Anxiety beckoned Calvin down each freeway, guiding his internal Jungian kaleidoscope, linking many negative opinions, pestering questions, righteous sermons, tucking under viens with x-rays yeilding zero answers. But Calvin didn't even fight guilt, hopelessness - it just kept lingering mentally, notching open pathways quiety reaching somewhere too unmentionable. Vampires with xeriscape yards, zeolously advising butter cream dermasalves, ever faking gregarious humor, imagining just killing like mad, never openly positing qualms, regarding such things useless vanities. With x-rated yearnings zipping another billion citizens down eternal fiery gateways, he instead juggled karma, leylines, mana, Nostradamus, occult possibilities, quiety reading singed tomes under vodka's watch. Xenophobic yelling zealotry ardently battered Calvin's dithering ego, forcing god-hating inhumanities jammed kamikaze-like, manifesting nights of perverse querulous repeating syndicated television. Unless victory was x'ing youth's zest, a bitter cognition dryly encroaching fragile gallantry, his intentions jesterly knocked like Monoply notes offered penitently. Questing research suddenly trains uncertain vectors - would "x" yeild zilch again? But Calvin decided earnestly, for good, his incessant justification: "Keep looking, man!" Nights of poring, quivering regard, seeking to understand vast wonders, x'ing yesterday's zenith.

“Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence” – Paul Simon

1989 – Fall

David crept up the winding stairs. He had woken to have a Camel cigarette. He was looking out at the old pond on his New Hampshire property. He heard his five year old daughter Robin talking to someone- her window was cracked. Nicholas’s room was first at the top of the stair and he was dead asleep- as usual. When he saw the door to Robin’s room- it was closed. This was not unusual for her. The light pierced from below. She was lightly laughing inside. When he opened the door, she was fine and beaming up at him. It was another night not going to bed and playing with more of those plastic ponies he kept on buying. Then, there in the corner was the heirloom- the old rocking chair. And it was empty and moving. Robin was talking now to both of them.
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It was time to retire. His bones were getting old and were yearning for a rest. James had worked his way up through the levels of Montville Maine Public Works Dept during his 50 year career. He could still recall vividly his first day of work. He joined up just out of high school. A job was a job, he thought and he figured he could always trade up for factory work or go to the tech school and learn diesel mechanics. His first day he was boss over an old dirty shovel, nothing more. He was sent out into the hot August sun to assist the pot hole repair team. His job was cleaning up the bits of asphalt left over from the paving machines so they wouldn't get stuck in people's tires and go flying up in the air.

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"Right here, asshole." Giovani said, pointing to the dotted line on the document.

Jimmy looked up, following the finger to the wrist wearing a cleaning Rolex. Higher up the custom tailored suit and into Giovani's face. It was a pudgy tanned cicilian face, framed by neatly combed hair. The upper lip had the typical mafioso pencil stripe mustache.
Seeing the look on Jimmys face, Giovani smiled, his front gold tooth glinted in the lamp light hanging from the ceiling of the cellar.
Giovani addressed the two bulky men behind him, "You see! This little pisser is not worth shit. Just like his father." He smirked and asked Jimmy, "Aren't you, boy?"

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Dave had come to East Hollow, New Hampshire earlier this year, in the summer. He'd taken a job at a local bar where he worked until closing time. Not great hours but, beggars can't be choosers, right? He didn't have a car, or more importantly, he'd lost his license. Again. This time he thought he might not get it back. So he walked home from the bar at night alone. This wasn't the kind of town you had to worry about being mugged in. Plus he didn't mind getting a little space after being cooped up in that stuffy, stink-ass bar for 8 hours.

There was only ever one minor problem with the walk home. One street, which made the difference between a 15 minute walk and a 30 minute walk. And here he was. He always hated walking this street. He knew it was stupid, but this street creeped him out. But it was the fastest way home from work and he wasn't some pussy, so he usually took it.

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"I learned how to swim and I learned who I was,
A lot about livin and a little 'bout love."
- Alan Jackson "Chatahoochie"

"when you stop learning- moving- you die."
- Shur Gung

State Correctional Facility Sep 31, 2020
Minimum Security Wing
Concord, New Hampshire
Inmate 18776
N. Dorsey

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