Unblinking

I take the evening walk home over snow-dusted yards and sidewalks as the cars are turning on their lights. The wind throws my white breath behind me, but I don't mind. I suck in the cold till it burns in my lungs, and keep watching my shoes as my cheeks go numb. I haven't slept in 28 hours, I haven't dreamed in 22 months, and I haven't eaten since Wednesday unless tomato soup counts.

The public library stays open till nine. Somehow, I take comfort in that as I'm trudging past it tonight. Its lights shine on past dinnertime and if you play your cards right, a book might come home with you. I curl up with books but never finish them. I guess I'm waiting for the right one to come along; a story out of love with its hero, by a writer nobody knows, though he knows us all so well.

Up the narrow steps to the door with the tarnished knob. Every journey of mine begins and ends right here, night in and day out, no way out and nobody knows, because I keep things to myself. The old lady downstairs takes half my pay on the first of every month, and she's nice about letting me know when my TV gets too loud. Inside, the bathroom mirror shows the whites of my eyes, stained pink with bloodshot lies – the only painkiller I ever tried.

By the smudged glass of the window in my room, to the faint, flat light of the unblinking moon, I lay unredeemed, unable to dream or even to sleep, wishing I could finish a book, or keep one promise or find my way back to the last day of my life that mattered. I don't know if there's a God, but somebody must be watching, because I can't get this stupid show to end. 

Somebody's watching. Is it you?

Sleeping Pill Swallow

Unisom is the flavor of the month.

I downed the capsule five minutes ago, which means I should be snoozing in a half hour or so. If I'm lucky.

It's almost 7 a.m. here. Most everyone's waking up now in my city. I haven't slept. I don't sleep. I stay up all night, then I take a sleeping pill, then I hope sleep comes to me. Yes, this is typical.

I've been insomniac for years – since the Clinton presidency, in fact. The sleeping pills are a new thing; not quite the last resort, but still a drastic measure for me. And they don't always work unless I take two of them.

But then I tend to sleep way too long. 

When I wake up, I'm back in the cycle again. 

At midnight, I'm at the gym, pretending to lift weights, flexing for the mirror, running on a treadmill. I get home at 1 or 2 a.m., and I'm still wired. I write, I read, I try to relax, and next thing I know, it's dawn. Sunbeams lined across my floor.

No. I don't do cocaine or meth. Never have, never will.

I used to call this an occupational hazard. Busy nights and rushing deadlines. My neurons and synapses all bursting and firing and crackling past midnight so I can finish my work. But I get home and can't find the switch to wind myself down. 

The grocery stores stay open all night. Sometimes, I wander around in them at pre-dawn like a little boy lost, buying this and that, because I might as well get something done if I'm not going to sleep. I hope I don't look as gone as the rest of the ghouls roaming Wal-Mart’s nocturnal aisles. 

Mostly I write. If I've got nobody to write to and nothing important to work on, then I call it a blog entry. 

It's been a good 20 minutes. The Unisom's taking its sweet time. I finished a box of Sleepinol capsules last week; little light-blue pills that looked like Smurf eggs. They worked better. I ought to shoot an e-mail to Consumer Reports; maybe they can use a freelance article reviewing the effectiveness of over-the-counter sleep aids?

If I get to sleep before 8 a.m., then I'll wake up around 3 in the afternoon. That's plenty of ZZZZZ for me. It's sure as hell enough to keep me up all night again. 

I'm slightly dizzy now. 

Can I close my eyes now and listen to the soothing whoosh of my central air, the sound of soft morning rain painting the streets outside a nice shiny grey? I used to imagine myself in a meadow, under a tree, just a boy surrounded by little white puppies, so playful. That doesn't work anymore.

I haven't had a dream in ages. Not any that I can remember. I might be disappointed if I could. Maybe all my dreams are of boring things, like instructions for assembling refrigerators, or road maps of Nebraska. There's got to be some reason why my mind doesn't bother to save my dreams.

I better stop now. I fear I'm doing a better job of putting you to sleep, than myself. 

Until next time.

My Fake Smile

Look closely at the picture. That's me. Me, with my fake smile on. The lips pull backward, upward into a grimace that's easily mistaken for a genuine expression. But it's not. See the eyes? There's a disconnect between the expression in them and the attempted smile below.

A smile always starts in the eyes, you know.

Studies can't be done, but I'd guess the average person sees 2 to 3 fake smiles per day. Or uses them himself (or herself). People in the service industry probably see and use a lot more of them than others, but I shouldn't digress. Fake smiles wouldn't be so common if they weren't necessary.

And of course, they're necessary. We're only human, but society would like us to behave pleasantly toward strangers, not to be a burden on every living creature who crosses our path, no matter what worries us. No matter what heavy thoughts and considerations we all drag around inside our heads. When we interact with strangers, we must S~M~I~L~E.

I don't have a problem with that. I do admit, I'm not the most smiley person God ever flung down to Earth. I'm one of those people who always accidentally looks unhappy unless he's smiling, so I actually have to try harder to smile. That means, of course, that my fake smile is easier to spot than others. I live with it.

Anyway, there it is. I do have a real smile that I break out and show people now and then -- at least, some people say they've seen it before. But you know how folks can exaggerate. Maybe I smiled. Or maybe it was only a smirk, or a grin or a sardonic twist at the corner of my mouth. Who knows?

Anyway, if I ever catch my own real smile on camera, I might show it to you.

Maybe.

But today, I'm sorry. You'll have to settle for the fake one.

The Quiet Visitor

Isn't this the chair you sat in every time I came to visit?

I see it here now, pushed back from the table and turned to one side. What were you thinking the last time you left it this way?

