One Wrong Word


In the middle of the night

I should write something




Instead of sleeping

I’ve to wake up soon


Sleep is overrated


C’mon muse

Let’s see what we’ve got


Sleeping I’m not



He decided to stop in at a roadside café / diner, Myas’ Place. But it wasn’t exactly a diner. “All the times I’ve walked by, why haven’t I noticed? How long has it been here? Looks friendly enough… huh, why would I think that? Funny, I feel wide-awake as if it were daytime. Ohhh, that aroma… coffee and cooking, baking, that’s definitely baking, is heavenly.” Was heavenly the wrong word? Slowly he began remembering running into someone, that woman – appealing on all levels, having great conversation with her that seldom happens when he’s in the mood to prowl at night keeping his fingers crossed the next dive will be the one he’ll find a tolerable person he can convince to spend the night. He hurried his step as he tried to remember when he was last there.

Was it a concoction of his imagination? “Can’t be. My imagination isn’t that kind of good.”





Welcome drowsiness

That heaviness weighs


Time to stop


Perhaps now sleep

No more writing


Eyelids heavy


Will continue another day

Not sure I like what I jotted anyway


Where to take it?


That’s the gist

Lids close, mind drifts away


Sleep on this



Morning Toast


He was going to kill her…


That’s a hell of a way to start off, but it was true…


He was going to kill her, but she kept arguing, she’d had enough, no backing down. She was leaving him and that was that. His berating and ultimate demands had no effect. She just yelled back.

That was it so he bellowed. If he couldn’t have her no one was going to. “Are we in the movies? Gee how original!” He spun on his heels bolting to their bedroom that housed the safe with his gun and knife collection. She glanced down the hall. She could run and get to the stairs leading down to the door and freedom before he came back.

She’d waited too long. As she stepped out he came. “I’m going to find out what it’s like to be stabbed or shot.” She stood unsure then hit the floor beside the couch as he lunged through the living room door.

Nothing happened.

Gingerly she began to lift her head. He was standing there in triumph nothing in his hands arms open as if in jest. “Ha!” She looked at him and stood. “Now you think of that! Next time I might do something!” He was self-satisfied smiling to himself. She walked toward him, incredulous, silent, violating norms of personal space and began wailing and flailing. “You wanted to scare me? You were fucking with me? I thought I was going to get hurt. The next time you say you’re going to do something you’d better do it don’t mess with me you piece of shit, you gonna kill me then kill me…” she kept screaming at him as if she were standing outside herself watching the sad scenario almost comical not believing she was telling the son-of-a-bitch he’d better kill her the next time he threatens her or else! He didn’t even try to defend himself. Like a confused dog, one ear drooping one raised in an effort to understand the command he stood there paralyzed. He’d sopped smiling.

She stopped realizing she wasn’t even trembling, grabbed her suede jacket, shoulder bag and keys, and left. Nice day for a walk she headed to her folks’ for coffee.


“Did I really say that? Jesus.”

Food & Drink Here: Myas’ Place

It’s been a while.

A mysterious road-stop when you need it. Walking, biking, driving, passing by better than Brigadoon it appears. You’re not sure you’d noticed it before but it’s a friendly looking place, cozy Lincoln Logs, not something you see everyday, and the smells of coffee and cooking are heavenly. Like fog clearing you remember running into people you’d always wished you could meet, having great conversation, something that seldom happens when you’re looking for it, when you’re prowling at night knowing the next dive will be the one, though you can’t seem to remember when you were there. The aroma surrounds you, wrapping itself like a best friend’s embrace, infiltrating your vehicle as you’d slowed to take a look, putting gentle hands on your handlebars.

You pull over and park. You could use a rest from walking anyway. You stop pedaling.

You go in.

Silent Through Fall Leaves: Young Love


Agon sat in his basement absorbed in his crossword puzzle. On his wall were those he’d completed making it look like it was a collage instead of concrete. In the background was a bubbling sound. It had taken almost a year for him to set up his network of beakers, pipets, flasks, and cylinders interconnected by more pipets and hoses all suspended above Bunsen burners. He had a pestle and mortar for ambience sake but he might use it, you never know. A glassblower by trade he managed to turn a nice profit anywhere he could set up be it carnival or fair, so it was nothing for him to indulge himself in his instruments expanding on them to his heart’s content until he had an ultimate, elaborate, and functional collection. In the left hand corner of the room was a to-scale likeness of his girlfriend made of glass. Kind of creepy but maybe he liked that better than a photo except she’d broken up with him; most people throw out photos or at least cut themselves out of the picture. The locals say after the breakup she up and disappeared and he was so devastated he couldn’t stand to be in town anymore so he moved. Gave cause to wonder why he kept a life-sized likeness of her in the house.


Agon completed the crossword; he pushed back from his desk studying the wall for the right place to mount it then stepped back in admiration. He walked to the end of his worktable, unclamped a hose and watched the liquid drip as if it were a TV program. He clamped it again, picked up the cylinder and swirled the substance around admiring its clarity and its consistency. There was a large brown spider making its way across the table. “Perfect!” Agon quickly snatched up a dropper and filled it, held it over the spider and covered it completely. The spider slowed, slowed and stopped. He looked up at the clock, counted 20 seconds and carefully put his finger to the spider, tapped it, picked it up and placed it on the palm of his hand. He broke into a big smile; it had been hardened in glass. He put it on a corner hutch among a display of knick-knacks. Grabbing an artist’s brush and the cylinder he walked over to the likeness speaking gently as he touched up some cracked places on her face. “You can never leave me,” he cooed. “We are forever. I’ve met someone like your BFF Sandy was. I’ll make her like you so you won’t be alone anymore.” He put his instruments down, picked up his cell, selected contacts and pressed “Natalie”.


He didn’t see the silent tear trickle over her smooth cheek.