Nascent Paranoia


Cracked into the sidewalk

Spread out everywhere

Sunny side down

Dragged under a thick syrup

Of my own sorrow

I can’t breathe

Drowned in my own thoughts

A wind howls in my mind

Orders me to march

Obediently I follow

Unable to contain myself

I feel no remorse

The guilty never do

I wander


Strike rocks against each other

Just to see a spark

Anything that I can follow

Lead me back to reality

To see the leaves fall

To hear my footsteps in an empty hallway

To watch the hawk again

The one with a pigeon

Talons like knives

Preyed on the weak

I prayed for the prey

But somebody has to live



Snap my fingers

Just to show how brief it really is

A stomp on the ground is more like it

Like stepping on a cockroach

Sad but necessary


I feel like I’m being watched

They talk about me I can hear it

The one that’s furthest way

I could harm

One day I will be the cockroach

Under god’s shoe, he says

I know that

Like a cactus knows how to cling onto water


Thirst hits me at the back of my throat

Between my tongue and esophagus

Need reality

Just like that

A taste

But I boarded a plane without a pilot

I don’t ever see it grounded

I only see myself

Cracked into the sidewalk

Spread out everywhere

Sunny side down…

I Will Hold You

Follow my voice- I’m over the fence

That’s it, yeah the wooden one

Chipped and painted on white

Millions of times

Without jumping, or climbing over

What do you hear?

Birds chirping- singing

Grasshoppers rubbing their wings

Engines zooming by

Growling and whining

Scratching and huffing

Scraping and digging

Something is coming your way

Hold on

I will hold you

You hear that, I will take care of you

Everything stopped

Grasshoppers don’t do little tunes around birds.

I.W.Y. Part Three

It was possible. For the most part, Dumpster Dave and Carol were inseparable. They had all the wealth they needed, and neither had to do strenuous work. Dumpster Dave spent his time reading in his library and Carol lounged with him. Or they relaxed by their garden together telling stories. Occasionally though, Carol would use her workshop, and on those times Dumpster Dave would drive out to the lake and walk and take in fresh air. It made their relationship work. They gave each other space when they needed to. But now he speculated that it was also enough time to do other extracurricular work. His heart pounded. Dumpster Dave needed to look through the window at once. Perhaps, more evidence would show and hopefully prove him wrong about Carol.

Dumpster Dave glued himself to the window again over the course of several days. He saw nothing until on one occasion there was a picnic set up on the floor of the workshop and it was set up for two. His suspicion was correct. There was a fresh pie cut up, and dishes strewn and filled with crumbs. A crumpled bedspread laid on the floor, then he saw a man open the door to the workshop. The same man as before. He opened it and waited, as if to open the door for a woman. But Dumpster Dave couldn’t bare it and stopped looking through. He stormed out of the workshop.

He would have to get rid of the workshop. Burn it down if he had to. She had been an angel to him and that was soiled now. At least it hadn’t been inside his home… or had it? No he couldn’t bare the thought. He would burn it! Nobody had to know he had been made a fool. The shame would remain with him and the rest burn into ashes. Along with that damn window. Dumpster Dave went into the workshop carrying a five gallon gas tank. He started pouring gasoline frantically in every direction. On top of everything that reminded him of her. Would he look for this man? And do what.. confront him? Too many questions muddled his brain as he splashed around the tank.

Then, what Dumpster Dave saw next, as he was going to pour the last bit of gasoline onto the floor, shook him and made him drop to the floor. The scene unfolding beneath him on the window was his wife, dead. A pool of blood widened around her. He stared at the scene before him. A knife laid beside Carol. She had her wrists slashed multiple times. She was holding something, a piece of paper. It was full of blood now. Standing over her, he saw it was himself and he was bending over, reaching in for the paper. He grabbed it and began reading it, then the paper fell lightly like a feather from his hands and he placed both palms on top of his hands in disbelief. Suddenly he dropped to the floor like the Dumpster Dave on top had done before and punched the floor wildly. He reached for the knife and when it looked like he was going to hurt himself he threw the knife across the room. Dumpster Dave saw his right fist and saw it was scarred. He kept watching below and he saw himself look up at him. His own eyes widened as the Dumpster Dave below him stared back and mouthed the words, “It was you.” Then he grabbed the paper that had fallen and stuffed it inside a box he had found from some corner out of view. Then the window darkened.

Dumpster Dave searched for the box. He toppled over everything until he found it. He busted open the lid and grabbed the paper with his wife’s blood dried on the surface. Barely legible he could see it was a contract signed by a Margaret and herself. It stated the workshop to be rented to Margaret to be used for her projects on weekends for a sum of $40 dollars a week, dated several weeks before Carol’s death. It was you. Dumpster Dave reached into his pocket and took out the box of matches he had brought. He struck one and the workshop, and the window and his guilt and everything else disappeared into the air.