Return to the Bottom

I want to lay down and sleep
Forever dreaming of the days I woke to your smile
The heady aroma of everything you are
Keeping me on the highest cloud
I want to return to the days
When I lived in your heart
Because I don't know where to go from here
In the world of today where "alone" is just as abstract as "dream"
And I don't think I remember who I was before I was yours
So
I want to lay down and sleep
Because I remember the view from the bottom
Where the floor needed vacuuming
And the old show under the bed was a comforting friend
The thing is
The bottom is up from where I am now
And above that is the dream of the memory of
You
I want to lay down and sleep
Because falling so far after rising so high
Feels like jumping off a bridge and not dying
I need to lay down and sleep
Before I start to fight the instinct to survive
And dreams become the reality of sleeping forever

Dinner Date

He picked me up at 7
Just like he said
All slicked back hair, shirt and tie
Perfect gentleman
Object of my desire
I couldn't seem to move
My breath a gasp
That caught in my throat
Held by the heroic heart in his chest
Saving the damsel from falling
At this Muse's feet
Because I will be who I am
All words, emotion and superciliousness
I will not be dictated to, controlled or held back
With the muse ready and willing as the
Vivid vessel for my viscid viscera
I will lay myself out here
Moral for your propriety
Naked for your pleasure
On a line that is so blurred
It's almost as invisible
As a line of coke
Snorted off my cock
But I digress

He drove me to Distraction
The favored diner for the preposterously psychotic
Perfect gentleman
Object of my creativity
I couldn't seem to speak
Because I will not move, bend or break
Here in the auspices of such company
The art will take control
The muse will stand on the table
And shout depraved and shameful desires
A test of the mettle for the most eager
Who will listen? Who has the balls?
And who will answer back
Climbing to meet him
I move as poetry with arms and legs
To lay down with him and whisper back
I want you inside me
Please come inside me
Grab this muse by the scrote
Just to pull him in
And he'll love every thrust
Until it all explodes in inked cum stains on the page
A Jackson Pollock of dark secrets laid bare
Before his broken promise to always be there
Cracked open, fragmented as the mind of
This musing Madman

And in the end
It will be me that is left standing
Boot atop the spent, exhausted muse
Fist clenched and ready to battle
Allegory, Alliteration, Simile and Verse
Because I will be who I am
All words, emotion and superciliousness
I will not be dictated to, controlled or held back
With the Muse ready and willing
I will lay myself out here
Armed with more words than can be spoken
I am my own muse.
Shirt and tie. Bearded smile
Object of your desire
Ready to catch you by the breath I grabbed from your throat
Nightmares playing reel to reel between your ears
Now I lay you down to sleep
Hear the depraved and shameful desires
That make you want me inside you
Walking through dreams from which you'll never wake
Waiting. Watching. Whispering.
I am God here
You will worship me.

Cognitive Dissonance

The plains of the north

Sown from seed sprinkled

In dawn’s dew

Grows in the language

Of poetry

Hungarian snow

Blown across

The Western horizon

A good-bye kiss to a leaving lover

That lingers just a little too long

So I move across the sea

Humbled in my discovery

Separating from parentage the original sin

My laws are all of attraction

Staring, wide-eyed into the moon

I come alive

Giddy in the night

Flying straight through

This curtain of every color

Into Heaven’s gate

Back to my nest

Besotten of Human Condition

Sprinkled in sensitive discernment

Clear-eyes see things anew

Sight expanded by callings from beyond

What's in a Look

What's in a look?
Because I'd really like to understand
Why your eyes stab me in the heart
With a longing that can only be described as poetic

And your half-smile . . .
Thinning your (oh so kissable) lips
Conveying desire that my lips might touch your own
With a silent acquiesence why this cannot be

Your beautiful eyes
Touch me with sorrow
Deep and timeless as a black hole
Reaching across space and time
Allowing you to touch me in spite of physical limitations

In that look I know love
But no ordinary love can be seen so completely
In only a look
This must be the love of kings

A love that cannot be kept
No  matter how deeply shared
Its needs must with and surely die
Should it not remain free to grow

What's in a look?
All this and more
As I watch you walk away.

The Champion, The Prince and The Adonis

The lowly poet.
Locked in contest with a Dark God, A Shadow Prince and the Potential of What's to Come. Each vying for the heart of a muse; a God of fiery conviction who's eyes pierce the soul.
"The heart is infinite," says he, "With waters warm and calm. Come inside my loves, be safe and feel loved."
His promise, a bold commitment, befitting his bold gladiators. Locked in combat with one another and themselves, he addresses one and all.
"My Shadowy Prince, come inside." he says, with arms open.
The Shadow Prince vanishes; enveloped, merged with another darkness until his unique beauty is diluted and he can hear the God no more.
"My Dark Adonis, come to me and rule with love, by my side always."
The Adonis turns away, unable to see through his own dark visions to the light of the love he's being offered.
His Conviction still fiery, yet his eyes now masked with the sadness of loss, he turns next to the poet.
"What of you, my lowly poet?" he asks, "I can see your heart and it is empty and broken. Will you come to me and accept this gift I have offered?"
"My God, I am humbled by your offer. Such is your beauty that I could write a million verses speaking its value and not yet be worthy of it. What place have I, amongst Dark Adonises and Shadow Princes?" says he, eyes cast to the dirt.
"Come to me then, my love," he beckons him, "Come and be my champion of the Broken Hearted. A Champion must surely deserve the same as Dark Adonises and Shadow Princes."
"My God, I bow before your generosity, but I fear that I am but a plaything to one as beautiful as you. A contrived distraction to be enjoyed until you grow weary of my artist's heart." came the soft reply.
"My Champion," she says, "Your words hurt me. The heart is infinite. As you can create a million verses, so can I find a million ways to love you, a dark God and a Shadow Prince; all equally, each never replacing the other."
"God, I am humbled to be at your side and I feel safe and complete with my artist's heart inside yours."
Joining with the God, as Champion, this Lowly Poet looks down on a Dark Adonis blinded by the night and a Shadow Prince lost to the dark. In the milieau of pain and loss, what can be seen now, is the potential of What's to Come for the Champion and the God.
"What of that?" the Champion says, pointing toward new Potential.
The God only smiles.
"Come to me," he beckons it, "The heart is infinite"

Tragedy and Comedy

As I walk
Through dreams left abandoned
I remember so much
So many days and nights
Lying wide awake
Through the sound of
Rain pouring from my soul
I ache to live
I yearn to die
I need to share
Words that paint the picture
Every cut
Every scar
Every drop of blood
I need to be seen
And I can't explain why
The story exists in the telling
The art lives in the poetry
Sometimes it hurts
Yet the stories still come
Told and retold
Walking through dreams left abandoned
A ghost town
Full of myriad images
That might have been
Scattered to the winds
Along with the ashes of the future
Once so vibrant
Now putrid and unlivable
Tattooed on my heart
Until finally ... Life
Cuts away, clearing the scars
Bleeding out the person left behind
I break the ties that bind
And I'm finally happy
Through so many day and nights
Lying wide awake
Through the sound of
Rain pouring from my soul
I'm alive in dreams newly born
And I die in the fear of pain's return
I need to share
Every hope
Every whispered nothing
Every kiss
The art lives in the poetry
Sometimes its beautiful
And the stories come
Told to be retold
Full of promises and what might yet be
Scattered to the winds
As I close my eyes
And I make a wish
To walk through my dreams
To tell the stories
Good and bad
I need to share
The tragedy and comedy

Weep Not for Roads Untravelled

-1-

"Officer? ... O-officer?"

