Monday, March 31, 2008

Rhythmically Disabled Poem #642

Now I lay me down to rest
My teacup hands across my chest
I cannot sleep I must confess
Until this line comes out right

I remember things now. I remember
childhood and adolescence like they were more than
Saturday matinees playing over again in my brain and I remember
softer days when I was but a
small boy stealing candy from the local gas station and I remember
things again I remember
myself again. I remember
sixteen when I used my friendship with
gang members to scare the shit out of
unsuspecting Polo-boys at school, the precursors to
the damnable Abercrombie tykes of today
they still make me sick, Mother, they
still make me ill at the profane conformity of it all.
The beekeeper's attitude just changes
style and brand names but not mode of thought
and I ought to have known by now but how
could I have changed it for the better?

If this be a rhyme for something deeper
something profound something not found within me
without metaphor and for the world I hope it will be a little clearer
to you.
Than me.

I remember calling a black man a nigger for the first time
it damn near got me killed with good reason.
But I stared him in the face and I prayed
to no one and everyone
and prayed and prayed and prayed
until he backed down because it
turned out I really did have friends
... ones that had me drive them around
to beat people up and make fake drug deals,
yes Mother,
I was that kid that you didn't want other sons to be around
Why else would I as a white boy want to dress in purple Cross-Colours and throw up gang signs?

And Mother I pray for your forgiveness
who knew I would grow up to be this
kind of boy this
prideless hopeless bumble of a boy
who barely makes the ends meet at the middle
with an "I'll pay you later" and a beautiful smile.

I who, up until yesterday's yesterday was a dope fiending disillusioned malcontent that was hellbent on mine own destruction albeit slowly and with good drugs to boot?

Mother I wish you saw it all then
I might have felt worse about it.
I wish the secrets I kept from myself
I showed you with the same fervor.

If wishes ... dot dot dot
were horses
dot dot dot
and beggars ride smooth on my el-train of slander they kick up their boots and lean along for the fun of the trip and they continue their pleas to me and I used to listen, Mother, I still do sometimes it shines a flashlight in my face and I get dizzy just thinking about it.

I pray for myself to myself
I pray I pray I pray I pray I pray I pray
I can no longer see the light at the end of the tunnel but it's
only because I'm not staring down death's shotgun barrel anymore
and he threw the hammer back years ago, Mother.
He was cocked for me years ago.

Why did I not see it then as it comes to me now?
Why can I say this without profundity
or proclivity or prophylactic phrases and
why is it that I feel I won't understand this all
until I'm done with it and why will everyone else get it,
while I just prattle on indefinitely?

The prayer justifies the means, Mother. It's the ends scares the shit out of me.

Now it comes as no surprise
I'm like a fish in a pizza pie
I'm kind of sour and I don't lie
it's gonna take another ride
to make this feeling firmly subside
I think my vomit might just hide and ...

Now I lay me down to rest
My teacup hands astride my chest
I don't comprehend I must confess
But God tells me you do.
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Rhythmically Disabled Poem #642 by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

The Impala

There was this guy, right?

There was this guy and he had his hand out to meet mine before I even knew the bastard had his eyes on me.
His right hand missed two fingers
So he used his left
which felt like he had snails in his pockets
(clues number one, two and three respectively)

He offered me a "Once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity-thank-you-very-much-and-won't-you-please-step-in-my-office-and-sign-this"
(clue number four:
his office was a 1971 Impala with more rust on it
than there are angels capable of dancing on the head of a pin)

(which is 1,304,396 actually, if you didn't already know)

I'm a skeptical man by nature,
but my interest piqued, indeed
and I had a real shitter of a day yesterday,
(one where it was nonstop
random acts of unkindness, unfairness, unrepentance
of people I thought were in the same human race)
so I bit
paid my small fortune
signed with my own pen
(I didn't even notice the mark was burning as the ink dried)

The salesman smiled wide
He whizzed his fingers and dazzled his eyes
before I knew it the alarm was going off at 6am
and it was yesterday
which was nonstop random acts of unkindness
of people I thought were in the same human race
(except instead of going to sleep that night
I was whisked into the present,
which didn't stop, by the by)

The slimy handed Impala guy was gone
and I heard the clouds above laughing at me for missing a day of life

I winced

(my first clue should have been
the little nubs coming out of his forehead)

(or, failing that, the trident in the back seat)
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The Impala by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Jesus As A Lounge Act

I saw Jealous Rage
(JR for short)
as he lay in his easy chair.

(I say lay because to consider him
sturdy enough to do more
would be a feat in itself)

Death was at his back,
occasionally whipping him with
a croquet mallet,
which racked him so throroughly
it seemed to stymie the air.

(You see, JR had given up most of his power
to become Indefinitely Embittered;
and while it may have improved his writing considerably
for only a short time
it killed him thusly.)

"My God," I said, stupefied, "I thought you were getting better ..."
"Where the fuck did you hear that?" he coughed back.

He apologized for his condition as bronchitis
It was morose, standing before
what was once mighty,
feeling pity for one which despised such sentiments.

It so happened that in the course of conversation
JR looked strangely at me,
and, for a bright moment his eyes came back to himself,
and he smiled inwardly.

(He made a comment about Jesus as a lounge act.)

I saw in that glimpse
the old power.
I saw through him.
the hooks and the fishing line connecting
I saw the relinquishment ...

Then his eyes wheezed themselves back into weakness;
Death slowly nodded towards me,
raised his mallet and saluted.

Indeed: if even Jealous Rage can be destroyed by
something so fearfully trifled,
so can my rising power as Sarcastic Hopelessness

(Though, admittedly, it couldn't possibly be the same affliction
if it happened to me ...
Our poems are completely different.)
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Jesus As A Lounge Act by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Friday, March 28, 2008

Janever Six (Part II)

Chapter 1: To The City of Cruxiss.
Present Day…

Goddamned bloody rain!

The down pour was thick and gray and cut off all light from possible use. The cloud cover was a mosaic of darker grays and blacks, to compliment the sheets of water coming down. Sometimes the vertical lines of rain would rush sideways for a moment, on the back of a huge gust of wind.

Oh! The wind!

It was a cold, menacing sort: wisps of icy chill shot this way and that, and still colder air was constantly blowing to the East, or at least trying its best to stay in that direction. A howling sort, too, for every larger and even colder gust that came through seemed to treat the ground as a giant bottle; the wind just pressed its cold lips to the rim of the bottle and blew. It was creating a rhythm of dread. Every new scream of wind willed you to fear it.

