the man in charge of armageddon couldn't do it on his own. he had to have them ride the horses (there were six, not four) of the apocolypse and he orchestrated it all. we were living in a big house, three floors, open windows hanging like the eerie purple motel.

amanda and colette were there. they tried to leave but they got lost on streetcorners and i picked them up on my way back there, had to go back in circles to pick up their luggage. my father was there with full attitude and suit and i thought something wasn't right about him but i couldn't remember he was supposed to be dead. my brother was there. he looked like he was nineteen, he looked like he was eleven. he stole from me, he was angry. i told colette as he ran out into the woods, i remember a time he was stealing my tip money on a regular basis. i walked into my room. he had his hand in my purse. i stared at him. he talked to amy on the phone and just went into his room. my father nearly exploded.

i cornered him. "i can't help you, i can't put myself out there like that," i said. "i can't see you this way."

he wanted me to do things i would never do. he found out i had things and told me i didn't deserve them, they were his.

the stampede of the six horses of the apocolypse, directed by a man in a suit with flock of seagulls white hair, but not my father--manned mostly by charming hooligans because i remember standing along the sidelines with darryl

the dust fell and somehow my brother was dead, gone. just me and my dad now and one of us was going to have to tell my mom. it wasn't going to be him, i knew that right away.

i wonder why i dream about these things and then i remember that i choose to be oblivious to some things, choose to stuff them under the rug where i don't have to look at them and instead they come up dreams, they come up mangled with obscure references to the past and weak links to the future

i remember when i am woken up by a phone call from my mother. today is the day it wouldn't be pushed back any further. today was the day he chose to stop trying to fight the inevitable, trying to find a way to wiggle a foot out the door--he took the deal they'd been offerring [he'd have been a fool not to]. little over five years. time served, good behaviour, working towards a college degree could bump it down to three. they'll take him away from 49th street--where i've seen him once--to somewhere up florida's wasteland. to stark or... somewhere else, that's the only name i've heard. not to juvenile prison, but to adult prison. he is, in fact, an adult.

so don't close the book, turn the page. usher in the second half of this newest year. welcome, july, i leave my door open to you. come in as you please. the visits of your six predecessors have worn thin my host-ly ways and i am weary of your full moon. but have a seat, if you desire and we will do what we can to bring you comfort. rest your feet up on the table and relax; but please, if you are here to cause trouble, be swift with your actions and let me be. i am in no mood for dry summer heat, but i am happy to lay on the grass and watch the clouds roll across your blue skies.