Friday, August 19, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

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.

She held the report card like it had been dipped in a urinal. I could see the heat rising, the slight twitch in her lip that seemed to pull in the corners of the room - she was a magician about to yank everything. But. I'd. Still. BE. STANDING!!! No audience, no matter. And it wasn't like this was new territory. So, I waited, choking on the smoke from the scented candles she sold and therefore felt compelled to use.

My purgatory smelled like cinnamon apples.

"Jimmy..."

And she let that ride. Held it like a high note on a Casio keyboard. And what was I going to say? Sorry, Mom, there's this girl in my class and she stole my brain, twisted it, and then put it back - the damn thing don't work right now. Can't sit still. Can't concentrate.

Sorry, Mom, I'm more worried about getting my ass beat in the bathroom. If they gave grades for holding your piss all day, you wouldn't be this kind of mad/sad that makes me wonder if it would be different if Dad hadn't died.

The light in the room flickered when Mom threw the report card on the table. Everything stopped. My heart. The world. Evolution. Probably satellite signals and animal migrations. I flinched. I didn't want to, but I did. And then I closed my eyes so hard I saw red.

When I opened them, her eyes were thick with tears. Voice, too.

"Son, it's been a hard year. I hated school. Did I ever tell you that? Got tired of being judged. And your father ... I don't know, do they make human report cards? I still miss him just as much as you do, though. He drove me crazy, but I loved him."

I couldn't move, and I didn't think I'd be able to speak until the words were already out of my mouth.

"Mom. Let's order pizza. I'll buy. I still have that birthday money from Grandma."

And that's just how it happened. The pizza was even good considering the journey it had taken. It had done it's best.

I would have given it an A+.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Bang the Gong

Set your sights on grand rejection. Spit into the vainglorious wind and supplicate the suffering - I can't tell if my brain's exploding. I can't stay in the present too long because the past sings a siren song. I don't want to think and I don't want to blink because then it stops. Just like the red and blue motherfucking cops. There's no need for any of our police to wear riot gear. That shit starts riots. Hear? Do you listen to the sounds of the drips and the drops? The whispering from eaves and the dank stench of rot? You're inside it, but you can't abide it. And you can't abide by it's rules because that shit is for straight up suckers.

Fool.

And I could tell you it was like fog-drenched moonlight. I could paint you a skyline so bright. But I won't because it's too easy. I'll take the other easy route. Because you can picture an old woman, lying still, dark wood of the coffin, shine from the overhead lighting. Sound. Like ghost lightning. And you can picture the sedate black dress and the clutch of color from the flowers and you can listen to them fill you full of bullshit for hours. The real story is: she's dead. That's it. Ain't no fucking with some stories. But you can't let em fester and start to worry - so you let people like me dress it up for you. You say:

He captured that shit. And I know, it feels like that. From this side, too. Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like all the "true" stories I've ever heard are about one sentence long.

Flash. Clasp hands. Bang the gong. But don't get it on.

Shit ain't appropriate.

Friday, August 12, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

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.

It's just escapism. It's not a statement. It's not a horror that you hide in the basement. You can abuse it, you can debase it. It's still an open goddamn file. I'm gonna case it. Fuck it. Pour the cup, let's erase it. Who knew you were going to get up and face shit?

Don't look to me for answers; I ain't got any. I got two cents, and I'll give you a penny. I believe in sharing, see. I'm quite a fan of it. You live on crackers and smear moldy spam on shit. I smell like roses only wish they could smell. You smell like straight olfactory hell.

If you want to wrangle, we'll wrangle, don't doubt it. We'll tangle and star-spangle bullshit about it. We'll shuck and jive in your jungle until the drought hits. Then we're out, bitch.

Dress a man up like a giant baby doll, pining. Distract folks from the fact that simple good is declining. That people are being their worst, entwining. Marrying hate to this vague apathy we're defining.

I'm not sure I want to play, not today. But I'll kick it off in a dystopiSuess way.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Monday, August 8, 2016

Full Stop

Sure, I'll split my brain open for that one pure moment. Call it atonement. I don't really care what you call it. It's ephemeral. I think. One of them fancy fucking things. Like how when you watch the clouds on a still day and you start to freak, like maybe shit is never going to speed up again and it makes you uncomfortable. But you feel the sun graze your arms and you take the plate that is handed to you, though, lord, it's heavy.

