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PROSE What Spies DoMy dad is a rock.  He is solid, he is powerful.  He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder.  He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion.  He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience.  He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show.  He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.   
 “He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lip PROSE What Spies Do
POETRY: Something BadIn the orphanage where I was raised  Many a year ago  I was known as the Dark Angel  Of that small Catholic-run home.  The other children  Light and Fair,  Turned their heads from me  While I, the boy  Of colors black  Cried alone, so no one could see.  Yet one day, I was given hope  Someone wished to include me  In their game.  And I sat down  In the circle round  With all the other children.  And one said…   
“I spy  With my little eye  Something…  Bad.”   
And as I glanced around  Eager to win  Th POETRY: Something Bad
POETRY - The Sniper PostThe Sniper Post   
The shell-shocked troops, exhausted from the days assault  Lie spent upon the broken trench floor  Or piled down in the dugouts with the rats  And I, the lonely sentinel, watch over all  Spying on the desolation amidst the darkness  I do not sleep  But, catching my mind dwelling on the outcome  Of the fruitless, futile day that’s gone before  I swiftly return my gaze to the mud pits  Stretching out around me on all sides  My rifle’s gaze drifts with snipers precision  Across the fields of wire and mud and blood  Towards the distant dugouts of th POETRY - The Sniper Post
I SpyMy name is Bob Chelsie.  Only a select few have been granted clearance to refer to me as Bobby.  Mainly family and close friends are allowed to, but as I am being interrogated by my captives they use it freely to unnerve me.  
 
“Bobby you know what we want from you, don’t make us ask you again.”  The man interrogator said.  
 
His name is Richard.  His red blood hair covered his head like a tired mop on a slightly clean floor.  He would push strands out of his face so he could glare severely with those green eyes that burrow into one’s soul and steal pe I Spy
POETRY Secret StairsSecret Stairs   
The difficulty in truly keeping the eyes peeled  is that we must blink only one at a time.  The possibility Big Foot would appear  the moment our gaze turns inward  is astronomical.  Unless there are eyes in our ears  in tune the way radios speak through solid wire  and hear music out of thin air,  we all will suffer moments of blindness,  moments a seed sprouts, a paint fades,  an afternoon shadow vanishes.  It is the eye that is weaker than most mysteries,  the way a book must be opened to know its contents,  a meal eaten to truly know its taste. &nb POETRY Secret Stairs
Beginning with M - POETRYSomething beginning with M   
Ladies! Quiet! If you'll look this way,  the diagram on the board explains  the raw, dirty process of extraction  of nylon from crude oil. Essentially  that thong you put on for the lads  is refined filth gripping your hips.  Turn to page twenty - put down that magazine,  look at me! I am not grading your handbags.  Pens down, everyone, and eyeliner pencils,  all eyes on the front. Try and focus  on the man with the outsize labcoat  robes of a magician. For my next trick   
picture me naked:  white flakes flurry like a powder-puff dis Beginning with M - POETRY
POETRY Lies "I Spy"Lies   
Hold on, slow down the storm  and let the snow fall into a  Delayed, mesmerizing descent  So details cannot be missed,  For each snowflake deserves to  Shine in the accusing spotlight.  Let the studious eyes trained  To spy the liar hiding behind  The fog of human ignorance  Examine every aspect of a  Frightened, mortal's art so as  To expose the skin-wearer;  The wolf in crimson fur of  Another and bestowed with a  Head of antlers stained with  The same blood dripping into  The earth from guilty fangs,  Or perhaps the human that  Lacks POETRY Lies "I Spy"
POETRY: Etching a Tiny PulseThe chalk rubbing  reveals fingers, toes,  a bird-like eye: closed,   
like the dust-wings of a moth  
flickering within the walls  of a shadowy cave,  a heavy blotch beats. POETRY: Etching a Tiny Pulse
PROSE-The D'Karinae's ChoresRain knelt, her knees sinking silently into the marshy turf as she settled into a comfortable position. She doubted her wait would be too horribly long, but if need be she could remain here, motionless, until daybreak. There was no hurry.   
The grass near Rain’s knees rustled as a watersnake slid by, the nocturnal reptile slinking out to hunt. Rain stifled a yawn as she watched it slither away; the warm, soothing darkness of the swamp made drowsiness almost irresistible, now that she had finished with her initial scouting. In a way, she was too at home here—the warm, muggy air, the hum of insects, and the murky blackness PROSE-The D'Karinae's Chores
Sifting Through Garbage POETRY
I SPY entry POETRYOne sheet of puff pastry lined with milk,  placed on the bottom of a thin based bowl.  Water poured in, till its filled to the brink.  The other sheet of pastry left ready to roll.   
A tool taken slowly from the oak wood drawer  and then raised lethargically to the organ of sight.  Into this was plunged the cold pewter skewer;  no vision but a very wholesome meal tonight  
 