"Yes? How can I help you?"

The voices couldn't have been more opposite. The first, asking for the officer's help was frantic, and gave an almost nasal whine to the words; the second, a deeper voice with a gravelly quality, oozed confidence. 

"My name's Jonny. Jonny Kalamata ... like the Olives. I, uh ... I need some help I think." 

"What sort of help?" the officer asked, his tag gleamed the name Ford and he held his hands close to the buckle of his belt as Jonny approached him. 

"Well, that's just it. I can't really explain, it's more like I have to show you." and he stepped into the light. Officer Ford could see clearly that he wore a black t-shirt that was sticking to his wiry, muscular frame; the boy was clearly soaked.

"That's close enough," Ford said, easing one hand to the flashlight in his belt. 

"What's that all over your shirt?"

"It's part of the reason I need help. See I was with my ex and-"

"Is that blood on your shirt?" Ford asked, shining the light on the young man. 

"Yes sir, it is." Jonny said.

"I think you'd better just stand right there and start at the beginning, son." Ford said, gently moving his other hand to his firearm.

"Yes sir." Jonny said, almost dutifully, and began talking almost immediately.

I broke up with my girlfriend about six months ago. It wasn't anything bad, just time to move on, ya know? Well, we tried to be friends and still hang out but that wasn't going to well. I went over to her house on a Monday night, right after the break up and had dinner. That's when it really started. Dinner was pretty normal, I guess. Spaghetti, but I didn't eat much because I had this weird paranoia that she was going to poison me. Anyway, we ate dinner and then sat down to watch the news; just like we did when we were together. The news was filled with all these stories about zombies in North Carolina. I thought it was just the bath salts thing happening again, but she was always scared of zombies and watching the tv that night she was white as a sheet.

"Didn't you live in North Carlina?" I asked her.

"Yeah for just under a year." she said, still ashen.

"I wonder what caused it," I said, kind of absently.

"Mind if I get a drink?" 

"No. Not at all." she said.

I walked into the kitchen and made myself a mojito. 

"Would you like a drink?" I asked, and because I wasn't paying attention I cut my hand open on the lime I was putting in the drink.

"Ow! Shit!" I wasn't really hurt, mind you, I was just more like, pissed off because I'd been stupid. And because blood was dripping on my ex's floor. 

 "You have any paper towels?" I yelled. No answer though. I didn't care, really, I was used to her not talking to me. I found the paper towels, made my drink and got back to the news. She was still white as a sheet when I sat down.

"You okay?" I asked. I was feeling awkward so I was ready to use this as an excuse to leave. She didn't answer me though. She actually didn't move besides her eyes blinking every so often while she watched the news. 

"I bet this is all a hoax." I said. It just seemed too surreal, ya know? Zombies? In North Carolina of all places? What the fuck? Anyway, it was around then that I noticed a sort of growling. I looked over at my ex, and she had turned and was looking at my hand where the cut was, and the growling was coming from her.

Before I knew it she lunged at me and she was on top of me. I was surprised because we were broken up and I didn't expect her to come on to me. Then she got really close to my face and that's when I noticed something was wrong. Her eyes weren't right, they were all sort of white and glazed over, and her mouth, she almost seemed feral. I looked at he TV and saw dozens of other people, dragging themselves all over the street. Some were crawling and some were growling like my ex, but all of them looked scarier than shit! I didn't know what to do so I shoved my knee into her chest, like right between her tits and pushed her back hard. She flew backwards into the television and the screen went dark and the room got quiet.  I still didn't know what to do, but I didn't really get time to make a plan. I didn't even have time to ask her if she was okay. She pulled herself up and looked at me. Still growling and still angrier than hell. I walked backwards into the ktchen. Not taking my eyes off her. She followed me, her face a grimace, and I really couldn't tell you she was the same person I'd dated for the last few years. 

When I got to the kitchen I grabbed her cast iron skillet off the stove and waited. I let her get close and then I hit her. As hard as I could across the face with the skillet. Her head flew back far as she was knocked into the wall. But she didn't stop. She kept coming at me and I stood there letting her get close and hitting her every time. Her face was covered in blood and I now for a fact her nose and cheeks were broken. Her face was sinking in a little bit and I just kept hitting her. Over and over. But she just kept coming. I didn't know what to do. So I just kept hitting her. 

That's not the really messed up part, though. 

The really messed up part happened about an hour later when she was still coming at me and I was still hitting her. By that point I had gotten the point that it wasn't going to end and that I would have to try something else in order to stop her. I looked around the kitchen and found what I was looking for, the knife block. I reached over and grabbed a carving knife. The next time she got close to me, I grabbed at her hair with my free hand and yanked her back. She was growling at me and snapping her jaws, but before she could do anything I pulled the knife across her throat and watched the blood spill out. I remember a sort of laughing sound. I laughed out loud, I think, when there were bubbles in the blood because she was still growling at me. She never really stopped trying to get at me, but when I threw her on the floor a few moments later she had stopped moving and the blood was just pooling on the floor under her.

-2-

"Now wait just a minute son," Officer Ford interjected.

"Are you trying to tell me that you killed someone? That this happened six months ago and that for some reason tonight you're covered in blood and you need police assistance."

Jonny scratched his head and looked at Officer Ford sheepishly.

"That's about the size of it, I suppose." he said. 

"She wasn't really dead though. I mean, she kept coming at me."

Officer Ford scratched his chin.

"It's true, things have been kind of up in the air since these Zombies showed up. Let's stick with tonight. How did you get covered in blood tonight?"

"Officer Ford, you'd better come with me for that one."

"I don't think so son, I think you'd better just tell me right now."

"I don't really know where to begin." Jonny said, and launched into more of his tale.

I felt bad leaving her there, but I couldn't just take her with me either. I watched her twitch for about an hour before she stopped moving. The creepy part, though, is that she didn't die. She should have. I mean, I sliced her throat and everything. But she didn't. The creepier part was that I felt so detached from it. She came at me like a zombie and I dropped her. The woman I'd loved for years and I dropped her like that, like it was nothing. I watched her bleed out, twitch until all the blood was gone and I just stood there like it was nothing. I couldn't tell you then and I can't tell you now if that was because of the adrenaline of having no choice, or if it was because I had genuinely come to hate that woman for what she'd done to me in our "relationship." It didn't really matter though, she was dead and that's really all I cared about. She was dead and I was standing.

