Friday, February 15, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!


Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
The blossoms fell, curling into the swirl of water before an old, weather-beaten log – the boy sat patiently on a large boulder, his rod beside him. He studied the water. 
The sun also fell, in long, golden rivulets that seeped around the boys' resolve. It was mid-afternoon, and the soundtrack of birdsong and burbling water eased the roughness of the terrain, dulled its edges. In the distance, a crow called his indignant cry into the breeze, where it danced across the top of the pines.
For thirty minutes, give or take, the boy did nothing but watch and study. By watching the water, he could make a pretty good guess what it looked like under the surface. He saw old tree branches and stones that twisted the water in its course. In time, he also saw fish, imagined them – he knew where they would be.
With slow, quiet movements, the boy picked up his rod and cast a small salmon-egg hook – just the right size for a kernel of niblets corn. He did not use salmon eggs. Never had. Wouldn’t recognize one if he saw it. Didn’t know what color they were. He knew only that the small golden hooks were cheap – and the perfect size for fishing corn. Whether the fish liked corn or salmon eggs given the choice, the boy did not know, nor, did he care.
He was in no hurry and, one finger on the line to feel for bites, he let the corn float through the eddies before lifting it and recasting it farther out. Sometimes closer. If he had been old enough to drive and city enough to drive on freeways, he might have seen this as a kind of merging. He knew when the currents changed and he directed the corn through the churning water. After some time, the boy twitched the tip of the rod briefly whereupon, it doubled over. He let the fish tire itself out before bringing it to the bank. From his back pocket, he pulled an old Barlow knife which he used to kill the fish. A hard rap to the head, so as to prevent it suffering. Then, he wrapped the fish in wet cloth and put it in the shade.
It was then that the tranquility of the scene was destroyed as a middle-aged man in waders, vest, fishing cap, and wool shirt used his fly rod to part the branches in front of him as he walked. He stopped when he saw the boy, raising an arm in salutation.
“Howdy!”
The word sounded off, like it was coming from the wrong mouth. Like he was putting on an accent. It was a pregnant ‘howdy’ and the boy answered cautiously.
He nodded a greeting and stared at the water. The man came closer, closing the distance between them.
“You live around here? You fish here a lot? Where are the good spots?”
The boy looked at the toe of his tennis shoes and mumbled. He did not know how to answer the questions. They were questions that didn’t deserve or warrant answers. He did not want the man to know anything about him or the water. He did not want the man to know that this spot was a cathedral. Fishing was communion.
“No sir.”
“You don’t know anything about this place? Come on – I only have five days to fish…”
There was a lilt in the request – the boy could see that he was trying to ingratiate himself, the funny guy. Teasing. He didn’t like it. It felt like a game or like he was the butt of a joke and everyone was laughing. He didn’t want to talk to the man, and he certainly didn’t want him fishing close by.
The man stuck a cigarette into the corner of his mouth, but didn’t light it. The sun seemed too hot, and the boy squirmed before deciding this was an OK time for a small lie. He did not like lying, but he didn’t like strangers either.
“Fishing isn’t too great unless you’re willing to walk. Up a few miles it widens out – that’s where the big ones are.”
The man smiled.
“You didn’t feel like walking?”
The boy did not answer. The man grabbed the bill of his cap and tugged on it in a contrived, mechanical way. Then, he lit his cigarette and headed in the direction the boy had indicated. He was a carnival – a parade of noise and flash. The boy began to feel bad for the water. For the fish. They didn’t deserve this.
The boy got his line back in the water, but something ineffable had changed. 

To be continued...
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Friday, February 8, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I’m not the one you’re looking for, and I get that that might be a disappointment. I do. I wish I could be your salvation, your inspiration. I wish I could inspire some sensation, but I’m numb, man. I talk a good game, but right now I’m just trying to stay in it. It’s hard walking around numb – there are so many things to bump into. So many store displays to be China-Shop-Bulled into disarray. I don’t like it, this turtle shell, but it’s better than nothing. Hell. It’s better than having my heart shredded daily. I don’t want to cross you, get on your cross – I don’t want it. I want to be in the shadows until the light comes back.

