To the Artist's Page 
To our home page
To L. J. Denney's previous pieceMoments of Desperation In moments of desperation when like Kerouac said we see what's on the end of the fork we cry long to curl up in the fetal position will ourselves into nothingness the pain of knowing is too much knowing that they have gone but not why they have gone these souls who inhabited the most intricate patterns of our lives in those seconds when realization spreads over us ketchup over fries suicide blood over a tile white floor they have vanished leaving no trace no idea of where they went we recognize drop by drop tears, sweat, time that it is fruitless to look for them down backstreets dappled with white curtained greying clapboard houses we would just get lost anyway it is reasonless to wait for them should we begin digging their graves bury the memories (downy and marlboros) taste of their sweat (salty with a pinch of ivory thrown in) warmth of their soulflesh against the bareback of the morning we wait a little longer knowing all the while but in piteous denial that they are like the guy who went out for a pack of Camels ten years ago and never came back or like Mike who packed up his shit one cool March morning cought the bus back to Cincinnati to get high feel the relief from the needle an orgasm better than any I could provide we sit in the car in the Kroger parking lot feeling stupid for waiting so long knowing in the raw maggot ridden floor of our souls they are gone sit a bit longer in confusion contemplation what will their passing mean to our own lives can we start the car and drive off back to work or home knowing with an acidic taste of finality that this is reality for today crimson streaked unadulterated reality where we have to see what's on the end of our fork like Kerouac said and chew it up and swallow trying not to choke
To the top of this page