From the Middle of Envy

What runs like water
Each line, though an hour,‎
and faster than blood
each paragraph, though a day;‎
and cannot be but delayed?‎

Can it not be stopped?‎
lying in the middle
Though it were quarantined
‎,between the tangible and the unseen,‎
by slow-moving thoughts
between fraternal red and the envious green
of a lover's hand or a friend's own gift;‎
is a Waste Land.‎
although I sift impurities
Through the spoken and hushed
as best I can,‎
‎ ,between the real and surreal,‎
my will to do good‎
where grey is the road
is daily suffocated, daily crushed,‎
and grey are the skies
in the ill-wisher's thick-aired underbrush.‎
and difficult it is to rise
Where there appears no room to hope
anew each day, and I pray‎
to turn from down to Right,‎
to have my strength increased,‎
from ears deaf to Seeing eyes,‎
to have my flight prepared,‎
to know the Truth from lies,‎
To wake: have I yet dared?‎
I would not know the dream
‎,such as the waking goes,‎
from my child's eyes.‎


There was the time mom spent the afternoon in the hospital with me. On the way over, she'd told a story about a college friend. The friend's name was Tuesday, and she had driven a Karmann Ghia in college. Years later, during a poorly connected phone call, Tuesday had tried to tell my mother something important. The call was unsuccessful in that respect as well, and the two hadn't spoken since. When she'd finished talking, mom'd said, "It's a terrible story to tell, I suppose."

Down the hall from the room we were in, a man groaned loudly. I could not tell if he groaned in pain or effort. I pictured a large monkey, grunting and thrusting bent fingures one way or another, trying to get a bit of food. The nurse asked if my mother wanted any coffee; she did not. As a machine took my blood pressure on the half-hour, mom wondered aloud, "...what they're doing to that guy." I shrugged. Later, in the car, she mused about getting in touch with Tuesday again. Her cellphone rang as I thought, "Today's Tuesday." She answered the call,


Mechanical Difficulties

A non-play

The Players: Husband, Wife, Mechanic, Keys.

Act Only

Afternoon. An autobody shop.

Husband and Wife are talking to Mechanic, who is holding Keys.

Mechanic: I'm afraid I can't let you folks leave here in this car.

Wife gasps.

Husband: (Indignant) What?! Why the hell not? (He leans in toward Mechanic)

Mechanic: (Matter-of-factly)Well, the (mechanical gibberish) is all clogged up–do you know, it's coated almost entirely in black?!–and it's got (more gibberish) leakin' every which where... Thing is, it's liable to explode at any time. (Wife gasps again) You drive it off my lot, and you could blow up fifteen yards down the street.

Husband and Wife stare and Mechanic. They say nothing.

Mechanic: You think I wanna be dreamin' about that tonight? No, sir. (Nods to Wife) Ma'am.

Wife: (Whispering to Husband) Honey, I think we need to take the car to someone else...

Husband: (To Mechanic. Angrily) Yeah, we're leaving. (Holds out his right hand) Give me the keys.

Mechanic: (Sincerely) Oh, sir, I really can't–

Husband: (Louder) Now!

Mechanic: (Pauses) Ok...

Husband snatches Keys from Mechanic's hand, he and Wife get in to the car, and they drive out of the shop's lot. Several seconds later, an explosion is heard; Mechanic winces slightly.

Mechanic: (Remorsefully) I tried to warn them...

Keys: (Offstage. Smoldering) That's my line, asshole!



a quickie

i have precious little time to post this, but i knew i had to, given my taste for british bands...

Which British Band Are You?


one day

one day, i will return...