Who knows where I'll be tomorrow?

Eddie removed his worn, brown fedora with one hand and ran his other hand through a sweaty porcupine of blond hair. His blue eye furtively twitched at the peephole of the front door to his apartment. When he felt, if not safe, free from immediate danger he turned away from the door and flopped down on his unmade bed next to Lola; she squeaked. He had rescued her from a wretched hive of scum and villainy, a white-slave den called "Adult Store." When he had seen her on display like a puppy, he ...

She was kneeling on the carpet. Her long, blond hair was bound in a bun. Her thin, stringy frame quivered with the violence of her scrubbing. Her long fingers tingled at the edge of burning from exposure to the chemicals which lay strewn about her: a Stone Henge of brightly colored bottles and cans of bleaching, foaming, color-restoring sprays and solutions, some upright, and some fallen where they had been cast away after failing the woman. Their lack of utility brought tears of frustration ...

Play that eternal Song with me. Pluck the strings of flesh, quivering with quickening ecstacy. Sing with gasping notes: a half-heard harmony for our ears alone. Beat those drums: a percussion of pounding pulse and energy. And dance that dance of sweat slicked skin and writhing limbs that lasts forever in just one night.

Play that eternal Song with me. Pluck the strings of flesh, quivering with quick ecstacy. Sing with gasping notes: whose half-heard harmony just four ears share. Beat those drums of pounding pulse and energy. And dance that dance of sweat slicked skin and writhing limbs that lasts forever in just one night.

What kind of poetry do you like? Do you pore over lines that rhyme? Do you skip lightly to the beat Of bouncing words with rhythmic feet? Do you like free verse which jangles and shocks you into the clear pool of introspection? Do you like sweet sounds, Oft spoken, Of love's sweet tokens? Or would you rather hear Less common sentiment? When you said, "A man Who writes poetry," Let me know What you meant.

What kind of poetry do you like? Do you pore over lines that rhyme? Do you skip lightly to the beat Of bouncing words with rhythmic feet? Do you like free verse which jangles and shocks you into the clear pool of introspection? Do you like sweet sounds, Oft spoken, Of love's sweet tokens? Or would you rather hear Less common sentiment? When you say a man Who writes poetry Let me know What you meant.

What kind of poetry do you like? Do you pore over lines which rhyme? Do you skip lightly to the beat Of bouncing words with rhythmic feet? Do you like free verse which jangles and shocks you into the clear pool of introspection? Do you like sweet words Oft spoken Of love's Sweet tokens? Or would you rather hear Less common sentiment? When you say a man Who writes poetry Let me know What you meant.

The warm aroma of vegetables sautéed in fine olive oil surrounded a swarthy, dark haired, young man who wore an apron, a well-tailored suit, and the kind of grin that only anticipation of sexual congress can bring. He was in a steel forest of cookware and well-honed cutlery so expensive that only professional chefs or pretentious bastards would bother to purchase any of it. He grasped a tomato with a hand and an arm that were contorted un-naturally by paralyzation. His other, very well-formed...

"Forgive me father, for I am sin." Didn't hear anyone come in the booth. Must have been dozing. Hot in here, usually the heat keeps them out. No reverence in his voice. Don't wanna deal with a smart ass kid today. Wait, what did he say? "My son, perhaps you are new to the church. The proper..." "No padre. You might say I've been around for a while, in fact." "Then you meant to say..." "I meant what I said, mon pere." He keeps cutting me off. No respect. Hate this kind. Hate sweating this much...