ÚÄ Ü Ü Ü Ü Ä¿ Ûßß ÛßÛ ß Û Û Ûßß ÜÜÛ ß ÛÛÜ Û Ü ßßÛ ÛÜÛ Û Û Û Ûß Û Û Û Û Þ ÛÜß ÛÛÛ Û ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ ÛÛÛ Û Þ ÛßÛ ÀÄ ÄÙ Ä electronic literary 'zine Ä *ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ* ù ÄÄ´ volume ten ÃÄÄ ù *ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ* stop plagiarism - let out your soul Copyright 5+6/96 ú úùcompiled & edited by Twilightùú ú ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ * All literature presented herein is copyrighted by their respective authors * þ Table of Contents þ ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù 1. An Afternoon Fishing Off the Coast Near St. Augustine - Peter Damian Bellis 2. Angels - Ray Heinrich 3. At Sea - Ben Ohmart 4. Desirous - Janet Kuypers 5. Down By The River - Ray Heinrich 6. Eltania - Sanctified 7. Face Through A Glass - Drucilla B. Blood 8. For A Moment - Quinn 9. Forbidden - Heather Gilbert 10. Fuck Me - Twilight 11. Green Vinyl Chair - http://www.execpc.com/~jsilver/ 12. I Am Vertical - Sylvia Plath 13. I Love You, Goodbye - Firefly 14. It Can't Rain All The Time - Jane Siberry 15. John - Janet Kuypers 16. Mirror - Sylvia Plath 17. Mother - Serena Lemick 18. One Of Those Days - Kurt Nimmo 19. Out Of Body - Greg Krehbiel 20. Pandora - Sanctified 21. Rape - Link 22. Robert - Janet Kuypers 23. The Coming Of The Storm - Shaun Allan 24. The Death Of Gully Hand - Beau Blue 25. The Red Heart And The Silver Heart - Ray Heinrich 26. This Twilight Garden - The Cure 27. This Weekend - HappyMonk 28. To My Daughter, Nancy. - Deborah Spungen 29. Untitled - Bob 30. Untitled - HappyMonk 31. Untitled - Molina 32. Untitled - Molina 33. Wrecked - Bloodshot þ Including Quotes From: Charles Aaron, Tori Amos, Dr. G. L. Cardwell, e. e. cummings, Dr. C. Friedman, Garbage, Courtney Love, H. L. Mencken, _Now and Then_, Blaise Pascal, Sylvia Plath, Arthur Rimbaud, Benedict Spinoza, Deborah Spungen, and Everett True ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ An Afternoon Fishing Off the Coast Near St. Augustine þ Peter Damian Bellis ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù I. Buckets of ice are brought On board and emptied into the Locker. How the ice shines in the Morning blue, glint of a Thousand fish eyes, cold and Hypnotic, augury aqua. The men gather in twos And threes and look deeply into the Sun-warped sheen of the ocean and Savor memories of the past: Savage instinct foaming at the Mouth; blood bubbly uncorked; Pendulums of barbed steel slicing through The dark, dark silence; the men watching from Above in impenetrable brightness. And so it is. The keel of the boat Rips through this ocean garment, the Salt-spray glistening as the stiff Wind of passage blows flat Each naked wave. Here there Is unheard laughter, and the men Cling to their bottles like Infant gods and wait out the ride. Then the boat slows, slows and stops. From below there is only the blackness Of the hull now anchored to the sky; and Shadows rise, unwary and voiceless and Versed, slipping into the wave-light and out; A silent, unearthly fugue; A song of mourning for the damned. II. Hungered by the blood-sweet meat of Sacrifice, the men crowd 'round the Red-stained wharf with strings of martyrs Cold of bone and dangling and soul Emptied. Unfelt hooks are lifted and The bare bodies placed on the unction Block, for sale, prime and washed white raw And cut and cured with salt and wrapped In strips of immaculate plastic cloth. And the red hand of evening rises, Rakes the black coals heaped in this Pit of time; and the fire rages; and the Bright robes of threadbare flame cover The dead and send a pall of smoke And ash rippling clean and upward. Angels þ Ray Heinrich ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú layer upon layer the crisp ashes float in the wind carrying us off where we will never see the wind like some believe in gods like some give up and turn to the earth but in the middle of the sky between blue and blue there are angels belonging to neither gods nor earth angels of our fantasies and of our fantasies made real or as real as we'll ever be angels to carry us wherever we hoped in movies or in the illusion of life we made for ourselves angels to carry us out out where we wished ever since babes wherever we wished angels of our fantasies made real þùúùþ Ray is an ex-Texas technofreak and hippie-socialist wannabe. He writes poems for thrills and attention, likes dogs, and owns a blue fish. He published his first chapbook by secretly placing copies in local bookstores and libraries. His poems have appeared in CrossConnect, Morpo Review, So It Goes..., Sand River Journal, 33 Review, BiSexual Journal, billetdoux, Droplet Journal, Sub-UrbanTerrain, No Trace, Biopsy, his own "Word Biscuit E-letter" and elsewhere. An electronic edition of his chapbook: "lots more damn poems" (Word Biscuit Press) is available free via e-mail. Send e-mail/requests to: ray@vais.net "I found eternity...it is where the sun mingles with the sea." Ä Arthur Rimbaud At Sea þ Ben Ohmart ùúùúùúùúùúùú met, married, broke up, broke down the lifeboat wouldn't move the sea wouldn't drown no one would hit a naked man the captain sent his regrets, asked him to stop the razor wouldn't take a bath he did the worse, and endured "- Approximately one thousand people commit suicide every day. - Someone commits suicide once every 15 minutes. - May is peak suicide season." Desirous þ Janet Kuypers ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù the light from you the flames leap up licking my lips touching my skin the fire moving in its desirous dance the smoke intoxicates me as the remnants from the desirous inferno drum a rhythmic beat and crackle as they burn the ashes fall sprinking tickling my face sliding down my throat coating my lungs making every breath a desirous pant I chain myself my body falls limp I am entwined with the desirous world the desire from you þùúùþ Janet Kuypers, 26, is a graphic designer for a publishing company in Chicago. In her spare time, she is the editor of the literary magazine 'Children, Churches and Daddies', and sings in a alternative acoustic band. She has been published in assorted literary magazines on nearly 1,000 occasions, has had two books published (_Hope Chest in the Attic_ and _The Window_, which is currently preparing for its second printing), and is about to print her third book, _Close Cover Before Striking_. "In real life I'm bone dry, and when I play, I'm a mango, and in sex I'm starving to be a dripping mango." Ä Tori Amos Down By The River þ Ray Heinrich ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù the body smooth and white is waiting no longer and the stab wound washed by the water looks like a scratch but admits your finger like a small mouth Eltania þ Sanctified ùúùúùúùúùúùú i take a breath, i can smell you on my clothes, i can hear you in the song. blister my tongue if i say your name. i can pretend, i'll play along with the little white lies i've made myself believe. i sleep in my bed, i can feel your arms around me. i can touch you in my mind. destroy myself if i think of you. i can pretend, i'll play along with the little blatant lies i've told myself today. i cry all by myself. i can see your worried face, i can taste your lips on mine. punish myself for wanting you. i can pretend, i'll play along with my insane