This was the kind of storm you usually have the smarts to get away from, knowing what natural terror they bring.

But on this plain there was nothing but field and trail, trail and field. Flat ground surrounded him for what seemed to be miles. No mountains off in the distance. Only a few trees offered themselves to be seen through the near-opaque rain; most of these were baby oaks and maples, barely three years old, and perhaps neck-high. Mud ran due North and due South, once a wagon trail, now a shallow brown river. And there were the grain fields, being terrorized by the thought of flooding. Wheat stalks whipped around in a most random fashion, shaking off the water so as to prevent the ground from saturating and beginning to flood.

The wind slapped his thick black cloak to and fro behind him - despite its weight from being absolutely soaked - occasionally wrapping halfway around him and threatening to costume him as a human tornado. The rain beat him, beat every inch of him. It felt worse than Chinese water torture and it showed no remorse for doing so. Through the hooded cloak, two emerald-green discs completed their scan and started again; they were looking for anything that resembled temporary shelter, whether it was up a ways on the trail or ten miles off the beaten path. Small puffs of steam were seen being pulled away from his mouth by the wind in a totally defiant rhythm from the opus of the storm.

His search was dubiously slow and practiced, not quite the frantic scan and fret and frown that he yearned to apply. In fact there was no possibility of him not doing exactly what he was trained to do, and that training actively took control of his movements; his eyes never paused long, but crept across vast field after vast field methodically.


It was a depression in the field, or something resembling such, about a mile West (into the wind, he grimaced) from the mud creek in which he was standing. Either way it meant safety for the time being: anything was better than standing on the road like a wet and tired beggar.

He sloshed towards the shadow, at first slowly and deftly so footprints in the mud wouldn’t point to him; as he trudged into the field, he broke into a full sprint, a diminutive black streak among the wheat stalks. He slowed again when his approach brought him within one hundred meters of the shadow, and slithered in a zig-zag towards it.

Now the depression revealed itself as an old house foundation in the only large pit of land found for tens of miles. The bowl dug for the house was too symmetrical to be natural, and also much too steep. Perhaps this was tornado country, he thought. A look to the sky offered its answer in the form of a great bolt of lightning. It landed nearly a quarter-mile away, and the shock and sound of its touchdown almost flung him to the ground.

His fear almost broke him of his learned behavior, and he started for the foundation … rather, started for what was left of broken concrete and felled timber. In a snap his training came to, and he stooped and ran on four appendages as fast as he could. Moving this way, he covered more ground as he took a perimeter and gathered information of his new environment, while still remaining mostly out of sight. On the South side of the foundation (the once-rear of the house) under some brush and burnt wood was a cellar door.

Oddly enough it looked like an old-fashioned door. It looked thin and corrugated, as a sheet-metal door would appear, and it was truly in a concrete base.

Closer inspection made clear this was no ordinary cellar. Although the house foundation was broken and decayed, the cellar - what little showed of it - was reinforced concrete of military grade. It probably had thick titanium rods woven for its skeleton. And the sheet-metal turned out to be military-grade plastic, probably also mixed with titanium, and not corrugated at all, but rather two inches thick and painted to look that way.

And too, it should not be forgotten that this particular cellar door was different in all these ways, but none were more important than passing trivia you share with your friends when compared to this:

The cellar was locked.

In the middle of absolutely nowhere, on the way to noplace, and, in fact, more of a pain to get to than its true worth, this cellar was locked with the most technologically advanced mechanism known at that time to humanity.

Why the hell would anyone of right mind lock a cellar door out here, much less with that confounded gizmo?

He started to feel dizzy just thinking about it.

No, not that …

He was feeling dizzy all by himself … he should sleep.

So he did.
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Janever Six by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Illegitimate Stamen

Photo by Linda Bowman, shared under a Creative Commons 3.0 License.

I am a clone.

not because
it's cool
rather the converse

millions of brothers and sisters,
all me
and vice versa
crowd the nursery
under a thousand white-hot
artificial suns

manure and shrimp entrails
the sustenance of choice

because of it
and with the help of a spritzer bottle
a purple-powdered glow

mother, she was a purebred
a salmon-skinned beauty
dad, a scarlet handsome

and yet
i wait to wither.

pick me.

pick me.
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Illegitimate Stamen by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Yearly Increases of National Debt, By Political Party

Ugly, harrowing, though blatant when given emPHAsis, this is yet another reason I'm a Democrat.

Janever Six (Part I)

Ten years ago…

Doctor Maxine Flannigan sat in her office quietly, reading her laptop screen and smoking a much needed cigarette. It had been a long day of reporting to her supervisors, and she was tired. This was her only respite from the morning’s doings.

Her office was cozily kept on the fourth floor, tidy save for her desk. The leather-topped desk was a fair compliment to the rest of the senior doctor’s minimal furniture. There was a small desk lamp making the desk glow a dim orange. A single blinded window looking behind her tried uselessly to let the diminishing sunlight in, but she liked her office dark and brooding, much like her mood at the moment. Even with the door open, the room was a collage of silhouettes.

She let out a raspy sigh when she heard footfalls coming down the hallway. She was more than tired, she was cranky too.

“Doctor, I must speak with you,” pleaded the young security officer from the open doorway.

Doctor Flannigan looked up from her laptop, let out a tired smile, and motioned him inside the office. The poor boy must have been only newly assigned, for she had specifically mentioned to everyone in the security department that her private quarters were off limits. “You know that no one is to disturb me in my office, mister…” She looked at his name badge, “Cross. Did they not tell you as some sort of cruel joke?”

“One of the specimens is missing, ma’am.” Officer Cross was terrified. His whole body trembled, and he was out of breath. Did he run down to her office?

“Did you check the sign-out sheet, Mr. Cross? Maybe one of the other doctors took it to an exam room.” She had to find some way to calm this boy down, all 19 years of him. No reason for him to get worked up over something that was probably another paperwork error. Though he was on edge, she was counting on it being the fact that he was still wet behind the ears.

“I triple-checked the logs. Definitely missing. So far as I can tell from the recordings in the cold room, it’s been gone for almost an entire day.”

“Many doctors here are scatterbrains, son.” She smiled to herself at the thought he could be young enough to be her grandson. “We don’t always sign the log sheet, even me. And I’m supposed to set the example.” She grabbed her coffee mug and took a swig, trying hard to keep Cross at ease.

“Yes ma’am. We’ve already asked all of the other physicians. None of them checked out a specimen all day. And …” he trailed off, gathering strength to say more.