Where did you go?

And this. Is this the glass you sipped from on those long afternoons you spent trying to sustain us? It's nice, this glass. Warm to my touch. But when was the last time you held it in your hand?

The room's as cluttered as I remember it, but somebody is missing. I should straighten one of those picture frames on the wall, but I'm so clumsy, I'd knock them all down.

Where's the light? It gets dim here at this time of day. I guess I didn't realize how shadowy the room could become without one of us to liven it up. How many days did you sit in this chair by yourself, waiting for me to appear?

The rest of the world is so much bigger than this room, and so is your heart. I know you're out there somewhere and I hope every day finds you less lonely than the last. I guess I'm not really going anywhere for a while. So I'll stay here and keep these dreary walls awake until you return.

You won't know it. But I was here. Are you sure that glass is in the exact same place you left it?

He's missed and missing and misses you, but he's a million miles away. So smile,

laugh,

cry,

run,

and live, you wild little heart.

Forgive me for being gone.

Salt

The gaunt man wearing the sunglasses picked up the shaker of salt at his table, held it over his green beans, hesitated, and put it down again, shaking his head. Across the dining area of the restaurant, an aristocratic woman in a green dress watched him from behind her upraised glass of tea.

She thought: Well, is he going to use the salt or not?

The man poked a forkful of green beans into his mouth and chewed vigorously, then reached for his salt shaker again. His fingers wavered just short of it and the man sighed. He was unaware of the woman in the green dress.

What could his dilemma be? the woman mused, swishing an ice cube in her warm mouth. And why does he wear those shades in here? She watched him drum his fingers on the tabletop in front of the salt shaker.

The man noticed, with vague wonder, that he was getting an erection. The rustling and tightening in his crotch quickened his heartbeat. He could even feel the stitching in his underwear. He squirmed in his chair to offset the discomfort and thought about salt. First, he imagined huge trucks with mountains of salt stored in their beds. Then, he envisioned that little girl with the umbrella and the short skirt, skipping cheerfully through a downpour of salt. Sexy. He seized the salt shaker.

This is it! thought the woman as she watched. He has made up his mind! Somehow, this man’s rendezvous with the salt shaker had aroused some unbidden fascination in her. This, she mused, must be what Mondays do to middle-aged women like me. While some people debated gun control and right-to-life issues, here was a man utterly torn between eating his green beans with or without salt. She watched, not caring anymore if he happened to notice she’d taken an interest. She watched.

In his mind, he saw nymphette, vulnerable women slithering like snakes across hot, shiny flats of salt. He saw the Morton salt chick standing in the sodium rain, delicately drawing up her skirt just for him to see. An unclothed housewife sucked the salt from the mailman’s sweaty abdomen. YES! HE WANTED SALT! HE WANTED IT WANTED IT WANTED IT!

He shook the shaker violently. Crystals of salt landed in his food, on his table, and on his suit. He thrust his thick-feeling tongue out to catch the flying sodium like a six-year-old tasting the first snow of the winter. Behind his mirror shades, his eyes widened and jittered with horrendous glee.

The aristocratic-looking woman was aware that her mouth had popped open as the shaded man threw some kind of tantrum in his chair, which now squeaked and creaked undter his sudden upheaval. Amidst the shock of the stranger’s eruption, a single ice cube melted on her tongue.

The man’s shades finally toppled from his twisted, grimacing face as he stood and thrust the salt shaker into his pants, still shucking it. He grinned broadly at the woman in green, but seemed not to notice her. Nor did he notice the stout, wide-eyed waiters who were making their way over to restrain him. Nor did he notice that his green beans were getting cold.

The woman never ate at that restaurant again, and for reasons she couldn't consciously place, she never again wore her green dress. 

Reach

Splayed like legs of a spider,

Faceless yet so alive,

Or squeezed solid fleshy stone

Extracting everything from nothing.

Troubled tense and trembling, like

Weeds in the midwinter wind,

Reaching yearning

To touch something real,

And warm,

And kind.

My hand is a white hotel

Where Elvis sometimes stays.

Yesterday I saw his solemn face

Peering out my middle fingernail.

All Shook Up but so tender,

Crazy but meaning no harm.

Baby baby,

Just let me feel you

With this hunka’ hunka’ burning love.

Because –

I stretch farther than great rivers

To dip fingers in something real.

I tear into the guts of the night

To uncover all my pain,

And you cast dark eyes upon me,

Say this hand is timid and weak

But –

You should see how gentle, like

A cloud caressing the sky.

You should see how deadly, like

A spider on your throat.

Long Shadow Monologue

Middle age is encroaching. These days, it's not easy to tell the difference between ruin and renewal. There is a point of uncertainty where they feel exactly the same. 

The doors around you all blow open and people go out of your life. Sometimes, they just walk out. Other times, other forces take them. Either way, you hope the departures leave room for new arrivals -- new people, new ideas, new challenges, new blessings or whatever. 

But while you're hoping, there's this time of creeping uncertainty, a stretch of fear and loneliness. It's like being stranded. Maybe this time won't last for long; something or somebody will come along and re-energize you, get you off your ass and moving and thinking and feeling again.

Or maybe this time, nothing. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe this time, it's YOU who has to change, who must alter sacred beliefs that once served you well. Do you honestly know yourself at the moment, or are you sticking to old routines, or an old career, or an old car, that's just not YOU anymore?

Your children grow, their faces and bodies change. They speak to you differently, in deeper voices, and you really can't hug them as much as you'd like anymore. It's too weird and they won't understand, they can't know that when you put your arms around them for a gentle squeeze, you're trying to hold something in, hold it back, keep it from slipping away or at least feel the last fleeting traces as it fades out, as they grow away from you.

