I waited in anguish for the phone to ring--she said she would call and I waited: like some lost animal eager and desperate and tormented...

See me years prior calling my neighbor friend Parker over and over and over again unable to wait fifteen minutes or five minutes cause well this next call could make it all better only for mother to give me some forthright lecture on desperation and it not really clicking.

And this next moment could be the moment! and I answer and I see her and lo Johann gets his fix--co-dependent, wee feeble Johann...

laying strewn on the sofa watching bullshit when in fact I was watching the fictitious time which is really some sturdy bouncer looking for the appropriate bribe to let you in to the timeless joy where all is halo'd and alright--but in this rendition I didn't have enough... not yet, waiting for that goddamn call. I moaned and shaked and tossed and turned in the quiet abandoned living room--the moon outside the window juxtapose to this leather sofa a thousand times re-arranged by my weary mother looking for some semblence of whatever it is Oprah talks about with a smile. Outside is a cutesy rectangle of laudy crabcrass and lawn furniture where I submitted endless supplications and applications to the Truest Savior--convincing myself that everything had to be quite the sign of immence... everything...

And it rings and she called and I answer in such a horrid attentiveness--she'll come, she said--she'll come.

I give painstaking glances in the mirror--ready? ready? ready? Oh no!--no time she's here already and we're off in her shabby volvo filled with endless scratched compact discs and homelyness. And I'm in a navy bed-time pants and tee and I revel in her--but I was conned! Conned not by her but by the illusion of her--such lies cast over shrouding poured by desparate heart and feeble mind.

She was to be my anecdotal evidence of the prevailing beauty of life and the true testiment of the human spirit. Two lovers embrace in the ghast of loss and death and the damnation of transcience and the wicked consciousness that clings to such illusion as the flesh to our bones.

She drove without direction on the stranded desert roads--the faint insinuation of Joshua trees and thistle and broken beer bottles...

We held hands--I was born again in Romantic Drivel--in her, the embodiment of my hopes and ambitions and abstractions...she stopped at some gas station and I shyed away to hide my protruding obelisk genital to which she chased me curiously and laughed and kissed and kissed and kissed me.

And I was sweetly conned by the night of good faith and forward motion swearing neer to look back on the ruins of weeks ago--his ruins--his twisted bent car as a cage to where his soul escaped to the foreign oblivion so devastating to my flesh bound introspection.

And we drove--drove to music which I playfully sang along to in hopes of get her hooked, get her caught to me for a longer gaze and a longer kiss and a sweeter sway to rise the scales of paradoxial life and death--to make it equal and fair and transcendent and tolerable...

We are parked near Lake Elizabeth--everything apt and ripe for a Holy Moment--ready to bypass time and enter the gates of heaven--we kiss, and kiss, and kiss, but I--too desperate, too needy--needing to much to silence and defeat... looking to defeat the impossible, not ready to concede, looking for the triumph that I see in her... act in a desperate hope which is really just a miserable lie... move too fast, too fast, too fast and she tells me to

"Calm down"

but she doesn't understand whats at stake and at that time neither did I-- but I solemnly went back to the passenger seat never giving up because there was too much to admit to and if there was a way out I was bound to find it--everything earthly and trite and unacceptable.