talk about the weather . . .

Hurricane

Raymond J. Timmins

yeah, Erin's

supposed to

hit with

100 mph winds,

but she'll

probably miss

Orlando.

after work

Paul and I

roared down

to Titusville,

as close to

the coast as

we could get;

we had the

old video camera.

then we

went a bit

farther

south--

"gonna send

this video

up to the

fiancee in

Alaska--been

bitching 'bout

rain. I'll

show her

rain!"

Paul was

mad, but

I was letting

him drive

me into the

belly of

the beast,

so what does

that make

me?

stupid.

(that's what

one friend

told me before

we left.)

got some

heavy rain

coming down

in huge

sheets. saw

bright

green flares

every few

minutes which

we later

found out were

powerline

transformers

exploding--

they lit

the whole sky

up green,

like you were

looking up

at the sky

from

beneath the

ocean.

signs and

traffic lights

waving in

the wind.

garbage blowing

like tumbleweed

across the

street in front

of the car.

palm fronds

lined up like

corpses on

the road.

the streets

dead. they

were ours.

got into

serious rain

and winds

going back

up the highway

heading home--

his dad

was waiting

up for him.

everyone

we told

thought we

were crazy,

but it's

better than

sitting at

home watching

the Weather

Channel.

people love

destruction

and chaos, they

are fascinated

by it; but

hardly any of

them want to

experience

it firsthand--

they'd rather

sit on

their

fat asses and

watch CNN.

maybe it's

nice to

know that

others are

suffering out

there in

this wild,

chaotic world

and you can sit

at home in

your comfy

chair and

be in total

control . . .

with that

all-powerful

remote.

if you want to

know about

the weather,

go out and

FEEL it for

yourself.

from 1995

4=5

The Same

my first friend was a girl,

my cousin and me in a carriage

that I remember only in

vague mental pictures;

playing games together in

the schoolyard later—her snapping
her fingers, showing off, me
frustrated at myself because
I couldn't but proud of her even as
she teased me.  her confidence

and force of will bursting out

in laughter—

over the years I have made many

female friends

and I try and treat them as

they are: the queens and

the angels of every situation—

sometimes lacking a little

grace, sometimes downright cruel,
but always beautiful.

though I can

occasionally come off

as a jester or a puck, it is perhaps
this exaltation of the female that
has kept me at once alone and forever
comforted by women, if mostly from a distance.

I’m always working my

way up the royal court till we find

each other—me and this glowing

angel-queen of time, whomever  or
wherever she may be.

it was an association I learned as

a child that boys and girls are

so different in how they are the

same.

Life's Creation . . .

a drama in one act

by Ray Timmins

The room is small and dark. X and Y sit with backs against the wall, staring forward. There is a soft light above their heads, directly between them, illuminating their faces dimly. There is one foot of space between X and Y. They are both androgynous, dressed in drab, baggy, unrevealing clothes. Their skin is grey and their facial expressions are stoic.

X Do you love me?

Y Yes.

X How do you know?

Y Know what?

X If you love me?

Y What would necessitate me to know?

X To know if it's true.

Y True what?

X True love, silly.

Y Oh, is there such a thing?

X I believe so, yes.

Y [Y looks around, yawns and scratches head. X shifts eyes

toward Y, slowly] Oh . . . [suddenly aware] how would I know

such a thing?—if our love is true, that is.

X Well, would you miss me if I were to leave?

Y You've never left.

X But what if I did?

Y Can't imagine it, sorry.

X Then how will you ever know?

Y [looking around] Sorry . . . know what? [Y's mouth stays

open for a bit while still looking around.]

X [slightly irritated] If our love is true?

Y [looking straight ahead] Should it be?

X Only if it is.

Y Perhaps it is, then. [Y shrugs slightly]

X But, you don't know.

Y No. I've never given it much thought. I say I love you

because I feel I do.

X [sardonically] Oh, it's just that easy, is it?

Y Yes.

X But you don't know if it's true love you feel?

Y So, if you were to leave, and I missed you, then that, would

be true love?

X [slightly nodding] Yes . . . perhaps.

Y [turning head to X] Then leave.

X [nasally] No—

Y [flippantly] Why?

X I can't!

Y Why?!

X 'Cause, I love you.

Y Oh . . . [sardonically, rolling eyes] is it true?

X Don't be that way, please.

Y [expectantly] Well, is it?

X True love?

Y Yes.

X I don't know, that's why I asked you.

