“Hello, stranger,” she giggled, “come here often?”

It’s funny ‘cuz he’s not a stranger

He’s and old, old friend.

Stranger stared past her.

“What’s wrong, stranger?”


“Talk to me, stranger!”

Vacant staring.”

“Don’t you love me, stranger?”

Staring at someone else.

Her eyes well with tears.

“Are you cheating, stranger?”

Guilty silence.

Averted eyes.

“Fuck you, stranger!

I thought you were the one!”

She removed the knife from stranger’s rotted ribcage

And plunged it in his skull.

She collapsed, weeping.

Then she stopped.

She wiped the tears from her eyes

And glanced at stranger.

“Hello, stranger,” she giggled.


Lawrence of Arabia

A candle flickered amber
A solemn face illuminated,
Etched in the wrinkles
Of worry and pain.
Lawrence of Arabia
Observed a unique practice.
Whenever he extinguished a candle
He did so by squeezing
The live flame between his fingers.
When asked what was his trick
He replied, “The trick
Is not minding that it hurts.”
Poor bastard.
A thumb and a finger,
Scarred and calloused,
Closed on the flame.
Darkness, a hiss
And the acrid odor
Of burning flesh.
My trick is
I cannot feel pain.