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crumley "You who never arrived" I cannot remember the poem itself, or who wrote it, but the title is crashing all over my mind, sliding left to right, making so much noise, as I stand here, head down, outside this dirty place where he suggested we meet. The people going in and coming out smell just as bad as the whiffs of the interior that I get with every soft swing of the door. These are the self-declared individualists, the Republican anarchists, the very similar different. He still is not here, and I am growing nervous. I feel everyone's eyes on me as I knock over a half-empty beer bottle leftover on the sidewalk from who knows when. The piss yellow liquid moves underneath my shoes and toward the street as I wait here, having completely forgotten why I agreed to meet him in the first place. The long hand on my watch moves slower and slower as the puddle of liquid gets bigger and bigger and the street becomes more congested. My attempts to disappear into the brick wall behind me prove futile. Seeing his shape finally approaching from the other side of the street only disgusts me as I turn to walk home the carpet story The floor had never seemed so uncomfortable as when you told me what you did. I was listening to you, but the floor was the only thing making sense. I never noticed the colors before. I never even knew the carpet was green. But it is. It is green, and purple, and blue, and pink, and even brown. All those colors, all together, on the floor, swim about in a strange diamond-like pattern, stretching all across the room, diving under furniture and clothing and shoes. Moving beneath me, beneath my legs which are pulled tightly to my chest. It is so uncomfortable, here on this carpet, this work of art, on the floor, in my apartment, but I cannot move. I cannot move. Just like I could not move when you were talking to me. When you were screaming at me. When you hated me, this morning, on my floor, in my apartment, your loud voice the only thing audible, the only thing audible, except the carpet. The carpet was so loud, and so hot, it was begging me to move, begging you to close your mouth and leave me alone.But then you must have heard the carpet, too, because you did what it said. You left me alone. All alone. On the carpet, on my floor, head down, in my apartment. I could feel the sunlight from the skylight, the sunlight on my wet hair, it was warm, too warm, but I couldn't move. I was stuck to the floor. I am stuck to the floor. I cannot even reach the phone when you call to apologize. It just rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and rings.... ophelia drowning She wore this odd, threadbare wedding dress from the 1950s as she prepared the scene. The sunlight easily penetrated the window, and illuminated the water which had already filled the oversized bath tub. When she passed the sunlight as she tidied up the room, her skinny legs were visible through the transparent gauziness of her dress. Her hair tumbled down the length of her slight waist, a waterfall of chaos, as she carefully untied the thick black ribbon holding everything together. She slowly knelt on the plush, white bathmat as she placed one hundred and six freshly picked wildflowers on the surface of the water -- one flower for each Ambien she had taken while the water was still running. Ophelia. She cautiously climbed into the water, the ripples of her hair and the folds of her dress quickly absorbed the warmth of the water. She was drowsy, and she was beautiful -- her hair gently mingling with the stems of the flowers she had chosen only moments before, her dress filling the bath like scented bubbles women add to the water in search of relaxation. Her eyes closed, and her beautiful porcelain skin reflected the soft light of the sun, still shining through the window. But that is not how they found her twelve days later. The police say her body was bloated and blue and flopped over the side of the tub -- arms outstretched, reaching for, they believed, the phone which was found on the floor just a few feet away. Some of the water had evaporated, and the dead, brown flowers had matted with her half-dry, snarly hair. Imperfection. so there. I'm not happy -- Unnoticed, Overlooked, Maybe ignored. Cliched, and overplayed, I'll be swallowed up in the sleepy hollows of hell, Soon, And you'll be surprised that it doesn't hurt as bad as you thought it would. the parts you do not know. (an epic of small proportions) I'll break his heart Just because I miss you.
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