denial that i cannot cover up. numb me, i can't take the pain. smash me, i will never feel the same. "To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight; and never stop fighting." Ä e. e. cummings Face Through A Glass þ Drucilla B. Blood ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú A distorted image of reality when viewed from the top; the bottom seems so much closer than it really is. Stick your hand into the water and the real depth becomes apparent. It is in this manner that I begin my journey. By the water. When I think about the time, those times when everything seemed to fall apart to come together again, rebuild itself in such a way as to redeem the value of life...all I can remember are the times with the water. The puddles on the roof, the thunderstorms, the nights of walks along the lake and the waves that slapped themselves torturously against Chicago's man-made beaches. All of these things tie into my mind. The walks in the rain when it finally ceased to matter. When you finally realize that water is so much a part of you that it can't possibly hurt you to just soak yourself, cleanse yourself, renew rehydratereciprocaterecondateressurect. Yes, I can see this now. I am fluid as the air that surrounds me is solid mass that I float through. I am only as solid, only as impenetrable as I permit myself, force myself, allow myself to be. One moment you may try to touch, to feel me as I am, a physical body, a hardened mass. A touch is so impersonal. A touch is so much less than to pass through. You pass your hand through me and feel nothing. Pull your hand out now; you are holding the stars and flowers and the vast nothing that was inside of me. I am air, water and flesh. You are flesh with me and we are fluid together...rushing into each other, stream to river to lake to body. You reach your hand to touch me, but I am already there as the air within your fist, the water in your veins, the flesh on your bones... "If you put yourself where your lyrics are, it's like acting, only better, because it's what you've either written as an allegory or an anecdote, or it's happened to you, so you put yourself into the spirit of the song..." Ä Courtney Love For A Moment þ Quinn ùúùúùúùúùúùú You ask me if I'm okay and for a moment I hesitate before nodding my head and for that moment I debate what if I tell you the truth tell you I'm afraid of being alone of not being special of screwing everything up of not caring of hating myself and everyone else I'm afraid I'm losing this game and in that moment I see you're scared too that if I try to confide I'll just be overwhelmimg you so I smile and nod and for a moment I'm not so alone "The less you know, the better off you are." Ä Dr. G. L. Cardwell Forbidden þ Heather Gilbert ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù The tendons rip - lost in the softness of her blood The languid, dark words which echo inside her mind, Inside her heart. Where tears form but cannot fall... Where words are heard, but she tries to block them out, Tries to hide inside the film of darkness, in the temple of her mind. The meek gaze of a child: upon the only greatness she has ever known. The fear and the sickness of the darkest secret. The secret no child should have to bear. A gentle shower of love: Nothing but a burden of lust. Does he like to watch her burn, shaking and falling upon the ground before him.... Her body overthrown by the light as she turns to the sun for comfort and screams: When will this end... Fuck Me þ Twilight ùúùúùúùúùú Down I glide through the river of ink Ink so liqui-ous black and pure Gushing, rushing, raving, running Splashing onyx hot loveliness Through my clenchŠd fingers As I squeal with delight As it lusciously tickles me pink Pink in my inner folds of promised love and satisfaction Hot and tender, fragrant as e'er Sliding, exciting, panting, And giggling Trying to grab hold of the slippery sides Flailing helplessly, lovingly As searing darkness Leaps like coins upon my chest, my neck, my lips - I taste its burning love enveloped in my curled tongue And on my knees As I draw them up close And upon my hardened nipples of soft flesh Smooth, succulent, shining sweat Steaming milk Licking up my sweet delectable oozings of vapored milk Running down my knees Cutting grooves of red down my silky skin Pleasing me as they caress painfully into my thighs Beneath my lace and satin Plunging, squeezing, pumping, Fucking me like no human penis Into every hole, into each abyss Bleeding me humbly While loving the taste of my own blood Tasty drops upon my lips Semen mixed with red beauty Making me sexless By enjoying my sex, my petal-pink youth I drown, enraptured in happiness In make-believe sunshine Fornicate repeatedly into oblivion Nothingness, blackness Fucking my brains out And shitting them onto the floor. "Slut me open and touch my stars Slit me open and suck my scars" Ä Courtney Love Green Vinyl Chair þ http://www.execpc.com/~jsilver/ ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù our first ever together thing her pillow compliments your faux euro styling perfectly hold us in the blue ghost light slippery in your swabbable embrace hold me a wet haired reader who ensconced awaits the sound of keys ill turn you so all your good sides are up and in the summer youll be to my sticky thighbacks our love seat weve got to scrunch so you make one I Am Vertical þ Sylvia Plath ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú But I would rather be horizontal. I am not a tree with my root in the soil Sucking up minerals and motherly love So that each March I may gleam into leaf, Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted, Unknowing I must soon unpetal. Compared with me, a tree is immortal And a flower-head not tall, but more startling, And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring. Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars, The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odours. I walk among them, but none of them are noticing. Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping I must most perfectly resemble them - Thoughts gone dim. It is more natural to me, lying down. Then the sky and I are in open conversation, And I shall be useful when I lie down finally: Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me. I Love You, Goodbye þ Firefly ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù What, what, what do you want me to say to that? I'm happy for you? Thrilled? Look. Look at this smile! No! Look at me, not through me. You're always trying to read me; read the unreadable. You know me better than to think you can read me. You see what I want you to see; nothing more! I'm tired of seeing you. I'm tired of hearing you. I'm tired or crying for you. So go; just go, if that's what you're going to go. GO! Ya know I knew you before, before you became this "star" that you are. I knew you when, when your father thought you were gay, and your mother was sick and tired of all the time you spent at the theatre. I gave you a shoulder to cry on and told you they were wrong and they didn't understand. I was there for you when the entire school was calling you a freak and a fag, ooh how I hate that word, and I gave you a shoulder to cry on and told you they were wrong and they didn't understand. But it didn't matter what they said, because