Their eyes worry. They don't understand.

And what about that person in your bed, or all the different people who come to your bed? Is this working out? Could you be happier? If you won't improve the situation now, and it won't necessarily improve itself, then what? Then when? 

Hey, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?

You can still meet the appearance when you're out there, but in here, alone, time is catching up. You're sucking in your gut a lot more nowadays and the weight doesn't just fly off the way it used to. You have to work at it. Maybe it's time to buckle down and get serious about this body of yours before it slips into total disrepair. 

Until such a time when you're exercising enough to have the energy to exercise enough, you're gonna need help. Maybe a cosmetic procedure, if it's not too costly. Maybe a whole new wardrobe, something bold and splashy. Or a new set of wheels, something fast and curvy and shiny.

Life changes, friend. If you can't roll with the punches, and make the bold adjustments when they're called for, you'll wither like a garden before the coming winter. Instead of taking action, you'll worry yourself even faster into old age, maybe even to an early grave. The real problem is you're working too hard, isn't it? And for what? For a bunch of people who have no idea, that's for what.

As if you didn't give up certain dreams to make everyone else's world a better place? Ha. You did! You made the sacrifices. You've lived almost half your life for other people. Do they appreciate it? Do they? If they did, would you be losing this much sleep?

Well. It's time to start living life for YOU, isn't it? Because God knows, you only get to live it once.

So step right up and check in. They've been expecting you here at this big ramshackle inn, and they have held your reservation all this time.

Welcome to your midlife crisis. Here's your room key.

ScribbleFace

Every picture tells a story. This one tells the story of ScribbleFace, the man who would be replaced. Once he had eyes that saw, a nose that sniffed and a mouth that spoke too soon. But not anymore.

One morning while the birds sat high in the trees outside their house, while the mister stayed awake in his office downtown and Dr. Phil lectured overweight alcoholics in the living room, the misses slipped the photo out of its frame, scanned it, and applied the black magic of Photoshop to her marriage. 

When he pushed open the front door that evening and walked past her in the kitchen where she prepared a colorless meal, she muttered his new name under her breath, and it tickled her.

ScribbleFace. The eyes that lost their spark for her - erased. The nose that could no longer detect the perfume she misted on her neck - gone. The mouth that suggested she stop spending so much time online and try that Adkins diet - silenced. Oh, he could still speak, but now, now his words tumbled through an irreparable void she'd carved out. Soon, he'd disappear into it too. And she'd be a free, fun, sensual woman again.

She placed a personal ad, with this photo, on a picture-rating site. Cleverly, she inscribed the caption "this could be you!" on the photo, over ScribbleFace's head. After several more weeks of lukewarm dinners, dreamless nights and petty fights with ScribbleFace, she logged on one breezy afternoon and found Prince Charming waiting. 

Who's the lucky guy in the pic standing next to you? asked the Prince, in bold blue IM font.

LOL .... that's ScribbleFace, she replied.

Hi, ScribbleFace ... LMAO, the Prince typed next.

Shhhh. Don't wake him. I want you all to myself, she typed next, in her usual light pink lettering.

You want me all to yourself? Now I'm scared ... lol, he typed.

Grrrrrr. You better be! I like to get WILD, her pink letters declared.

When was the pic taken? he asked.

Recently, she quickly typed back.

Recently? LOL. When is that? 1994? his blue letters mocked.

No silly it's not that old, she promised, in pink.

Bill Clinton was still in office in 1994, the Prince replied.

Its not that OLD!! come on, be nice, she sent back.

LOL ... If you say so! But why are you wearing your night gown in the pic? asked Monsieur Charming.

Pardon me! That's an EVENING gown, little boy. LOL, her pink words teased.

Yeah, it's so elegant -- for sleeping in! he responded.

Hey that "night gown" cost a lot of $$$, she typed. 

Where? At Wal-Mart? Scribble Head is wearing a 3-piece suit and you? You're too lazy to put a real dress on? ROFLMAO!! he sent.

Whatever, she typed back, after a lengthy pause.

Be honest. Were you too big to fit into a real dress? Are you "too much woman" for normally-tailored clothes? LOL!, right back at her, in bold blue letters.

Are you trying to hurt me? That's not nice. Don't you know that the camera adds 10 pounds?? Duh! she furiously shot back.

LOL, yeah, but Photoshop takes 20 off! he fired back.

Whatever, she typed, after another long pause.

Hey, hey, cheer up. I got a question for you, Prince Charming replied.

I don't think I like your questions, she replied, after making him wait another 5 good minutes.

Hey now, I promise this is a nice question. Just answer it please? he sent.

What is it? asked she.

Do you like Pina Coladas? Prince Charming sent back.

Pina coladas? LOL. Sure, yep I sure do, she typed.

Good. Do you like getting CAUGHT in the rain? the Prince asked.

What are you talking about, crazy man? she sent. Then, she sat suddenly upright in her chair.

Do you like getting caught in the rain? the man with the blue letters asked again.

I'm logging off now, she typed, her fingers shaking.

LOL, I told you, Sweetheart. I told you to stop wasting so much time online and to LOSE SOME DAMN WEIGHT! LOLOLOL! ScribbleFace typed.

i hate you, she typed.

I know you do, sweetie pie, ScribbleFace typed back. I'll see you at 6. Let's make sure dinner is hot this time.

She logged off.

~ end ~

I Married the Winter Sky

At last, autumn has turned back into spring.

I don't know where the days went. I only remember the nights, a long blur of harsh lights, moving shadows and terrible, terrible longing. One morning I lost my place and for just a few seconds, I felt the black silk of your hair whispering through my fingers. I tried to tighten my grip and hold it, but then I opened my eyes and saw that nothing had changed at all.

