It has to do
With the
Call I received
On the wires
Will to
Navigate through
The undone
Scenes of a dream,
Or the simple
Position of
The past, like
A lurking dish
That doesn't
Stop spinning. I
Have the eye, I
Only need some
Vision to compro-
Mize the dull
And dirty street.

In the company
Of town, I walk,

�

Short Story Intro

Witherspoon accepted his appointment with the severity of one who is expected to assume a greater responsibility

than previously held. He had been long waiting to be slotted into a position of elevated status - he deserved it. He was

grateful. There was more than a few schizophrenic patients on the ward who would have been able to water the plants, so

the honor was not at all lost on Witherspoon.


From a work in progress of original short stories...

Eighth Street

I took a train
past 8th street
not knowing
that I'd never
stop... there
was an un-
earned thing
called grace,
but it did not
fit me any-
where...

The landlady
was unrelent-
ing in her beliefs,
room rentals
did not include
meaning.

I was as good
as anyone who
had tumbled
into sackcloth...
a unit of mea-
sure was made
from my coat...

if, buddy, you
think wearing
medals is strange,
try your own skin
for protection...

The rail ran,
then,past eighth
street... she was
sleeping still when
I locked the door
behind me... no
body deserves
bullshit... not you.
not me, not
anybody...

Baby's Fat Hat

Once in a mad
while I see the
tip of my gal's
hat, like a steamer
pulling out into
the sea, heading
to that other
shore, marked
like neon's
outline of
where to be,
a disciple
in the distant
perfection,

ever it grows more
likely that her hat
will no longer
fit her, as she
becomes a
further
darkness. Once
in a while
we still converse,
as if in being
left behind, I
had finally
found a few words.

I talk to a sha-
dow huddled as
memory. She'd
thought she'd
thrown it off, the
deep hell in
shade cast
on her eye. She's
moved on, that's
all. There's no
difference now
betwen what's
past, and that is
yet remaining,
in the ruins
beyond the wall.