“Yes, and?” She made a sour face. The coffee was ice cold.

“Well doctor, that’s why I’m bothering you in your quarters. All the other docs said they don’t touch this specimen. They say it’s your project.”

“What?” The coffee mug hit the desk with an audible thud. Cold dark liquid sloshed out of the cup, and stained the shuffled papers on her desk. She did not notice. “What number, Mister Cross?”

“J-6, ma’am.”

“Oh God.” Now, Doctor Flannigan too started shaking uncontrollably.

They both ran to the elevators where a car was fortunately waiting for them. Officer Jack Cross pressed the button for sublevel 9, and they descended. They ran again as soon as the elevator doors opened, left down the hall to the cold room. She frantically entered her password on the keypad next to the door, and had to be reminded by Cross to provide a thumbprint for the computer.

The chamber was filled with security officers and physicians alike. A few officers were cordoning off the area, both outside the cold room and in. Some were taking pictures methodically, going from this broken beaker to that dent in the wall, snapping roll after roll of film for research. One small group was pondering a smear on the wall that looked like blood. Most, however, were in the back of the room, staring helplessly at the empty tube that once held Flannigan’s prized specimen.

“What time was he known to be missing, Mister Cross? And who was in charge during this time?”

“Since 9:30 this morning, Doctor Flannigan,” answered a low voice from the large crowd near the cryogenic tube. A short and thin man walked from the middle of the ogling group and offered his hand. “And I was in charge all day today.”

Maxine looked down to him, and hesitantly shook his hand. A limp and easily forgettable handshake. She wanted to wipe her hand on her coat, but thought better of it. “Horace. So have you checked the other cameras? The elevators? The vent system? And where were you during the time when Mister Cross was questioning the other doctors? Do you have any idea where he’s gone?”

“Maxine. Doctor. We’ve been looking nonstop since his confirmed disappearance, which was not quite an hour ago. We saw … him,” – Horace sounded annoyed that Flannigan had given the specimen a personal pronoun – “in our rounds first thing in the morning, around 6:15. It was noticed missing” – he replaced ‘he’ with ‘it’ to make himself more comfortable – “by Mister Cross during his solo rounds. That was around two this afternoon.

“Jack came to me, following proper channels, and I called out an alert to the building immediately, also according to procedure. The physicians were all questioned, the log books were checked and checked again, the computer logs were reviewed. The cameras were tested and the recordings checked. Near as I can tell, we have a theft on our hands here.”

Maxine checked her watch. 4:45pm. “So you’re telling me that you have been looking for a kidnapper that has a five or six hour head start?” She was furious.

“Calm down, Doctor Flannigan …” started Horace Donson, chief of security.

“I will not calm down until you tell me what the fuck is going on! And whose blood is that?!” She pointed at the reddish-brown smear on the wall. “You had better start explaining things a little clearer if you expect me to calm down!” She stepped into his personal space, and kneeled a little, her six foot frame belittling him without the need of her tone of voice. “Or I will have your balls in a vice. Do you get me, Chief Donson? Horace?” The last bit was for spite, and it felt good to her.

Donson swallowed hard, and tried to speak without squeaking. For Maxine, the word weasel came to mind. “Doctor, please. I’m doing all I can. If it was a theft, it must have been an inside job. We’re checking right now to see if anyone had called-in today, or has had the day off, or is otherwise not on the work roster. We are also making a building-wide search for missing persons that were on the roster. Nothing has turned up yet.

“As for the blood, it belongs to the specimen. Of that we are certain.”
Flannigan steamed. That was twice Horace twisted her words.

She let out a huff in his face, and strode as calmly as she could to a computer terminal. She punched in her security clearance, and brought the main screen in the room to life. There on the wall for everyone to see were Specimen J-6’s statistics since its – his – inception.

“Does that look like a specimen to you, Chief Donson? Because I’m confused about what you consider inanimate and what you don’t.”

“Doctor Flannigan, my job is not to tell you whether you’ve created a good monster or not. My job is to find where your monster ran off to.” He seemed annoyed that she would even consider him a good judge on things such as this.

“Yes, and with an entire building on alert, it should be no problem, should it?” she flared. “Tell me again what time you found him missing?”

Maxine slammed the door to her office and made a beeline for her desk. She picked up the telephone and dialed out with one hand while the other tossed the last of the coffee from her cup into the trash and replaced it with brandy from a snifter sitting on the windowsill behind her. She guzzled trembling, took a deep breath and calmed down, and gulped the rest.

The other end answered on the fifth ring.

“Urban. It’s Max. Six is gone.”

“Fuck me. You’re kidding.”

“About seven hours ago. Security’s been on it for at least that long. They tell me they’re about to contact Homeland Security.”

“Max, no. They can’t. You know you’ll be shut down.”

“I’ve got no choice, Urban! Too many people are involved already; it’s only going to get worse. I’m calling you to tell you to leave right now. Go anywhere, I don’t care, I’ll come find you when this thing gets cooled down. Just do it in the next ten minutes. I don’t doubt this’ll make the President talk.”

“Christ on a crutch. Maxine, this is going to start a war and you know it. Calling HS won’t solve shit. Don’t give up on him. You owe it to yourself to trust your instincts.”

“Goddamn it Urban! Don’t you give me that psychobabble bullshit! I’ve got a fucking clone walking around Nebraska and all you can say is ‘trust your instincts’?!”

“He’s non-violent, Max. You’ve cured him.”

“No, I haven’t. It’s subconscious, but it’s there, for fuck’s sake! All it takes is one situation and his whole mind might come crashing down on him and he’ll go fucking nuts!”

“Fuck you, Max. Fine, if you’re giving up on him then I’m giving up on you. Call your fucking Homeland Security. See if I give a fuck. Let them raid my house. Let them arrest me. You’re not even giving me or him a chance in this. I can find him. We can find him.”

“And what if he lapses before we get to him? Are you saying we risk other people’s lives on the premise that you think we’re that good of a team? You’re right about one thing, Urban. If Six has an episode, it will start a war.”

“Goddamn it, Max.”

“I’m sorry, Urban. I’m making the call. Get out of your house, now.”

“I’m coming to you. Don’t go too far.”

“Don’t tell Reggie.”



“OK. But you’ve officially killed me.”