You're still gone.

In bed I twist and turn from no particular discomfort but you. So I sit up, then fall back to my pillow, and wait for sleep to kidnap me and take me to where you are. Half awake is half alive, but this is only half a life without you. It still feels too big for me and my simple plans: You. And then my death.

I like to drive after 3 a.m. when there are more ghosts on the road than cars. In winter, the naked trees claw for the purple sky until I feel I'm reaching toward you. I want to slide my hand along the passenger seat and feel your leg there, just once, just once, warm and smooth and familiar, just once.

Somewhere, you are someone's fact of life and nothing more. You’re just another voice on his phone, just another face in the morning light, just another thigh pressed to his palm. Another person he makes dinner plans with, or sits with at a stoplight on a misty evening, watching the windshield wipers brisk away the droplets.

Life carried you right past me, and into his arms. I exist now like a tree that’s been struck by lightning.

I could marry the sky for sharing you with me, for the clouds that bring the rain that leaves the streets, the grass, and the trees smelling the way the whole world did the last time I saw you. I could marry the moon in winter, in the killer cold before the dawn, where the radio towers pulse dim and red while old, neglected songs from another world pour into silent boxes and evaporate as we sleep.

But I lay awake and listen to the forgotten, melodic whispers, as lost and lonesome as me, because I stayed and time left, and it took away everything I wouldn't have missed if only it had left you behind. But you went away too.

I've explained what I feel. Can't explain why I feel it. For years I kept planning my next move, as though I had one. You became bigger, and I became smaller, the longer that we were apart. The old songs, I can't lose them. The old places, I can't leave them. The old memories, I can't let go of them, even to stop the rest of my world from crumbling.

What have you done to me?

What have you done to me?

The Voice Before the Static // Vol. 711

Well, folks. We've come to the end of another broadcast day. I would like to thank you all for listening to tonight's radio program, and for clapping extra loud during the puppet show. You've no idea how much our fuzzy friends with their button eyes appreciate that. (That's right, Bonkers! I'm talking about you!)

Mr. Floppy Socks would like to send a warm "happy birthday" out to Ruth Wilcher, the first grade teacher who spanked me for not doing my math homework. Hope you're nice and snug in your bed at the *Like We Care* nursing home in Ripoff, Nevada, and I just want to let you know: my butt's not sore anymore, but I'm still snuggling that grudge anyway.

Very special thanks to Coochie and the Laminated Cats for singing their hit songs on tonight's program. They're going to be very big stars, so get out and buy their album before your local store runs out of them. And congratulations to Penny Smithers in Haystack, Nebraska, for being the third caller (finally) and winning the free album giveaway. Enjoy the gift, Penny. Lord knows you earned it.

Remember to tune in tomorrow night, when I attempt to rope another unsuspecting guest into doing/singing/declaring something he or she will do penance for later. Remember that God loves you, and I don’t.

As usual, before signing off, I'd like to remind our listeners that you can get a full transcript of tonight's show by sending hefty donations and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to:

The Brian and Bonkers Show

c/o Last Light Productions

1221 Phony Address

Chicago, IL. 61330-0777

Make sure to specify program No. 711 from March 21, 2007, for a transcript of tonight's show, because we are not mind readers, even if some of us think we are. (Right, Bonkers?)

Okay. Goodnight. This is Captain Bri signing off until next time. Eat your vegetables, you little urchins! 

Here is our national anthem . . .

Voice In the Box

When she sang, happy melodies hid the pain.

Once she died, the song never sounded the same.

Now she’s gone,

And nobody is saying why.

So play that last song back to me,

Turn it up to infinity,

Ashes to ashes scattered about,

But the voice in the box,

The lovely voice in the box,

Will never get out.

So she bled, to spill the poison out of her head,

And she drank, to drown the words before they got said.

Now she sleeps,

On thunderclouds in the sky.

So scan the lyrics again and again,

Spin them backward for signs of her end.

Nobody knew what she was trying to say,

But the voice in the box

Keeps singing anyway.

And she says,

“In your mind, everyone cares,

But in your life, they don’t.

You’re so blind, but everyone stares

As you march up to the front,

And turn your back on an army of wolves.”

So she burned, and turned her secrets into smoke,

Now she’s an icon, a memory, and a joke.

Let her go.

All she wanted to say was goodbye.

Touching from a distance, further all the time,

Oh, well, whatever, nevermind.

You never heard what she was trying to say,

And that voice in the box,

The lonely voice in the box,

Reminds you every day.

One More Awkward Pause

I’m biding my time. Really.

I'm not looking for my first opening, but the best one, you see? The magic movie moment! I watch her eyes when she smiles, I catch that twinkle there, I almost lean in.

But no —

Relax.

She smiles, fidgets her fingers. I stammer, smile, try not to blush. She changes the subject, and soon we're relaxing again. My heart is a drum. My mind a race car barely staying on the track. One more awkward pause. Just one more. The slightest hint or opening is all I need.

I watch her mouth. I nearly tremble as she brushes her tongue across her lips then tosses back her hair with a savvy flick of one slender hand. God help me. I lean back, feigning masculine detachment. I'm all frogs and grasshoppers inside.

Go for it! Now! I think to myself. But no. It can't be now. Now is wrong.

Stay cool, bro.

She stops talking, clears her throat, uncrosses her legs, reaches for her ice water. I make a quick joke and she laughs, leaning toward and into me until her hair nearly brushes my knee. Her touch, her scent, her ... Oh, heaven guide me, it's all I can do to keep my hands to myself!

