like a drop in the torrent pounding into the walls a twig on the current, heading over the falls a mote in a cyclone whirling violently 'round one volt in a bolt thrown, finally going to ground feeding on a brittle leaf who's the little thief that steals the carpet from beneath our feet? do you choose to run until you fall? or was it you refused to risk it all, and lost it? you just tossed it... tidy doilies of order spread on igneous rock men patrolling the border armed w/ the hands of ...

They neglected to give me instructions.

About ten-thirty the following night, the Goth Sloth made her entrance. That’s what I think of her as, anyway. It’s my own private nickname for her, not that I’d ever say it out loud within her earshot. I have these little pet names for a lot of my regulars. Like the ancient little gnome who comes in once a week for the latest issue of Weekly World News and a small bag of peanuts (which he promptly dumps into his bottle of Dr. Pepper while still standing at the counter), I call him Woody Wood...

INESCAPABLE GOAT It begins late at night, as you’re preparing for bed: you take one last peek through the curtains, and see, in the gauzy golden teepee of streetlight, standing in the skewed puddle of its shadow, a lone goat. Its coat dingy white, stained with large, amorphous spots of brownish-gray and almost-black. Jaws describe asymmetric half circles as it chews, chew, chews. But what is it doing there? What is it chewing? Above its raggedy swaying goatee, flashes of blood red and silver...

WINGS OF POLISHED CHROME Gettin’ fed up with the whispers in the air duct I can never quite make out a single word they say I’m either wired or so tired that I just can’t wake up The medication made me groggy so I flushed it away When my angel comes to save me With her blazing sword and wings of polished chrome All these demons that enslave me Will be vanquished & I’ll soar to Heaven’s dome Gettin’ ready for a battle that will settle something: Where the one world ends and the other starts De...

HONEY Every time I try to leave this room Smell of fresh sex & stale perfume I feel like I’m wading through honey I’ve been walking through this mall all day Broke & tired, no reason to stay But when I try to leave It’s like I’m wading through honey Television, what a crashing bore Something’s going on outside my door But when I go to check it out It’s like I’m gazing through honey & when I try to walk away It’s like I’m wading through honey Every day I try to go someplace Maybe meet someone,...

It was dark inside the complex. What light there was emanated from yellowed square fixtures on the buildings’ fronts, one next to each door but many of them burnt out. She pulled the car into a space marked with a stenciled number 12, next to a battered Dodge pickup with a flat tire. As he climbed out of the car, fumbling the package against his chest, he leaned over its bed, full of empty beer cans and grease-charred auto parts. She snatched the beer from his hands, apparently afraid he migh...

III Sgt. Shrapnel has the distinct sensation that he’s floating. He feels the cool caress of wind against skin, tickling his body hair. Yes, he seems to have a body again. The subtle pull of gravity tugs at his spine, gently reminding him that he’s wandered too high astray from its safe embrace. Opening his eyes again, Sarge sees that he is indeed airborne, cruising above clouds like puddles of milk spilled on the mismatched parquet of rice paddies far below. Ah, now this is more like it. As...

II As he slowly surfaces from deep magenta oblivion, the first thing he’s aware of is the distinctly invasive sensation of spiny tendrils exploring the folds and creases of his gray matter. A neural message is dispatched, ordering his hands to his head so as to brush or pry away whatever insectile finger-things are violating his throbbin’ noggin. But there’s no response to this synaptic command. Eyes still shut, Sarge takes a quick sensory inventory, and is dismayed to discover that not only ...

SGT. SHRAPNEL VS. THE SPIDER QUEEN Pt. I---Revised Sgt. Shrapnel, on leave, saunters down the center of Millhouse Blvd., a beefy, blonde-on-swarthy specimen, a Man’s Man. No, a Man’s Man’s Man. “Whoors, gotta find me some whoors,” he growls from the flare of his sneer, one yellow canine bared. His mutter rumbles like the throaty purr of a Harley engine, rattling salt-frosted windowpanes as he passes. Meek bespectacled shopkeepers and bag-laden matrons alike glane up like startled deer, then ...