two hands that started building unbelievable excuses.

hairpin turn on a dusty road. golden uproar. raspberry sermon on the radio, bad banter. pleasure before business, the mighty fine dust highway. charisma the color of pears sliding down your dashboard.

i took lessons five, nine and eight. did it to shield myself from your panther instincts. it's always the same routine. sit on the sofa the color of dry blood and light a cigarette. swipe your claws at air and pounce upon me.

revest yourself, motormouth.

a gathering in a public square. you are with others of your kind. a panther, a cougar ,a leopard. you are with a girl who regrets ever laying eyes on the 1980s. you are with a boy whose black cape has flowed over the body of every pretty girl whose heart stopped spending because of a spirit that was never nurtured to bloom gracefully. i want you to say you'll never believe Nostradamus because he received his prophecies from mud castles with towers shaped like infinite.

1980
1981
1982
1983
we can erase these years, silly girl from Mississippi. will the 1980s be okay then?

"no, there's still 1978 and 1979, and those years were especially bad."

spots on the sun where the moon landing missed.

s t o p w
i
s
h
i
n g
m e asl ee p



The astronaut approaches the silky white being where he stands 45 feet away from the Moon Lander.

Extraterrestial: When were you born?
Astronaut: Born yesterday.
Extraterrestial: The next question will be in three years, can you make it?
Astronaut: I won't make it.

i've always wanted to be a sprawling metropolis.

whisper whisper
bend your back like the bends of the river.

the last wars will be the most darling.
the last wars will be the most darling.

the last battles will be along the necropolis.
the last battles will be among the dead.
it will be darling, darling and darling.

i've always wanted to be darling.
a vibrant young lad.
i will be darling.

you get your last chance here.
you present your last breath here.

you breathed fast.
say it twice, now gasp.

confrontation in the flesh, agressor, you can't handle it.

Young saint who paints his portrait in the marble floor of the cathedral. Surrounded by a tall fence of morals electrified by credence in an era where the out of place is made to think by the norm that it's from outer space. Sleeping on top of a crumbling pillar where below is a current of normality running through a narrow river, slowly, never overflowing the banks. Cast atop his small kingdom on the crumbling pillar where he's made to write the word 'alone' over and over on the flesh of his wrist. With his two eyes, he spots a bridge building itself upon the current of normality. Determined to hide his fears he takes a step off the crumbling pillar where his shoe meets the bridge. He crosses, cautiously, everybody is watching.

Defined by awkward motives, bizarre mannerisms and odd movements. The young saint spies a small tear in the fence. With his hands he rips the tear larger, and larger. It's a doorway now, he takes his first steps forward into a unique chaos. One with misplaced emotions, mothers who die young and a future that awaits his young death. He begins acting out the lessons 'alone' taught him. Young saint is a brilliant actor that wont be recognized for decades to come. Hollywood wont enamor him, Hollywood is the swinging gate to the fence of morals padlocked shut.

Audiences leave the theater after viewing young saint's first movie. A little bit heartbroken, confused and astonished at young saint's performance. Many still don't understand what he's trying to do. "Maybe he's trying to be another Brando", they say. Young saint overhears and chuckles. Plans are what he has to learn all the things that make an actor an actor that stand when the gales of rival performances gust against him. Somewhere inside, young saint already knows all the tricks of the trade. The first movie passes by, then the second and then the third.

Young saint is driving his roadster at 5:45 PM when he collides with a Ford. Barely breathing, barely breathing. The ambulance takes him away to the hospital where he's no longer barely breathing. Young saint is no longer breathing. Young saint, young saint. You've gone away someplace far away and left us to a society that's barely breathing itself. Now all the boys will dress up in blue jeans, red jackets and rolled up T-shirts. The fence of morals is crumbling, crumbling fast. And your pillar is getting healthy.

You mystify us, fascinate us, leave us wanting for more and make us hurt because that we'll never got to see what more you could have done. There are no more young saints, never again. You were a comet over Hollywood that came by slow and left so so fast. But all will remember it well. Watching the magic in movies you could have cast would be like a voyage to the moon and dinner with Monroe and Harlow.

James Dean dressed in rebellion. You left you imprints all over the future, did you know? I bet you didn't know you'd be so important to us, just like the two fallen blonde bombshells, Harlow and Monroe. We seek the items you touched everyday, to trace your footsteps in the places you laughed and cried, to travel on a beanstalk in your troubled mind. Oh, will you let us? James Dean, James Dean, we can't let go. And you still make us all put our hands to our mouth and say "Too young."

Too young.
James Byron Dean
1931-1955

you were rotting in a grave when i grabbed your arm and pulled you to the surface.

The blind can now see our downfalls.

Collective Blind: Your downfall can be seen in a bottle of Heinz Mustard, 2nd shelf, the one with a slightly torn label.

The deaf can now hear our bad secrets.