I stepped around the blood, being careful not to get my shoes in it and noticed that when I moved her eyes moved with me. I got a bit closer to her and waited. She moved incredibly fast but incredibly clumsy. Her arm snaked out and her hand wrapped around my ankle. I didn't think, I brought the knife down hard and sliced into it. The knife wasn't sharp like you see in the movies, so I brought it down again. And again. Over and over, hacking and hacking until her arm came off. Then I backed away again, she followed me with those dead eyes and I watched her. 

I left her there. I didn't really know what else to do. I went back to the couch where the news was on and I finished my drink. The news was full of stories about these zombies. The whole thing was surreal. I looked at my clothes and realized I was covered in blood. I walked to the bathroom to clean myself off and catch my breath. What else was I going to do? I wasn't gone for more than five minutes but it was that five minutes that really counted.

When I went back downstairs, still covered in blood but none of it on my skin anymore I heard a sort of sickening crunching sound. After what had already happened I couldn't imagine things getting worse, that is until I went downstairs. The sounds were all I had to guide me as I walked into the kitchen, as slowly as I could. The crunching was louder and more defined and there was also a crying sound, but what was most disturbing, was the absence of other sounds. The growling had stopped, there were no sounds of movement and when I rounded the corner into the kitchen I understood why.

While I had been upstairs, the kids . . . my ex's two kids had gotten up and made their way down the stairs. More than anything else that happened that night or since then, I wish I could save them. They are 8 and 5 and I loved them like they were my own. I mean, I stayed as long as I did mostly because of them, but that . . . that's another story. The important thing is the sight that greeted me because it will stay with me until I die. The youngest was laying on the ground in the pool of blood, curled up next to what used to be his mother in a sickening parody of cuddling. She silently ate his face, tearing the flesh from his skull with her teeth and using her tongue to lap up the blood. Her eyes were empty and her silence betrayed that there was nothing left inside her of this boy's mother. She silently and ravenously ate him. The whimpering came from the corner where the other boy cowered. I called to him but he didn't respond, whether in shock or frightened beyond belief.

-3-

"Are you trying to get arrested son?" Officer Ford once again interjected.

"No sir. I told you I need help. You asked for the details."

"Son, you're telling me a story that happened six months ago. A story that, by rights, I should arrest you for. The thing is, though, the story, if you're telling the truth, seems like just wrong place wrong time. No matter what, though, I'm going to have to take you in." he approached Jonny with his handcuffs out.

"Wait!" Jonny exclaimed,

"Don't you want to know what happened tonight? How I got covered in blood?"

"Son, I've asked you twice to tell me that and you gave me this cock and bull nonsense about zombies from six months ago. Now, I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't take blood longer than six months to dry."

"You're right, sir, it doesn't. I tried to tell you that I need to show you but you wouldn't let me. That's why I told you the story. I figured that you'd either see that I needed police help or that you'd think I was crazy and want to follow me to the bodies."

"Bodies? What bodies?"

"I told you. My ex. And the baby she killed. They're just around the corner and I need help."

Officer Ford considered the other man for a moment before deciding. He drew his firearm and pointed it at Jonny's chest. Jonny reflexively put his hands in the air.

"Lead on, boy. But you keep those eyes in front and no funny business."

"No sir, officer." Jonny said, dutifully.

He began walking and, true to his word, after rounding the corner and walking less than two blocks a gray/blue house clearly became their destination. Jonny walked up to the front door and pulled a key from his pocket. He deftly opened the door, as if he'd lived there for years. Officer Ford brought up the rear, pausing slightly before entering behind Jonny.

The first thing that happened was the wretching. He hadn't been prepared for the stench that made its way through the house and into his nostrils. Doubling over, he vomited on a large area rug that was in the living room. To his right he noticed the television, broken as Jonny had described. Glancing to the kitchen, he thought he smelled the faint metallic odor of blood. Forcing himself up and toward the kitchen he realized that Jonny was no longer in his line of sight. He trained his gun toward the room in front of him, and as he approached, he identified the source of the smell.

Sprawled on the floor, covered in dried blood and quite obviously decomposing, was the body of a woman. Jonny's ex, Officer Ford assumed. Remarkably, she moved as he entered the room, her head straining to get closer to him. He swallowed back a wretch along with bile and more vomit and without thinking fired one shot into the creature's head. 

"Whoa!" Jonny said, appearing in a nearby doorway.

"Was that really necessary?"

"I don't know what's going on here, son, but you need to come out of there nice and easy and we'll get this sorted out."

"There's nothing to sort out." Jonny said, taking a step out of the doorway.

"No?" 

"No sir. See, that night, the end of the story was that I realized they wouldn't eat me. I don't even think they knew why because they kept getting close, but even when I gave up and decided to let them, all they did was get close enough to sniff me, run their teeth against my skin but they never bit, not once."

"They?" Officer Ford asked.

It was then that Jonny came out of the door fully. Behind him came a small form, a shock of red hair on his head. The boy had deadened, empty eyes and from his throat came a guttural growl.

"She only got to eat one of them. I wouldn't let her get the other. The problem was, he was already gone. I'm not really sure what caused all this. I just knew that with his mother gone I would have to look after him."

"What did you do?" Officer Ford breathed. 

"I've been feeding him. I didn't really know what else to do." 

"Son, you need to get down on your knees and put your head on your hands." 

Jonny complied, getting on his knees.

"Don't you want to see the bodies?" Jonny asked.

"Could get you a promotion I bet, taking out a scumbag like me."

"You stay right there." 

Jonny moved so swiftly that Officer Ford couldn't have seen it coming if he'd been fully prepared. Jonny threw one hand out from behind his head and from his jacket sleeve a small piece of metal glinted in the overhead light. The knife caught Officer Ford in the belly and stuck there. He immediately dropped the gun and fell forward, within reaching distance of the animated corpse on the floor. 

"Just a one inch blade. I just had to stop you shooting me. The rest will come in time. See, I couldn't leave him here. Not with her. I couldn't seem to kill her so I did the next best thing. I brought him food and let him eat."

Jonny moved the boy close enough to Officer Ford, then backed away as the boy and his undead mother devoured the man. Jonny winced slightly at the screams but he'd long since been desensitized to the sounds of death. He watched with pride until there was nothing left of Officer Ford but bone, then the cold panic hit him again. The feeling that accompanied the realization that he didn't know what to do. He ushered the boy back into the doorway where he'd been hidden and said softly,

"I'll be right back." before shutting the door on him. 