Y Well, how can I prove it if you won't leave? [Y rolls eyes

and shrugs.]

X [turning to Y] Are you saying that 'cause you want me to

leave?

Y [turning to X] No, I want you to stay. [They look at each

other for a long time.]

X [softly] Why?

Y [softly] 'Cause, I love you.

X Oh. . . . [turns head away and both are silent for a moment]

Y [curiously] Any other . . . questions?

X [quickly] Do I make you happy?

Y [turning to face forward again] I suppose.

X Could you be happy without me?

Y I can't say; you are always with me, after all.

X Yes, I suppose.

Y Maybe you should leave for a while so we can see.

X I can't go.

Y Why?

X I love you.

Y Yes, and I love you and I am happy with you.

X But, how do you know?

Y [rolling eyes, slightly annoyed] Back to that again. I

thought we'd settled that.

X [face scrunched up] No, we never settle anything!

Y [pause and a long, breathy sigh, running hands through hair]

Because we're too honest with each other.

X But honesty is good—it's the first step to a successful

relationship.

Y You mean love?

X [unsure] Yes . . . I suppose. . . . [more confidently] Yes.

Y True love?

X Yes . . . that's the only kind that counts.

Y Well then, we do have honesty, yes?

X Yes, we do.

Y We could very well be in love; truly in love, yes?

X Perhaps . . . but we don't know that for certain.

Y [a bit annoyed] Why?

X [pause, X appears to be thinking hard for answer] Well . . .

you don't even know if you'll miss me if I were to leave; or

if you could be happy without me.

Y [visibly agitated, slams hands onto floor] You won't leave--

how could I know?

X [upset] I love you. Don't ask me to leave!

Y I don't want you to leave, but I do want to settle this

dispute over whether or not we are truly in love.

X [quietly] Why?

Y [calmly, sympathetically, looking into X's eyes] 'Cause, I

love you.

X [fiercely] You don't know that! If I went away, then you

could be able to tell; you may even decide you hate being with

me.

Y [retaliating] Well, we'll never know if you don't leave, will

we?

X Do you really want me to leave?

Y No.

X Then why do you keep putting it on me to leave?

Y To prove I love you.

X [more calmly] But, I can't.

Y [more calmly] Because you love me?

X Yes.

Y Then, don't leave.

X But, I want to make you happy.

Y [rolling eyes] And just what can you do to make me happy?

X Do what you want.

Y What's that?

X Leaving—that'll make you happy, right?

Y No . . . seeing you happy is what I want. In order to prove

to you I love you—which I do. I want to show you however I can.

X Then, you don't want me to leave?

Y No, I just want you to believe I love you, and if it means

missing you, then I want you to leave.

X So, you love me?

Y [holds X's hand, stares into eyes] Yes. I only want to make

you happy.

X How?

Y By doing whatever you want.

X [observantly] It seems we both want the same thing.

Y [curiously] What's that?

X To do what the other wants.

Y Why, do you suppose?

X Out of love.

Y [pause] But I can't do what you want me to do; I can't prove

that we're truly in love.

X [despondently] I'm a failure, too; I can't leave in order for

you to decide whether or not our love is true.

Y [head tilted downward] Since neither one of us can do what

the other wants, then perhaps we aren't truly in love.

X Perhaps . . . but I do want to do what you want, I just can't

because I love you.

Y And I want to do what you want, but I can't because your love

for me won't let you leave so I can prove it to you.

X [suddenly, like a revelation; bitterly] Wait!

Y [shocked] What?

X [pause, looks angrily at Y] Why don't you leave?

Y [defensively] Because, I love you!

X If you love me, you will.

Y I just want to make you happy.

X Then prove our love is true.

Y I can't; you won't leave so I can prove it.

X And you won't leave, either, 'cause you love me. [Long pause.

They are visibly frustrated, retreating into themselves and

looking about the room to avoid each other's gaze.]

Y [sighing] Let's go to sleep.

X [still angry] Good idea!

[Y gently offers hand to X; after some reluctance, X's face settles and X accepts Y's hand. They shut their eyes and tilt their heads inward, toward each other, and sleep.]

CURTAIN

8(i)=1+2=3?

