Naptime

April 20th, 2008 at 6:10 pm (Poetry/Prose)

I wake up and it’s like a hundred years have passed.
My eyes struggle to focus,
There’s this nagging pain, lost somewhere at the base of my neck.
I turn and joints creak, my feet slip from the covers and touch carpet.
I rise for the first time immediately regretful, uncomfortable.
I should be somewhere else.

Anywhere but here, really,
Anywhere beyond the sheltered walls and soft comforts of home.
Pleasure is a gift, a reward extended to the worthy.
Still groggy I’ve sense enough to question whether I’ve anything resembling virtue.
Still, I breath through habit, reflex, unable to take the leap and stop.
Unable to close my eyes again, at least until another day is through.

I follow the sun.
That’s honest, right?
It’s ups and downs the measure by which I chart time.
Abiding its cycles I make more sense,
The structure becomes refreshing
After a while.

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Pip’s Pools

April 8th, 2008 at 7:42 am (Scene)

Enter two young men, around 20 years of age, standing alongside a pool, in the backyard of a nice, ritzy house. Each is in uniform, ruffled, unkempt jumpsuits proclaiming ‘Pip’s Pools’ in bright yellow lettering. Each stands completely transfixed, speaking in hushed tones, looking into the pool’s center.

Steve and Bryan, the pool boys, stand side by side. Bryan, being the larger, holds a long, teal pole with a net on its end, meant for catching leaves. Steve, for his own part, holds on to the bucket.

BRYAN
Steve, oh man, Steve…

STEVE
What?

BRYAN
(prodding the floating body softly with the pole)
Is he? Do you think?

STEVE
Is he what? Am I a doctor, I don’t know. He isn’t moving…

BRYAN
You don’t float like that, right? Face down and stuff.

STEVE
Yeah Bry, actually you do, I do it all the time, the water smells better that way.

BRYAN
Whoa, really? I always thought it smelled just, kind of, chlorine-ey. Pool smell, you know.

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Dirt and Lousy Conversation

April 1st, 2008 at 6:49 pm (Poetry/Prose)

I’m reluctant to tell you how I think things might wind up.
Not that I’m a pessimist,
I just think dirt makes for lousy conversation.

Polite society can’t say the sort of things I’d like to tell you.
Shovel by shovel, hand in hand,
I’m yours, baby, in pine and covered by worms.

I’m face down, facing eternity.
I’m the memory of us,
A small patch of green and maybe if I love you long enough flowers will grow.

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