“Fuck you.”
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Janever Six by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Corporate Food Chain

I saw this earthworm
real skinny one, old and long and kinda smart ... looking
but really skinny, like anorexic skinny
and he (they're asexual, so it's not like he has a gender) was
slinking down the concrete sidewalk
but parallel with the grass on either side.
(I guess he wasn't so smart after all)
Every couple of inches he would
grind his head into the ground
looking, I can only assume, for loose soil.

He rammed incessantly: crawl, slam, crawl, slam
and I didn't want to move him, I
mean, I rooted for the poor guy but
I wanted to see what happened next.
He got to a seam in the concrete and
veered right, and the slamming increased
threefold. I thought he was gonna win
the contest.

Then he started to sniff the concrete again
then he turned right around and went
back the way he came.
and every couple of inches he would
grind his head into the ground
I thought he almost had it. Almost.

It's too bad he's blind.
And not six feet taller.
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Corporate Food Chain by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Monday, March 24, 2008


I don't sleep well.

It's the textured plaster
that stares at me -
from its superior vantage point -
for hours in a non-concilliatory tone.

It's all I can do, sometimes,
not to rail at it;
run around my bed in some kind of
psychotic rain dance
just to make it stop.

So I lay, resigned
while tens of thousands of
little dots of spackle
loom, suspect of my character.

They thumb their noses at me.

And I don't sleep well.
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plaster. by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Sunday, March 23, 2008


I have been selected to be a featured reader at this year's GaiaFest 2008. I will sit alongside a dozen other quality writers as we flagellate in front of you, the audience. Please join us April 22, 2008, at the 40th Street Theater in Norfolk, VA. I will share more information as it arrives.

In the meantime, here is one of the pieces I have been working on for the festival:

hold me, child
hold me sunny, strange days ahead now, child
brack river underneath my bones, child, you will be wont to drink it, child
resist every temptation.
hold the weak now, child
hold steadfast a solder's mask a deity's substance hold fast now, child.
coming miles up now and we forgave him naught
hold the line, child
help me heal the wounds bandaged dirty by the sun now
hold the heals, child.
hold me as you're breaking apart now
you're crazy if you want to make crazy
hold the heals now, child
mend the cracks in the skin
hold it together child.
bleed the sun dry tomorrow or the ending's tomorrow
hold tight now, child
it's the sudden dancing macabre bodies underneath it all
the secrets of secrets
hold me now, child.
if you want to see me.

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Mother Says by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

12 Reasons Solarbabies Still Rules

You all remember Solarbabies, don't you? It's that awesome, dystopian future where rollerskating orphans are trying to get out from under The Man and free the Earth's water supply with the help of a magical purple sphere called Bodhi. This is one of those movies that every critic panned. Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 00%, while IMDB commenters say "Avoid it like Solar-rabies."

I hadn't seen this movie in nearly 20 years. I still remember it being on one of the VHS tapes my parents got from our HBO-pirating relatives, and I used to watch almost weekly. It had nearly been completely overwritten by new memories before my girlfriend asked me to find it. During the opening credits, it was as if I was ten again, sitting on one of our old blue corduroy recliners and soaking it in for the first time.

Of course, like any memory, the feeling ran out in the first twenty minutes and I was stuck watching this horrendously great film; so I started keeping notes.

Therefore, logically, hence and thusly, but in no particular order, I bring you twelve reasons to watch Solarbabies again.

12. The deep, hallowing, mean-spirited synth music is a true hallmark of any 80s dystopian future. Also trademark is the barren desert landscape.

11. Children are taken at an extremely young age and placed into what seem like concentration camps, called orphanages. The kids have no knowledge of their personal history, let alone their current whereabouts. Why more movie makers don't highlight this harrowing single-minded practice is beyond me.

10. In the future, scores are settled by teams playing a mashup of roller hockey and field hockey.

9. All the orphans can rollerskate. This fact cannot be stressed enough, because everywhere these kids go - in the desert - there are enough flat, well-packed surfaces on which to use them ... in the desert.

8. The E-Police are the ones running the show. Apparently, the E stands for Ecology, because they have kept the whole of the earth's water supply under lock and key. This is deduced also by the fact that the freedom fighters call themselves eco-warriors.

7. Nathan Petrelli (Adrian Pasdar) is Darkstar. End of story.

6. Despite traveling to several different locations across the ravaged, waterless landscape, most of the orphans never take, steal, barter, or otherwise acquire new clothes. Darkstar becomes a factory worker shortly before his capture, and Terra (Jamie Gertz) is a native eco-warrior for two brief scenes - and even then she dons the old uniform to break into the E-Police Headquarters,Reservoir & Beauty Shop.

5. The kids make several exciting escapes from the E-Police, who are total wussies, and apparently don't have radios. In one of these escapes from authorities, they create a human sling shot to propel themselves across a gap in a bridge. In another, the orphans climb inside giant tires and roll down a very steep hill to make their getaway.

4. The robot destroyer surgeon Terminac is brought in to finish off the magical sphere, Bodhi. His choice of weapon? a carbon-tipped drill bit.

3. Richard Jordan puts some of the best cheese I've ever seen into his antagonist role as the evil leader Grock. His best line comes when he captures the youngest orphan, Danny (Lukas Haas), holding the magic sphere: "Oh, my. Hello. Is this your ball?"

2. All the orphans can rollerskate. Not only that, but every room and building in the world is wheelchair friendly. In the future, there are very few stairs.

1. It's implied at the closing credits that all the orphans can swim, too, even though they've barely seen anything more than a puddle in their entire lives.

So there you have it. The twelve reasons to watch Solarbabies. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoy writing. Find it, watch it, scowl at it, love it.

Friday, March 21, 2008


My head hurts.
The fog refuses to move and my head hurts.
I took sixteen Tylenol and my head hurts.
Towers topple and
priggish politicians point at everyone but themselves and my head hurts.

I have a trillion things to say and a
gazillion ways to say them ... And nothing
comes out and my head hurts.

I see poetry.
I see twenty-twenty
for at least one hundred and sixty degrees
from my viewpoint at five feet, eleven inches
I see poetry
from wake to sleep from the
spider wrapping the mayfly
for a midnight snack
to the prostitute at the corner
I see poetry -

and I have no poems

And my head hurts.

I smoke a fag
watch the trails seek the only
clean part of the room and my head hurts.
I forgot how to drink because I wanted
to forget how to vomit and my head hurts.

I want it to stop.
My head hurts and
I just want to go home and smell my
girlfriend's pillow and fall asleep
with my cock in my hand because my head hurts.

I see poetry.