Joey Engine's 3rd Dream Manifest

Ray Timmins   9.20.2009

Level-Headed Hedgehogs

tinsel memories twinkle in the

soft light of understanding;

level-headed hedgehogs bear

titanium claws from

furry paws understating the

leftovers from a stale fridge.

a Velcro spider disengages

her icy web from the eight

perfect eyes of time; perfect crimes

rest on weary shoulders while

rogues and crack babies

dance in haphazard goosesteps

over rainbows shimmering

in oily street puddles.

the car leaves the tunnel, a

malignant cough fills the night

air: ancient owls criss-cross

from above: the screaming

leaking of over-flowing heads.

metaphorical data crunching

when all stores begin to close,

lights go sullenly out,

flies gather on a blue and

orange landscape at dusk.

every interpretation, every penny,

people like intergalactic beings

composed of completely different

stuff, the stars dimming,

the universe blooming, the

future slowly brightening.

bones gather in an Amazon

rainforest—the one-eyed lemur

sees his death in petrified stills

of rapid decomposition clockwork

reclaiming the earth again.

=

Pandora’s Lion

two lights crept into the shadows,

the hungry aesthetics of a lion’s

roar shaking that cracked ground

beneath; water surged from the

moon drowning the math and gloom

of scattered scorpions.

a simulated sigh and a titanium smile,

tears drifted into the clouds

while the scent of alien incense lingered

in the air.

battle ensued with sex and sanity

casting spheres of flame and

limitless sparks of blue burning

the paper walls of the universe.

the words that hurt and heal leave

bare footprints that lead beyond the

hills and ancient burial mounds where

truth of love is unpronounceable but

is called upon by every sweeping breeze

and steady chill, every warm burst

of sunlight and glowing ember

in the fire.

sullen Pandora fitted the key into

her dreamy box as it phased in and

out of reality and only Hope drifted

out this time in the skin of a lion

and a crown of volcanic rock.

wiser but never older . . .

AND/OR

a slight return

remember, remember that eternal ember . . .

the moment we entered the magic theater and

nearly got lost forever. again.

simple curiosity, we looked once more

through the pot haze and madness

of the clatter, some song was playing, whatever

it was it didn’t matter,

but it happened one moment and the party had

become as silent as our exchange that

night had been, avoiding you avoiding me

because the moment wasn’t right as a couple

who expected us to reach out were waiting to

steal that locking of eyes they secretly Feared and

severely under-rated and misinterpreted

as a denial of their places in our hearts of them.

but it was, as it had always been, a secret, an inside

joke for us. an escape into a nation of 2

to stare our Minotaur down and run laughing

along with it over rolling iridescent hills,

the sun the moon and one brilliant star guiding

an unlighted path from within you, to me,

a temporary reprieve and a filter to turn the static

of our workday into a slow, simple jazz beat . . .

our retreat, nothing more. home was as it was before,

maybe even a little fresher, though naturally

a bit more distant from the stars than when we

had left it the day before.

and it happened again, randomly but perfectly, you

should emerge, when neither one of us expected,

wanted it or hoped for it. lost as we journeyed through

the sleepless night to understand once more, that

sometimes escape truly is good enough for the

wise. the bees gathered honey and returned to their

respective hives unaltered on the surface, but

forever changed by the return to that nation and the

shower of its brilliant starlight.

09.30.2009

8=

Eva’s Armada
"I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love." --Jane Austen

that you’ve become a symbol
of everything I’ve ever wanted
but couldn’t have is the principle
by which my madness has
grown—the real blame might
be some polymorphism on
the G72/G30 gene locus or
perhaps that I stopped believing
in God when I was six, but there’s
no poetry in that. and poetry
is all I have.

for better or worse, you will
always be the queen of my world:
an emanation of Beauty
transposed and transfigured,
1,000 ships couldn’t match
the force of Eva’s armada:
a standard no woman could
ever hope to live up to.

perhaps,
even you.
8.6.09

Kangaroo Philes

when I was a boy, 7 maybe 8, I was

lost at the Miami Beach Convention Center.

a local celebrity looked at me, after

he asked this simple question.

he asked what does kangaroo mean in

the native tongue, he held the microphone to me,

alone since I’d wandered off and lost my

mother’s hand like

I usually did out in public.

looking at that million dollar smile

and game show host gleam in the

dapper dude’s eye, I shrugged and

said, “I dunno?” and he stood up and raised

one arm, like sending a flock

of birds in flight and told me I was right.

I won a T-shirt for whatever radio or television station

he was working for. that’s the first thing I ever

won.

so, when I begin at the beginning, like

my first muse Alice, I find not a rabbit,

but a jumping dancing boxing kangaroo

with shiny mirrored eyes,

my face reflecting back at me in

funhouse distortion.

7.10.03

myth becomes fable becomes the dream . . .