Then retrieving his knife and tucking it once more into his sleeve he walked back out into the night.

"I wonder who can help me now?" he said to himself. 

In the distance he saw headlights heading toward him. With a smile he moved into the middle of the road and waited.

The Lament of the Innocent

Bright eyes sing softly
A lullabye for my weary soul
Inexperienced wisdom that
Doesn't know enough to know a
Peace of mind buried beneath a
Piece of heart
To dream the impossible is
The madness of the optimist

Climb over the mountain
Arrive at the destination
Tet a Tet with tenacity
Vehemence, verve, vigor and valor
Alliterate the journey
To carve your way on paths already trodden
No matter who came before
No matter how long we stay

All that stands is now
All that falls is to come
The riddles of verses
Not yet written
Hold the meaning of
The life not yet lived
Today is to come
Through all the love of long ago

Death of innocents to
Provide the mettle
We've no time for regrets
Sorry won't bring daddy home
It's time to grow up
Sooner than anyone expected

The lament of the innocent is
The stuff that makes a man.

Once Upon a Time

You looked into the mirror of my soul
A reflection I no longer recognized
Once upon a time to
Happily ever after
Now your face that of a stranger
The deed is done
And you well know
No good deed goes unpunished
Time slips away into
Dreams that can't come true
Pennies dropped in a well
The potential wishes made
On the backs of prayers to Gods unnamed
I don't know you.
Maybe I never did
But, through prestidigitorial skill
The wool came down
Covering the eyes that no longer saw
Clearly the spell being woven
Take this
Take me
Take it all
It's all the same
Gifts of words and verse
The remainder of  the best
Offered from the blind
Until the sky splits open
With a roar of thunder to send you running
A cleansing rain, to
Wash it all away
I watch you gaze into a puddle
Imperfect, filled with mud and dirty
And I see your reflection
Clearly, for the first time
There you are!
Once upon a time
All that ever mattered
So sing the minstrels
Players only love you
When they're playing
An Analogy for a fool
And none exist more foolish than me
When looking into the mirror of my soul.

Writer's Block

The words play softly in front of my eyes.
Like the notes of a piano, low and melodic, yet percussive and insistent.
They weave their web in my brain until I'm wrapped in their seductive glow.
They keep me safe; they keep me warm.
My one true love, they dance with me in the shadows.
Moving gracefully, we dance this waltz breaking every barrier. 
They tease me as a coy lover.
I can see their letters, naked, laid out before me
But they refuse to show me their words
They tickle my consciousness, begging to be used.
I grab each one, only to feel it slip between my fingers
The ink dripping from my fingertips like so much blood.
The thrill is the chase and they have captured me to play this game
For the play is the thing, so says the Bard.
And if fools we mortals be
Then I am the most foolish and my words tell me so with exacting grace as only they can
absurd, asinine, brainless, crazy, daft, doltish, fatuous, half-baked, half-witted, imbecilic, imprudent, indiscreet, insane, irrational, lunatic, short-sighted, simple, stupid, unwise, witless

The words play softly in front of my eyes

Insistent in their need to be commanded. 

Desperate in their intent to command.

Their lesson is ongoing, never ending and it is this

Only with a pen mightier than the sword

Will the disease bleed away.

Only when the words are razor sharp in their wit

Will it cut to the quick and then bleed away

Only when lost in the moment 

Will the courage come, to cut the shit

And then bleed away.

Emotional Deja Vu

The waves crash over me
Like an emotional deja vu
The memories rise to the surface
Just to pull me under
Holding me down until I stop kicking

All I wanted out of life
Every failure
Every dream
Every triumph
Like a kick to my gut

While a new Empire rises
From the ashes that remain
After I burnt it all down
A God to none
And king to even fewer

The waters closing over my head
Like an emotional Deja Vu
I'm going under ...
The waves crashing over me
Beaten against the rocks

Open the Door

There's no wind left in my sails.
This reflection of a sad clown tells the same story
Over and over.
Perfect imperfection
I strive to be everything
Never acieving anything
Disfigured, deformed
I need so much
I give so much
Never enough to slake my thirst
What has gone before
Must pass away
Unlearn the learned
This denial of self must end
Give way; yield
To a spiritual awakening
the time has come
To walk alone
As the past floats away
A leaf on the wind
This is better?
This is enlightened?
Why do I feel broken?
So defective.
So isolated.

View From the Bottom (Rough Draft)

The carpet needs vacuuming.
There's an old shoe under the bed
I should really keep my room a bit cleaner
But I can't find the strength to even stand
Because this is the view from the bottom and
All I can think of is why I'm here
How did I get here?
Because the view from the bottom,
Much like the view from the top,
Is a place where you can see a lot.
All the things left unsaid.
All the matters left unattended and
All the tiny details that were missed.
My bad genes match the dirty jeans balled up in the corner
And I laugh but it's a laugh full of irony
Empty of feeling and devoid of joy
Because this is the view from the bottom and
At the bottom even cockroaches are looking up at you, saying
"Damn brother, you need to pick yourself up!"
Only there is no picking up.
There is only laying still.
Watering the carpet with my tears that
Flow for no reason, or rather
Not any reason anyone "normal" would understand.
See, laying in the bottom is the safest place to be
When it hurts to move; when you know
That movement can and will mean something terrible.
Because this is the view from the bottom.
Looking up at the sun, so affirming and life giving
If only it would burn me to a cinder and stop all this
Give me a chance to give back the life I don't want
The pain I can't take and the drama I don't need.
If only I could muster up the strength to move
Fight this instinct to stay alive that keeps me laying
In the dirt of a floor that needs vacuumed because if I move
Just an inch
I know the view from the bottom will be the last thing I ever see.

Bury my Heart

Bury my heart
For the love has ceased to grow
Lay it to rest
Lest it become stone

Bury my heart
Before its time
Exsanguination slow and painful
Yet merciful expiration

Bury my heart
After its prime
Tried and failed to blossom
Beneath the salt in this wound

Bury my heart
Beneath the curse of love's eyes
Tame the quiet hope
Let it become stone.

After My House was Robbed

From the minute we're born
Our life as a statistic begins
255 babies born every minute and
Every step of our development from that point on
Is programmed and categorized
For easy comparison and reference
Apgar score, head circumference
Height, weight
How fast we grow . . . or how slow
From the minute we're born
We either fit in or we don't
We're either normal or abnormal
And every minute after realizing this
Is spent avoiding statistics
"I don't want to be a statistic" we shout, while
57 million Americans have mental Health disorders
      (and there are 55 Million registered republicans)
How quick can we say
"I'm not crazy" when
1 out of 2 people abuse alcohol
Let's drink to not being the one with the problem!
4 out of 5 of us do drugs
Well, pass the dutchie because I'm. Number. Four.
1 out 5 children witness domestic violence
So maybe that's why I still shake when someone wants to fight
3 million homes will be robbed
1 out of every 6 women will be raped
      (1 out of 10 men)
216 people will die while this poem is being read

The question is, Does that matter?