I smash the butt in the burnt plastic tray.
And my head hurts.
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Migraine by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Thursday, March 20, 2008


There exists an invisible negative field
in the middle
of the internet, a mass of antimatter in
the direct center of the cloud. A
minimus very similar to our own galaxy. A giant black
hole that feeds on its own eerie dissonance
and light.

Indescribable pain emanates from this mouth of moribund
madness this
oriface of oracle's doom
this hole
of horrific humanitarian have-nots this pit of
of confiscated commons
Created to juxtapose righteous indignation
for the word compressed gobsmacked minority

It tumbles impunitized by its glossy Rorschach
form, an inkblot in a pool of blood, helps itself to bits
and fragments let loose in frantically black-magic-linked offerings like a
televangelist's fantasy. As if Jerry Lewis worked
for the almighty himself.

Some see the black behemoth as a benevolent opportunity,
a benchmark of penultimate success. Some think
they have been Spectacled by gods
and swathed in silver and
They flock to its
shell but receive no warmth from its belly,
nor milk from
its deflated and well-used breast. But Godot is coming, they say.
Have faith they say.

It bears Scrutiny with unsurprising agility given its
metamorphing shape and
consistency. There is no stethoscope attenuated for it, no
magnetic imaging capable of peering into
even its shallowest layers.
The only recordable measurements are screams,
louder each day, and eventually all the white noise hat makers in the world combined
won't hold back the wailing.

it grows in some proportion to the
cloud in which it lives, and from which it receives nourishment.
Attempts to stymie its metastasis have
resulted in severe casualties. It will not die from normal
radiation therapy, and really, it's not
like you can just fire a laser in there willy-nilly. No,
something valuable might get
damaged in the process. There is no such
monster as calculated risk in cases like this.

It stymies even its own makers, that wrath brought forth by
spy botnet zombie computational semi-intelligences,
wringing the last bytes out of magnesium platters and solid
stated electrons
and logic gated lithography, infringing upon vast fiery fields with
a promise of a vacuum
to sate the fire’s lust beyond
its own walls.

It stands as a negative, proxied
from the original, but truncated,
a self-determined handicap.
A child of itself
created for its own edification.
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Cloud by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Playground Love

When I was five years old it was Tiffany.

She was the red-headed kindergarten bombshell in those maroon
corduroy overalls, eggshell blouse with ruffles, and pink kangaroos.
We shared a bus route, dated for a week ... and then she mysteriously
disappeared over Christmas Break.
She rubbed my back once, after something happened on the bus. I'm certain I've
repressed it - everything except the consoling period afterwards.

It was my first lesson: Love is fleeting, and ephemeral.

In second grade it was best friends Courtney and Melissa. They
tore a dolalr in half and each gave me a piece. The bliss lasted
two whole days, and I learned love is a many splendor-ed
thing. An excellent lesson.

Wasn't until grade three I found rejection. I also learned not
to cry on the playground during recess.

I discovered the little white lie in sixth grade, trading I
Love Yous with Christina for a whopping two weeks.
We also traded tongues in the hallway for shock and awe. I
was, after all, a year younger.

And on go the layers
upon layers upon onion skin layers of deceits, machinations,
frightening truths, and enormous wherewithal. And we wonder why this
shit is so hard, though we've rewritten the code
so many times like we're the goddamn IRS.
It used to be so simple to say I Love You when you
didn't know any better.

I didn't say it again until fourteen and stole my friend's
girlfriend. She lived thirty miles away in a different
school system. I found that Love is hard work,
especially when you have to bike thirty miles just for a
blowjob with braces. Yes also to Love Hurts.
And to the boomerang effect, for we dated again at
seventeen, and twenty, and at twenty-three ...

The layers fall sweet and unsurprised, in no
discernable order. I experienced the younger woman when I lost
my virginity. Somewhere along the way I learned to tell the
truth (Eighteen, with Allison, when I had to tell her the condom
fell off). My ex-wife taught me that taking the next logical
step makes absolutely no sense when your heart's just not in it.

When you read trashy romance novels, everyone writes about the
feeling word pang, like a pang in the chest. At least I don't
have to wonder what they're trying to convey. I have a
pretty good notion.

But in the here and now, I wonder if I'm just naive, like
I'm savagely chasing across failed attempt after chaotic dissent
for the sensation I felt when Tiffany touched her hand to my
five-year-old back, and moved it around a little.
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Playground Love by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Say hello to BookLamp, the "Pandora for books" as one digger put it.

Select a book you enjoy from a drop-down box(after registering), and BookLamp will give you algorithmic recommendations based on your input. The Captain Obvious in me must remind you that this service is in beta: the booklist isn't very long (in point of fact it's emaciated) and seemingly only encompasses science fiction so far.

Unlike Pandora, there is no search for the book list yet, although they do encourage your input to broaden the database. Still, the graphs are snazzy and well-thought, and dropdown recommendations are fairly precise.

The litmus test was selecting Isaac Asimov's Forward The Foundation, in which BookLamp projected that I'd like The Mindwarpers by Erik Frank Russell, and A Very Strange Trip by L. Ron Hubbard. Now I'm not saying I don't have an open mind, I just never thought I'd be recommended a Hubbard book, ever.

On Hate

I hate the tall-fat guy wearing a ten-gallon hat that
always seems to sit deliberately in front of me at
the theater; and when asked
to remove his hat, i hate the realization that it is not his
headwear that is capable of holding ten gallons.

I hate the conversations I don't want to be a part of, but
always get sucked into anyway, either by force or by
my own loose lips flapping over there ... But c'mon.
Goddamn. I mean, Wicca is an accepted Theology.
But. There's. No. Such. Thing. As. Vampires, dude.


Now I realize Hate is a strong word. Too strong for
anyday, everyday use. I reserve it for things I cannot
escape. Irrational fears. Personality traits. Loathsome things.

For example:

I hate that I am a handsome tall drink of water from
an L.L. Bean catalog, but I must act like an arrogant
prick to pick up women, all because it's socially
unacceptable for me to be intimidated by them.

I hate too small coffee cups.

I hate limp handshakes.

I hate nonconformists that want to be unique ...
just like everyone else.

I hate being called a liar, or stupid. (Conversely, I
love calling both myself and others Stupid Liars.)

On a similar note, I hate hypocrites.

It's not as bad as you think. A little self-loathing
goes a long way. Keeps me from saying racist or sexist
comments, since I hate racism and sexism. Really
I hate most -isms to varying degrees, If only because
most are born simply of rebellious bull-headed
close-mindedness ... and I hate
rebellious bull-headed close-mindedness.

