I feel the pain of a knife pierce through my heart each time the shovel thrust into the soil. Every scene written on these pages is annotate with vivid explaination to bring life back from my death. My dirty forehand wipe drips of sourish sweat from my mouth. I throw the shovel into the moist ground. The shovel blade bury itself halfway with its handle stuck upright, stand there under the full moon tonight like a tombstone for a burial ground. Death is art in the eyes of the beholder. I repeat those last words he screamed at me, “Nothing personal. It’s business.”, and stroll back to the car. In my thought, “You’re hiring a new publisher agent?”, I grin, “It’ll be Stranger in The Night.”, the perfect plot for my one and only fan, “You.” My hire killer gave me his sweet and caring smile. I kiss him back.
“At the reading of the will the attorney did say the property needed a bit of work, but he didn’t say the place was haunted.”, he sound dismay of this horrifying crime scene on his property. “I could have sell this place for a fortune.”, and walk away angrily. In my years coordinating with the town’s crime division, I could even barely look at this lifeless mutilated naked teenager. Drenching of blood on these wooden floor with two strong broken chain lock to the wrist. These bedroom walls are cover with odd symbolic hand drawings. She perfectly sequester herself for dark ritual. A small community living in this town believe she is practicing witchery and glad she die in her own hands. I notice there are pieces of odd rotten animal skins with blood in her finger nails upon closer inspection. Looks like someone didn’t kill her – it’s something.
I jump out of bed and is late for work. It’s not unusual of me to be late; late nights and late mornings. Almost everything in my life comes late. I put on my favorite nose ring. Took a glance at myself in the mirror to see if my makeup is still fresh from last night. “Looks fine from here.”, is my usual pep talk to myself every morning. Grab my black color jeans from the bedside. Jumping around the room on one leg at a time, with another fighting to get into my tight jeans. Pull it up to my waist, button up and with a deep sigh of relieve. “Finally!”, I praise myself. My feet slip into a pair of sneaker, while snatching a black tee shirt to wear. It’s from the pile of dirty laundry scatter all over the floor. I fling my bag and skateboard out the bedroom window, till I hear them hitting the garden’s grass below. Squeeze myself out the bedroom’s window onto the dirty tiled roof, and made a leap across onto a large tree branch. It’s easy from there to reach the ground using the plank stairs I nailed to the tree trunk. They are for a tree house I haven’t complete since childhood days. I can hear my pet dog frantically barking. He is a stubborn and vocal Jack Russell Terrier, having a personality like me. His name is James. My mother is holding him in her arms, with her face frowning at me from the kitchen’s window. Her silence always kill me. I try to comfort them aloud,“Good morning. Love you guys.” Pick up my things and make a dash down the street on my skateboard into the blinding sunlight. “That went well. As usual.”, talking to myself every morning.
Mirror of darkness,
I see light in death,
Dying is not faith,
A choice in life.
Not here by chance,
Or leave by chance,
Knowing when to hold,
When to fold.
My stake to gamble,
At the table of life,
Death claims over,
My hand of cards,
When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing. – Enrique Jardiel Poncela
Writing is not publishing, and one of poetry’s teachings I most cherish is the way it refuses the capitalist logic of production value. Awards can offer recognition and amplification of your art, but the worth is in the work, not in its reception. – Claire Schwartz
To us, the value of a work lies in its newness: the invention of new forms, or a novel combination of old forms, the discovery of unknown worlds or the exploration of unfamiliar areas in worlds already discovered – revelations, surprises. – Octavio Paz
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. – Seneca
My mind fizzle with letters into words; forming sentences after sentences throughout the stormy night. Stomping aimlessly in my mind with words forming vivid imagery scene. The mind is a wonderful playhouse. God’s greatest gift for his most beloved creation here on earth. I do believe life is suppose to be written on pages. Thoughts staying alive. A voyeur experience to some who love reading the pain and pleasure of others in the shadow. Encouraging them with standing ovation, applauding aloud to encourage indecent exposure. We are convince there is reality in fiction. Why not? Are we not here to play a role in life to be somebody; the world is a stage. The show begin when the curtain rise. As far as the eye can see are empty seats waiting to be fill. A blank script in my hand awaiting to have a dialogue with me. Mask my role.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages. – William Shakespeare
I have a horror of not rising above mediocrity. – Robert Baldwin
Squatting on top at the edge of a double deck bed, staring down upon myself laying still on the rustic wood flooring. I can’t feel anything; like a lifeless dead corpse. There’s a funny deep hollow sound ringing in my ear. As if the wind is circling inside a long and narrow tunnel. I am numb with silence. In a state of total confusion. The small hand of a round white wall clock is pointing at four. I think it’s too early in the morning. In front of me stand a wooden cupboard with one mirror door. A faint shadow of someone is reflecting back at me; with a pair of silky black wings unfolding gracefully from the figure’s back. They flap itself to loosen their stiffness. The room’s door bust wide open without notice. A stout old lady in old english dress came rushing in, skipping across my still body lying on the floor.
She head towards the window to swiftly open a dusty thick curtain with both hands. My eyes squint to shield itself from the strong glaring lights shining into a room fill with thick smog of dust. She turn around to face me. In a sudden float like motion; her disgusting and scary amateurish painted clown like face appear just inches from mine. I fell backward and float on thin air. Everything around me disappear. Both her claw like hands pin me down to the darkness surrounding me, while her long and wet tongue lick its way to my right ear. Leaving behind a trail of thick, slimy and sticky substance on my cheek. She speak to me in a husky hissing tone, “It’s not your time yet. My dearest. The day is not dead.”; follow with a melodious laugh.
Dammit; not again. It’s MONDAY …