Into water sploshed the peeper for the pie  Into freezer slipped the newly created dish  Then, egg glazed pastry placed on top to finish  Ice Pie with My little eye I SPY entry POETRY
I Spy - Prose -We sit in silence, staring uncomfortably at the floor, not letting our eyes meet.   
We know that if we look at one another, we will start again, start an endless litany of excuses and apologies that we both know have no real meaning, justifying what we have no justification for.   
The silence is stifling.   
“So...” I try to break that awful silence. It feels like a kind of noiseless echo, some awful, resonating soundlessness.   
Except I can’t think of anything to say.   
“Let’s play I Spy.” he says. I almost forget our argument, almost jump up and stare at him I Spy - Prose -
PROSE - The agent
POETRY - Our Little Game"I spy,  with my little eye,  something that is red;"  cherries, strawberries  and pomegrantes  splayed on the table,  and in need of another clue,  "something I'm attracted to,"  her reddest luscious lips,  and that sealed the deal.   
"I spy,  with my little eye,  something that is white;"  snow banks, drifts,  and fluffly clouds  in the inky sky,  the starry sprawls;  "something that creeps and crawls;"  hoarfrost on the window pane  slowly obfuscating.   
"I spy,  with my little eye,  something that is blue;"  risin POETRY - Our Little Game
PROSE Panther in Europe        The blowtorch spit sparks as it melted the broken pipes. The sparks tried to eat away at his hands and face, but the heavy gloves and iron mask foiled their efforts. In the background, he could hear another blowtorch welding the metal in different section of the hall; somewhere, a power saw sheared the walls of the corridor, exposing what lay within.   
       A frantic woman ran out of the elevator and nearly past the metalworkers, but stopped short. She tried to approach one of the welders. But sparks from his blowtorch swallowed parts of her papers PROSE Panther in Europe
The stalker speaks. PROSE.Every day I write him a note.   
"Hi, all I know about you is that you always take the cheese off the cheeseburger. Just wanted to say that you're great", then say "Nah, he'll think it's creepy to have someone watch him eat" and throw it away.   
I write one every morning, waiting to find the right one. Until then, I watch.   
I like the little things about people. Don't we all? Most fall in love with the big picture and then notice the details, which they might love or hate. Most become annoyed by these little details. I become obsessed.   
"Hi, all I know is that you love the existentialist movement, The stalker speaks. PROSE.
Friendship...POETRYOne last chance, one hope  I live or I die, your choice  Just pull the trigger Friendship...POETRY
I Spy PROSECharacters:  The cop, the man, the woman and the other woman who is friends with the first.   
Single Act  The scenery is a basic police station, the director can choose whatever else.   
Scene One  The two women enter confused and demand to talk to a responsible, that happens to be THE cop   
Woman 1 – We're here to make a complain!   
Woman 2 – Extremelly grave!   
Woman 1 – Only the minutes that you made us wait to sit may let the criminal escape!   
Woman 2 – The one who commited a crime!   
Woman 1 – Precisely! A crime!  &nb I Spy PROSE
PROSE: Counting My Days
I SPY POETRYI spy you from my old kingdom scurrying  like ants unable to know what fate holds.  working constantly, I spy toiling  bodys, creating my own divine molds.   
When I spy them praying for a moments  respite, I pass my judgement on their deeds.  I give a good honest man a death sentence,  And I give the evil man what he needs.   
There's no difference in evil or good.  At least I can spy the truth that all men  lie, cheat, and steal. Hide under their dark hoods.  I am fair, yet hear from you no amen.   
I understand that you might be angry.  Still I spy, so carry on I SPY POETRY
the quiet loud of nightIn the quiet loud of night is where children lay dreaming of brave knights on horses with swords slaying vicious dragons and of princesses in castles with chests of trousseux at bed-end; and in the quiet loud of night is where the chests of old men ebb and err and stir healthy wives from dreams of spiderwebs on wooden trestles and of smooth sequined dresses that sparkle gold; and in the quiet loud of night you can see her, almost feel her, moving through trees with dew-kissed leaves and birds that, sleeping, sing no song.  
 
You can hear her moving. Hear the soft wet of dirt underfoot, hear the strange comfort of blocked nose breat the quiet loud of night
PROSE - The Agent
PROSE: I Spy, ChangeI Spy   
 It all started off on a rainy day with that one phrase. That phrase that every family and every child knows. “I spy with my little eye something that’s….” That is how this story starts out. It all happened in the Wayside Diner off of Fleet Street, just a block from my apartment. I stopped into the Wayside Diner for breakfast every morning for some eggs and my coffee. I was a regular down there and they all knew my name. Every morning I would have the same thing for breakfast, organic eggs Sunnyside up with a vanilla blend coffee. Their oldest waitress’s name was Bella. She was about 61 or so a PROSE: I Spy, Change
PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations  When she woke, a startling bird encased her vision, like a face pressed up too close. At first she thought she was still trapped in sleep, she blinked and blurred the figurine then hoisted herself up. Three centimeters in height, it was shaped by wire with a golden, almost skin like fiber wrapped tightly around its form. The bird, so detailed, she lowered herself to its height and peered at its beady eyes… Its intensely shaped beak, open, waiting. Tiny wings spread out, each feather visible, so real. It was perched, ready to escape. Clare plucked it off the stand and got ready for work.   
  The golden bir PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations

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