I hate fighting over religion. It's all the same thing, anyway.
May as well call it The Force.

Speaking of, I hate people that haven't seen the
original Star Wars. Moreover, I hate people that
refuse to see it, because there's never a legitimate reason.

I hate the stressful strict structure of time.

Most of all. Over everything else I hate that without
this untenable emotion, there could not exist the reason.
I hate because of its opposite and unfortunate

I believe the yin and yang. I believe in hate so that
I may believe in love.

The up will come down, the sinful will claim penitence,

I hate to love.
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On Hate by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Monday, March 17, 2008


This morning I awoke at 7 am, I never do that, and I
noticed a robin sitting on a slim branch out the window.
He was dancing.
He hopped and fluttered and half-flapped in a transcendent
flow, and for that moment, there was an understanding between
me and god. And we just sat.

A white and brown calico looked on as well, and as
Robin was finishing the third act, Calico JUMPED FROM A
nothing but a reddish feather, and a heart-shaped negative space within
the wooded canopy.

And a pale, silken wind started blowing. And the glass made settling
sounds. And I contemplated the breeze, made movements with its
movements, and caught up to the swaying limbs of trees. And everything
was right between me and god. And we just sat.

It started to rain. At first a patter, then a splatter, then
a downpour. It was all I could do not to move, and within
moments the entiRE ROOF CAME OFF IN A 3,000 MILE-PER-HOUR GUST,
WEST BEYOND KANSAS, and leaving me to soak in the world's

And a warm rain came to slow the torrent to a sprinkle,
and the breeze came back, this time on my face, and the water
catalyzed the moment, and immediacy I hadn't felt before, but
the picture cleared, the moment lengthened, I was struck by the
motion, careened face first into the motion, and everything was
right between me and god. And we just sat.

The clouds started swirling around me. I thought they were
just a happy part of the proceedings, and indeed they swirled
into a funnel and the funnel got faster, and as it got faster
it got lower, until it struck the ground at such a furious
force that the house immediately lurcHED INTO THE AIR AND WAS
TO SMITHEREENS! I lay bleeding, unconscious, missing the
feel of the wind on my face.

When I awoke it was dark. I was too
far out of town, or the power went out all over the
state, and the clouds and rain had vanished, replaced by
more stars and more night than you've ever seen. Every time I
focused on one star, three more were behind it, and when
I refocused, twenty more behind the three, and continued until the
starshine looked like clouds in the void. And for the first time
everything was right between me and god. And so I sat up.
And we just sat.
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Metaphor by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Ode to Mentadent

O how thy bristles cascade to and fro
down and up, also in small circles start at
the farthest reach work themselves rabid as
they rush to the aid of Mentadent
Advanced Care Whitening paste.
Sensuous and sly they careen from end to end
side to side front to back tops and bottoms
As the orifice fills foamy, one
cannot forget to gag oneself to scrub the
tastebuds nearest the throat (that's where all
the funk goes when you're not looking)
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Ode to Mentadent by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Sunday, March 16, 2008 (SF)

Background of The New World:

North America has been steadily increasing the number of traffic cameras, red light cameras, and camera-pods in public areas for the last ten to twenty years. By 2010, Litigation and lawsuits causes the video streams to be posted to the public domain, since most of the cameras are on city or state property. Some corporations elect to post their own interoffice streams for free; while still others charge a subscription much like pornography sites.

Quickly, Americans begin to carry GPS and arfid tags around with them, and implant geo-tracking cookies into their websites, myspace and facebook pages, and email signatures. To them, it was not just an incredible invasion of privacy; it was a new form of social networking. Now people could see where you were and meet you at any moment! Flashmobs became 10x the norm for geo-tagged celebrities, and every teenager and their dog were rewriting their websites to become the next Real Truman Show.

Around 2013, some politician, whose party affiliation escapes me at the moment, and whose name is to be determined, suggests that since millions of Americans have elected to "chip" themselves into the national citizen (terrorist) registry voluntarily, it would behoove the United States to set up a national lottery as an arm of Homeland Security - whereby citizens could bet on the actions and outcomes of others' everyday lives. Ninety-five percent of the proceeds would be used to fund the national government, and the remaining five percent would serve to fund the lottery.

Within three years of the bill passing, the national income tax is removed and the IRS is merged with the US Lottery (also known as Homeland Security); and judging by the current growth, there is enough of a surplus coming in from lost bets to fund the existing government for the next decade, adjusted for inflation. Britain is watching the outcome very closely, and as soon as the US posts a national profit, the EU isn't far behind constructing its own lottery.

Within ten years of the inception of the US Lottery, most of the first world countries - dragging many of the second- and third-world countries kicking and screaming behind them - band together moreso than ever before in recorded history to create the Benevolent International Gambling (BIG) Nations, otherwise known as The Big Game. It serves to usurp power from NATO and the UN, and has become its own global coalition (much like OPEC did for oil barons) doling out crippling financial penalties to any country that steps out of line.

And so our story takes place approximately fifteen years after the BIG nations and The Big Game replaced the US Government and Baseball, respectively. The year is 2028.


Lucius stepped off the elevator and mounted the gangway; moving toward the main concourse at a moderate pace. It was Sunday, middle of the afternoon on a clear, crisp day. He calculated the odds of getting to his car unmolested at twenty to one.

His car was surely stolen by now anyway. He put 20 dollars on it before leaving for San Francisco. Had Lucius been thinking more clearly, he would have used his trade connections and put a hundred on finding it intact. Would've bumped up his return a few points, but it would have also caused unnecessary headaches - it was illegal to bet on one's own actions or property. He considered himself lucky enough that he knew bookies a little less scrupulous than the law provided.

"Mister Gripper, may I have your autograph?" Lucius had been lost in his thoughts and nearly ran into the twenty-something female pushing a Sharpie and a cast shot of himself in his face. He stopped and peered down at her slight frame. Passing his inspection, he took the items and made some flagrant swirls on the glossy before asking: "To whom shall I make this?"

"Rachel Farley, sir." She was easily pretty without being sexy, with long brown curly hair that always gained points with male viewers. Lucius approximated a three-place gain from the run-in, but had to act quickly lest it become a mob scene. He swirled the pen some more, making sure there was an R- and F-shaped mark on the photo, smiled as he handed the items back to her, and moved on briskly.

Lucius Conrad Gripper was 32, good-looking, six-foot-three, one hundred ninety pounds, with short brown hair and big green eyes, with an even tan all over, and currently ranked 307th in the world this betting season. Top 500 wasn't a bad place, and served him a moderately successful living.

