The Prototype: The Beginning

“Remember, Dr. Gallagher, these people are not scientists. They are possible donors, so try not to bore them with the facts.” The thin-framed, 26-year-old woman was straightening the tall, 53-year-old man’s collar.
“Right, thank you, Anita.” Dr. Gallagher tried to smile, but he was much too nervous even to do that simple thing. Instead, he quickly grabbed the handkerchief out of his chest pocket and shakily mopped the sweat off his glistening forehead. Anita frowned at the look of Dr. Gallagher’s disheveled gray hair. She tried to smooth it down, but thought better of it when she found her hand to be quite damp. The corners of her mouth turned down, and she tried to wipe the sweat off her hand with a paper towel nearby.
“Ok, turn this way.” Dr. Gallagher did as she asked. Anita took a step back to inspect her handiwork. Hmm, could be worse, she thought to herself. Many times, Anita had thoughts of perhaps getting a different job, but she was constantly reminded of how much Dr. Gallagher needed her as his secretary. The man was a complete mess. Brilliant, but a complete mess. Besides, they worked well together. The two tolerated each other very cordially. Dr. Gallagher had almost become a sort of father figure to Anita, and she did well to keep him socially in check. He was very grateful for her help.
Anita smiled reassuringly. “Well, do you feel ready?”
Dr. Gallagher took a deep breath. “Yes, I think so.”
“Alright, then go get ‘em, boss!” With a slight nudge from Anita towards the stairs, Dr. Gallagher straightened up and boldly walked passed the curtain onto the stage. As soon as Anita saw that Dr. Gallagher had made it to the front of the stage without injuring himself, she sat down on a small armchair backstage and crossed her legs.
Anita almost jumped in shock when the cell phone buzzed on the small table on her right. The phone vibrated loudly against the glass. Anita quickly picked it up and answered to keep it quiet. “Hello, this is Anita, secretary to geneticist Dr. Erwin Gallagher.”
A frantic male voice replied. “Hello, Anita. This is Dr. Shepherd. I’m afraid there is some serious trouble back at the lab.”
Anita became very worried. “What kind of trouble?” She bent over to see the stage. Dr. Gallagher was dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Something of extreme value and importance was stolen.” Dr. Shepherd sound reluctant, hesitant at best, to say what needed to be said.
“Please, sir, just come out with it! What has been stolen?”
“The Prototype.”
Anita’s eyes grew wide in a mixture of shock and horror. Dr. Gallagher had been working on that project for years, mostly in preparation for the creation of the prototype. Even his thesis in college was about experimental genetic mutation for the betterment of the human race. He had spent over half his life in preparation for that prototype and five years on the actual prototype. Now it was gone. She knew she would have to tell Dr. Gallagher immediately, but she dreaded it.
“Uh, Anita, there is more.”
“More? What more?” Anita was frantic.
“When the Prototype was stolen during the night, it seems as if it was…activated.”
“What?! Please tell me now that this is all one very cruel joke!” She tried to keep her voice hushed, but it was difficult.
“I’m afraid not, Anita. Of course, there is a possibility that I could be wrong, but all evidence points to that conclusion. The Prototype is missing, and it is alive. I’m very sorry, Anita.”
Anita’s tone was grave. “Ok, thank you, Dr. Shepherd.” She closed the phone, ending the call. Anita sat for a long moment in stunned silence. All that could be heard was Dr. Gallagher’s far-off voice on the stage. When Anita’s stupor was broken by the clapping and applause from the audience, she realized that Dr. Gallagher was finished and stood up with the cell phone still in her hand. Dr. Gallagher exited the stage with a smile on his face. It appeared as if he had done well, actually. He froze once he saw the grave expression on Anita’s face. His smile vanished.
“What’s wrong, Anita?”

Dead People Don't Hug Well

See me
Look into my eyes
And read my soul

See me
Fly into my lungs
And breathe my air

What do you see?

What do you feel?

I am not this mask you know
Take off the mask and all you've got
Is a wounded soul crying out to be heard
A little boy screaming for his daddy

Where is my daddy?
Has he left me
To this simple-minded crowd
Of pompous well-wishers?

If you really cared
Would you still see me this way?
Would you still glance in my direction
And promptly turn away?

Or would you step right next to me
Wrap your arms around my shoulders
Sit long with me in silence
As I weep until my eyes are dry?

As long as it takes

Would you do that?

Tired

Tired
We are
Running
Like Olympians on a track
Except we don’t know where we’re from
Or where we’re going because it doesn’t
end.
Domesticated rodents on a wheel,
We are frantically trying to get to the
end.
Now the end becomes the beginning again
And our circles spin faster and faster around us
The world blurs past us
Scandalously streaking by
And we miss is as it passes

What have I done to make myself
So tired?
My thoughts exhaust me
Swirling around in the atmosphere of my consciousness
Never condensing into something tangible
I grasp at the vapors
And clench the nothingness. It makes me
Tired.
To sleep, to find peace
Why does the quiet seem so loud?
Silence
We try to find silent solitude but this static follows us
As a shadow more defined even as the light grows brighter

Where is rest?
Is it a place? Can we go there?
Is it a state? Can we find it within ourselves?
Should we wait for it? Or try to catch up to it?
We can’t handle our troubled spirits
For very much longer
Slumber doesn’t seem to satisfy

Close us up like flowers at night
There is no morning glory until you do
This spinning wheel, this turning world
Too fast for too long
Take us to the motionless center
To the eye of the hurricane
To the middle where it stops
To where you are

If You

If you want to know what I am thinking
Open your hands a little wider
Because my miming methods are mimicked
By my ability to unfold.

If you want me to come closer
Close your eyes and count to 100;
Don’t hold your breath

Try to talk louder with your ears
And softer with your hands;
Gently rope me in without pulling.

Your ceaseless groping eyes
Poke and prod my desire to hide
All this refined aural sugar
Causes my teeth to ache
As my mind chews on the flattery
And then rots away.

If you want me to stay with you
As you tread at the surface
Dive in with me all the way down to the bottom
And then release;
I swear I will be buoyant.

We both need oxygen eventually;
I, like the fish, am jealous of our feathered friends
So stop being so cliché
And proverbially let me go.

Sensory Poems

Beauty

Beauty is clear
It sounds like a flute in an empty dome
It looks like a diamond in a dung heap
It tastes like a sugar cube in a can of spam
It feels like a swan fighting to be free of its rusty cage
Beauty is a broken window



Poetry

Poetry is elegant ebony
It sounds like a beautiful melody made of weepings and groanings
It looks like a masterpiece painted in blood
It tastes like a gourmet plate of sorrows
It feels like the rhythmic beating of a broken heart

Poetry is the beautiful embodiment of a wounded soul