December 6-12, 2004: Joseph Armstead and Lori Carriere

Joseph Armstead and Lori Carriere

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Bio (auto)

My name is Joseph Armstead and I’m a horror/dark fantasy writer living in Oakland, California, where I work as a computer technologist I am a member of the Horror Writers of America organization, and the author of six novels: 

* NOCTURNES AND NEON [ISBN: 0595201733]
* PAINMAKER, First Tale in the Book of Dark Memory [ISBN: 0738851965]
* BLEEDING TWILIGHT [ISBN: 1931391394]
* DARKNESS FEARS [ISBN: 0-595-26315-1]
* THE SCREAMING SEASON [ISBN: 1-59088-213-X]
* THE DEMOGORGON AGENDA (ebook) [ISBN: 1-55404-137-6]

These books are available at Barnes & Noble Online, Amazon.com, WINGS ePRESS INC Online, and at Double Dragon eBooks.5.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Joseph Armstead and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Between Darkness and Pittsburgh The voice on the radio debates the worst of the day’s news with a ranting idiot while I drive through an icy evening’s rainstorm and I can still taste this morning’s coffee on my dry inarticulate tongue The interstate stretches onward ahead of me in lengthening shadow, like a rubber band pulled too far, too tight, all wound up and, like a serpent, ready to strike Her face is in the back of my mind, haunting me from an unfinished dream, and the sound of the windshield wiper blades across the cracked glass in front of me is like a metronome, counting beats to music from a forgotten melody The interstate looks like a snapshot, like a faded black and white photo with creased wrinkled edges from some poor slob’s photo album of bargain basement memories The rain pelts the car’s roof like the tiny fists of angry angels locked out of a trailer-park heaven The voice on the radio lashes out at lonely people and I reach over and change the station to a mournful pop song about leaving your lover When I switch the radio off, I notice the interstate is empty except for me in my old beat up car, dim headlights trying vainly to carve a path through the gathering darkness I don’t know what to do, so I turn the radio back on and some group of angry pop star millionaires are singing about “running an endless mile” I wish them luck and drive on ’till the morning comes. Bye Polar In my trembling hand I hold an ice cube I Am transfixed by the Subtle interplay of light Passing through its polar Facets, brilliance bleeding through the cube’s frosty walls Water melts on my fingertips I realize then that the ice cube is dying They say that “Time Heals All Wounds” They say that “You are Stronger than you think” They say that “God doesn’t Give us burdens any larger than we can carry” And, too, They say Things like “There’s Always hope” The thoughtless things they say Are a furious hurricane of frozen ice crystals Blown off the slowly Advancing glacier of Failed romance They are A cold bitter wind Masked by nature’s Majesty, by the facade of “growth” and “maturity”, a flimsy mask to hide the killers of joy Hope does not spring Eternal If you love someone and Set them free, they really Don’t come back to you Unconditional love is rife with complicated conditions Love doesn’t really conquer all Your Inner Child just went missing Go to your refrigerator and Check your milk cartons I plop the sparkling ice cube into the glass of scotch I poured and wonder if the wise ever-helpful “they” Will be wiped out by the Relentless approach of that Goddamn metaphorical iceberg We should all be so lucky My fingers are so cold From the ice they held That they hurt That’s when I think of you

Eye of the Beholder You paint me in rich, vibrant, Botticelli colors so that I feel as exquisite as Venus making love with the great, white-foaming sea. You You must be a sin When I look at you my insides tighten and ache and my eyes expand like Eve’s after the hard, green, bobs stained red. First Time When you lay her on her back her young, breasts are like upright triangles Soft and unaroused, they point upward and become like steeples to the heavens as you break into her again and again. A Question for an Intellectual Is it irreverent of me if, when you talk of numerical integration and scientific abstractions, I just want to crush your mouth against mine to drink of the lips that could speak such words?