Now a belt away from the concourse, he stepped off the traffic path and made for an open terminal, between a pilot and a suit (probably a banker, from his cut). The screen came to life as soon as he was in range, and he brought up his standings:

Lucius smiled to himself, the autograph was just what he needed today. He may go to a club tonight to gain another point or two, maybe even get drunk. He needed to be careful: the last time he drank lost him ten places, mostly because he threw up in the cab. But today had been good to him thus far ... he might try it anyway.

"Spammers must have hit a jackpot of crazies today," said the Suit to his right. Lucius turned to a face he immediately recognized; his own turning to amusement. "My whole Top Five was extreme foolishness."

"Then I'm lucky I only got one. Good to see you Parker," replied Lucius, taking a hand in his firmly, "Didn't recognize you in the suit."

"Trying something new," said Parker amiably, "I lost two places yesterday to that kid from Monaco. Gotta get 'em back." Parker Christenson was a Top 100 for the past three seasons, currently 101. "What do you think?"



"Definitely. Ten places for a success, easy," Lucius shifted weight to the other foot, anxious to get moving. One Contestant was bad enough, but two? And one a consistent Top?

Parker knew it too; they had both been in The Big Game long enough. He also knew Lucius had four seasons on him, and went for another tip. "Any place particular?"

"Try Bangkok, or The Gin Room," Lucius was already backing out. So was Parker, who nodded a sincere thanks. "Not before eleven."

"I know. They'll kill you for an early arrival. Good running into you. Maybe we'll both make out."

"Let's hope. Care," and Lucius half-waved. He made one last glance at the terminal before waving it off. It was the same rank.


"Look, I'm no Geneva Simmonds," Opal yelled over the din of the crowd crushing each other to get into The Gin Room, "but I know what I know, and I'm certain there's going to be Somebodies here." She was dressed to get picked at the door, wearing a silver miniskirt up tothere, a slinky blouse and bra combo, and fuckme boots.

Her friend, Lisa, was similarly dressed, sans the boots; substituting four inch sandals with straps up her calves. "How much did you bet?" she asked snobbishly between cigarette drags.

"Two hundred. But I think I'm going to raise to a thousand. Should be a decent return." Opal unsnapped her purse and pulled out her diary-sized pad, which came to life as she brought it to view. With a couple of finger taps she brought up her bets for The Gin Room. As she typed one-handed, Lisa stood guard in their spot, trying to conceal from any onlookers. Opal set her raise, and waved the pad off before anyone could get a clear look at what she was doing.

Definitely going to be Somebodies here, she said to herself. I just put my paycheck on it.

"I can't fucking believe you, throwing your hard-earned money away on Homeland Security. You know you're being ridiculous. What's your rank now, anyway? Two hundred millionth?" Lisa argued as quietly as she could without the words being lost to white noise.

"Bottom rung of payouts actually, thank you, bitch. Somewhere in the two hundred thousands."

"You're so willing to give up your privacy to Big Brother for a fucking game. You're no better than some 'roided-out Football player. What do you think your chances are you'll get an invitation this season?" Lisa asked, disgusted.

Nonchalantly: "Probably zip, the league is swinging male this year, trying to find competition for Simmonds."

"And why not another woman? After all, we're the ones with intuition." The sarcasm was only slightly blunted by the vaginamancy of the female collective.

"Predictive abilities, odds calculation, and intuition are entirely separate talents," replied Opal, frustrated that she was merely average in all three.

"Don't forget luck," said a suit behind them, "Geneva herself relies on it heavily." Both women turned an annoyed glance on the suit. He was tall, well-toned, with gracious features, a square jaw, nice smile, and waxed eyebrows. He pulled on his cuff links in a very serious manner.

"Whothefuckareyou?" spat Lisa, "and why are you crawling into our conversation?"

"I apologize for the offense. I'm Lewis. Lewis Parker. I can't help but eavesdrop when it comes to our international pastime. I lose good money on it, so any tip helps." Lewis smiled a car salesman smile.

Before Opal could say anything, Lisa ran full shields: "Here's a tip: Don't eavesdrop on women low-talking. It may cause testicular loss," she scowled.

Opal tried buffering since he was nice to look at, and besides, he looked familiar. She put on a nervous smile and shrugged her shoulders to the man while her friend wasn't looking. He returned her nervous with a sigh and a slump of his own shoulders, and smiled back that he got the hint.

This made Opal retrieve her pad a second time; and this time around she didn't care who saw her tapping when she brought up the list of the Top 100 Contestants.

"What did you say your name is?" asked Opal in her sweetest voice possible. Lisa turned about face, confused at her friend's tactics.

"Lewis," said the suit, still sounding as confident, still looking like a lost puppy.

"Sure you're not this guy?" Opal asked, holding her pad so only he could see the one-hundred-and-first-place contestant.

A little more subdued: "Well maybe, if anyone asks. But consider the bar patrons that may not be Game fans - your friend for example. Just call me Lewis, please."

Lisa rolled her eyes and tried to focus on getting the bouncer's attention, allowing Opal to get closer to the suit - who smelled quite nice. She said, maybe a little too dreamily, "Tell me this. Did I just win my wager?"

Lewis Parker, aka Parker Christenson, took a too-long moment and half of another before slowly nodding, "What were your odds?"

"Four hundred to one."

His smile broadened to mimic the headshot on her pad. "Then you'll have to buy me a drink."

She stuffed her pad back into her purse, taking with it some of the magic of basking in stardom. "I'm already doing you a favor by using your alias. Besides, I'm not a supermodel."

Taken aback: "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Oh, c'mon. We both know how the top from Monaco bested you yesterday. You bag yourself a supermodel, it'll be ten places, easily."

"Hmph. You know your stuff. A friend of mine said the same thing. Maybe you should get an invite. Give old Geneva a run for her money."

Opal was finally done with the suit. "Are you kidding me? No. Wait. Are you crooning me? Is that why you're all kemosabe with me? Your constituency?"

In answer, Parker jerked his head at the bouncer, who nodded with his eyes. "You two are coming in with me. Don't mess with your pad until after you leave this place. Here, take my number. Once you get inside you can do whatever the hell you want, but call me tomorrow. I'll get you an interview."

Opal was taken by the wrist and was half-pulled, half-compressed into The Gin Bar by Lisa, who was only too happy to be let in by anyone, even a life-schmaltzing punk of a Somebody.

