buzz.

mad march

2012-03-04T19:27:00.000-08:00

he danced
on the wire
laughing
like a loon
he ate 37 kitkats
sneaked into the room
i once
tried to call him
but all i got was
dialtone

Vast & Horrible

2012-03-02T18:04:00.000-08:00

It was vast
and horrible
the destruction
and how
no one
even noticed!
The cars are in the trees
and the trees are in the cars
and my basement
is exposed
to the sky

#20

2012-02-27T17:23:00.000-08:00

I looked down the side
of the California mountain
and there you were!

Haikku #137

2012-02-26T16:19:00.000-08:00

Keeping my vigil
alone at the window
while the wind rages past

Balance of the Mind

2012-02-18T05:46:00.001-08:00

In March of 1977 my father fired a bullet into his brain. He died sitting in the rocking chair he and his own father fashioned out of hard walnut wood, with springs wound tight under diamond patterned fabric beneath him. He was alone. It was during the biting cold of a Philadelphia winter, right before spring thaw. Wood was stacked in front of a dark fireplace, no lights on. Through the windows, and the black iron burglar bars, the moon reflected on ice-topped snow, sending a pale glow into the living room, and upon his face. He removed his glasses, and placed them at his feet. The world lost of its hard edges, he said goodbye.

#21

2012-02-18T05:44:00.005-08:00

Plastic Houses
Bobbing on the sea
A killer rowboat
Shooting me

#1

2012-02-18T05:44:00.003-08:00

An empty church
I walk through,
looking for my
Father in the closet

#12

2012-02-18T05:44:00.001-08:00

Old toad looks tired
The stone steps begin to dry
as the sun rises.

#34

2012-02-18T05:43:00.001-08:00

The keeper of the souls

Moving silently along the rows

Is going to adjust us

Bagman By Sara Painter

2012-01-05T15:56:00.001-08:00

There is a bag under the table.

It may have been left by a Russian spy. But I’m not sure. This could just be paranoia.

The bag is approximately 18 inches by seven inches. Pink, wavy patterns. The bag has a long black strap.

I wonder what is in the bag.

I wonder so long and so hard about what’s in the bag, that by the time my phones rings, I am convinced there is a listening device concealed in the bag, and quite possibly, hidden cameras.

“Hello?” I ask.

Hey. It’s the bag. It’s none of your business what is in me. It could be anything. I could be a nuclear bomb. I could be full of dirty underwear. I could be full of cherry red Twizzlers. I could be your worst nightmare... I could be empty. You may never know what is in me and it wouldn’t really matter one way or another.

“Oh, hello,” I sigh. “Yes, I know I should not look inside, but the endless permutations of possibilities are going to drive me mad unless I look inside you.”

But I’m just a bag, the bag said. I can’t drive you crazy. I can’t even really talk.

“But you are,” I said growing impatient, wishing this stupid bag would just shut up already so I could think.

The bag grinned, What if I told you that you could catch scabies just by looking at me?

This bag and its bullshit!

I can’t believe it even mentioned scabies. Was it enjoying this? I furiously scratch at my arm. Little red welts appear instantaneously all over my body. Mites crawl into my hair.

“I can’t believe you did that!” I yelled at the bag, furious now.

The bag just sits there.

My heart is racing. I’m sweating now. Any minute, the cops are going to burst in and shoot me. The mites are in the hundreds now, itching down my legs. My teeth go loose in my mouth. The nerves pierce and stab my spine. The panties, the strippers, the lies, the whores, the AIDS and scabies are positively dancing in jubilation for the cameras in the bag. They have heard every word I’ve said, ever, and are going to boil me alive for what I’ve done.

Then, the bomb will go off.

My stomach cramps, and I bend down. The only thing left to do now is pray. I turn to god and beg him to tell me why he let this bag in here, and I am sorry for everything I’ve ever done to hurt anyone. Tears come out of my eyes then. I am exhausted and completely alone. I lay, weak and cold on the floor. No one will ever understand about the bag. It’s silly to them. I can’t even talk about it. If I ever really got into it, they’d leave. They’d think I was crazy. I laid my head down on the carpet and pulled my knees into my chest.

I am so tired.

You can talk about it with me, whispers the bag from under the table.

“I’m not going to look inside you,” I tell it.

I already know what’s there.

The Last Great Day In America

2011-10-08T17:09:00.000-07:00

Today was the last great day in America. It was October 7, 2011. I stopped at the market on my way home. It had been a good day at work. The air was as crisp as a ripe granny smith. I crossed the sunny parking lot with a big grin on my face. The automatic doors slid open to reveal neat and clean aisles loaded with this Friday's specials on ginger snaps and apple cider. Halloween candy was stocked in a special section and my mouth watered thinking of candy corn and bite-sized Snickers bars. Checkers in their Giant Grocery uniforms made pleasant chitchat with customers. Shoppers in bright red Phillies t-shirts eagerly grabbed last minute bags of potato chips and bottles of Coca-Cola. We were anticipating something great...maybe another World Series! It had finally stopped raining. The sun was shining. Anything was possible and everything was right in the world and just as it should be.