Imagine for a second that you are standing on the roof of an old Victorian at 24th and Mission. You’re drunk and throwing gravel at the busses with your roommates. They jump the gap between the buildings and so do you. It’s all fun and games, but sometimes you wonder: ‘would I care if I fell?’ Became a bloody bone sculpture in the alley? Is that what you want? Is that what I want? Any of us. Do we know what the fuck we’re doing? Are we playing a part that was prescribed for us, or hacking our way through the bullshit jungle with a broken machete?

I’m being too abstract. I’ll break it down – get ready.

Quiet desperation never felt so loud. The country is stuck in the sticky fly-trap of hate. We decry hate and hate the haters. We hate our lives that will get fixed later – they won’t. You’ll never be whole. You just need to decide what kind of compromise fits best. You try to be you, but it don’t pay worth shit. So, you act like someone else for a little bit – get used to it. Swallow all your truths – you’ll be set. Not jet set. Rich enough not to die and leave your TV lonely.

I know this is a bummer trip; I don’t know how to force a positive spin on it – don’t know why I’d want to. I’m not your monkey. I’m nobody’s monkey, not even my own. 

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Friday, February 1, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

They sat in silence, passing stories with their eyes - three months on the trail and they didn't need words; the snow fell steadily and Slim was trying to drink enough to die. He looked dead. He wasn't. He wasn't alive either. He was caught in the empty space between the two; his eyes were rheumy, his skin pale, and he did not know that this would be his last ride. They would kill him, leave him bleeding - they would kill him for nothing. Boredom. Spite. Profit. Most likely the last.

The fire spit sparks into the night, sending them to dance with the stars. There was a wind that smelled of coyote - the night rang with their song. Dawn was far off, and the men had a long way to ride in the morning, but no one felt like closing their eyes. Death was in the air. It choked them; they knew the taste but could not place it. 

The dogs were half dead and long past caring. They would soon run off in a cannibalistic sprint; now they sniffed for coyote and pretended they were brave. 

The miners would find the body and they'd wonder. Love or gold. It always came down to love or gold. Or hate. But hate doesn't fill the belly. Hate isn't something you can wrap your frantic arms around. Nope, they would know. Love or gold. 

In country like that, you can have one or the other. And neither comes cheap.

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Friday, January 25, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

You can wipe off that frown; the silicone twins are here to entertain! Two bucks to wrestle and five for marrying - that's what they call an investment. Your teeth have never been so white. You've never slept like this before. You will have more energy and feel less lethargic throughout the day. You will cut your coffee consumption in half. 


You will become a degenerate who never leaves the house. The neighbors will gossip about you. You will not be asked to attend PTA meetings, even if you're willing to pony up. No one wants your pony. Your pony is looking in the mirror and he can't even see himself. 

You did that. 

Step right up and donate an organ - I'm not a doctor; I'm just hungry. Side effects? Sure. Mild. You may sprout hair on your face. Your asshole might fall out. You might shit hot blood. You might wake up in a complete panic convinced that Jay Leno is trying to steal your chin. 

He can never get enough!

Think about how fantastic and amazing and fulfilling your life could be. Think about tucking yourself into some non-sentient arms and motorboating the fuck out of the rubber tata blubber. You'll have the kind of erection you haven't had since middle school. The kind that won't go away and humiliates you in front of the class. 

You don't want to miss this once in a lifetime opportunity. You'll spend the rest of your life hating yourself. Your dick will hate you because it can't get painfully erect. You may black out unexpectedly, but that will make you a hit at parties. 

This is a call to action! This is an opportunity that is dwindling by fractions. Come on and get you some satisfaction. Unless you're poor. Then no one wants your business. Go watch TV. Leave the postmodern love infractions to those who are worthy.

Call today! 