But I do. 

Now we're quiet again. Somewhere behind me, a clock ticks, louder now than it was when she sat down here. I'm holding on for that perfect moment. She would want it to be special. I know what I’m doing. I got this.

Across the room, a window view, and the city lights spreading out below. Ten storeys, in fact. I should throw myself out. Yeah. I should stand up, shake her hand, then run and leap right out the fucking window. What a daring move I'd make then: the explosion of glass, the cool evening air and then a crowd of faces and police sirens marking the spot of impact!

"You're so sweet," she tells me now, but I hear a distance in those words. Leaning away, she looks straight into me and directs the full force of her beauty at the man she thought I was. That hair, a shining silken waterfall. It drowned me. Those eyes, glimmering, dark jewels. They broke me. Her voice, her scent are ghosts that will stay to haunt me.

She's leaving.

Swooning into a low she'll never know, I manage a weak smile and watch her drift toward the door. She's just remembered another friend she was supposed to meet, so she must hurry, and sure I understand, even though it's 11 p.m. and I'm crumbling inside. But but but but ....

I'm waiting for the perfect moment, you see.

The door closes behind her. Instantly, the room feels darker. I lean back, feigning aloof sophistication, fooling nobody. I'm funny. I'm sweet. I'm alone.

Now I think I'll close my eyes, listen to that clock behind me, and suck on my own lips for a while.

Vandy

Your Chattanooga accent inspires me

To imagine us together in a movie,

Me as a rebel and you as my lover;

Bigger than life and in technicolor.

In the final scene, cross your lap I will die,

Yearning for but one kiss.

Oh, Vandy, what a shame,

It can never be like this.

A look on your face can change my mind

About the handsome wrecks you left behind;

A trail of broken hearts all the way to Dixie.

A man on your mind is a man at your mercy.

Here I am on my knees at the Altar of You

Still asking for that kiss.

Vandy, in your teasing grace,

Why do you treat me like this?

If I could strum a guitar I’d find a great field

And serenade the sky.

If I could write books there’d be scripture and verse

For the color of your eyes.

If I had gobs of money I’d buy myself a wife and

Pretend that she was you.

Wanna know, Vandy, what else I’d do?

If you were a kitten and I was the wolf

I’d chase you across the plantation.

On a wet southern night you’d shudder and sigh,

And surrender to temptation.

Eyes glimmering in the dark, hungry in my blood,

Waiting for you off in the trees,

I’d lick at the moon and savor the scent

Of your unshackled virginity.

Artificial Assurances

Once I spoke such a beautiful language that I crafted from my own yearning, born at first glance of you.

My desire for you, it sang to me, and through me, it sang to you.

And it caught you. It stopped your world from turning in the same direction. You lifted your eyes and listened to these clumsy poems of longing, beginning with hello.

And then you showed your words to me, lined them up in your own symmetry and marched them in a perfect circle to surround me.

And we sang like this and danced like this until one of us surrendered too soon. Did you follow me or did I follow you? It was magical, magical, but ...

Well, now we're in love. This is what we say. We couldn't put it off another blissful day. We've fallen and landed, and here we are stranded in love. Or at least that's what we call it.

And this language we speak, it's too familiar now. I'm sure I've heard it before. You can call me "baby" and I'll call you "my dear," and that is all that it's ever good for.

Because when you say these pop-song words to me, they barely reach my ears. And when I say them back, I think I mean them, but they feel plastic, insincere. Contrived, barely alive. Sorry, but that’s how I feel, my dear.

So don't you get too comfortable. Please don't get so comfortable. I'm tired of saying what I'm supposed to, what all the love songs told us to. No radio star or romance writer ever walked in my shoes or felt the way I feel about you. I only wanted to make the words true.

Keep our fragile language alive and let it sustain what we found inside. I didn't fall in love with love. I fell in love with you. So be you.

The Bedsheet Sprawl

Once I told you,

I wanted to grow old with you.

And look at us now – not quite old, love,

But getting there.

My thinning hair and your three-mile stare

Past the TV set to nowhere.

I’d join you there if you’d let me, 

In that place you go to forget me,

But I know it’s the secrets you keep, 

That keep you here with me.

I surrounded you, enfolded you

With my arms, my promises,

And an acre of cheap wood paneling,

To keep you warm at night.

Still I worried someday you’d

Get chilly anyway, and your heart would stray

Whether your body ever did.

Who am I now when you look at me? 

Am I bleeding

From cuts that only you can see?

While you cling to your edge of the bed,

And I pretend to sleep.

In the morning we drift 

Past wedding photos on the shelf 

Smiling under dust

In spite of ourselves,

With shackles of trust binding us

To the shadows we drag across the floor,

From our bed

To the living room door,

Then out into a world we don’t fit in anymore 

Without each other.

Once I was your lover,

And I held your hand as you cut the cake,

And yours and mine toasted the family we’d make.

We believed in it so.

Now look at us, drifting dreaming along,

With this other person we used to know.

I wanted to die 

With your name on my lips,

And our children at my bed,

But instead,

You keep this house too clean, too cold

And I’m just watching you age as I get old.

We might as well already be dead.

Remember what I said? I told you I’d stay,

That I’d cherish you more every day,

And hold you every night in between.

What a dream.

But loyalty's nothing but a sad routine, 

And a lifetime is a lot shorter than it seemed 

When we were young,

And lost,

And in love.

Now we’re just lost.

The Mad Poet

He ripped up his eighth attempt at greatness, 

Kicked a dent into the side of his desk

And rose from his chair

Seething.

Julianna lay on the sofa.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said as he crossed 

The room and smashed her head with the lamp.