you were so much deeper, so much more beautiful, so much better then they would ever be. And I was there for you when your first professional director in your first professional show told you you'd never make it, you didn't have the look, you didn't have the voice and you couldn't act to save your life. I gave you a shoulder to cry on and told you he was wrong and he didn't understand. But this, this time you're wrong and you don't understand. You're wrong, you're wrong...so wrong. What, is that not what you wanted me to say? Is that not what you wanted to hear? Well this time I can't say what you want to hear. What did you expect me to say? I love you goodbye? I love you goodbye! I love you goodbye! Well let's see how many different ways we can say it until I believe you. I love you, goodbye. I love you goodbye. I love you, Goodbye. Fond farewells... remember me fondly... We never said our love was evergreen. It's over now, the music of the night! Oh. But you've been taught well. How many times did you practice that one line?! I love you goodbye! Oh, go ahead and walk away... you never listened to me before; why start now? Why start now, because I want you to listen. You will hear me today if I have to scream until forever comes because I love you too!! I love you goodbye... goodbye... goodbye dear dear sir... Oh, you're back; well, I humbly welcome you... Oh, thank you for blessing me with your presence... So glad to see you, stranger... Yes, YES, I realize people are staring at us... but I'm used to being stared at. I'm in love with you, people think I'm insane... oh... why... why did you come back; wait, Wait. I know why... because I said what you wanted to hear. I love you. And you don't understand what love is. You don't understand. Love is willing to give up everything that matters for another person. I would give my soul, my life, the precious precious spotlight... I would give you up for you; to make YOU smile; to make YOU feel better; to make YOU happy. But what about me... what about how I feel... what matters to me? But that's just it. I don't matter; the only thing that matters to you is that goddamned spotlight... the goddamned glory... the goddamned stage. But that stage can't do anything for me, because no matter how many different ways I say it, I can't make the feeling go away. I don't love him... I don't love him... I don't love him... I don't love him... I don't... don't love... love him... I love you... go ahead and look through me... It's there; it's always there in my eyes, in my soul... I can't act it away... I can't sing it away... I can't dance it away... I love you and you're leaving You won't stay for me You don't love me You won't stay for me You won't stay for them You won't stay for yourself.. All because of your poor shattered ego Oh bleeding heart.. Feel for me Cry for me Die for me I would have done it... I would have done it all because I love you. I love you. I love you...... goodbye. "I have relationships with people who are brave enough to deal with me, and I don't want to deal with people who aren't." Ä Courtney Love It Can't Rain All The Time þ Jane Siberry ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú We walk the narrow path Beneath the smoking skies Sometimes, barely tell the difference Between darkness and light Do we have faith In what we believe The truest test Is when we cannot... When we cannot see I hear pounding feet in the... In the streets below, and the... And the women cried, and the... And the children moaned at the There's something wrong It's hard to believe that love will prevail It won't rain all the time The sky won't fall forever And though the night seems long Your tears won't fall...forever When I'm lonely I lie awake at night And I wish you were here I miss you Can you tell me Is there something more to believe in Or is this all there is And the pounding feet in the... In the streets below, and a... And a window breaks, and a... And a woman falls, and there is There's something wrong; it's It's hard to believe that love will prevail It won't rain all the time The sky won't fall forever And though the night seems long Your tears won't fall...forever Last night I had a dream You came into my room You took me into the light Whispering, you were kissing me And telling me to still believe ...Within the emptiness of the burning seige against which we set our darkest descent... Until I felt safe and warm I fell asleep in your arms When I awoke, I cried again For you were gone Oh, can you hear me It won't rain all the time The sky won't fall forever And though the night seems long Your tears won't fall...forever "There are things in life that you can't stop, but it isn't a reason to shut out the world." Ä "Crazy Pete", _Now and Then_ John þ Janet Kuypers ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù at the other side of the room I look through the cigarette smoke the roar of conversation and the dim lights I look at his face but I no longer see John I have dreamt and envisioned a God-like figure I have imagines his sensivity and his thoughtfulness I have felt his hands caress my skin his lips meet mine he has held me one thousand times and protected me I have rehearsed our moments together in my mind the moments I have created the candlelight dinners the dancing the loving while never knowing him more than across a crowded room the music blares as I look over my shoulder between the empty faces and see his image laughing smiling conversing with friends my eyes flare with envy I wonder why he is not with me but I know the face across the room is no longer John it is a door to a dream that will never come to life "A life lived in fear is a life half lived." Mirror þ Sylvia Plath ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful - The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important ot her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. "Don't believe in anything you can't break." Ä Garbage Mother þ Serena Lemick ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù i stared down to the boiling soup- the red bubbles- popping and splashing on my face. she brought me this- "eat it down" she said- her smile growing- eyes glowing. i cry- licking the tears when they run near my lips- mingling with the coppery taste of blood. almost reading my thoughts she screamed "you will never be- you will never live" i knew what she meant. i threw the soup- againt the already bloodstained walls- and on myself- covering my purity- killing my innocence. i spat on her- and left the room. i cried the night i killed her- drowning her in love- in her house of hate. i cry at my lost purity- innocence. now i live high on a mountaintop- alone in my mind. "I'm very possessive of my pain and just express it for how it is. I used to express my pain in ways that were terrible for other people. Ways you won't want to know about. This is how I do it now. Hopefully, there are things about my pain which are authentic and original and haven't been expressed 8,000 times by white males, and which people can find refreshing and relieving." Ä Courtney Love, regarding her music One Of Those Days þ Kurt Nimmo ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù when I'm not sure what my presence on the planet means. I think the poet d. a. levy was correct. We invent games to keep ourselves alive. Be it