"Fools Are My Theme

there is some slanted sort of speak, that is coming from the leaves. some sort of ancient incantation whispered in its secrecy. and in their talk, these kind of words, these parts of speech that are all blurred. some sort of other-wordly wiseness that’s seemingly just left unheard. and some small part of me believes that this magic would not deceive. if only we humans would listen closely to the language of the leaves.

freedom rang, last night, her message filled with thrill, and might, despising that apple pie and (geno)cider left cooling on the windowsill. and still, her voice held that sour bite, the hope filled until of willpower spilled from lips sealed tight. yet, in her earful her words were slurred, and lost behind that mindless wave of chat and lack of chance, and gave that grave sense of misbehaving, with rabble-rousing on her breath. and she was mumbling something, maybe, about when you were only blooming. how you had this voice, this soothing something, this grooving, dancing, flame unmoving that now, abusing, still you claim what was only ever her in name.

Most people I know regret the things they did. Fry, who we all knew had something wrong with him, had killed a man. He had enough human in him to regret it. Mutt, who was too loud and too fast and too much, was fucking a married woman. And her husband. That was his regret. Even Squito, who mostly stayed quiet and calm, had done something to regret. He would leave late at night to drink, despite his wife and kids who thought he was sober. But I wasn’t like that. Most people I know regret the things they did. I regret the things I haven’t. It started when Mutt and I had been smoking something he’d gotten somewhere. “This is top notch shit, big time, the good stuff, the great stuff, the fucking blow your mind and make you religious kind of shit,” he kept going, on and on. All of his words just blended into noises that my mind moved to the background. This shit wasn’t anything special. I’d had better. “Mutt,” I interrupted, passing it back to him to shut him up, “why do you do the

i get the groceries. i spend my hard-earned my big bucks, my green. i give it all to you, for you, (from you), and still, you sit in that big throne of yours, and give me what? life, but that was too many years ago, and your part was only half the job. i spend money, while you spend words on going-away gifts for people who will never go away. so give me the cash, give me the house, and i’ll get the groceries.

when you are abraham, and finally you see what all your life has worked toward, and you know you can trust him, because he said so, but, he needs you to need his trust, will you grab that what used to be your son, but now they all are, and you their father, and who can tell the difference anyway?, and give it up to him and be the prophet and jewishchristianmuslim, or will you love more than he could ever, this life he claims he made but can’t control? because, dreaming isn’t the time for decisions or to show your face, let me see you with open eyes, then we’ll talk.

When the merchant had wished for a son, no matter what the circumstances, he had not in his wildest dreams thought that those circumstances might be that his son would be the unholy combination of hedgehog and human. He knew something was wrong when the midwife shouted and dropped the child on the ground with a thud so she could pull a quill from one of her fingers. As he glanced at his newborn child, he began to regret his wish. The child’s snout pointed up at his father curiously and his wide eyes glittered with hope. The merchant turned away and retched. Out of spite, he named his newborn Hans My Hedgehog, the sort of alliteration typically reserved for children’s books and poetry. This name also ensured the child would always be branded with his deformity as his defining feature. The merchant smirked at his cleverness. However, the merchant did have a heart, so, he let the child stay until it could be decided if any money could be made of this ridiculous situation. Over the yea

“Did you see that?” officer Cross asked, nodding deftly toward the window. “What?” his younger partner turned clumsily, eyes wide with a curiosity that the years had not yet killed. “Someone was peeking behind the curtain. He’s in there. And he knows we’re out here.” The partner looked wildly from side to side, his mind likely running with stories he’d heard in the academy about shootouts and psychopaths. These stories were told by people not much older than him, and were often eerily similar to action movies and detective shows. “I’m gonna kick the door in. He isn’t dangerous, but you can’t be too careful, so keep your eyes open kid,” Cross got in position and looked at his partner, who was still staring blankly at the window. “There’ll be time for daydreaming later kid. Were you listenin’ to a word I said?” he asked gruffly, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. “Yeah,” the kid snapped suddenly out of his internal reenactment of Lethal Weapon and moved to side of the door. “