said nothing.

The whole world was silent.

Richard waited.

Julie looked out the window and into the empty street.

“But do you love me, Richard?” she whispered. “Do you really love me?”  

“I do,” whispered Richard.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Really really?”

“Really really.”

“Would I be such a fool to give up such a request and leave this world only

to have never known love?”

“Never!”

“Could I say no to such a man that expresses such devotion?”

“You are no such fool, Julie. Marry me now and let us die in the peace that

we surrendered everything for the bliss of love! Will you marry me?”

Julie turned around and faced Richard. Her eyes were wet and sparkling.

“I . . . will,” she whispered.

“You will?”

“I will.”

“You will?”

“I will!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Wait! First, we must exchange our vows."

Richard reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

“Just sign your name here on this line,” Richard pointed to the paper.

“What is it?”

“It’s our marriage contract, the declaration of our love.”

Julie took the pen and whipped her name along the dotted line.

“There, now we are married forever— of the rest of the night.”

Richard put the piece of paper back into his pocket.

“I will love you until the world ends, Julie!”

“And I will love you until the world ends, Richard!”

The two embraced.

The doorbell rang.

Their arms loosened and slowly fell limp to their sides. They turned to face

the door. They saw the 

silhouette of a man through the glass. Richard and Julie looked at one

another perplexed.

“Who could that be?” Julie asked

It rang again.

She walked toward the door and turned the knob.

She swung the door open and found a short, bald man wearing a uniform

standing on the steps.

“Can I help you?” Julie asked.

“Good news, good news!” said the man. “False alarm! They hit the sirens

too early. We got another 

sixty years or more to go! Isn’t that great?”

The End.

"Lucky's Sequel"

A scandal of sunken line that crests round the chains and bends to the sway of twisted nerves, forever slays a slew of bearded mouths, frolics against the masks of servitude, slaves to the galaxies and the welting lives of human corpses. For the betterment of civilization, flipped and tangled, in a eerie soul, soured in the rain of skeptic youth. Waiting, watching, needing to leave in the clashing of an embarked world, tossing a rampage, slug and perverted in the mingled mire of a clouded mind contaminated by the deconstructive folly of Derrida. Text me, you, in much as a welt and a branch, the burn that overcomes and clasps together the message and chrome inside the screen. A vanity of sorts in the doom of cavernous waves, creeping, crawling to the bitter grudge of a needle slick, spitting inside the pulsating skin of a hardened chamber, beating, breathing, going on and on and on. On, on, on. Back and farther it dangles like the tissue of a scarped corpse, chewed and ravished, lying in yards of dirt. Running, running, sprint and strike the evils, whether the friction consumes and rubs the bleeding flesh until all is shrunken to blue blackened wet and beautiful, ended of misery, pain lost and extinguished. Gone till the morning when the fangs of another torment tear the remains of an abandoned child. Misery deadens, death fast and sly comes dashing from the curtains of puppet theatre, strings sagging and entwined, bitten at last by the molars of canine, thrashing, gargling red, shining every bit in its method of seduction, sucking, drinking every ounce of soul and the figures of a fainted light dawns over the shadows of steep hill, its heart running, talking to the strangers of far away past, machinery-laden in the iron door of the hole in my mind guarded the raged faces of men who show no mercy. They cry, the cries escaping the wings of birds in the air of peace, a fateful peace that glistens across the lands and universes and the walls of homes in the corners of poverty. Exuberantly they face the bridges of torn nations, cruel children picking and ripping the pieces of innocents spilling in the sea of daylight that shines and strips the merit with its heat and accuracy. Heal the wounds whose edges tread the space of angels and scar the planets where fire blazes across the empires of dust. Gardens, deep and dark, cloak the miles of mysterious growth, plants and bark, the needles of autumn trace the lines in a collision of violence upon the franchises of doom. Burning, torturous breaths caress the flowing waters of an earth, a planet in the midst of blazing words, a ferment of endless guiding stars ignited in the paths of dimensions unseen, forsaken to the depths of cinematic texture scattered, fearless in the wide space between violence and love, caught in the briars of a trick and a grin. Tricky folk fill the rooms of the quarters, marked and angered by a quick brown fox jumping over the lazy dog in the field. A folly remarks and stirs the odor of hatred. A wish is captured when the truth is exposed, repeated, and frozen. Witness a birth of urgency, a providential collision of disrupted disgust. Holy, unblemished, slated and purged, stricken to hold a delighted fragrance of jewels, disemboweled a luxury of stench, a ripe thorn to pluck from the finger, or the side of branch, a vine corrupted to linger and hover and vapor and scatter amongst the darkened roads of a crescent land that is passed and doomed where lilacs and oceans extend to the moon, a blanket withers with tongues within a flame that dies and destroys all breath-taking creatures. On and on, big and small, the cords unlock and twist, dragged into the darkness, falling further into forever. Without a sound a man will come, quick and faithful, drifting as he steals the space beyond our minds, filling the neighboring stars, drenched in the warm milk of a mother's womb, the static speed of a kingdom’s currency, in foreign lands where the wine of the earth breaks and explodes upon miles of desert. Occasionally an oasis will thrive in the thicket of death. The waters will rise, the rain that makes the flood will fall, filling the gaps of the soil and sting of death.

POETRY

"Beauty is Vain"

A color and shape,

An illusion, a texture, a taste of eloquent sense,

A realm of fiction, always ending, never constant,

An image, dimension, measured in flesh,

A season, an age, a fabric or blemish,

A breeze, a flavor, a rhythm in sound,

A delicate aroma, a tingle, a flare,

A pattern of light, shadows on ground,

A shade, a tone, a limited view,

An absence, a presence, a fortunate boon,

Visual bliss, design, a memorable name,

A surface, melody, a crutch for the lame.

An indulgence, a killer, a bend, a curve,

An expression, a tramp, poison in the nerves.

"Perish, O Desire"

Pierce the sense. Prick that nerve.

Pull the thorn. Choke the burn. 

Cripple this want. Curse my will.

Pine the itch. Cure my ill.

Clean this slate. Purge disgust.

Prune this thirst. Parch this lust.

Clog this crave. Cut that line.

Pound this sin. Pluck these eyes.

Crack my bone. Crush every part.

Covet my soul. Punish this heart.

Peel the shame. Pardon this crime.

Pout my deed. Pure this mind.

Amen.