My mother’s lips are blue

My father told us never to mention it

They weren’t always blue

We sit at the dinner table and eat in silence

Forks clack against ceramic plates

My mother’s red wine turns her lips purple

I have learned to hate the color

The lies she tells are blue as well

They are sad and bitter and as deep as the sea

The lies I tell are white

Embellishments and lip service and immaterial

We sit at the dinner table and eat in silence

I clack my fork against my ceramic plate

Twirling my pasta, convinced of my purity

Blue crocodile tears drip out of my eyes

My mother’s purple lips turn up at the corners

The lies I tell are blue as well

They are scheming and self-serving and without remorse

My tongue, my cheeks, my dreams are blue

I cannot register what is true

We sit at the dinner table and eat in silence

I have leaked all over the table cloth

And dripped onto the floor

My mother sets her fork down

Blots her lips with a white napkin

The blue comes off as well

She looks almost normal

     He chose the desert over the city. He was chased out by the things the city had to offer. He was tired of the traffic, the job with its 24/7 of stress, He was tired of meetings and kissing ass, or avoiding coworkers who either wanted to kiss his, or to bitch.

His choice for the desert began as a germ, like a pollen grain fertilizing an ovary, deep in a plant. It developed on a tiny level and grew until it could not be contained by its surroundings and burst into swelling of fruit.

The fruit in his case spilled full on his office desk in the form of various species of cacti. Soon his preoccupation for the succulent plants so overran the surface of his desktop that his colleagues kidded whether he shouldn't have applied for the job of drought landscaper. His boss wasn't so gracious.

“Hate to break it to you on your evaluation here, Jeff, but you've wasted valuable time, the company's, yours and mine. Those blueprints for the Carter high rise have stagnated on your end. You've cost us millions. You hedged and daydreamed promises with errors in your work. I've been patient, known you personally many years, put up with your increasing ineptitude, . . .

     “No need to go on. I know it would come to this. My apologies for dragging you through this moment. I appreciate your patience. Sorry about the money loss. You've got my vested earnings, all my stocks, they'll flow back into the firm. I'll see to it. All I need is time to load my stuff and I'll be out.”

“What's with the botany, Jeff? Why the plants, the cactus. Does it represent some kind of symbolic struggle you're going through? If you need . . . . "

“Help? No Max, the only help I need is your blessing. I don't want to leave on any more bad terms. I'm not meant to hang around any longer. I don't need a Dr. Phil. Shouldn't have let it come to this.

     “Okay, been good while it lasted, Jeff. Good luck on whatever new career you're chasing.” 

     "Not chasing anything, Max. Just tired of the rat race. I need to get out into the outside, reconnect with Nature."

     "Why don't you take a sabbatical. Get your head together. The Firm will pay for it. It's part of your benefits package. Hate to lose you Jeff."

     "Appreciate your kindness, but my mind's made up. I'll let you know where I end up. Our friendship's worth that."

     "You do that."

     Max reached out to shake his hand. Jeff took it and shook. He grabbed his last load of personals and put them on the dolly. "See you Max."

     Jeff gripped the Jeep's steering wheel and cried. His tears fell on his Levis. "The hardest thing is gonna be leaving town without saying goodbye to my kids. My wife, not so hard, but still hard. Yeah, I know we've had hard times, but I still love her deep inside. I guess I am a chicken shit for this, but it'll be easier for everybody."

     He hit the ignition and jammed the vehicle into drive  and drove out of the Firm's parking lot. He could smell his things in the back. He drove to the Wilmington Exit and merged onto the ramp heading for Interstate 10, Taos, New Mexico.

     It was 1:00 a.m. He started tossing expletives out the window. With each curse he felt the weight lift correspondingly. By the time he reached the plateaus of the desert's marginal boundaries, he felt like a saint. He had purged the dross from his inner being as it were by smelting his innards with outburst of the angst. 

     "First thing I'll do when I get to my new digs is build me a greenhouse. It'll protect my succulents from the cold of the desert air. Second thing I'll do is build an underground bunker. It'll protect me from the elements."

He had to die. I killed him. He had to die. I killed him because he had to die. Life is meaningless, I told myself. I told myself over and over so that I would continue to believe it. But killing him had awakened a feeling in me that challenged my long held philosophy of life. That is, if life itself was pointless and therefore killing him was no loss or gain, why not allow him to live out his existence in the loveless void. And why be so motivated to take something that returned me no reward. I existed in pointlessness before I killed him and I exist in pointlessness now.

Did I feel guilt. No. Guilt is pointless because his existence was pointless. Yet I felt something. If his existence had been pointless why did I now convince myself to suspend my belief that his death had been a waste. That was surely a form of guilt. A regret. What other reason could I give for killing him but that I had no reason.