Best Famous Knock On Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Knock On poems. This is a select list of the best famous Knock On poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Knock On poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of knock on poems.

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• All Famous Knock On Poems

Written by Charles Bukowski | A Man George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T. V. His dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning. Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag. "George, I left that son of a *****, I couldn't stand that son of a ***** anymore. " "Sit down. " George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled. "I took his damn money too. I took his damn money and split while he was at work. You don't know how I've suffered with that son of a *****. " " Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near, George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her. "You son of a *****," she said, "I missed you. " "I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good legs. " "You still like 'em?" "I get hot just looking. " "I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid. He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He was antisceptic, that's what he was. " "Drink up, you'll feel better. " "And he couldn't make love. " "You mean he couldn't get it up?" "Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he was useless. " "I wish I had a college education. " "You don't need one. You have everything you need, George. " "I'm just a flunkey. All the **** jobs. " "I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman happy. " "Yeh?" "Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time she was treating me like I was a whore. Like I was a big bad whore stealing her son away from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me. And I'd say, 'Look at my pussy, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my pussy. He said, 'I don't want to look at that thing. ' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid of my pussy, are you, George?" "It's never bit me yet. " "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't you George?" "I suppose I have. " "And you've licked it , sucked it?" "I suppose so. " "You know damn well, George, what you've done. " "How much money did you get?" "Six hundred dollars. " "I don't like people who rob other people, Connie. " "That's why you're a fucking dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such an ass, George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it. . . him and his mother and his love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman wants, George. " "Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette. " George filled them up again. "I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those legs. I like the way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women don't know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ass; it puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!" "You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are one hell of a dishwasher. " "You know what I'd really like to do?" "What?" "I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ass, the thighs. I'd like to make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you pure love. " "I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me before. You've always done right with me. " "Pull your dress up higher. " "What?" "Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs. " "You like my legs, don't you, George?" "Let the light shine on them!" Constance hiked her dress. "God christ ****," said George. "You like my legs?" "I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth. "what'd you do that for?" "You fucked Walter! You fucked Walter!" "So what the hell?" "So pull your dress up higher!" "No!" "Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt. "Just up to the panties!" shouted George. "I don't quite want to see the panties!" "Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?" "You fucked Walter!" "George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here, George!" "Don't move or I'll kill you!" "You'd kill me?" "I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey, drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her wrist. She screamed. HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away. "I'm a man , baby, understand that?" "I know you're a man , George. " "Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms. "Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!" Constance felt one of the arms, then the other. "Yes, you have a beautiful body, George. " "I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man. " "I know it, George. " "I'm not the milkshit you left. " "I know it. " "And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice. " Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River. " Then he sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. " He sang "The St. Louis Blues. " He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing. Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs. " He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with that cigarette. " Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and drank it sown. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up there. She got out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked up and sat down next to him. "Missed me, baby?" she asked. Walter looked up. He recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked toward them They all knew eachother.