writing or painting or flipping burgers at the local Mickey D's. Its biological imperative that keeps us alive. J. P. Sartre told confidants upon the moment of his deathbed that everything he wrote about existence was bullshit. He didn't provide explanation or alternative hypotheses in the moments before he died. I drive to a McDonald's built on the edge of a farm field. Last year it was corn. This year it's McDonald's and a coming-soon subdivision. I take the drive-thru. I'm hungry and tired. Earlier in the day I had wanted to kill an office computer. It's now five o'clock in the afternoon. I wait in the drive-thru lane for dried-out burgers and cardboard fries. I think if life is not meaningless it is at least completely absurd. In such situations I consider myself a very small and insignificant fleck of existential flotsam momentarily adrift in the incomprehensible stew of the universe. I'm resigned in the face of it. I eat dried-out over-microwaved burgers. It's the easiest thing to do. J. P. Sartre wrote a lot of words that he disavowed at the end. Rimbaud wrote far fewer words which he also disavowed at the end. Maybe it is biological necessity that drives the human. My brain is designed to make the animal end of me find and consume nutrients. Even though sometimes I have to beg for it through a car window and microphone screen. "A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking." Out Of Body þ Greg Krehbiel ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Tom hated riding the bus. It was degrading to stand in the mud by the side of the road while his neighbors drove by sipping coffee and listening to the radio, but his budget simply couldn't stretch any more. Cutting out car insurance, gasoline and parking, although unpleasant, was easier than cutting out the bi-weekly case of Milwaukee's Best. "A man's gotta know his limitations," he said when explaining the situation to friends. His wife had been out of work for almost a year now, and despite a few temporary jobs here and there, which did little more than help them afford better beer, the only likely end to the financial crunch depended on the stock market. Their lifestyle belied the impressive and rapidly maturing stock portfolio that was supposed to fund their dream: raising horses in Kentucky. But that was still a couple years away, and Tom tried very hard not to think about it. Until then, life was just a matter of making do on a small budget. Tom left one Monday morning for the bus stop, turned the corner at the end of the court, gave a last wave in case his wife was watching, and then walked past the row of dilapidated cars that were always parked along the narrow street between his townhouse development and the main drag. His stop was near the beginning of the line, so he almost always got a seat. Today he sat next to a sleeping woman. He tried not to disturb her with his morning paper, but she woke when the edge of the sports page brushed her hand. "I'm sorry," Tom said. "I didn't mean to wake you." He gave her a quick once over: she was thin and somewhat plain. The short, rubber antenna of a cell phone stuck out of her breast pocket. "That's okay," she said. "I wasn't sleeping; I was walking around the arboretum." "Emergency! Break off contact," his mind told him, but he said, "Oh," and turned back to his paper. "No. I'm not crazy," she responded, guessing his reaction. "I was meditating. I can leave my body and visit other places." Tom laughed. "Sure," he said. "I'm serious," she persisted. "Haven't you heard of out-of-body experiences? I've been meditating for years now and I have a spirit guide who helps me. I can go anywhere I like." "Okay," Tom said, deciding to have some fun. "I'm game. I'll give you directions to my house. You go ahead and leave your body and go there, and then come back and describe it to me." She smiled indulgently. "Okay." It surprised Tom that she accepted his offer, but he gave her the directions and watched with some interest as she resumed her meditative posture. "If you don't mind," she said, opening her eyes. "I'd rather you not watch me." Tom shrugged, turned away and caught up on the Redskins while the bus continued to lurch its way down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He almost forgot about his meditative neighbor. "You live in a light brown townhouse with green shutters," the woman said as he got up to leave. "There are four azalea bushes and one holly tree planted in front of the house. Your car - a blue Plymouth Satellite, I believe - is parked in your space." Tom tried to hide his surprise. He couldn't remember if there were three or four azalea bushes in the front yard, but otherwise the description was right on, and Tom wondered how she could have guessed so accurately. She just laughed at him. She had a very distinctive laugh, almost like the sound of a songbird. "Impressive," was all he could say. She bowed her head at the compliment and Tom hurried off the bus before the driver decided to move on. That night he talked about it with his wife, Sandy, over a few cans of Milwaukee's Best. She was very concerned. "I'd stay away from her," she said in a fearful voice. "She's probably a Satanist or something." Tom chuckled. "I think she's just a weirdo who likes to pull people's legs. I doubt she's evil." "You never know," Sandy muttered. The next two days Tom saw no trace of the mysterious woman. He tried to forget the whole thing and tell himself that she was just lucky. But on Thursday morning, there she was, meditating in the same seat. Tom sat down next to her, picked up his paper and began to read. She remained in her trance until Tom folded his paper and got ready to go. "You forgot to take out the trash this morning," she said as he walked up the aisle toward the exit. Tom stared back at her, but he couldn't say anything. The people behind him were pushing him along. He could hear her laughing again as he stepped off the bus, bewildered. He decided not to tell his wife any more about the strange woman, but for the next few days he began to do quirky things as he left for the bus stop. He'd set a penny on the porch chair, or put the classified section of the paper in the mail box, or scratch a pattern in the dirt in front of the azaleas. There were four, just as Grace had said. On the following Tuesday morning he was running late and couldn't set up any tests for his psychic friend, and he regretted it when he stepped onto the bus and saw her sitting in her usual seat, eyes closed, meditating. Once again, she was silent for most of the trip. Just as Tom got ready to leave, she opened her eyes and spoke. "What time does your neighbor leave for work in the morning?" she asked. "The one in the gray house next door." "I don't know," Tom said. "After me." She nodded her head, somewhat sadly it seemed. "Why?" he asked. She shook her head, ever so slightly. "Never mind," she said. "Just bring your wife some flowers tonight, why don't you?" Tom wasn't sure what she was getting at, but he didn't have time to pursue it. Her cryptic words made him feel uncomfortable, and they certainly didn't make him feel like buying flowers. The next day the woman was there again and she smiled warmly when he sat down. "What were you talking about yesterday?" he asked. She shook her head and frowned. "It's a burden being clairvoyant," she said. "You