I ran, sweat pouring out of all my pores

I ran, sweat pouring out of all my pores and above the sounds of my gasps for air I could hear the howling cries of the dogs. It occurred to me I had to make some effort to disguis

e my stuffed fishnet of pudgy quadriplegic cats I was rushing to the vet. "Moo, don't meow," I urged the cats, placing them in a Gateway box. The dogs were frozen by cowardice, so

I was able to stack them like milk crates. With my fat quadriplegic cats and frozen dogs loaded in the Uhaul truck, I was ready. I stopped for some pepperoni sticks at the

Quik Stop and stopped outside as I saw a trio of kids skate past the truck. I tensed as i wondered if they could smell my payload but then laughed at myself. It's been too short of

vigorous manual friction, as their stinky blunts blocked out the smell of my masculine odor. I sat there for a long day, watching Tone Hawk-wannabes, sipping Mt. Dew until sunset.

By then I was both bored & totally amped with Mt. Dew-infused energy coursing through my veins. I would show these Tone Hawk wannabes how it's done. $park handed me a mike.

This was open mike night at the Kat Klub. I had poetry to read, due to be published soon. This was a sneak preview of my.book. I would return here to autograph copies for my fans.

"Morning. Sun. Love. Hate. Terror. Darkness. Night," I recited, slamming my fist onto the stage floor. (It was slam poetry after all). My fans applauded and cheered. Critics though

flat palmed my lyrical dirge. I read the reviews on the alley walls of the condemned building where I performed it."Clives poems Lacks Dirt" "Too many long words". These anonymous