What does it mean to be a valentine?
What do you ask when you ask to be mine?

Does your pulse feel slightly faster?
Does your breath come somewhat shorter?
Does your chest feel a little tighter?
Does it...?

I wonder what you think of me?
I wonder what it's all about...

A valentine is special.
Someone you can love, for a time.
The heart is a precious commodity...
Never easily given, but always easily taken.

What do you think when I tell you how I feel?

Do you feel the same?


Can I be your valentine?

						2-14-94


---------------------------------------------------------------


A silent scream
ringing in my ears
shrill and violent
stop stop stop stop stop
please don't do this anymore
it hurts it hurts so much
just tell me what you want
what you want

I wish I knew what it is you want
I wish I could give you what you need
I wish you could find me in your soul
I wish you knew what you wanted

But wishing is for fools

All I can do is scream soundlessly
pounding against the walls of my head
trying to escape
but I can't
I'm lost, trapped, gone
left for dead after being brought to life
everything is black now
all I can hear is my scream
all I know now is agony
all I can have is the memory

nothing else is left


						2-2-94


---------------------------------------------------------------


	Inspired By Malevich's _Scissors Grinder_
       *********************************************


	He is an old man who
	Lives in an old country.
	He holds the dull blade in his hand,
	His foot rests on the pedal.

	He begins to move his foot
	Slowly at first, then faster.
	The stone wheel turns unyieldingly,
	He touches the blade to the stone.

	Sparks fly, and Reality
	Breaks.
	He is no longer one, but many;
	Four hearts beat, three faces split
	A million minds reel.

	He can see now other images
	Of himself:
	In some, he is cut.
	In others, he dies of a weak heart.
	In most, he is simply not there.
	But his image is the only one
	that grinds.


	11-6-93


---------------------------------------------------------------


 "A glass screen
  a portal 
  a window
  into the futurepastpresent

  random electrons that come and go
  and shape the words that were
  and are no longer 
  and might have been.

  techno-tripe
  and phosphor spell
  and ozone smell
  and what might have been.

  Charged dust
  Shock static
  Blue lightning
  Whirr Click
  Buzzzzzz

  The medium is the message
  The message is no more
  
  and what might have been.

  Who was it for?
  What was it about?
  Why was it written?
  When was it there?
  
  Will it be again...?

  where is she
  the one I look for
  who is no longer

  and might have been."


                            - Mike Caprio (4-7-93)


---------------------------------------------------------------


	First, there was blackness.  I did not have the strength to open my
eyes.  Involuntarily, I coughed twice, and I felt a mask being put over my nose
and mouth.  With a subtle hissing sound, dry air rushed in through the mask, 
washing over my face like an empty desert wind, leaving my mouth scratchy and 
arid.

	My eyes opened of their own accord, but I couldn't see anything
clearly; the impression was one of blurred whiteness, or rather a dull grey
background.  When my eyes cleared, I saw ceiling tiles, and I began counting
the dots imprinted on them.  It was as if each tile was unique; they were all 
old, true, but each had a different pattern of aging, each had a separate 
yellowness all its own.  My parents were allowed to see me eventually.  When 
they did, they talked to me in urgent and worried and relieved tones, but I 
did not answer.  My head would nod on its own when they spoke.  The attendants 
wheeled me away from them, and I was brought to my bed.

	That night I had a dream.

	I dreamt of a room.  I lay upon a cold metal tray, like some kind
of entree, some piece of meat to be trimmed.  My senses were dazed by
medication.  Other people, all in green, moved about the room, adjusting this 
and that, working like verdant insects.  My sight went in and out of focus, 
and everything became a blur of green against a sickly white background,
with grey lumps of machinery in between.

	One of the workers came closer.  I could see her, she was pretty,  and 
she tapped the back of my hand lightly with two fingers.  I made no move to
resist, there was no point.  My hand held itself limply in hers.  She was
impersonal, and seemed irritated.  I made no move to stop her as she slipped
the long cold needle into the back of my hand, nor did I react when it slipped
out again, a spurt of blood rushing out after it.  I could do nothing but
watch.

	She returned and replaced the needle, a hasty piece of tape slapped on
top of it.  She followed the plastic line that trailed from the needle to its 
source - a bag of clear fluid.  She squeezed this bag, and the liquid rushed 
through the tube, through the needle, into my arm... into my vein.  I felt, 
actually felt, the blood vessel expand inside the whole length of my arm, the 
fluid rushing up towards my heart.

	"Jesus," I moaned.

	The room grew dark, despite the bright lights shining in my face.

	And then there was blackness.


	11-8-93

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