Written by Robert Frost | In the Home Stretch SHE stood against the kitchen sink, and looked Over the sink out through a dusty window At weeds the water from the sink made tall. She wore her cape; her hat was in her hand. Behind her was confusion in the room, Of chairs turned upside down to sit like people In other chairs, and something, come to look, For every room a house has—parlor, bed-room, And dining-room—thrown pell-mell in the kitchen. And now and then a smudged, infernal face Looked in a door behind her and addressed Her back. She always answered without turning. “Where will I put this walnut bureau, lady?” “Put it on top of something that’s on top Of something else,” she laughed. “Oh, put it where You can to-night, and go. It’s almost dark; You must be getting started back to town. ” Another blackened face thrust in and looked And smiled, and when she did not turn, spoke gently, “What are you seeing out the window, lady?” “Never was I beladied so before. Would evidence of having been called lady More than so many times make me a lady In common law, I wonder. ” “But I ask, What are you seeing out the window, lady?” “What I’ll be seeing more of in the years To come as here I stand and go the round Of many plates with towels many times. ” “And what is that? You only put me off. ” “Rank weeds that love the water from the dish-pan More than some women like the dish-pan, Joe; A little stretch of mowing-field for you; Not much of that until I come to woods That end all. And it’s scarce enough to call A view. ” “And yet you think you like it, dear?” “That’s what you’re so concerned to know! You hope I like it. Bang goes something big away Off there upstairs. The very tread of men As great as those is shattering to the frame Of such a little house. Once left alone, You and I, dear, will go with softer steps Up and down stairs and through the rooms, and none But sudden winds that snatch them from our hands Will ever slam the doors. ” “I think you see More than you like to own to out that window. ” “No; for besides the things I tell you of, I only see the years. They come and go In alternation with the weeds, the field, The wood. ” “What kind of years?” “Why, latter years— Different from early years. ” “I see them, too. You didn’t count them?” “No, the further off So ran together that I didn’t try to. It can scarce be that they would be in number We’d care to know, for we are not young now. And bang goes something else away off there. It sounds as if it were the men went down, And every crash meant one less to return To lighted city streets we, too, have known, But now are giving up for country darkness. ” “Come from that window where you see too much for me, And take a livelier view of things from here. They’re going. Watch this husky swarming up Over the wheel into the sky-high seat, Lighting his pipe now, squinting down his nose At the flame burning downward as he sucks it. ” “See how it makes his nose-side bright, a proof How dark it’s getting. Can you tell what time It is by that? Or by the moon? The new moon! What shoulder did I see her over? Neither. A wire she is of silver, as new as we To everything. Her light won’t last us long. It’s something, though, to know we’re going to have her Night after night and stronger every night To see us through our first two weeks. But, Joe, The stove! Before they go! Knock on the window; Ask them to help you get it on its feet. We stand here dreaming. Hurry! Call them back!” “They’re not gone yet. ” “We’ve got to have the stove, Whatever else we want for. And a light. Have we a piece of candle if the lamp And oil are buried out of reach?” Again The house was full of tramping, and the dark, Door-filling men burst in and seized the stove. A cannon-mouth-like hole was in the wall, To which they set it true by eye; and then Came up the jointed stovepipe in their hands, So much too light and airy for their strength It almost seemed to come ballooning up, Slipping from clumsy clutches toward the ceiling. “A fit!” said one, and banged a stovepipe shoulder. “It’s good luck when you move in to begin With good luck with your stovepipe. Never mind, It’s not so bad in the country, settled down, When people ’re getting on in life, You’ll like it. ” Joe said: “You big boys ought to find a farm, And make good farmers, and leave other fellows The city work to do. There’s not enough For everybody as it is in there. ” “God!” one said wildly, and, when no one spoke: “Say that to Jimmy here. He needs a farm. ” But Jimmy only made his jaw recede Fool-like, and rolled his eyes as if to say He saw himself a farmer. Then there was a French boy Who said with seriousness that made them laugh, “Ma friend, you ain’t know what it is you’re ask. ” He doffed his cap and held it with both hands Across his chest to make as ’twere a bow: “We’re giving you our chances on de farm. ” And then they all turned to with deafening boots And put each other bodily out of the house. “Goodby to them! We puzzle them. They think— I don’t know what they think we see in what They leave us to: that pasture slope that seems The back some farm presents us; and your woods To northward from your window at the sink, Waiting to steal a step on us whenever We drop our eyes or turn to other things, As in the game ‘Ten-step’ the children play. ” “Good boys they seemed, and let them love the city. All they could say was ‘God!’ when you proposed Their coming out and making useful farmers. ” “Did they make something lonesome go through you? It would take more than them to sicken you— Us of our bargain. But they left us so As to our fate, like fools past reasoning with. They almost shook me. ” “It’s all so much What we have always wanted, I confess It’s seeming bad for a moment makes it seem Even worse still, and so on down, down, down. It’s nothing; it’s their leaving us at dusk. I never bore it well when people went. The first night after guests have gone, the house Seems haunted or exposed. I always take A personal interest in the locking up At bedtime; but the strangeness soon wears off. ” He fetched a dingy lantern from behind A door. “There’s that we didn’t lose! And these!”— Some matches he unpocketed. “For food— The meals we’ve had no one can take from us. I wish that everything on earth were just As certain as the meals we’ve had. I wish The meals we haven’t had were, anyway. What have you you know where to lay your hands on?” “The bread we bought in passing at the store. There’s butter somewhere, too. ” “Let’s rend the bread. I’ll light the fire for company for you; You’ll not have any other company Till Ed begins to get out on a Sunday To look us over and give us his idea Of what wants pruning, shingling, breaking up. He’ll know what he would do if he were we, And all at once. He’ll plan for us and plan To help us, but he’ll take it out in planning. Well, you can set the table with the loaf. Let’s see you find your loaf. I’ll light the fire. I like chairs occupying other chairs Not offering a lady—” “There again, Joe! You’re tired. ” “I’m drunk-nonsensical tired out; Don’t mind a word I say. It’s a day’s work To empty one house of all household goods And fill another with ’em fifteen miles away, Although you do no more than dump them down. ” “Dumped down in paradise we are and happy. ” “It’s all so much what I have always wanted, I can’t believe it’s what you wanted, too. ” “Shouldn’t you like to know?” “I’d like to know If it is what you wanted, then how much You wanted it for me. ” “A troubled conscience! You don’t want me to tell if I don’t know. ” “I don’t want to find out what can’t be known. But who first said the word to come?” “My dear, It’s who first thought the thought. You’re searching, Joe, For things that don’t exist; I mean beginnings. Ends and beginnings—there are no such things. There are only middles. ” “What is this?” “This life? Our sitting here by lantern-light together Amid the wreckage of a former home? You won’t deny the lantern isn’t new. The stove is not, and you are not to me, Nor I to you. ” “Perhaps you never were?” “It would take me forever to recite All that’s not new in where we find ourselves. New is a word for fools in towns who think Style upon style in dress and thought at last Must get somewhere. I’ve heard you say as much. No, this is no beginning. ” “Then an end?” “End is a gloomy word. ” “Is it too late To drag you out for just a good-night call On the old peach trees on the knoll to grope By starlight in the grass for a last peach The neighbors may not have taken as their right When the house wasn’t lived in? I’ve been looking: I doubt if they have left us many grapes. Before we set ourselves to right the house, The first thing in the morning, out we go To go the round of apple, cherry, peach, Pine, alder, pasture, mowing, well, and brook. All of a farm it is. ” “I know this much: I’m going to put you in your bed, if first I have to make you build it. Come, the light. ” When there was no more lantern in the kitchen, The fire got out through crannies in the stove And danced in yellow wrigglers on the ceiling, As much at home as if they’d always danced there.

