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 ^{(it's beta!)}

In tomorrow’s dreams and stranger things,

we lose our hanging grip on one another,

shy away from those around us.

One of us is too much and the other is not enough,

or other faults, nonetheless the traits that drive us apart.

And so we go alone to our closets,

work at solitary benches in spacious garages.

Tinker with this problem of many,

until we have plastic computer friends and automaton neighbors

and robot lovers to whisper to.

They will whisper back when we ask them,

run their lives on little printouts when they have gears that need fixing.

When cords or nuts or bolts go bad there is always another to replace it.

In this way we will exist with others that we always understand and they will understand back with the push of a single button.

But the longer we spend with such souls,

the more we wonder how we came to fail the second time.

And in tomorrows dreams, we see there is no third way,

only stranger things.

A roomful of people.

Remembering faces but not names.

Shaking mannequin hands.

Hiding behind small talk and polite smiles, clumped in groups that have nothing in common but distance.

The room, our desert island,

and we, the castaways.

Right before we form tribes of savages to fight each other,

awkward stares and laughs.

Thinking, 'will I have to spear this person someday?'

One room of unwanted acquaintances is the entire world.

No rescue ship will sail by;everyone needs another cocktail.

Lost in the ocean, awash in strangers.

There was, once, a man of God, named Father William. He held sway in a tiny parish in a seaside town, where he lived with and took care of his mother. And a mission trip impending, set in the bowels of some dark place, a land to be lit by God and civilization, Father William as their lantern. On a makeshift airstrip, made for his departure only, Father William boarded a plane that carried only him. His mother called from far away, "Know that you are merely a man." Father William only waved, as he ascended into the clouds. When next his feet touched earth he stood in sand, a desert home to savage cannibals he had come to save. The village Otago of savage men and women; who fed their children on the flesh of rivals, who lived in huts of leftover bones, who worshipped jaguar gods and warthog gods and vulture gods, who existed on the whims of idols made from stone, and had done so since creation. And Father William saw this and scowled mightily, scowled the holy scowl of God. To this servant of civilization they were heathen; on him it fell to show them salvation. Savage or no they met the Father warmly and graciously, threw him a mighty feast that he declined, and crafted a grand hut that he rejected. His words, they ignored politely. With righteous fury Father William tore down their bone homes and burnt their meats of man. They would follow his way, God's way, or else be damned for eternity. Better he kill them now than let them be wicked; they were cowed and obeyed. To his new flock Father William gave corn to grow, tools and plans for homes made of wood, and scripture to save them from their false, empty idols. In Otago, he gifted upon them purity. With his work on way to fruition, Father William rested. But as he sat and watched his new people walk the way of the Lord, four men, savages the previous day, came to him. Father William called out to them, "Why aren't you in your fields or in your churches?" In turn they spoke back. "The desert is barren and your food will not grow. You have forbidden us eat our rivals, and so our children are starving." "There are no trees and there is nothing with which to build your houses. You have forbidden us the bones of enemies, and so our children freeze at night." "The bibles are wise but they have not killed our old, vengeful gods. You have forbidden us their worship, and so our children are cursed with disease." "This civilization you bring has not been kind to us. You have forbidden us our way of life, and so our children are lost." William saw this and shook his head in holy disbelief. It must be their faith was not strong enough to be saved. Or it was God's will, who was to say? Not he, Father William, he said, as he boarded his plane, and ascended back into the sky. The Otago watched their saviour return to the clouds he came from, leaving his tools and bibles back on the earth, among the bones he'd scattered. The people would bury them or throw them away, try to be rid of them, but for the shapes of hungry rivals standing on the horizon.

He's jumped back into the bottle hip deep in unfair advantage. We can wave through the glass before she pours him out again. And she misses me, she says but less than traveling and summer and him, I say. As long as one of us deserves something we aren't getting someone is gettng something nice for Christmas. We'll live through Friday as long as he gets two hours and I get promised my turn. Later. I suppose. She's throwing her arms up. It's harder than it seems. I've something of short fuse lately. It worries me.

shortening hair, shortening pants sallow skin not bronzing properly windows opening, eyes closing skipping over one another and summer the gaudy bauble on the hands of youth ignoring our memories of bitter winters remembered fondest our cup runneth out, burnt away by cloudless white skies all young faces, eyes burnt out by unfettered white suns smiling away blind into dry horizons

fourteen lives and fourteen wives and who knows maybe he'll die and live again that scary, ratty man losing long hairs and building peeling fences in every iteration. dying denim and smoke stained teeth and loud without speaking among mousy acquaintances died thirteen deaths and never a scar lived thirteen lives and never a lawyer and chances are dwindling this go-round a spiritual sinkhole a recurring dream of cruddy lawns and tragic cats small wombs and cheap coffins over and over again, for who knows how long