Collective Deaf: You left the blood on the counter to spill on the floor. The blood formed veins in the cracks of the tile, the blood reached to the back door where it spilled outside then into the garden.

A little piece of him will grow in that garden, his vines will clutch onto children and tell them how you did it and how you got away. Think Little Shop of Horrors without the carnage.Your conscious is now guilty.

War veterans are now speaking in schools to help scare courage out of our youth.

World War 1 Vet: We were in the trench together. Both of us. The longer we stayed in, the shorter our lives became. The mustard gas came and I saw a constellation of skulls, trapped souls and conquistadors. The dead wont stop bothering me.

Hitler snapped the space shuttle in half, Lenin helped him. Jim Jones cleaned up the mess and served punch. Japanese generals made a mess, covered it up, and used mobile chem units to untie bones apart. The Italian is a liar, his horse is wearing fleece. She was the greatest star of our time, she gains a few gray hairs, now they call her washed up. Michael Jackson and Vangelis did not supply the soundtrack to this post, a Montrealian did. I put on the wrong song and now my thoughts are flying out. I need no help, just a dead movie star.

"Please help us back on to our feet. Escort us to the ejector seats." -Swervedriver

the sleepy bear murders.

THE VICTIMS
In the following order.

Pablo Bear, 19. The son. LaVeyan Satanist, often saw the door opening in his room. At second glance, no one had entered, illusion of door opening was false. Would paint scenes on the barn doors from the sleepy turtle murders which coincidently occurred two years earlier mark the day of his own murder. The cracks in his door would reveal a red glow at night when closed. Was often vulgar towards his grandparents (maternal), who held a sour attitude about Pablo's peers' parental skills. Was found with his wrists slashed in the bathroom.

Pierre Bear, 17. The son. Chose the optional non-religious zealot on the religion brochure in the poll at school. Held the best record in the 5 mile run. Told his parents shortly before his murder that the bad jackals burst through his window and wrote pop lyrics on his walls, then they flew out the window. Also said while getting a cup of water at night two of the bad jackals were lining the butcher knives his mother used in order from largest to smallest. Didn't like tomatoes, lemonade and hot days. Was found in the forest behind his house sprawled on the forest floor wrapped in two layers of plastic bags underneath a UCLA sweatshirt; is believed to have died of extreme dehydration. Possibly from running in amounts his body couldn't handle without the proper resources required to keep him comfortable (water).

Bessy Bear, 11. The daughter. Liked drawing charcoal portraits of Xerxes and putting them on the refrigerator. Told people in her class that she liked listening to The Agro Bears, a band formed 30 years before her time. Most of her classmates believed her to be weird after her musical confession even though she made a friend from the confession, Beryl Pear. Miss Pear (of Toucan descent) also enjoyed The Agro Bears greatly. Confessed to Miss Pear that she believed the bad jackals and the bad foxes were following her home from school. Was found in the bathtub, electrical surges pumping through the water from the several hairdryers in the water plugged in the outlet strip.

Beta Bear, 15. The daughter. Had Winston Churchill as her screensaver. Wished she were alive in Britain during World War II because hiding in the Anderson shelter during the blitz would have been a genuine thrill. Gave a valentine in the shape of a square to her lover, Greta Gumball (of Pharoah Hound descent). Aspired to star in the soap opera "The Young and the Defenseless." Told her school psychologist that the bad jackals dragged her up a tree and taught her acupuncture. Even went so far as admitting the bad jackals showed her future major world events on the metal surface of a toaster. Was found in the closet with lumps in her throat. Lumps were later confirmed to be a collection of marbles she swallowed, bruises indicated it was by force.

Peter Bear, 41. The father. Unimpressed by mechanics, sports and alcohol. Impressed by Beta's obsession with Winston Churchill and Bessy's Xerxes portaits and musical taste. Did not care for Pablo's religious affiliations and Pierre's athleticism. Admitted to his wife that he had dreams of the bad jackals attacking models on the runway at New York City fashion week. Often fantasized about driving the Corvette into the spike strip at his workplace's parking lot. Wondered if numbers had a connection to life, including 37, which he had seen everywhere. Was found slumped in the backseat of the Corvette with a wound to his chest.

Betty Bear, 42. The mother. Always kept up with the grocery list, couldn't wait to read the latest VC Andrews novel when it came out. Regretted marrying her husband because of his favoritism over the children. Once sat in a room with Pierre and Pablo with an ouji board to discover when Peter would die. The date that came up was coming quite soon, Pablo split the board in half and made all promise not to tell a word. Daydreamed she saw an airplane with the bad jackals as the pilots slamming into their house. Was involved in the secretkeeping of the last sleepy turtle, the only survivor of the sleepy turtle murders. Was found with her head in the coffee cake she was baking, she was smothered.

A strenuous investigation of the sleepy bear murders has been launched including exhuming the bodies of all the deceased bad jackal and bad fox family. Information will be posted as it is uncovered.

silly little accusations.

You'll never find me.
Why?
Because I hid your key.