Written by Federico García Lorca | Train Ride After rain, through afterglow, the unfolding fan of railway landscape sidled onthe pivot of a larger arc into the green of evening; I remembered that noon I saw a gradual bud still white; though dead in its warm bloom; always the enemy is the foe at home. And I wondered what surgery could recover our lost, long stride of indolence and leisure which is labor in reverse; what physic recall the smile not of lips, but of eyes as of the sea bemused. We, when we disperse from common sleep to several tasks, we gather to despair; we, who assembled once for hopes from common toil to dreams or sickish and hurting or triumphal rapture; always our enemy is our foe at home. We, deafened with far scattered city rattles to the hubbub of forest birds (never having "had time" to grieve or to hear through vivid sleep the sea knock on its cracked and hollow stones) so that the stars, almost, and birds comply, and the garden-wet; the trees retire; We are a scared patrol, fearing the guns behind; always the enemy is the foe at home. What wonder that we fear our own eyes' look and fidget to be at home alone, and pitifully put of age by some change in brushing the hair and stumble to our ends like smothered runners at their tape; We follow our shreds of fame into an ambush. Then (as while the stars herd to the great trough the blind, in the always-only-outward of their dismantled archways, awake at the smell of warmed stone or the sound of reeds, lifting from the dim into the segment of green dawn) always our enemy is our foe at home, more certainly than through spoken words or from grief- twisted writing on paper, unblotted by tears the thought came: There is no physic for the world's ill, nor surgery; it must (hot smell of tar on wet salt air) burn in fever forever, an incense pierced with arrows, whose name is Love and another name Rebellion (the twinge, the gulf, split seconds, the very raindrops, render, and instancy of Love). All Poetry to this not-to-be-looked-upon sun of Passion is the moon's cupped light; all Politics to this moon, a moon's reflected cupped light, like the moon of Rome, after the deep well of Grecian light sank low; always the enemy is the foe at home. But these three are friends whose arms twine without words; as, in still air, the great grove leans to wind, past and to come.

Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Black Cat A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place your sight can knock on, echoing; but here within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze will be absorbed and utterly disappear: just as a raving madman, when nothing else can ease him, charges into his dark night howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels the rage being taken in and pacified. She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen into her, so that, like an audience, she can look them over, menacing and sullen, and curl to sleep with them. But all at once as if awakened, she turns her face to yours; and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny, inside the golden amber of her eyeballs suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

Written by Billy Collins | Directions You know the brick path in the back of the house, the one you see from the kitchen window, the one that bends around the far end of the garden where all the yellow primroses are? And you know how if you leave the path and walk into the woods you come to a heap of rocks, probably pushed down during the horrors of the Ice Age, and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now against the light-brown fallen leaves? And farther on, you know the small footbridge with the broken railing and if you go beyond the you arrive at the bottom of sheep's head hill? Well, if you start climbing, and you might have to grab on to a sapling when the going gets steep, you will eventually come to a long stone ridge with a border of pine trees which is a high as you can go and a good enough place to stop. The best time for this is late afternoon en the sun strobes through the columns of trees as you are hiking up, and when you find an agreeable rock to sit on, you will be able to see the light pouring down into the woods and breaking into the shapes and tones of things and you will hear nothing but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy falling of a cone or t through the trees, and if this is your day you might even spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese driving overhead toward some destination. But it is hard to speak of these things how the voices of light enter the body and begin to recite their stories how the earth holds us painfully against ts breast made of humus and brambles how we will soon be gone regard the entities that continue to return greener than ever, spring water flowing through a meadow and the shadows of clouds passing over the hills and the ground where we stand in the tremble of thought taking the vast outside into ourselves. Still, let me know before you set out. Come knock on my door and I will walk with you as far as the garden with one hand on your shoulder. I will even watch after you and not turn back to the house until you disappear into the crowd of maple and ash, heading up toward the hill, percing the ground with your stick.

Written by Edward Taylor | A Knock On The Door They ask me if I've ever thought about the end of the world, and I say, "Come in, come in, let me give you some lunch, for God's sake. " After a few bites it's the afterlife they want to talk about. "Ouch," I say, "did you see that grape leaf skeletonizer?" Then they're talking about redemption and the chosen few sitting right by His side. "Doing what?" I ask. "Just sitting?" I am surrounded by burned up zombies. "Let's have some lemon chiffon pie I bought yesterday at the 3 Dog Bakery. " But they want to talk about my soul. I'm getting drowsy and see butterflies everywhere. "Would you gentlemen like to take a nap, I know I would. " They stand and back away from me, out the door, walking toward my neighbors, a black cloud over their heads and they see nothing without end.

Written by Georgia Douglas Johnson | Motherhood Motherhood Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880-1966) Don’t knock on my door, little child I cannot let you in; You know not what a world this is of cruelty and sin. Wait in the still eternity Until I come to you. The world is cruel, cruel, child, I cannot let you through. Don’t knock at my heart, little one I cannot bear the pain Of turning deaf ears to your call, Time and time again. You do not know the monster men Inhabiting the earth. Be still, be still, my precious child, I cannot give you birth.

Written by John Wheelwright | Train Ride For Horace Gregory After rain, through afterglow, the unfolding fan of railway landscape sidled onthe pivot of a larger arc into the green of evening; I remembered that noon I saw a gradual bud still white; though dead in its warm bloom; always the enemy is the foe at home. And I wondered what surgery could recover our lost, long stride of indolence and leisure which is labor in reverse; what physic recall the smile not of lips, but of eyes as of the sea bemused. We, when we disperse from common sleep to several tasks, we gather to despair; we, who assembled once for hopes from common toil to dreams or sickish and hurting or triumphal rapture; always our enemy is our foe at home. We, deafened with far scattered city rattles to the hubbub of forest birds (never having "had time" to grieve or to hear through vivid sleep the sea knock on its cracked and hollow stones) so that the stars, almost, and birds comply, and the garden-wet; the trees retire; We are a scared patrol, fearing the guns behind; always the enemy is the foe at home. What wonder that we fear our own eyes' look and fidget to be at home alone, and pitifully put of age by some change in brushing the hair and stumble to our ends like smothered runners at their tape; We follow our shreds of fame into an ambush. Then (as while the stars herd to the great trough the blind, in the always-only-outward of their dismantled archways, awake at the smell of warmed stone or the sound of reeds, lifting from the dim into the segment of green dawn) always our enemy is our foe at home, more certainly than through spoken words or from grief- twisted writing on paper, unblotted by tears the thought came: There is no physic for the world's ill, nor surgery; it must (hot smell of tar on wet salt air) burn in fever forever, an incense pierced with arrows, whose name is Love and another name Rebellion (the twinge, the gulf, split seconds, the very raindrops, render, and instancy of Love). All Poetry to this not-to-be-looked-upon sun of Passion is the moon's cupped light; all Politics to this moon, a moon's reflected cupped light, like the moon of Rome, after the deep well of Grecian light sank low; always the enemy is the foe at home. But these three are friends whose arms twine without words; as, in still air, the great grove leans to wind, past and to come.