find out things you don't want to know - things it would be better that you didn't know." She shook her head again. "Never mind. You don't need to hear it from me." "Is something wrong at my house?" She hung her head for a moment in silence. "Well," she said, as if resolving an internal question, "you'll find out sooner or later. Your neighbor has been visiting your wife after you leave for work." Tom felt his heart come into his stomach. How could it be? He thought he had a good relationship with Sandy. Why would she do something like that? His confusion quickly gave way to raw anger. He wasn't going to sit still for this. If she'd been unfaithful, she'd live to regret it. He'd make certain of that. "Has she been unfaithful to me?" he asked the mysterious woman. "I really don't want to get involved in this," she said, shaking her head, but Tom persisted. "You can't just drop something like that on me and then clam up," he said. "Tell me what you know." "It would be better if you heard it from her. Why don't you ask her if your neighbor came by today? Maybe you two can talk it out." She paused for a minute, empathy all over her face. "I'll be at the pool hall tonight if you need to talk." * * * This was cleaning day, and Sandy was wearing an old pair of boxer shorts and a sleeveless, cut-off t-shirt. She put her unwashed, long, blonde hair in a bandanna; she'd shower after she finished her chores. She liked to dress like this from time to time. It reminded her of crazy days at the beach when she was in college. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror she realized her figure hadn't suffered over the intervening years. But she was in a hurry to finish cleaning the bathroom before Sally Jesse came on. Sandy felt the cold bathroom tiles against her long, bare legs as she stretched to clean some dust that had accumulated behind the toilet. She accidentally bumped the line that ran from the water supply to the tank and the old plastic washer at the connection with the tank gave way. She screamed as the water ricocheted off the bottom of the tank and quickly soaked both her and all the freshly-washed bath towels. Before she could recover from the shock of the cold water against her bare stomach and turn the shut-off valve, the bathroom floor was completely flooded. She leaned back against the bathroom wall and sighed, wondering what to do. Just then she heard a car door slam outside and realized that James, the next door neighbor, was about to leave. He had always offered to help out if she needed anything. Sandy ran down the stairs and out the door, her dripping wet t-shirt and shorts pasted onto her body, and thumped on the hood of James' car just as he began to back out of his parking space. He turned to see who was banging on his car, but his angry expression was immediately replaced with a smile. He didn't seem to recognize her, but he was obviously looking her over. Sandy realized what was going on and looked down at herself, thankful that she had been doing the 20-minute workout four times a week for the last several months. * * * Tom sat in silence at the dinner table. Sandy didn't seem very talkative either. She usually greeted him at the door with a smile and a kiss when he got home, but tonight she seemed preoccupied, and the dinner was burned. "Did James come over today, by any chance?" he finally asked. Sandy looked up in surprise. Tom thought he noticed a hint of fear in Sandy's eyes, but she turned her head back down to her plate, toying with her chicken, and answered. "Yes, as a matter of fact. The toilet broke and he came over and fixed it for me. How did you know?" she said, looking at him again. Her face was inscrutable. "A little bird told me," he said. "I've got to go." He got up from the table and grabbed his jacket. "Where are you going?" Sandy asked. "To the pool hall," he said as he slammed the door. It felt good to slam the door. The fears and frustrations that mounted all day seemed to climax somewhere between Sandy's "yes" and slamming the door. Tom's face was stern as he walked briskly down his familiar route to the neighborhood pool hall. By the time he made it to the bar, he was more than ready for a drink. He set a $20 bill in front of him and pointed to the Budweiser sign. The bartender knew that look, even though he never expected to see it on Tom, and he knew better than to try to start conversation. "So I guess you know," the woman from the bus said as she pulled up the stool next to him. Tom's eyes didn't stray from the mirrored Coors Light sign behind the bar, but he could see her slipping into the tall bar seat in the reflection. He had always seen her on the bus, wearing a coat, and he was surprised at what he saw now. She wore a loose-fitting denim shirt over a black halter top and a pair of skin-tight jeans. She wasn't gorgeous, but it was easy to find something to like about her. "Yeah," Tom said. "She said he came over this morning." "I'm so sorry," she said, turning to face him and putting one arm on his shoulder and the other hand on his knee. "Did you talk about it?" Tom shook his head. "What's to say?" She took a sip from Tom's beer. He finished it, then held up two fingers to the barkeep. "I don't even know your name," he said, turning to look at her for the first time tonight. He hadn't sat this close to a woman at a bar for a long time. Her hand was still on his leg, and when he turned to face her, it moved up a foot. "Grace," she said, smiling, and then removed her hand from his leg to grab her beer. She took a long drink and then set the bottle down where her hand had been. Tom smiled. "They sell carry-out here, don't they?" she asked. Tom nodded. "Then let's get a six-pack and go outside where we can talk." * * * Tom got home late that night. He tried to crawl into bed without waking Sandy, but she rolled over and looked at him. He could see the pain in her eyes, but she said nothing. That was a clear admission of guilt as far as Tom was concerned. If she didn't have something to hide, she would have asked why he had stormed off the way he did. * * * The next morning Tom saw Grace in her usual seat, meditating, and he quietly joined her. She heard him sitting down and opened her eyes. "Did you talk things over with Sandy?" she asked. "Not really," Tom said, "but I know she's been cheating. It's written all over her face." Grace nodded. "What would you do if you could catch them in the act?" Tom felt a flush of rage as the picture formed in his mind. His eyes narrowed and he looked down at his lap for a moment, and then looked coldly into Grace's face. "I'd kill them both." A small fire seemed to kindle in the back of Grace's eyes, as if she secretly relished the idea as well. "Do you want to catch them in the act?" she asked. Tom nodded, and then he realized what she was offering. "Could you help me?" "My ex-husband cheated on me," she said, "but I was too timid to do anything about it." The self-reproach was obvious in her voice and expression. "I know what it feels like. Yes. I'll help you." The vision of Sandy in bed with James stoked the burning anger that was filling his whole body. He wanted revenge against Sandy, and as he looked at Grace, he realized he wanted it in more than one way. As the bus slowed for Tom's stop, they agreed to meet at the pool hall again that night and plan. Tom