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Excerpt "The Alien Behind the Counter"

By Angela Counts © 2008 The girl behind the counter yelled, "Next!" I looked around but nobody was in the store. It was 11 am. I slid the application toward her hoping she would see it and I wouldn't have to tell her I was looking for a job. I hated having to explain things to people. It took her a minute. She was busy reading a magazine – one of those cheapy ones claiming sightings of UFO's and strange creatures having sex with celebrities. She was really into it. Then she noticed my application and looked up. She was young. Probably 19, but looked my age. She didn't say nothing and I didn't say nothing. It was like she thought maybe I was one of those creatures or something and it was hard for her to make the shift back to reality. That's when I knew I wanted the job. Something where I could do my school work, ignore customers and play stupid. Perfect. I got up my nerve. "I'm applying for the position," I said tentatively like she had some

Dance of No Permission

By Angela Counts © 2008 Dance Ask no permission You are your own joy Your own bliss Dance upon the cornerstones on that which has not been built Dance upon dust Kick up a storm And watch them blind their eyes No matter A dance is DNA The blood that knows It won’t be forgotten It can’t be stopped It is the beat that keeps step The step that is history When we don’t know We still know In that quiet place The heart racing around Anxiety, Desire to move ahead Dance, head held high Dance, like you never knew how And this, and now Two steps, One step back Moving forward, In circles Light that corner With feet of your own imagination Kick the door out on that which can’t be said Dance with anger, dance with joy No matter It’s your dance Dance, like you never knew how And this, and now Two steps, One step back Moving forward, In circles Light that corner With feet of your own imagination It’s your dance

Star 69

By Angela Counts © The earth strip mined leaves A bitter taste in the mouth The caps of lush, green mountains Ripped to moon deadness numbs me. "Star Sixty-Nine" can bring back a deceitful telephone caller But God created her once Lush, impermanent memory. When they visit her millennium from now Will they know her languid and green? Or will they marvel at her rugged terrain, Grey, jagged, as far as the eye can see? Will they think her like the Moon and We, rapacious moon-dwellers, Stalking her stones and Burying her streams? Will the dreams of her past come to haunt in Deep forest nights when we dream in Technicolor past; when we Surf the web of our collective imagination? Will buried red bones rise up with White bones From the same dead Earth, In hollers that no longer whisper? We can never create her again, Recover what she gave us. We who want mortar and brick, and plastics And cars to drive, and air conditioners to cool. She will never breath the same way again, Offer us

Looking for an apartment in Space...

Nothing There By Angela Counts © 2008 So there is nothing there. Nothing I can see. But the rub out. Of what was to have been me. With pencil it is possible to erase. With memory. With words to kill. The soft, tender flesh of the ill At ease, Not so quick to accuse. I have my reputation to maintain. I like rain because it drowns out the silence, Better than pills Or ear plugs. It purifies. But don’t drink it. Don’t even think it. We still have our tawny earth. Not with the big “E.” Never understood that one. EARTH. Too big, even from space. We won that race. Does anyone remember.? Do we still want to go to the moon? I do, at least for a visit. I wouldn’t stay, not enough amenities. When they get in the fried chicken and tofu, maybe. Maybe I’m crazy, but if we’ve wrecked this place What’s next, it’s not easy getting an apartment as it is. Will I need connections, or just get left behind? Ah, who cares. There’ll still be some remote island where the bugs still care. Where the wear and te
I made my first trip to Italy this summer to meet with my father who I hadn't seen in 17 years. There are MANY memorable experiences of Milan, Lake Como, and Venice (see picture), but perhaps one of the dearest is sitting in the many wonderful cafes, talking with my father and drinking some of the finest cappuccinos this coffee aficionado has tasted (aka "caffeine fiend"). My record was four in one day and my stomach is now paying the price. Ah, Italy, you are still with me in more ways than one!