How many sunrises will be seen?
How many sunsets?
How many first kisses will be enjoyed and
How many last kisses will linger in memory?
How many job interviews will be nailed and
How many pink slips doled out?
When will success happen and
When will its relevance be questioned
How many books will be read?
How many poems written?
How much love will be fallen into and
How many dances will be danced?
     (In the rain?)

From the minute we're born
Our life as a statistic begins
And we remain one until we die
This is the way of things
Birth followed by death
The part in the middle?
That's called life and
Life is now and
Life  . . .
Is still to come.

Blue

She speaks to me softly
The stuff of dreams
Wrapped around me
Squeezing me tightly
She tells me she'll never leave me
She tells me she loves me
She tells me I can be free . . .
As long as I'm with her
She crawls inside my veins
And she pumps her love through me
Until I bleed her out
Creating verses of devotion
And paintings of her beauty
Until I'm an exhausted and beaten shell
She takes me in her arms

"When will I be okay?" I ask her
She answers with her body
Pushing me down
She climbs on top of me
"You'll be okay inside me" she whispers
Taking me again and again
Until I have nothing left to give
She humbly asks for more of my love
Offering butterfly kisses
and Promises of forever
She'll never leave me
As long as I give her everything
When will I be okay?
When? Will I be okay?
I'll be okay if I live for her
I'll be okay if I bleed for her
I'll be okay if I sing to her
I'll be okay if I believe in her
Never that I'll be okay
Never that I'm enough
Never that I'm okay on my own
Miss Blue
The stuff of nightmares
Taking never giving
But I have found my voice
And when I leave, For what will be the last time
She asks
Could you stay . . .
Long enough for me to say goodbye

She speaks to me softly
The stuff of dreams
Wrapped around me
Squeezing tightly

The Audience I've Never Met

Lost!
On the road forever
     (or at least it feels like it)
Not arriving; False starts and detours
Roadblocks in the way
Like so many crumpled papers in a wastebasket
The problem is, I'm not writing for me
I'm writing for an audience I've never met
And what I want to say is so much more personal and
Not at all appropriate for polite conversation
immediately after introduction
I was inspired by the muse in the ether
Giving me the words when I've got nothing remotely interesting to say
Telling me to share my pain
Like a dirty needle in a back alley
Encouraging me to lay bare my angst
Like a catholic in a confessional
Demanding I convey what its like
To see the shame of every memory I never wanted
Reflected in your eyes
How much it hurts when your favorite poems
     (the ones that make you cry)
and the songs you sing the loudest are all echoing your pain
With the words you could never find on your own,
Bouncing off the walls of my soul
Shouting your hatred and loss
Until it becomes my own and
I live with my shame and your hatred as my neighbors
And then the words come
Hot and stinging
Painting an ugly picture that seems
Somehow hauntingly beautiful
I am equal parts excitement and fear
When I come to the Audience I've never met
As a supplicant
Begging for empathy
Pleading for understanding
From someone
Anyone who can say
You are not alone in this
Because I wonder
What would that be like?
So I relate my story through verse
Waiting for something, anything
And then I understand
I'm writing for myself  
Sharing with an audience I've never met
And if art, like beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder
Then it is my honor to share mine with
The Audience I've Never met

The Natural Consequence of Love

No matter what

Changes Change
And Pain is Pain

Summed up by strike and bruise

Not all scars are seen

Not all pain is clean

The brightest day

Becomes

The Blackest night

Which is

Darkest before the dawn

Life is metaphor

Simile and rhyme

No reason?

Beauty is reason

Love is treason

Accept is all with

Poise dignity and

Strength of birth

Right in the end

Wrong in the middle

Time’s arrow kills Cupid’s love

Discordant entropy is reality

The end of time’s beginning

Mystery

Solved the problem

Build the wall

Protect yourself

Protect your love

No

One gets in

All becomes one

Becomes none

The natural consequence

Of

Love.

A Walk Up the Midway

-1-

She stood before the mirror; soft light from overused dimming bulbs that lined her reflection creating radiant beauty while lacking all function for the task at hand. She patted her face with powder, creating a cloud that gave the illusion of an otherworldly origin. The analogy was fitting for the setting, though she paid it no mind; her ritual was practiced with ease and grace borne of habit. She bent low and pulled dark stockings over her feet and up shaped calves onto her thighs where she clipped them to a garter, hidden under a black skirt. She stood before the mirror, topless, taking in her body's shape and allowing time to appreciate the curves that had taken so long for her to accept. She knew now that her acceptance didn't matter, not here, in this place; which was ironic since this very fact made it easier to appreciate. The image in the second mirror, behind her, was more difficult. Thanks to the juxtaposition of the companion mirror made her back visible and was a necessity, though it made her uncomfortable. She did not appreciate what she saw. Damaged, scarred flesh, made her shudder and curse her misfortune as she always did. She knew the scars were a necessary evil and to some, their symmetrical pattern would appear artistic, maybe even beautiful. To her mind, though, they were a reminder of the hardships that had led her here, to this place; and what had created the scarring she so despised. After a sigh she picked up her bodice and slipped her arms through it easily. She pulled it around her breasts tightly and began to fasten silver clasps in a regular pattern. With each gesture, the bodice tightened and she inhaled sharply in slight pain. Her back became more rigid as small wires inserted themselves into her skin at strategic points along her spine; these were the cause of the scarring, she knew, but she had no choice. Completing her task she stood before the mirror once more and gave herself a winning stage smile, spreading six arms before the mirror as if she were presenting a new car on a game show.

"Timothy!" the sharp voice cut the boy like a knife and he immediately blushes and quickly retracted his head from the tent, where he'd been watching.

"Timothy Clark Duncan! What in sam hell are you doing there?" Tim cursed silently to himself as he joined the fuming woman several feet from the tent.

"I'm sorry Ma," he said, "I was just watching."

"I know what you were watching, young man and you know God will strike you blind for peeping!" his mother said judgmentally. Tim ran a hand through his mop of dark hair with one hand while shoving his other into his pocket. He was handsome for his sixteen years, looking closer to twenty, with only his eyes and his smile betraying his innocence. 

"I'd rather be blind than a virgin." he quipped.

"Keep talking smart. You'll see. I bet all them monsters down in Charlotte were smart too. Look what's happening to them." In response Tim rolled his eyes.

Mother and son resumed their walk and Tim took in the sights and smells almost gleefully. He'd never been to a circus before, and had been pleasantly surprised when his mother had agreed to the trip. The midway was a bustle of activity and everything Tim had hoped it would be. A juggling clown on a unicycle rode in front of them and was rewarded with an awed stare from Tim. In spite of this, though, he wasn't deterred from his destination.