Mittens slinked in to see what was the matter.

The poet stomped on her spine and spat on her

Until he began to feel better.

Hi, Mr. Fallon. Bye, Mr. Fallon.

The flatscreen shattered to the carpet.

The poet plucked the clock from its

Place on the wall and Nolan Ryaned it through 

The window. He writhed out of his clothes

And did the twist on the coffee table.

Ashtrays and magazines spilled to and fro.

He pounced to the floor and seized the

Dead pussycat and with it

He scratched his back.

To the kitchen he sprang with a

Fat woman’s glee. He snatched a spoon

And a fork and played “knick-knack” on his knee.

He cranked up the burners, dumped

Grease on the stove, destroyed a few crystals,

And poured wine on the floor.

He shimmied up the refrigerator door

To the top where he hummed while he defecated,

Staggered then to the bedroom, fell to his knees

And onto the mattress ejaculated.

Now, now he felt better.

He marched back to his desk.

He sat down.

He reached for his pen.

He touched it to his pad.

And from his wrist the words exploded:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

Who gives a goose?

Who! Who! Who?

He smiled.

He capped the blessed pen and laid it 

Atop his new work.

He grinned in the direction of his slumped-over Julianna,

And went to her,

And lifted her to his chest.

And as the two of them did the tango, the moon

Outside the room’s broken window slid on its own

Silver.

The Voice Before the Static // Volume 918

Well, folks. I've had so much fun tonight that I've lost track of the time. But I see Mr. Floppy Socks yawning over there, so that can only mean – yes, I'm sorry but it's true – the end of another broadcast day. That means all the puppets go back into the bottom drawer to dream their cottony dreams. Ahhhhhhh . . . how cozy.

As always, I want to thank everybody for listening to tonight's program. And I remind those of you out there who love our show: listening is not enough. Please, please, please patronize our sponsors. Without them, this show could not stay on the air and I would have a lot of hungry puppets to worry about (yes, Bonkers, even you!). So, kids, the next time your mom or your dad or your mom's boyfriend complains of tired feet from walking all around the amusement park with you, by all means, recommend Archalite Foot Powder. 

That's right: *Ar-cha-lite Foot Powder.* Can you say it? Practice saying it, kids, and then say it to as many grown-ups as you can. Because if Archalite can't sell their foot powder, they're going to cancel my show and bury me in it. 

I want to give special thanks to Mr. Sassy Pants for stopping by the studio and chatting with us tonight. Also, let's give one final shout-out to The Coral Singers for graciously coming on and performing their song, "Dipsy Bird." It's sure to be a hit, so hit those record stores and pick up their single. And while you're there, help yourself to some foot powder, but only if it's Archalite Foot Powder.

Congratulations to Artie Gaskill of Macon, Georgia for (at last) being our third caller and winning the free four-slice toaster. Now, Artie, you can make twice as much toast, and in half the time. Mr. Floppy Socks loves his toaster, don't you? Hey, Flop! Wake up!

As usual, before signing off, I'd like to remind our listeners that you can get a full transcript of tonight's show by sending (money!) and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: 

The Brian and Bonkers Show

c/o Last Light Productions

1221 Phony Address

Chicago, IL. 61262

Make sure to specify program No. 918 for a transcript of tonight's episode, or we just might send you the wrong one (like the one when Bonkers accidentally caught on fire, ha-ha). So remember to SPECIFY.

Ok, children. Goodnight. Here is our national anthem . . .

When the Banished Return

When the banished return

From locked cages in hell

How will you greet them?

Eyes flashing, teeth gnashing

Who's gonna stand in their way?

This is the price of justice,

The fine print you didn't see, 

The lost key

To the lock on your golden door.

When the banished return,

Their beggar hands twisted to claws

Who is gonna stand at the wall?

The leper will steal your bed.

The whore will capture your man.

The murderer will be your governor.

When the banished return,

An all-knowing, all-seeing fire,

Where will you put your faith then?

Millenniums you held them back

Now they're sacking Rome

Add up your prayers to meaningless

Post-Its on an empty throne.

When the banished return,

Her hot breath in your face,

Where can you turn when she's turning you on?

When your gilded towers burn,

And your choice is to jump or melt,

You'll know the angel whose wings 

Were revoked,

And exactly how He felt.

Tin Man's Lament

I sold my heart to the junkman. 

Lately, I’ve been trying to buy it back, but I can’t scrape up enough currency. I go down to the junk yard late at night. I empty my pockets for the man, but he always shakes his head and sends me away.

They say to buy low and sell high. I sold my heart at well below market price. A stupid thing to do, I know, but I wanted to be rid of it then. I thought it brought me bad luck, and that it encouraged me to take crazy chances with my life. Worst of all, it made me vulnerable. That’s what bothered me most.

I had a good heart, if you can believe that. It wasn’t brand new. It had some scuffs and scratches on it and a small crack down one side. But it worked. It could hold a lot and give even more. I had no problem selling it. In return, I got a little surivival kit. It came with cynicism, suspicion, a thick book of sarcastic phrases and a pamphlet titled The Most Helpful Lies.

I thought I’d never get hurt again. I’d keep myself distant, armed with cynicism, constantly in control, always ready to say goodbye and never look back. You know what? It’s easier to break hearts if you don’t have one. For years I relished the power I had given myself.

But as time went by, something changed. I could get into relationships but couldn’t enjoy them. I liked the chase, the seduction, the conquest. I didn't know what came next. I envied the love others could give me; the trust, the warmth, the patience. I couldn’t give it back, even when they deserved it, even when I wanted to. I just couldn’t.