leaned over to kiss Grace. She shook her head slightly and smiled. "Not here," she whispered. * * * The bus ran every 25 minutes during the morning rush hour, which gave Tom the flexibility he needed for his plan. His boss didn't come in until 9:30, an hour and a half after Tom usually arrived, so he could miss two, or even three buses without getting into trouble. He left home at his normal time, not bothering to kiss Sandy good-bye. Their conversations had cooled to the bare essentials in the last few days, and neither of them seemed to want to solve the problem. Tom walked out of the court and around the corner to where the trees blocked sight of his house. Grace's conversion van was parked there. Tom tapped on the window and Grace opened the sliding side door to let him in. She was sitting in one of the two swivel chairs just behind the driver's and passenger's seats. Between the chairs was a small table on a pedestal, bolted into the floor. On the table was a thermos of coffee, some napkins and two bear claws. Behind the table the van had no permanent seating. The floor was carpeted, and the walls were covered with curtains, or perhaps bed sheets, that had a strange, starry pattern. Tom thought the style appropriate for a New Age aficionado who meditates and has out-of-body experiences. On the floor Tom saw a twin mattress and box spring. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and smiled. "That's where I do my meditation," Grace said, and added, with a bigger smile, "and other things. Have some coffee." Tom sat in the open seat and poured half a cup, then took a bite of his bear claw and thanked Grace for the unexpected food. They sat in silence, smiling at one another, and began to play little games with their feet under the table. In a few minutes they decided the flirting wasn't necessary and found themselves passionately kissing on the mattress, groping and tearing at clothes. An hour later, Tom poured himself another half cup of coffee from the thermos and waited patiently as Grace went into deep meditation. She sat in the lotus position on the center of the mattress for about ten minutes, and then opened her eyes. She stared blankly ahead for a few moments, breathing deeply, and then turned to look at Tom. "He didn't come over today," she said. "Sandy's doing laundry, and he's left for work." Tom shook his head and looked at his watch. "Do you think we'd better get going?" Grace checked her watch and smiled. "I think we can spare another twenty minutes or so." * * * The next day, Tom opened the van door to find Grace on the mattress, already meditating. He sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. He hadn't taken the first sip before Grace opened her eyes. "Today's the day," she said with a serious, almost evil look in her eyes. "He's there. Are you ready?" Tom reached into his briefcase and pulled out his .38 caliber revolver. "He came over almost as soon as you walked out the door. Go now. I'll watch," she said with a malicious smile, and closed her eyes, going back into her meditative trance. The anger that had been smoldering for days burst into fresh flame as Tom pictured Sandy and James together in his bedroom. He put the revolver in his jacket pocket and walked quickly back to his house, the anger growing with every step. He took his keys out of his pocket and prepared himself to open the door and run quickly up the stairs into the bedroom, before Sandy could react to his presence. Tom watched the bedroom window carefully as he approached the house. The curtains were drawn and still. He walked quietly up the four steps to his front porch, put his keys in his left hand and the revolver in his right. He quietly opened the screen door and then, in one quick motion, opened the front door and charged through, turning immediately right to go up the stairs. "Tom," Sandy's voice said from the living room. "What are you doing?" Tom stopped on the fourth step and looked into the dining room. Sandy was sitting at the table with a strange man in a suit. Tom brandished the pistol and walked toward them. The man's face was ashen. Sandy's was red. "What are you doing? Put that thing away," she said. "So it's not just James, now? Who's this?" he said, pointing to the well-dressed man with the pistol's 2-inch barrel. "James? What are you talking about? This is my lawyer." The man seemed to take that as his cue. He opened a file folder and set five 10 by 12 color photos on the dining room table. Each showed two naked people in bed, but Tom couldn't quite make them out from where he stood. "What's going on, here?" Tom said gruffly as he pulled one of the photos closer. His heart stopped. It was a picture of him and Grace. "I'm divorcing you, Tom," Sandy said. "Our pre-nup says you lose all property in the marriage if you're unfaithful." Tom pushed the photo violently at the lawyer and glared at Sandy. The pistol was still in his hand. "You witch," he said. "You were sleeping with James. That's why I did this," he said, pointing to the photos. Sandy blushed slightly, but her face was stern. "I never slept with James. What gave you that idea?." "But I've got..." Tom began. He was going to say "proof," but he realized he had nothing on her. Then he thought he heard something, as if it were far off in the back corners of his mind, but growing nearer. It was Grace's distinctive laughter, and she was laughing at him. "Why?" Tom asked, the hopelessness of his situation finally settling on him. He had lost everything. "I don't love you any more, Tom. I'm in love with someone else." Tom's world was crumbling around him. He didn't know what to say, but he wanted to hear it all now. There was no use in bleeding it out slowly. "James?" he asked. "No," she said, and then smiled a wicked smile. "Grace." "Ye shall know the Truth...and it shall make you confused." Ä Dr. G. L. Cardwell Pandora þ Sanctified ùúùúùúùúùúùú that little covered box holds the keys. my demented soul lies within. traveling through the everglades, i cannot find my way out. i'm lost - a time forgotten under circumstance. no one can ever know the pain we feel inside. i'll deny it to the end, deny it to my friends, deny it till i can fake it. a tired stained box holds the stones. a bleeding body lies below. wrapping up the price i have long since paid for misery. i cannot find my way home. i'm lost - a heart forgotten under circumstance. no one can ever know the pain we feel inside. i'll deny to the end, deny it to my friends, deny it till i can fake it. and please, when will you come save me? i don't want to be alone. i don't want to see myself - scared little fool. and no one will ever know the pain i feel inside. i'll deny it to my end, deny it to myself, deny it till i can fake it no more. "'Pretty on the inside.' Isn't that a great phrase? It's like when you're a little girl and all your friends have told you that you're ugly, and you're crying and sobbing and stuff, so you go to your mom and ask her if you're beautiful and she replies, 'Yes, dear, you're pretty on the inside.' Or maybe it's more Freudian than that. Maybe it's a reference to the vagina. Or maybe it refers to the way everybody judges everyone else on their looks and their dress and how the ugliest people can be the best-looking and the most beautiful people can be the most totally repugnant. Or maybe it's about