Written by Anne Sexton | The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts Who's she, that one in your arms? She's the one I carried my bones to and built a house that was just a cot and built a life that was over an hour and built a castle where no one lives and built, in the end, a song to go with the ceremony. Why have you brought her here? Why do you knock on my door with your little stores and songs? I had joined her the way a man joins a woman and yet there was no place for festivities or formalities and these things matter to a woman and, you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage. You come to me out of wedlock and kick your foot on my stoop and ask me to measure such things? Never. Never. Not my real wife. She's my real witch, my fork, my mare, my mother of tears, my skirtful of hell, the stamp of my sorrows, the stamp of my bruises and also the children she might bear and also a private place, a body of bones that I would honestly buy, if I could buy, that I would marry, if I could marry. And should I torment you for that? Each man has a small fate allotted to him and yours is a passionate one. But I am in torment. We have no place. The cot we share is almost a prison where I can't say buttercup, bobolink, sugarduck, pumpkin, love ribbon, locket, valentine, summergirl, funnygirl and all those nonsense things one says in bed. To say I have bedded with her is not enough. I have not only bedded her down. I have tied her down with a knot. Then why do you stick your fists into your pockets? Why do you shuffle your feet like a schoolboy? For years I have tied this knot in my dreams. I have walked through a door in my dreams and she was standing there in my mother's apron. Once she crawled through a window that was shaped like a keyhole and she was wearing my daughter's pink corduroys and each time I tied these women in a knot. Once a queen came. I tied her too. But this is something I have actually tied and now I have made her fast. I sang her out. I caught her down. I stamped her out with a song. There was no other apartment for it. There was no other chamber for it. Only the knot. The bedded-down knot. Thus I have laid my hands upon her and have called her eyes and her mouth as mine, as also her tongue. Why do you ask me to make choices? I am not a judge or a psychologist. You own your bedded-down knot. And yet I have real daytimes and nighttimes with children and balconies and a good wife. Thus I have tied these other knots, yet I would rather not think of them when I speak to you of her. Not now. If she were a room to rent I would pay. If she were a life to save I would save. Maybe I am a man of many hearts. A man of many hearts? Why then do you tremble at my doorway? A man of many hearts does not need me. I'm caught deep in the dye of her. I have allowed you to catch me red-handed, catch me with my wild oats in a wild clock for my mare, my dove and my own clean body. People might say I have snakes in my boots but I tell you that just once am I in the stirrups, just once, this once, in the cup. The love of the woman is in the song. I called her the woman in red. I called her the woman in pink but she was ten colors and ten women I could hardly name her. I know who she is. You have named her enough. Maybe I shouldn't have put it in words. Frankly, I think I'm worse for this kissing, drunk as a piper, kicking the traces and determined to tie her up forever. You see the song is the life, the life I can't live. God, even as he passes, hand down monogamy like slang. I wanted to write her into the law. But, you know, there is no law for this. Man of many hearts, you are a fool! The clover has grown thorns this year and robbed the cattle of their fruit and the stones of the river have sucked men's eyes dry, season after season, and every bed has been condemned, not by morality or law, but by time.

Written by James Tate | A Knock On The Door They ask me if I've ever thought about the end of the world, and I say, "Come in, come in, let me give you some lunch, for God's sake. " After a few bites it's the afterlife they want to talk about. "Ouch," I say, "did you see that grape leaf skeletonizer?" Then they're talking about redemption and the chosen few sitting right by His side. "Doing what?" I ask. "Just sitting?" I am surrounded by burned up zombies. "Let's have some lemon chiffon pie I bought yesterday at the 3 Dog Bakery. " But they want to talk about my soul. I'm getting drowsy and see butterflies everywhere. "Would you gentlemen like to take a nap, I know I would. " They stand and back away from me, out the door, walking toward my neighbors, a black cloud over their heads and they see nothing without end.