1-800-TRU-LOVE

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Friday, January 18, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

Some people believe that when you die you come back as something else. Maybe you come back and everything starts over again. Maybe you end up on some cosmic game show or you reread a novel you hate/love for eternity. Like Gatsby. Nothing but Gatsby. 

Maybe when you huff video head cleaner you see other universes. Maybe you burn synapses. Whatever you do, it's temporary. Just enjoy the sounds. Get on the ride. 

Maybe every time you jizz a baby dies. That would be fucked up, but it would ease some of our environmental issues. I didn't think that; you thought that. 

Maybe there's change in the couch cushions. Been a while since I checked - probably since the last time I was short on beer money. I don't harass the furniture anymore. 

Let me open a door. Bring a sweater; it's chilly.

There is a white carpet in the center of a dark, blood-red room. Strip club red. The carpet is smooth, ironed. In the center of the carpet there is a pool of dark liquid. You can't tell what color it is, and you're afraid to find out. The puddle holds lies and betrayals and disappointment. The puddle is filled with broken dolls and deflated balls, and you're fucking terrified. 

You tell yourself it's nothing, but you don't know. You try to think about something nice - a summer afternoon that you didn't fuck up by drinking. The first time you kissed someone and your teeth clicked and you laughed. You end up sitting in the corner, arms around your knees, muttering to yourself: they won't get inside if you don't let them. They won't let you inside if you don't get them. They'll never understand why you can't stand the sound of metal scraping. Your teeth ache. You become infantile. 

Smile.

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Friday, January 11, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I don't want to do it. You can't make me do it. 

Thirteen months in Houston? Man, you blew it. You stepped right when you should have stepped wrong and landed up in a logical fallacy. See? Imagine a room full of monkeys masturbating furiously, their furry hands ablur. That's the kind of beautiful shit you can actualize if you own a ton of monkeys! Word.

Who wants to buy a monkey?

I want a cheeseburger that reproduces. I want consistent bowel movements like sonatas in the hands of a master stick-waver. 

I am a few decks short of a skate shop, but I don't mind - you want some, then YOU cop. I'm gonna sit here straight drip-whispering. Until the darkness turns to shivering. Before the floodlights spill out over your picket-glazed irises. Big as tires, Sis.

You can shove the whole damn world in there. 


If my brain just subsists of snippets and widgets, does it matter that one robot lets one robot forget? Am I a slave to my lavish debt? All wet. I want to take a magic pill that makes me forget. 

So, I can unclench my jaw.

So, I can sleep.

So, I can dream. 

Or at least stop hearing the same thing over and over and over and...

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Friday, January 4, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

The moonlight lay in shards like a broken bottle; storms raged and people cried, and the moon laughed its ass off until the morning taxis bristled. The cold was there. You could take it or leave it. A man can drink that kind of cold away - toss it off like an old lady shawl. Goddamn, baby, come with me and you can have it all.

We'll have a brawl.

The night called out like a whipped dog, and the lights reflected puddles in the roadway - you gotta have the sense of it. The sense for it. Something. You gotta have something. Like tits on a frog. You don't need to know how I know what you need to know.

Just know.

You can say you didn't see nothing, but I'm guessing that's a lie. The broken songs through the grimy windows, five shots, you didn't hear nothing? Didn't see nothing? Never gonna be somebody.

You'll never amount.

The fucking screams, man. They were almost funny. Like uncomfortable funny - like when Jimmy the Dirtbag snapped his leg in half. Wasn't funny, but everybody laughing. That's what them screams did. Like they took the cap off the world and let out all the insanity.

Shut the fuck up!

Soon the squares will be waking up for work, and they don't want to start their day looking at your brains like bread pudding all over the wall. Quivering. Like jellied fish. The kind the old man ate. Fucking disgusting. The sun won't come up 'til I got this done.

I promise.

And the last thing you'll see? My fucking face, laughing - nervous laughing into the black curtain. The abyss, man. That's where you're going to end up, and I hope it's a fucking blast, brother. All I know is that bitch that lives by the liquor store is up. Making biscuits for her fucking Alzheimer's.

And she was your canary.

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