pain, as the rest of life is, and how, no matter how much pain and torment you put your body through, you always have that inner core of self inside you, that indefinable something which keeps you sane and keeps you together. It's a great phrase anyhow. Evocative. Manipulative. Optimistic." Ä Everett True Rape þ Link ùúùúùú I. When it happens to your sister mother aunt girlfriend friend grandmother Will you say they were... Asking for it? II. You see. You like. You introduce. You mingle. You smile. She smiles. You talk. She talks. You dine. She dines. You kiss. She kisses. You feel. She does to. You touch. So does she. You keep going. She stops. You keep going. She stops. You keep going. She stops...... III. panting - of breath. The - hurting - of my heart. yelling - out in agony. screaming - in forgiveness. leaping - out of my skin. bleeding - from within. promising - it'll never happen again. Robert þ Janet Kuypers ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù I stand in a room full of strangers leaning against a wall a wallflower but I was content with knowing no one with knowing you beer glass in hand you introduce me to the vast assortment of drunken fools you call your friends and I stand there merely happy to be by your side a stranger intoxicated to the point of being comatose tells me I'm pretty but I really don't care because I have you you are all I need as the rest of the party imbibes to no end and you take yourself down the road to oblivion I stay leaning leaning against the wall and I watch you sing a song with your buddies laugh at the stupidest jokes eat dog food and I keep thinking that this was all I needed to be happy you seemed to be all that mattered in the world to me how was I to know that I was leaning against the wall because you gave me no support The Coming Of The Storm þ Shaun Allan ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù There is thunder in the distance. Can you feel it? Riding on Rolling on A thousand screams. Can you hear it? Blood dark, thick and rich. Can you taste it? Crushing on Cascading on A thousand dead. Can you smell it? Black and cold and close and tight. Can you see it? There is thunder in the distance. A storm is coming. There is no shelter to be found. "What can go wrong...will go wrong." Ä Dr. C. Friedman The Death of Gully Hand þ Beau Blue ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù What's madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance? - Roethke Perhaps, In a time of loneliness, After the heat has slithered past a gravel afternoon And slipped into the coolness of the evening's lap, Perhaps You've heard the sidewalk singers, Striking single notes and humming tunes In strange erotic keys. Maybe, While walking down a neon skirted street, The cedar sweet aroma of a freshly painted wall Has lured you past the shopfronts To a secondary doorway, a sanguine colored hall Where the incense smoke and music, Hanging in the air, Swirling with precision smoothness Up black-mat covered stairs, Leads you past reality to a pitted wooden door And leaves you standing desperately Expecting something more. Something more than moving shadows Something more ... And the minutes pass unevenly They stumble through the alleyways and grieve At opened windows someone left to catch the breeze. The minutes sound like barking dogs And feel like whispered wind. The minutes tease. They end ... and they begin ... And the minutes pass unevenly. As sidewalk singers, dressed in singers' uniforms (The faded jeans and flannel shirts and dirty shoes) Huddle in a disinfectant hall to pay their dues. Mount Mercy's nurses lead them through To send them on their way unused. They walk away in single file, Across fatigue towards apathetic peace To search the asphalt for release And taste the steel mill's sulfur by the mile. They make an odd parade. The men and women stare. With their labels firmly tacked in place Mrs. Dunham turns from them, She never sees a face. She just locks her door and slowly climbs the stairs And to fill the space She mutters softly, "What has this world come to?" But she doesn't really care. We walk away in single file And stop to ask the children of the streets, "Where are we now?" They only look up impishly and smile. "We've lost our way somehow! Where are we now? Where are we now?" The minutes pass in muted cries And sirens wailing to the skies. We lie on sweat stained mattresses And dream, But we never close our eyes. For we have burned our coats and our cotton dresses, Called to tell our mothers lies, And now we stand alone To press our cheeks against a wooden door. Perhaps you understand the reasons why? Perhaps, you've been this way before? "What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that 'shaping' force, which prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness than God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is the kind of madness which is worst..." Ä Sylvia Plath The Red Heart And The Silver Heart þ Ray Heinrich ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú the red heart and the silver heart the first filled with blood the second with the lightness of clouds the red heart sharp knife swings at your finger never mind who (maybe your other hand) but the steel inside you stops the knife with the skin split and the blood waits and the two sides of flesh are translucent and the bone at the bottom is white and gray and then the blood comes to relieve this paleness to give it life flowing easily warmly thickly brightly but later it is almost black the red heart filled with blood the silver as thin as breath watch a tree throw itself against the sky the silver heart believes the tree is the forked tongue of some creature buried beneath the earth licking the air getting a taste of the sun and the red sees only blood the red heart and the silver heart on quiet nights hear each other beating between their own beats hearing the voice of the other hearing the voice of blood hearing the voice of air and between the beats of both hear the continents miles down rubbing rock against rock singing with their heat miles and miles down the red heart and the silver heart keep slivers of consciousness magic like the rocks are magic living in the weather that comes from the sun and at night the red goes on the heart filled with blood filled with the brilliant blood goes on but the silver heart must rest from writing down the story from whole pages of hands needing eyes and much is missed but the silver heart must rest the red heart swells again with blood again with temples and sacrifice of black obsidian blades striking down to stone with only a million ribs between the red heart fills and empties many times and drinks it all as food and still is hungry while the silver sleeps the red heart and the silver heart read the list of names and they are always finding more engraved in walls printed in books and the names they roll roll from the silver roll into the red and all the names yours too the red devours "The Heart has its reasons which Reason knows not." Ä Blaise Pascal This Twilight Garden þ The Cure ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú I lift my lips from kissing you to kiss the sky cloud soft and blue and slow the sun melts down into your golden words for me I lift my hands from touching you to touch the wind that whispers through this