H=8

old poem I stumbled upon looking for a one-eyed lemur

Words without Noise

words are never enough to circle

the world or your heart; there’s

always static transmissions from

alien worlds or from unanswered

calls in empty apartments.

but even from signals gone silent

or swept away by the breeze a

hand is touched and an eye is whispered

into with a gentle breath.

words without noise, like the ocean

unblue, an ungiven gift I

give to you.

9.24.02

new one, dedicated to the Muse

Paranoia and Playing Cards

Ray Timmins

it’s taken years to shuffle the demons to

the bottom of the deck. I hate card tricks and the

lowly prestidigitators that flaunt their trite craft

on street corners, bars and any other place

I simply do not want to be confronted by

strangers.

but the Queen of Hearts keeps showing up,

she stares at me, asking where her Suicide King has gone,

pestering me. I toss her away and I pull another

card only to find her again. and again. and again.

where did my King of Hearts go? she asks and I rip

her up. how the hell should I know?

then I can’t sleep for days, my arm goes numb. I

search the deck for this damn King and he is

nowhere to be found. not like I care or anything:

I just want to get some sleep.

I pull her again from the deck and she stares,

saying nothing. I rip her into a million pieces (which

takes as long as one might expect) and go to bed.

I awake with a toothache that lasts for days and

I can see the Queen of Hearts smiling this time

when I pull her from the deck. half-witted and

half my face and brain raging with pain, I toss her out

the window.

a Siamese cat, 28 stories down (I spy with my

telescope) picks it up between it’s teeth. I hear

the doorbell. I answer it and the kitty drops the

card at my feet. the Queen stares at me, disappointed.

I roll my eyes and toss her over my shoulder. then she let’s

me have it, an all out verbal assault. but I don’t listen.

drama queens . . . blah, blah, blah . . .

I cry. my toothache doesn’t seem so bad. and now

I never wish to sleep again. but I do, the neurochemicals

consume me and I drift off into a dreamless reverie.

one is remains open.

I awake to the pretty kitty rubbing against my leg, that

Siamese who had found her way up 28 floors to

bring me back that damn card I keep trying to rid myself of.

she urges me out of bed and leads me into the

kitchen. she hops up on the counter and

jumps into a cupboard. I stare, bewildered.

as I’m about to refocus and make a morning brew,

I notice a card in between her teeth. I take it,

reluctantly but don’t look at it till after my morning

cup o’ joe (which is wonderful, by the way).

I sit down and stare at the ceiling for no good

reason. the cat pounces on my lap and meows, purring.

I purr back. then I remember the card!

“it’s the Queen of Hearts, I bet,” I tell the kitty, though

she doesn’t understand my language. I turn the card over:

it is the King of Hearts! my heart races, I jump for

joy! I do cartwheels and dance my ass off. I look

for the Queen of Hearts card to tell her that I found her

Suicide King.

but she is nowhere to be found. I plop down on

the couch (as I always do). the couch gives a little

but remains intact (which is good—my dad would

kill me if I broke his old, reliable couch), clutching

the card to my heart. I cry for days. weeks. months

straight, till I am near complete dehydration and

my skin turns crinkly and I turn into dust.

I awake again and look desperately at this card.

I notice the sword is behind his head, not stabbing

through it. I want to tell the Queen of Hearts—no, I

want to show her. but she is nowhere to be found.

I put the King of Hearts in my shirt pocket, where

a pack of smokes would go and continue to stare

at the ceiling. it begins crumbling, as does the

foundation of the immaculate skyscraper that I began

building when I was a kid to make a home fit

for the likes of me. the building is solid, save for

my small efficiency on the 28^th floor. but I will never

cry about. I can only laugh as my world falls

apart, the sky opening up. I grab my telescope

again (always comes in handy) and peer through

it. amidst the stars and the expanse of the

universe madly spinning I see a lone playing card

fluttering down, down, down. forever falling.

I wait, smiling, hoping it’s the card I seek. the Queen

of Hearts, the queen of my world, and the counterpart

to the card resting warm in my shirt pocket. I want

to show her that I found what she had been seeking

all the time I ignored her insistent stares.

the card still flutters aimlessly but seems

to be getting closer. hopefully, I can just reach her

by the time I need to make my final escape

from this sad old building. and give her back the

king she has longed to reconcile with that she had

lost so long ago.

and I still hate card tricks, but this is one illusion

I will stake my life on, and spend the rest of my

days trying to figure it out.

if need be.

9.9.2009