The sign read "World's Greatest Freaks!" followed by "100% Authentic! 100% Alive! 100% Creepy!" painted on the image of a ribbon wrapping around the rest of the text. Tim felt his heart begin pumping as they reached the entrance.

"Honestly Tim, I don't know why you want to go in there, those poor people."

"It's all fake, ma. Don't worry. I just saw Spider-Girl putting on fake arms." 

"I'll just bet that's what you saw." his mother said reprovingly.

"Jesus ma! Would you let it go?" he said, and instantly regretted it.

"Don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain! Now, I raise you better'n that, didn't I? Brought you to this place and that's the thanks you have?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just excited." he said.

"Well, excited about what?" his mother asked impatiently.

"That." Tim said, pointing.

The sign that read "World's Greatest Freaks" was centered above 4 painted portraits, each about ten feet tall.  The first was a smiling woman with six arms and read "The only living human arachnid! SPIDER-GIRL!" Next to this was a normal enough looking man, painted in a profile shot, wearing a black suit with a bowler hat on his head. His sign read "What cruel twist of fate can make a man become what he became? John Smith." Tim, wondered at this for a moment but shook his head, assuming there would be some gimmick. The third sign had been painted black with a banner that simply read "Removed by order of the state of Louisiana! Write your Congressman!" The fourth, though, was what had Tim's attention. The image was a man with the palest of pale skin, which appeared to be decaying; the eyes were glassy and white, lifeless and his clothes were torn and there were pieces of his body that had been worn down almost to bone. His mother gasped at seeing it but there seemed to be little surprise in her reaction. The sign read "FIRST APPEARANCE! GENUINE! CAPTURED IN CHARLOTTE! THE ONLY UNDEAD SPECIMEN IN EXISTENCE!" Tim didn't care that they hadn't bothered to name it, he intended to see it for himself, nonetheless.

"My God!" his mother breathed, "How awful!"

"If by awful, you mean amazing," Tim replied, "I agree."

-2-

"Step right up, step right up my young man!" the voice was boisterous and attached to a man who looked to be the inverse of a stereotypical ringmaster. He wore a black tuxedo, complete with tophat and tails on his jacket, his shirt was blood red with a white tie, and over his feet he wore red and white spats. His plump face was red and his bushy mustache was sculpted at the ends, rising into a curl on each side.

"Who are you supposed to be, Ringling?" Tim asked, incredulously. He made a mental note to point out on his blog that this man's appearance was so out of date that it passed nostalgic and served to take away from the ambiance of the attraction.

"If you like, good sir." Ringling replied with a smile, "We don't stand on ceremony here." 

"Whatever," Tim said, then before he could finish,

"Timothy! You're being rude!" his mother said with a smack on his head. 

"It's quite alright, madam! The boy is right to bring skepticism into the tent with him. A show like ours hasn't been seen in years and, as you can see some aspects of it have fallen before the more sensitive appetites of the modern world." he said, gesturing to the third sign on the panel before them.

"Look," Tim said, losing patience and waiting to get inside, "I already know this is all fake. There's no way you could get away with putting "genuine" freaks on display in a sideshow. Not these days. You'd get sued! It's not PC!"

"Quite so!" Ringling said with a chuckle, "Quite so, indeed. And yet, here we are. I assure you all of the attractions are guaranteed."

"Or our money back, right?" Tim scoffed.

"Not exactly. You see, you've already paid to enter and the entry fee is non-refundable. Our guarantee is something different entirely."

"Oh?" this from Tim's mother, she had moved closer to Ringling, and if Tim didn't know better, he'd think she was flirting.

"Indeed madam!" Ringling said with a flourish. "Why, if you aren't one hundred per cent assured of the bona fides of the attractions we will grant ownership of the entire show to your good selves."

Tim scoffed again, "Come on! That's hardly worth anything! If they're fake, why would we want them?"

Ringling was still undaunted, "As I pointed out, young sir, you have already paid the entry fee." he gestured to the tent. Tim admitted he had a a point. Even if the attractions were fake, a person could make money taking the act on the road.

"There's a sucker born every minute." he said walking into the tent. 

Tim blinked hard in an attempt to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness, though it didn't help. As soon as the tent flap closed all the light as well as the sounds from the Midway had vanished, and this unsettled Tim, though he assumed it was part of the show.  

"I shall be your guide on this tour of the grotesque," Ringling's voice came, more somber than before, "Please don't move until directed to do so. This is a safety precaution for yourselves. 

As if on cue, soft lights came up and Tim was able to see his mother next to him, as well as Ringling standing before a stage, cordoned off with a velvet rope, similar to a museum exhibit. Behind the rope, Tim could make out a velvet chair next to a simple wooden table. The table held several items, a pipe, a carafe of what Tim assumed was Brandy, a book of matches, and a lipstick. On a nearby wall there was a mirror, though there wasn't enough light to see a reflection.

"What we have here is the sitting area for John Smith." 

"Yeah, what's the deal with him?" Tim asked, "He isn't scary or a freak at all. He's just some guy in a bowler hat."

From further into the tent, Tim thought he could hear a low growl, and abruptly remembered why he'd been so eager. He felt fear for a moment, and wondered if the undead specimen was as genuine as promised. 

"Please, hold all your questions until the end, young sir." Ringling admonished. 

"John Smith was found north of the American border and welcomed the chance to make a home here with us. It seems that the residents where he'd come from were a bit unsettled by his countenance." Tim though Ringling had chuckled at the end of that sentence. 

As if on cue, a man appeared. He was clearly the man that had been pictured outside, he walked up to the chair and sat down, though he appeared to carefully position his back so that it wasn't pressed into the chair. He reached for the pipe and matches and deftly lit it and began puffing away.

"What's the lipstick for? Is he some kind of transvestite?" Tim asked, straining to make the normal character seem a bit weirder than he appeared.

"Certainly not!" came the appalled reply. John stood up, grabbing the lipstick from the table and began walking toward the mirror. He arrived, still facing the observers, and bent toward the mirror, backward. His back moved at an unnatural angle as he tilted toward the mirror, though what appeared as the reflection was anything but the back of his head. A blonde woman, reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe in her looks (though quite obviously not the famous actress) appeared in the mirror and began applying the lipstick.

"Oh my!" Tim's mother cried out in surprise.

"Come on! That's just a trick with the mirror! Anyone who took theater in high school knows how to do that!" Tim didn't bother to hide his disdain over the obvious forgery.

"Young man," John himself spoke now, "I appreciate a skeptical mind indeed, though I must protest at your lack of faith. Perhaps you'd like a closer look?" 

John moved up to the velvet rope, close enough that Tim could reach out and touch him. He locked eyes with the young man and began to slowly turn. The move was practiced, and he paused for just a few seconds in profile view and then completed his turn. Tim took an involuntary step back and inhaled sharply. The blonde woman from the mirror stood before him, lipstick freshly applied. She leaned over, and Tim noticed the curve of her breast in spite of himself, and swallowed hard.

"How did . . . " he stammered, "Uh, how did you do that?" 

"We didn't do anything, sugar." the woman stated, her voice soft and with a hint of sultry seduction.

"What happened to you?" Tim's mother asked.

The woman looked at Ringling, "Now, I just hate that question, don't you?" she said, "Nothing 'happened' this is how I was born."

"You were born as two people? Or as the front of two people?" Tim asked narrowing his eyes.

"Yes." came John's male voice.

John sauntered back to the chair, the female face remaining visible, and sat down, a bit more daintily than before. Tim winced at the motion, wondering how the being's knees were able to bend so flexibly in either direction. 

"It's some kind of trick." Tim said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"I assure you there is no trick. Shall we continue to the next, ahem, exhibit?" Ringling asked. His question was answered by another low growl and what sounded like a small scream. Tim looked past Ringling into the tent and took a hesitant step forward.

"What's next?" he asked, "Spider-Girl?" 

"Quite." Ringling said, ushering his charges forward.

As the trio moved forward, the lights dimmed once more, preventing Tim from looking back at John Smith and his curious "twin." He felt disoriented again as he was veiled in a darkness that was somehow thicker than any other darkness Tim could think of. his disorientation passed as pale light returned, slightly to his right, and he looked at what he knew to be the "lair" of Spider-Girl. He thought breifly of watching the woman prepare for the show and his disappointment that she was a fake subsided when he recalled her full breasts and curved hips. Before his thoughts had a chance to turn too erotic, however, Ringling spoke again.

"What you've surmised is correct, young sir. We have arrived at the Web of Spider-Girl. Now, she is not an arachnid per se, of course."

"Right," Tim said, "Let me guess. Some type of human-spider hybrid?" 

"Nothing so droll, I assure you," Ringling said, his tone indicating that he was beginning to lose patience with the boy, "No, Spider-Girl was involved in horrific accident a number of years ago. There was damage to her nervous system and she lost much of the mobility of her arms and legs. She joined our family, originally, as "The Living Dead Girl" but the effects of her appearance on the crowd was simply too catastrophic. Through a series of bizarre accidents we discovered that a prosthetic allows her to regain 100% use of her legs."

"So you admit she's a fake?" Tim asked, suspicious, "I thought you guaranteed everything was genuine."

"You'll now, I'm sure, that the chief characteristic of spiders is that they have 8 limbs. I'm sure you were expecting that Spider-Girl will as well. There are, however, other characteristics of the spider. We'll let you decide, young sir, if Spider-Girl can indeed live up to her name."

From the back of the web, Tim's eyes caught movement, and he saw Spider-Girl emerge. She did have the requisite 8 limbs, though Tim had to admit he was surprised to see her using all of them. She fairly crawled on her web, almost as a real spider would have. As she got closer, Tim was distracted by the light glinting from the web. The material was thick, but appeared fragile. No doubt it was some type of fiberglass, but it did seem odd that it bore her weight.

"She can use all 8 limbs," he began, "I'll grant you that but what-" 

He was cut off by a roar and what was unmistakably a scream this time, and he jumped back, startled.

"Pay of no mind, young sir, I'll tend to it while Spider-Girl regales you with her talents." Ringling said, disappearing into the darkness so quickly it was like he'd vanished.

"Your legs are impressive." Tim said, conversationally.

"I've never had any complaints," the arachnis replied, "You don't believe I'm genuine, I take it."

"Well, I mean, come on. How can you be?" Tim said. Spider-Girl moved closer and his mother drew back, not bothering to mask her fear. Tim knew this was due to her great fear of spiders.

"You heard the story of my accident. The legs may be prostheses but I assure you, I'm quite the Spider." her voice dripped with confidence in what she was saying. There was no question she believed every word.

"You see, when I was "The Living Dead Girl" the crowd reaction was fierce. Children screamed. Women cried. Men fainted." she said, the memory clearly drawing menace from her. Tim, was hypnotized by her gaze as she spoke.

"One day, a little girl screamed and wouldn't stop. I laid still, not wanting to scare her any further, but her mother, so appalled by my, began hitting me with her handbag. My benefactor," she gestured to where Ringling had disappeared, "Did his best to stop it. In the end, though, it was a good thing. Because I learned how to do this." she leaned in, mere inches from Tim's face, and he leaned back, so hypnotized was he, that he welcomed what appeared to be a kiss. At the last moment, however, Spider-Girl opened her mouth and a thick substance shot out and sealed itself over Tim's mouth. He reflexively reached up and pulled it away. It was sticky, but pliable and after a moment he was completely free. For her part, Spider-Girl crawled back to the top of her web.

"What the hell?" Tim's mother smacked his arm reprovingly as he swore. "What is this stuff? Spider's web?" the only response he got was the shrug of six arms.

"Ah, I see, Spider-Girl has let you in on her true nature." Ringling said, suddenly reappearing. His face was ashen, and sweat beaded his brow. 

"She caught me in her web, if that's what you mean." Tim said, then, "What's wrong with you, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing like that, young sir. It's been tended to and we are now ready to continue our tour. Shall we proceed?"

-3-

"Finally!" Tim exclaimed, no longer to contain his excitement. The other "exhibits had been cool enough, and he was intrigued about what a woman with six arms could do, but that didn't change the fact that what he'd really come here for was  the undead specimen they would now see. 

"Has the young sir not been happy with what we've seen so far?"

"Why do you keep calling me 'young sir'?" Tim asked, evading the question. The truth was he was convinced that nothing was being faked, but he could never let Ringling know that after being so certain it was. After all, for all he knew it could have been and was just far more elaborate than he had at first guessed. Either way, he had no intention of challenging the authenticity. If he lost the challenge he'd lose face in a public setting and if he won the challenge he'd win a Circus he didn't really want.

"My apologies. My intent is not to offend; we simply stand on a certain  . . . propriety."

"You can call me Tim." Tim offered carefully.

"No, young sir, I don't believe I can." Ringling said after a pause.

"Whatever." Tim rolled his eyes.

"Before we go any further, sir, madam; I must warn you that this next, er, specimen, is quite violent. You will need to stay back for your own safety."

"Is it safe?" Tim's mother asked.

Ringling met her gaze, his face still ashen. By way of reply he made a sweeping gesture.

"Shall we continue?" this time, instead of leading them on; he dropped behind them, ushering them forward. 

"He didn't answer my question." she murmured, moving forward.

"What's that smell?" Tim asked as they entered the next room. They were once again shrouded in blackness and a faint metallic smell had touched his nostrils.

"That is the smell of iron." Ringling said, "Now remember, stand perfectly still where you are and-" he was interrupted by a low growl. 

"What's that?" Tim's mother asked.

The growling increased in intensity and volume. It seemed urgent, feral, as if the source was a threatened animal backed into a corner. Tim stood still, and began shaking, suddenly afraid. He wasn't sure what was going but he knew that he wished the lights would come back up. He recalled, with the most vivid of mental images, the painting of the undead specimen he'd seen right before entering. He recalled the other times he'd heard the growl and later what he'd thought was a scream. Then, Ringling had disappeared and . . . . the thought clicked in his mind.

"Wait, is that-" 

His mother's scream was preceded by a guttural roar. Tim cried out in terror,

"NO!" 

But it was no use. Her scream was long and loud, and eventually dwindled to a wail that sounded wet and strangled. The metallic smell from before became stronger and Tim sobbed, knowing what had happened.

"You asshole!" he screamed, at no one in particular. He wasn't sure where Ringling was due to the darkness, but he knew their guide could hear him, "You killed her!"

"I am sorry to stand on semantics, young sir." Ringling said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but I assure you I did not kill your mother."

As if on cue, the lights came up and Tim saw his mother's body, limp and lifeless; hanging over the velvet rope before the undead creature they'd come to see. The creature's mouth dripped with her blood and it's lifeless gaze turned to Tim as it growled once more. It was bound by chains, unable to move its arms and had limited motion from legs that were chained to the floor. Tim forced himself to look at his mother's body; at the damage that had been done. 

"That smell you said was iron? That was blood wasn't it?" Tim asked, softly.

"It is accurate to say that it was iron, young sir. Though I believe what you are referring to is the high concentration of iron in human blood that gives it a metallic odor."

"I'll kill you." Tim said. Either to the pathetic, chained, undead creature before him; or to Ringling, he wasn't sure.

He started at his mother's form once again and committed her wounds to memory. She'd likely strayed just close enough to the velvet rope for the creature to lunge. The bite was on her neck and her entire throat was torn out. She would have died in seconds from blood loss and oxygen deprivation, Tim knew that much to be certain. Her blood dripped from the gaping hole in her throat and onto the floor creating a pool beneath her. He breathed sharply as her finger twitched but sobbed in grief and anger as he realized he must have imagined this.

"I am sorry, young sir." Ringling said, moving between Tim and his mothers form. Tim eyes him suspiciously as the undead creature loomed behind him. He observed silently, waiting, willing the thing to lunge again. To destroy the demented tour guide that had led his mother to oblivion, but the creature only growled.

"You're sorry?" Tim said, anger overtaking him, "Sorry!?" he lunged himself, pushing Ringling back toward the velvet rope. The man stumbled and fell into the creature with a cry of alarm. The creature leaned over him menacingly, blood and saliva dripping from its open mouth as if it were taking stock of what the man was. Then, without ceremony, it stood and looked at Tim, snarling again. Ringling scurried to safety and stood before Tim.

"Young sir, I'll have to ask you to leave the premises." 

"Oh I will," Tim warned, "And I'll be back with the police." 

Ringling was on him in a flash, so fast that Tim barely had time to register the glint of metal that he next felt pressed to his throat.

"Listen to me, you sniveling shit," Ringling said, his voice suddenly a stark contrast to what it had been before, "You'll leave this place now or you'll become food just like your bitch of a mother. Savvy?" 

"I'll kill you." Tim responded, his voice choked as Ringling's hand closed around his throat.

"You'll leave us alone you bastard." Ringling chided, digging the knife in deeper. Tim winced as the blade broke the skin on his throat and he felt a trickle of blood down his neck. The undead creature jerked against its bonds, straining to break free at the smell of new blood.

"Or you'll kill me," Tim said, "Either way, one of us is dying today." and he brought his knee sharply into Ringling's groin causing the older man to jerk his arm upward, slashing Tim's cheek from chin to eye. Blood spurted from the wound and soaked half of Tim's face instantly. Ringling for his part doubled over, clutching his injured crotch. He wasn't felled for long; he fell and rolled into Tim's braced legs the motion causing Tim to stumble and trip.

Directly into the monster.

As it had done to his mother before him, the creature sank its teeth into Tim's flesh at the junction of neck and shoulder. His vision blurred and he let out a strangled cry as he fell to the floor. He thought he could see his mother, just out of the corner of his eye. Had she fallen from the rope? How had that happened? Was she crawling away? Blackness surrounded him again and as he lost himself within it, he faintly wondered what was left to see in this den of horrors.

Ringling stood over the boy, watching in fascination as gouts of blood gathered in a pool at the boys feet. He moved closer, to draw the boy closer to the undead creature, pausing long enough for the chained beast to move away from him. A second growl joined the first, guttural moans, and he heaved a sigh as the lifeless body of the young man's mother crawled toward him, a grotesque analogy of a newborn rooting for the breast.

"I'm sorry madam." he said, his voice once again proper, "But we've got no more space for new attractions." and he brought his knife down into the back of her head sharply, burying it through hair and skull into the brain underneath. He pressed it into her cranium as firmly as he could until she'd stopped convulsing and then pulled it out in one smooth, deft motion.

He turned his attention back to the boy and stopped cold. Blood was dripping from the gash he'd opened in the boy's face, but impossibly; the bite wound was getting smaller! Ringling watched, mouth agape as the hole in the boys neck slowly, steadily closed. Where the wound was spilling blood only a moment ago, there was now only fresh, pale flesh. Ringling kicked the boy experimentally, and was satisfied when he didn't move.

"Seems dead enough, anyway." he murmured, bringing his knife to bear.

In a move as sudden as it was unexpected, Tim swept his leg into Ringling's ankles causing the man to fall on his back, hard. He gasped, trying to recover the wind that was knocked out of him but before he could move, Tim stood over him holding a knife that had been Ringling's only a moment earlier.

"Victims." Tim said. He shoved the knife between the eyes of the undead creature that had killed his mother, and pulled it out again not bothering to watch the creature fall to the floor. He slowly knelt down next to Ringling,

"Aren't we all?" he asked, slicing the man's throat.

He watched silently as the blood poured out of Ringling; though it was the man's eyes that he watched closely. He gurgled and struggled for oxygen that would never come, and reached out toward Tim in a supplicating gesture. Tim didn't respond. He simply stood there watching until Ringling's eyes faded into nothing and his breath stopped. Satisfied, he dropped the knife and found his way out of the tent. He never looked back, never registered the glances of other circus goers that gasped in concern or gave him a wide berth as he walked by them, covered in blood. Some of it was his own, coming from the gash in his face, and he was thankful for that; it would be far easier if he could convince people that the blood was from his own injury; at least he could distract them from the fact that he'd just killed a man. He knew that the sheer amounts of blood didn't add up, but he forced himself to keep a steady pace; strolling up the midway as if nothing had happened. There would be plenty of time to figure things out later.

He hoped.