twilight garden turns into a world where dreams are real noone will ever take your place I am lost in you noone will ever take your place so in love with you I lift my eyes from watching you to watch the star rise shine onto your dreaming face and dreaming smile you're dreaming worlds for me I lift my lips from kissing you and kiss the sky wide deepest blue and slow the moon swims up into your golden words for me noone will ever take your place I am lost in you noone will ever take your place so in love with you "Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence." Ä H. L. Mencken This Weekend þ HappyMonk ùúùúùúùúùúùú gently flowing over me this torrent of sound that holds me and cries me to sleep close myself to the world for that one fleeting moment just myself wishing i was with you stared into your eyes too long made a world inside my head losing control letting the waves carry me away held onto thoughts of you knowing it would never last leaving so soon a hug and a goodbye now i start over left somewhere in the middle of the sea swimming away from your shore my mind a broken anchor pulling me down staring back at myself breathing water body convulsing in protest laughing in triumph thought i knew it all i knew too much i think too much never want to think again want to ride that wave and fall asleep "Music is good to the melancholy, bad to those who mourn, and neither good nor bad to the deaf." Ä Benedict Spinoza To My Daughter, Nancy. þ Deborah Spungen ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú Sweet Baby Welcome I only came to say hello I cannot stay Loving arms hold tight Don't go! Don't go! But even loving arms could not hold the golden thread She slipped way and never said good-bye. "Children who face great life-threatening traumas at birth share many of the same personality characteristics. They spend much of their lives angry. Their behavior is often violent, much of it self-directed..." Ä Deborah Spungen Untitled þ Bob ùúùúùúùú Dying of love, I yet will not declare The happy malady of which I die Because I fear lest any come to cure The sweetness of the anguish that I sigh. "There are two types of people: those who are masochists and sadists, and those who have no desire to inflict pain or get pain, and that's the majority of people. [We're] completely in the minority." Ä Courtney Love Untitled þ HappyMonk ùúùúùúùúùúù dipping my foot in the sea-green mirror testing her surface to see if it's cold looking back once but only to leave her taking the chance for the hand i could hold left her behind left her alone left her behind sleeping somewhere in the back of my mind ...never give her the time to find where i've gone watching her walk as she's leaving my dream staying behind with a wing on the floor serpent with feathers of golden and green tempting and leaving me wanting her more left me behind left me alone left me behind sleeping somewhere in the back of my mind ...never give me the time to know that i'm gone waiting so long for someone who sees me reeling in quiet when nobody does missing the way that it all used to be learning the way that it all had become Untitled þ Molina ùúùúùúùú Heart stopped beating, breathing ceased - The world stood still that moment Tried to soak everything in, Wanted to remember that second of joy Closed my eyes and smiled - My soul danced as I cried to myself Attempted to shake off the shock, Failed, managing only to stir old thoughts This day I had only dreamed of - So surreal and impossible Yet there I stood, mouth open in awe, My heart calmed to a racing thud Cleared my mind long enough, Just to remember my pain Ignored the urge to explode in words - Instead taking my quiet submission You taunt me endlessly with your games, Surely you know the harm you cause Now so fed up with the pain - I give into what I have left The realization stuns me, that - Hate is such a beautiful thing "Yeah, she's the nigga of the world you love to hate. Kicker is, she always loves to hate you back." Ä Charles Aaron, regarding Courtney Love Untitled þ Molina ùúùúùúùú you turn your back as i approach. i see the disapproval in your eyes. your hate for me radiates from your aura clear as day. you try so hard to hide it from me. your attempts are made in vain. the resentment in your voice chills my blood. now so frozen i take my leave. don't cry for me when i'm gone. for that is truly what you wanted. i peel the scabs back. exposing the cuts for what they truly are. i poke the needle in a bit deeper. shuddering to self inflicted pain. the glass marks my skin in funny little patterns. my wrists look beautiful under so much crimson liquid. so much crimson liquid. my body covered in powder. chemicals pump through my viens. no more emotions cloud my eyes. my pale white face stares up at you coldly. you know the smirk on my cold flesh is directed towards you. my last thoughts were of you and how much i hated myself. in front of others you cry. claim your heart is breaking in two. aren't you afraid they can hear you laughing on the inside. i peel the scabs back. exposing the cuts for what they truly are. i poke the needle in a bit deeper. shuddering to self inflicted pain. the glass marks my skin in funny little patterns. my wrists look beautiful under so much crimson liquid. so much crimson liquid. "That's what relationships are about: repulsion and attraction. These are the desirable relationships, but then we're a little more sensitive than a lot of stupid people who are happy to be in a nice relationship and are happy to live a nice life and not desire anything else. They don't desire truth and they don't desire hate. They don't desire evil and they don't desire decadence and they don't desire purity..." Ä Courtney Love Wrecked þ Bloodshot ùúùúùúùúùúù i see nothing within her eyes. i see darkness taking over. a beautiful soul being destroyed. i see nothingness becoming her. a loathsome individual walking the plains. the plains of a thousand miles. the miles of cruelty. she ponders her ways of existence through the space of society. counting the mindless times of abuse of her predecessors. she switches her eyes and gradually more on guard. fleeing the painful sights that she sees coming in many people's eyes. and she goes, into darkness. this extremely tortured angel casts her glimpse among the skies and lets them swallow her whole. her beliefs in anything defaced and her movements blurred. she sweeps away into the mists until she's taken by the sun. "I envy those people - those Russian farmers who live to 120 years on yogurt with their simple lives. They don't have any stress. But it's no fun..." Ä Courtney Love ßÜ ÜßÜÝÜßÜ ßÜÞÜß Ü Ü Üß Ü ÜßÜ ÝÜßÜß ÜßÜßÜ ßÜßÜ ÜßÜßÞÜß ÜßÜ Ü ßÜÜßÜß ßÜßÜÜß Ü ßÜßÜÝÜßÜß ÜßÜ ßÜ ßÜ ß ßÜßÜß Üß Ü Ü ßÜÝÜß Üß ÜßÜ ßÜÜßÜßÜ Üßßß Üß Û Ü ÜßßÜÞ ÜßÜß Ü ßÜßÜÜ ßÜß Üß ßÜÜß Üß Ü ßßÜßÝßÜß ÜÜ ßÜßßÜ ß Üß ÜßßÜÜß ÜßßÜ ßÝß ÜßÜ ßÜßßÜ ß Üß ÜßßßÝÜß ÜÜßÜÞÜßÜß ÛÞßßÜ ß ß ÜÜßÜßÜß ÜßÜÞÜß ÜßÜÝßÜÜß Ü Üßßßß ßÜßÝÜßÜÜßÜß Ü Ü Ü Ü ßÜ ßÜ ßÜßßßÜÜßÝÜÛßÜßÜÜß Üß Üß Üß Ü ßÜßÜ ßÜÜßÜßÜßÜßÜßÜÜÛÛÛÜßßÜßÜßÜßßßÜÜß ÜßÜß ßÜßÜßÜßÜßßÜ ßÜ ßÜßÜß ß Ý ß ßÜ ßÜßÜ ßÜßÜßÜßßÜ ÜßßÜßÜ ßÜßÜ ßÜ ß Þ ß ß ß ß ß Ý Ý Þ ß ùtwiù Legalize. ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù Submit your original literary works for Spilled Ink, [volume eleven], to Twilight via Internet e-mail: twilight@mail.utexas.edu ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù