I want you to know what it felt like - it was real still and warm inside, and as we sunk into the softness of the song I could swear there were beams of light coming out of me. I closed my eyes because I could feel the magic thing looking at me up close, and you never, never want to look it in the eyes.

"...you make me smile with me heart..."

Man, it was so quiet in there and that song felt like a part of me just flowing out... unhindered,…

One of my friends came in toward the end of the song, called me crazy and said he thought I'd run off to Tijuana. We ordered more drinks, another friend came in, and the place started to get busier. The singer, he kept doing his thing, and if you were just walking in and you didn't look too closely, you'd think he was the paid talent. Some time passed, the drinking continued - except for the singer, who never had anything stronger than tea - the lights dimmed into evening, and there was a…

Singing in public was not something I did, except when we ran through Camp Pendelton's dusty hills, but like I said - there was magic at work, and who was I too refuse? I joined the singer on his piano bench and paged through the book he handed me until I found "House of The Rising Sun". The microphone made me shy and my timing was off, but I got through it and wasn't too bothered by the presence of the couple who had joined us in the place.

Like any good teacher, the singer…

During his break I awkwardly approached him, thanked him for the music, and gave him back his Zippo. He received it graciously - seemed kind of regal - like he was used to handling the adulation of toungue tied fans. I told him I was about to eat some noodles and asked if he'd allow me to get something for him - he ordered soup and tea. We ate at separate tables and did not speak. His break was measured and professional.

Returning to his microphone, he said, "ladies and…

"You're beautiful, kid" he said, and I started to believe him.

He seemed to have the run of the place, like maybe Mamasan let him sing when there was no one else around. He continued his Sinatra medley, and I noticed his overstuffed, weather-beaten backpack in the corner.

"When I was seventeen, it was a very good year.." he looked at me when he sang and, no shit, I got goose bumps.

"It was a very good year, for small town…

It was my twenty-first birthday, a block or two off Broadway, and I was drunk without the usual temptation to cut my own throat with broken glass. The sun was out, things looked good, something like magic was starting to work, and I was not getting in the way. I walked past a little Japanese noodle place, just about empty in the mid-afternoon, except for a hard-luck man sitting at a piano singing his karaoke version of The Summer Wind. The look and feel of schizophrenia was about…

you streak of pasta piss,

virtually useless fucker

without heat, wetness, you are brittle

easily snapped into fragments.

when you are done you cling,

wanting to stick, to…

All I have as a reminder of my grandmother is two pieces of white corning ware; the kind used on the stove or microwave, as it states on the bottom of each piece, complete with glass top and colorful hens all around.

I have had these pieces for about thirty eight years; given to me as a wedding gift.

This particular grandmother was a difficult personality, given to letting everyone know exactly how she felt, without…

One of us will either die or walk away. You can't blame anyone for either mode of demise. Relationships are built to end. Enjoy the moment, the now. We all make promises. They're built like everything else.

I did it. Yes I did; I moved the furniture; now, it's just the way I think it should be.

I did it without asking my roommate; after all, I'm the decorator within this twosome, and really, he isn't here much anyway, so I did it.

And he was perfectly OK with my earlier rearrangements - But that was before.

My voice told me I should at least call him,…

You have no idea...how the thought of being stunned out of bed at an hour before daybreak kills my soul.

The finality of it thrusts a knife directly through me; the rude interruption, feet hitting the cold floor in the dark; poor me.

This is but one of the little nuances of unnecessary grief I have built within the walls of my existence; all of them bearing the fruit of fear.

I attribute…