It also got harder for me to conceal the misanthrope I’d become. At a party or with friends I’d blurt out something from my thick book of sarcasm and my timing would be all wrong. Unable to apologize, I only became more arrogant, more isolated, pouring out the snark until I was inevitably alone again, smirking awkwardly from a distant corner, lukewarm drink in my hand.

Nowadays I can’t sleep, can’t find contentment. I’ve turned my life into a series of games and conquests. I walk around secretly hoping the right person will come along and snap me out of this, but how? Every day I’m back where I started with nothing to show for myself; just this groaning cavity inside of me where my heart used to be.

So I want it back, that old scuffed-up ticker. I want to feel vulnerable again. I want to feel that buzz of blinding adoration and trust I’ve so long denied myself. I want to return the warmth to those I kept in the cold. I want everything to matter again before it’s too late.

Problem is ... I sold my heart to the junkman. 

Lately, I’ve been trying to buy it back, but I can’t scrape up enough currency. I go down to the junk yard late at night. I empty my pockets for the man, but he shakes his head and sends me away. 

He always shakes his head and sends me away.

Tired of Losing

She said, "I don't tolerate mind games."

And her words still skittered across his mind like little black bugs as he walked quickly up the crooked boulevard, past old brick buildings, past cracked windows and empty doorways.

"Well," said he, to the reckless wind in his face, "what might be a mind game to you could be a natural reaction on my part to one of your many, many idiosyncracies. Ever think of that?"

Yeah. That's what he should have said to her. But did he? No.

"Just because you don't tolerate mind games, well, that sure as hell doesn't mean you don't play them, now does it?"

Another good one. Would have knocked her back big time. But did he say it? No.

The wind howled down on him, a chilly embrace. He turned up his collar and thrust his hands into the pockets of his long jacket as the gust tore at his dirty hair.

She sure did smell good. Just before the fight started over ... over whatever. She'd sprayed on some kind of perfume and he'd been hanging around the bathroom door, listening to the buzz of her hair dryer, anticipating the great sex they likely would have been having, oh, right about now. If only she hadn't ……

"i don't tolerate mind games . . ." he whined to himself, mimicking her stupid righteousness. “if you're gonna pick at me all night with your mind games, then forget it. just leave."

Man that he is, he strode straight for the door, opened it, waited a beat for her to reconsider her rash ultimatum, and calmly walked out.

The slamming of the door had really been for the overall effect, masculine punctuation at the end of a statement he was proud to make. Now he feared it made him look childish. Even worse, impotent.

He could picture her rolling her eyes as he walked off, applying her eye shadow without even so much as a twitch when the door slammed. He hated her.

"Put on that mascara," he said to the cold, gathering dark. "Put it on nice and pretty and then go out and fuck some poor sap. Bitch."

The wind stopped. He spotted an empty vodka bottle on the sidewalk. He kicked it off the curb, sent it skidding and rolling across the street. It didn't break.

"Straddle the cowboy who emptied that bottle over there, see if I give a merry goddamn.” He chuckled bitterly, kept on walking. The wind picked up again.

He crossed a few more blocks in silence. Shades of black began to ink the purple sky. Stars dotted the high canvas. An icy sliver of moon hung over him like a blade.

He hungered for the sex everybody else in the world was having at this moment. But since he wasn't actually hard down there, he knew he craved something more ungraspable than a naked tit.

But sex took his mind off ungraspable things.

She said she didn't tolerate mind games. The People's Republic of Natalie does not tolerate mind games, so decreed by the empress herself as she leaned over a cracked bathroom sink.

"Oh yeah? But I'M supposed to tolerate your little mood swings, right?"

Bingo. Another great comeback that might have shifted the momentum, goddammit it.

What had he said? When she issued her little declaration about mind games, what did he say back to her? Something that sounded a lot smarter in the heat of the moment than it did now in the lonesome chill of a black night.

"Why don't you like mind games? Are you tired of losing?"

That look she gave him then, it shrunk all his internal organs. His mind scrambled back over the history of their eight-month-long relationship, trying to unearth any victory for him, any loss for her. No available data matched the search request.

As he tried to determine whether winning an argument was the same thing as winning a mind game, his own mind had gone blank. And before he knew it, he was walking out the door and slamming it, ruining his evening and probably the whole weekend too.

Now he shook his wrist out of one coat sleeve and checked his watch. 11:48 p.m.

She'd looked and smelled so good. Probably had even slipped on that black thong he'd bought for her back in August. He could not bear to imagine some other dude easing that thing off her hips. He'd go crazy.

He spotted a phone booth a block ahead. As his feet brought him closer to it, he plotted what he would say to her. How to apologize without losing his balls.

Hey there . . . yeah, I guess I ruined our night, I know . . . I know . . . but I wanted to tell you how good you looked tonight, and how good you smelled, and how I've been wishing we didn't have that stupid fight . . . so what are you doing now? . . . yeah? . . . awwww . . . would you like me to bring you some make-up cookies? . . . some make-up nookie?

He dug a quarter, two dimes and three pennies out of his pocket, put the quarter and one of the dimes into the slot and dialed her number. He felt warm again now, warm on the inside.

A man apologizes. A man sets things right. That's what a good woman expects a good man to do. To think she'd probably been sitting glumly by her phone, waiting for him to come around, it pained him.

He hoped she wouldn't be stubborn now just because it took him four or five hours to call.

He put the receiver to his ear. It rang twice. No answer. Three times. No answer. Six times. No answer, no machine. Nine times. Nothing. Twelve times. Nothing.

She wasn't home.

He stepped back and threw the receiver against the plastic wall of the phone booth. He picked it up and put it to his ear again. Still ringing. Still no answer.