She started to come-to about five minutes later at the bar, where she stood holding a purchased drink in one hand and a white linen business card in the other. Not only was this Somebody hitting on her for points, but he seemed genuinely interested in getting her an interview.

At last she let her mouth close and slowly nodded an acceptance of terms that were made eons ago; she was still staring into the rafters like a headlighted animal.

She heard through the distance of her thoughts that Lisa couldn't stop laughing.
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When I was six
I dreamt I was running around a basketball court.
I turned and smashed into
this kid's head with my own.

And woke up.

When I was eight and warming-up for a basketball game,
I caught a pass and moved to shoot, only to
ram into Scottie Pettit's forehead,
His brow slanted my
nose a few degrees to the right.

God is a smart-ass.

It was winter, just before Christmas,
and I wore a nose cast.
Neighborhood kids nicknamed me Aardvark
My music teacher pointed me
out to everyone at the Christmas concert
touted my bravery for coming out to sing
despite my temporary deformity.

The second break was
more demeaning.
(on a purely egotistic level)

I was on crutches going on three weeks.
I was thirteen.
There was no dream to warn me.

I had received a but-good razz from
the principal
how I should be supporting my team instead of
flirting with the here-for-just-the-night girls under
the bleachers.

Half-way to the top of the stairs,
my crutches gave way to air, and
my nose found the corner of a step.
I was Aardvark for another six weeks.
It's the reason
I have this enormous bulge
on the bridge of my nose.

Gives me character, they say.
Character is good for you, they say.
Keeps you in your own league they say.

I loathe my character.

The nice guy seems
to keep me in a circle of friends;
the nice guy keeps me from
getting mad when I should;
the nice guy lets people have their
way with me, when normally
I'd think of wringing their necks and
hanging their skins to dry on my balcony.

I loathe my character.

It keeps me down
under foot of
tyrants big and tiny
keeps me under
wraps behind protective coatings of
pleases and thank-yous
puts me in
the comparative position of Kunta Kinte.
(except with twentieth century manners and paler skin)

I pray for a larger balcony.

(and sometimes for a bigger set of testicles)
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Glass by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Pool Party

It was one of the nicest days all summer

Kids came from around the
block and spied between
fence posts
at the pool where
we lapped at the sun and
splashed tan-magnifying droplets
on each other

But today we dipped inside while
my niece and her three friends
swam the shallow end.

Today we smoked joints upstairs and
laughed at nothing

Something wasn’t right.
I kept switching rooms, pacing
from marijuana hit to window watching.
There was a terrible nag at the base of my skull
Something wasn’t right.

And then I saw it.

Pounded down the stairs,
nearly broke the door down
in fury
This boy
this preteen boy sunk to the bottom
kicked off as hard as his legs would
let him, almost but not quite
broke the surface, sunk again
His arms didn’t know hot to help him rise
He merely bounced furious, futile

I could only stare frozen, my legs
didn’t move my feet rooted in concrete
sidewalk until he opened his eyes.
Panic. Utter fucking panic in those browns

Suddenly I was in the water
(Fully clothed and accessorized)
Grabbed him by the waist
adrenaline pulled him above my head
In nanoseconds. I walked him to the other end
sat with him while the shock faded from his eyes.

My only words aloud: “Anyone else wanna swim in the deep end?”
“No,” was the resounding chorus.

keys wallet money cigarettes phone
came out of pockets, after heaving myself
up and out, while the children
recovered from the near-fatal drama
I laid my belongings to dry on my bed
And sat outside to wait and
Explode at my sister, the real lifeguard on duty.

It turned to only explanation
When she finally stepped outside

“My phone is dead,” I related.

I don’t talk about it, not with anyone.
It’s something I chalk up to
timing, luck,
a brief attack of
divine Spidey-sense.
Definitely not something to mention at the dinner table,
much less in front of my family
It’s embarrassing.
I mean really, who would admire that if they knew the truth?

Whoever said life isn’t metaphorical
is a goddamned liar.
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Thursday, March 13, 2008

Seppuku Soliloquy

He watched the fireworks in his eyelids
while rubbing out the lashes onto his
t-shirt, grinding the balls inside
their respective sockets.

The patchouli punk a
few feet beyond - only
known by its incense - trailed
into already burnt dry nostrils,
curling hairs back to
the mucous wall in fear.

The chair on which he
sprawled eagle-spread and slumped –
as tattered and antiquated as the whiskey rocks
glass sloshing haphazardly
at his lap, licking liquor all
over his denimed crotch
and the four-forty stainless sitting
silently on his thigh.

The jags, he noticed
through clenched jowls, lent
themselves a kind
of unborn cruelty, running
fingers, counting the teeth
before finding the hilt,
scared but resolute
in his interior observations.

As the background vinyl
reached its climax,
the muttered monologue
was sudden;
surprised even
himself as
his tongue
lolled out the list of
absurdities, finally
grasping with
a whisky-wet right
hand and

The record skipped.

A verse of strings,
approximately eight and a half
bars of eerie dissonance,
stood repeating the action at task.

And he stuttered,

and again,

and now unsure of himself,
he let go.

It ricocheted off
his potbelly and stabbed
him instead in the foot.

The resultant scream was final.

And finality smiled.
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Seppuku Soliloquy by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Exercise Part I

And you came through the tunnel window
wearing the socks I gave you last
(I had little else to gift you)

You came through the window grinding
the glass deeper into the oak floorboards
(I must admit it was a surprise you
didn’t wake me.)

You were in the window while
the Tattered moon shone
through my curtains, gave a forced
grin behind linen and clouds.

And in between the Man of Cheese,
the window,
and my bedroom,
Nothing raised an Olyve Oil rubber hose of an arm

Your gauzy silhouette waved
(body thin as an empty dress)
(and just as hollow)
Beckoning me toward the overflowing cup of
(Poured by an empty hand.)

I chose instead to close my eyes, and go back to sleep.
I chose instead the dream, and the broken glass.
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Exercise Part II

Black purrs life into Midnight; and I

I stand alone.


Because I never gave you the Sherwood Forest
you needed to roam

(It was only broken grass and brackish rivers,
you see?)

(It was like I buttered a cat’s back and
threw it off the roof
just to see what would happen.)

Yeah. The cat never forgave
me either. She just
pisses on me in my sleep

to watch me glisten

(And that’s when it hits me.)

When I ooze out of bed
dripping not from sweat and
hoist my body into the shower.

(That’s when it hits me.)

It drips holy water on my head,
and leaves me crazy.
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This work by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.