fearlessironman's profile

Billi I suppose that in some way I was always in love with Billi. All of us were. Every decent guy I knew Would have served up a pound Of his own flesh Bloody and warm To have had a date With her. But Billi wasn’t interested In the decent guys, “Snooze-fest” Was the term she resorted to When any of us Pressed her for a date. Billi wanted the thrill That only the not-decent guys Could offer. I went to her funeral the month Before she would have Turned twenty-six, A pall-bearer you know, Myself...

For 1001 days James (Not Jimmy, Jimbo, or Jim) Sat in a 6 x 6 cubicle... cell And between gouts of numbers, Columns of entries, Rows of figures, Stole glimpses of a Five-dollar oil painting Bought at a yard sale, Until the flicker and hum Of the yellow fluorescent lighting (Not the color of daylight through leaves, But the color of tobacco stained glass) Made the trees of The two dimensional forest Shimmer and whisper On invisible breezes. On the 1001st day (The day after the thousandth) Jam...

Missing out on the parties? The mint Juleps? The ugly hats? The horse races? Here's my solution for the Derby Day blues....... Tie a necktie to every cat you can find, then confine them to a small space, the bathroom, or a closet say, and you'll have gone a long way towards duplicating those delightful Derby party sounds (i.e. 30 drunks arguing, vomiting, and using the most lurid sorts of profanity – often involving some sort of bestiality). A little Old Grandad (or you could go upscale here ...

Henry’s right hand was a blur of motion, wrapping his bloody left hand quickly with the shirt he had torn from himself seconds before. Henry kept his eyes squeezed shut, working by tactile sense rather than sight. His left fingers were numb from the impact of the saw blade, and the hand wasn’t working as it should. He wrapped the last of the tee shirt’s length around his wounded hand and clamped his thumb closed to hold the makeshift bandage in place. He stood still for a moment, his head sti...

It has occurred to her That she is a hallway girl. Not a room to lounge in, But a passage from one room To the next, Serving no purpose beyond transition. A portal to travel To a more desirable place. No one will ever Watch the TV Or cook a meal, But use her to pass beyond To where the music plays In grand chambers Of Walnut and marble. She hopes for nothing More fantastic Than the presence Of a leather sofa Or divan of silk. But she knows That no one Ever lingers so long As to need furnitur...