He hung the payphone up. He could feel rage and the bitter wind overwhelming him. Staying sober these past several hours had been a waste of good judgment after all. He turned and resumed his way up the boulevard, anger quickening his pace.

She said, "I don't tolerate mind games."

And the words slithered across his mind like black snakes, hissing and full of poison. A woman knows a million phrases that can magically start an argument. That's one of the most popular.

"I'm not playing mind games, baby," he whined, internally. "God damn, I'm just trying to hold onto you, and you get more slippery every day."

That's what he should have said. Because that, you sins and sinners of the congregation, that would have been the truth. He'd been losing her for weeks, sensing it in the faintest of details that ceaselessly whispered at him when he wasn't with her.

Tonight, at last, he'd lost her. Now he knew it.

The night crashed on him like a wave. Even the stars withdrew from the sky. The wind howled. The boulevard stretched for blocks and miles and years. He kept on walking.

He had nowhere to go.

(( END ))

Pillow Talk

"You are beautiful, but you are empty."

I beg your pardon?

"I said. You are beautiful. But. You are empty."

My dear, is that supposed to be a compliment?

"Just the truth, sweetheart. Just the truth."

What if I don't like it?

"What can I say? Are you not beautiful?"

You said I am empty. Beautiful, but empty. You said that to me.

"Yes."

Well. I don't like it. What if I said you are hairy, but not on your head?

"I guess I'd feel bad."

• Yeah! I guess you would!

"How can I make it up to you, dear?"

Try rephrasing your compliments, so that they feel more flattering.

"I'll try."

Good.

"You are empty. But you are beautiful."

Mmmmmmm . . . Yeah. That's a little better.

"Your emptiness is beautiful."

Weird. But I like it.

"I am in love with your emptiness."

That's a little creepy . . .

"But it's true. I'm sure that it's true."

My God. What's true?

"I'm in love with your emptiness. I was initially attracted by your beauty, but your emptiness is what captured my heart, what I came to love most about you; your total, absolute emptiness."

Nobody has ever said that to me before.

"Because. Nobody has ever been so in love with you before, as I am."

Well. May God help us both then.

"Indeed."

Open All Night

"Sleeping is giving in,

No matter what the time is.

Sleeping is giving in,

So lift those heavy eyelids."

– By the Arcade Fire, "Rebellion (Lies)"

I like a good, hard slumber as much as anyone, okay? But there's no law in my country, or in any place I know of, that requires everyone to be in bed by 11 p.m. People who don't know me well – or who don't know better – used to buzz me every night on Yahoo or AOL Messenger and it typically would go like this:

PERSON: "Hiiii!"

me: "Hi, so-and-so."

PERSON: 

me: "Can I help you?"

PERSON: "What time is it where u r?"

me: "Almost 2 a.m."

PERSON: 

PERSON: "u dont need sleep??"

me: "I'll sleep later."

PERSON: "why u dont sleep? I think u shud be sleeping now."

me: "I think you need to be doing your job instead of chatting with strange guys like me."

PERSON: 

PERSON: "But I'm bored."

me: "Yah? You're boring me too."

PERSON: "hehe."

PERSON: "Why u dont sleep?? I think it's not healthy u stay up so late."

me: "Did you want to chat with me, or send me to bed?"

PERSON: "hehe."

PERSON: 

PERSON: "I worry for u."

me: "Fine. Worry. That's up to you."

PERSON: "Humans ndee sleep."

PERSON: "need, hehe"

PERSON: "So u human, so u should sleep."

PERSON: "Dont u think so???????"

PERSON: "hello? r u there?"

PERSON: BUZZ

me: "ok, fine. Goodnight."

And then I’d seek out the IGNORE feature and eliminate the person from my screen forever.

My question is: Why do people pop up just to tell me to go to bed? I don't get that. As you might have inferred from the example above, these are often people on the other side of the planet who'd have no access to me at all if I slept regular hours. They said they wanted to be friends, but whenever they see me, they make a big deal about how abnormal it is for me to still be awake.

The truth is, I feel the most alive after midnight. Is that wrong? What do I need with the morning when my work needs me to be at my sharpest from 9 p.m. to midnight? Why can't some of us work until midnight, play until 4 or 5 a.m. and sleep until noon? This works for me. It's worked for me for years – nearly all my life, actually.

I like to sleep. Sometimes I even love it. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna lay my ass in bed, wide awake, just because of what the clock says or because of what other people think is normal. I like my lifestyle. I like the little bags that show up under my eyes sometimes. I like it that annoying people call my place at 10 a.m. and get stuck with the answering machine. I like it that I don't have to plant myself in front of the TV at 9 a.m. to watch Good Morning America, or The View or any of the stupid local morning news shows here. I like going out in the late afternoon, feeling cucumber crisp while everyone else is drooping like old lettuce. And, yes, I love being awake when everybody else is sleeping. I've always been excited about that. That's me!

If all of that makes me wrong, then I don't want to be right. To quote Warren Zevon, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

By the way, Warren Zevon is dead now.

And I'm going to sleep.

Goodnight.

Ashes

When I died, those who knew me best gathered and remembered me. Intimately.

Sometimes they chuckled. Often they whispered. They told stories I'd have never recalled, from viewpoints I could never have known. They spoke of me in such detail, and so carefully, I almost felt alive again.

Each one in his way or her way knew me well and would miss me. If my skin and hair could have felt the flames of the oven that erased my bones, their love would have made it bearable.

My dear, none of them knew about you. My delicious secret, I held you until the end of my days. No one ever knew or could imagine the forces you stirred in me.

Some were told but none believed: After the oven cooled, my ashes were still glowing.