I don't know what you want that I haven't given you already. The spotlight is grown tired. I have shown you the fluttered masses of teeming youth, huddled, unrelenting. I've shown you the glint in a steel man's eye, and the lilac in the corner of that one old lady - those eyes just like molasses, and you never could look at those eyes without feeling guilty and loved at the same time.

And I know you want to talk about when she died, but I don't even know how to do that. Literally. I can't even think about it. I stutter in my brain. I watch her dying, shade to pain - God, I hope it wasn't like it looked. Why would I want to talk about that?

Amusing anecdotes from churlish childhood chivalry.

You can watch my brain implode - no one is going to stop me. The trip will not be televised, but it will be broken down into its component parts and endlessly analyzed. Rebuilt in a way that envies tragedy. Lives next to envy. Relentlessly. Senselessly, sensing all that no one says.

But I'm going to keep going. Whether you want to read it or not. Full stop.

Friday, August 5, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

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.

Her hair is the color of spring sunlight, soft and golden, always shifting - slight turns of the head bring showers of shadow and magic. She is beauty, walking with soft feet, gentle smile, "Dadda, can we play for a little while?"

It's amazing to me that such small arms can give such mighty hugs. Direct connection, just love. Soft pats on the shoulder. I know she'll get older, I'm not about keeping people small. I already feel like I know who she will be when she is tall. And she will be amazing.

Free from guile, fed by giggles and made up riddles. When I am with my children, I am the best me I can possibly be. They do not know the things I regret. They never met the man who would have been too self-centered to notice a crack in a smile. 'Cause every smile cracks, but a quick kiss on the forehead trumps super glue every time. 


Today is a birthday, and that makes this particularly relevant, but I think about it every day. I walked so many hard goddamn roads. So many tales remain to be told. And there were far too many tolls to pay. But it got me here. To this day. More excited than a four year old. From this vantage point, the future looks bright indeed. 

Pure gold.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, July 22, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

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 man's suit was mockingbird grey. Striped tie and shined shoes with a snatch of blue oxford in the background. You sat and watched and thought, I swear to God they're robots. Then a group of four strolled by in dark khaki pants and white oxfords with solid colored ties that looked like cheap silk. No jackets.

They even walked the same.

And something shifted. Just like that. One second, you're laughing inside. The next? Why do  they all look the same? Did I see that one before? Are they following me? Have they been following me my whole life? And tomorrow, Saturday, if it's warm enough that means it's cargo shorts and polo shirts. That's even worse.


Why? What do they know...


And shit. Like that. Backhand to the frontal lobe. Smelling leaf blower farts and wildflowers. Listening to the drone of the freeway. Feeling the heat bounce off the glass buildings. Right then, you realized that something is fucked up. With them. With you. With something


Don't ever trust a mockingbird.


BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, July 15, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

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.

He looked at the old man's face and saw a twinkle in his green eye. The one that wasn't an opal  - the one that wasn't framed by thick, red scars. It'll grow son, trust me. But the boy didn't trust him. Didn't know him. He had been shuttled between houses and families and some were good and some were bad - this old man? He just seemed sad. Sad in a friendly way, but sad. And he was playing a joke on the boy. The dry ground wanted nothing to do with them until they were dead. The boy knew that. But the old man had fed him well and told him stories, so he figured he'd humor the one-eyed man. Respect his elders.

The boy dug with the small shovel until the man grunted. The grunt was clearly a signal. The sun overhead was hot and the boy thought, again, how stupid ... whatever, he'd been the target of worse jokes. Bigger bullies. He dropped the seed in the hole he'd dug. Poured the jug of water. A wide circle around the mound of dirt like the man told him. Then, they went back inside. The man had said something about fishing. It all sounded corny as hell.

Foster homes foster poor short term memory. When the boy woke up the next day, he was not thinking about the seed, and the man did not mention it. It rained heavy that week and they stayed inside for the most part, enjoying the sound of the drops on the roof, speaking rarely.

On a Friday morning, the boy awoke before the man. He went out back to start his chores, but his eyes were snatched by green. Clear as day, rising from the dirt, a sprout of new, fresh green. The boy turned with wide eyes, planning to get the man, but somehow he was already behind him. The boy wondered how long he'd been staring. Must have been longer than he thought. He hadn't realized his eyes were wet. 

The man laughed: See, son? I told you. I won't ever tell you nothing that's not true. You can count on that.

The boy repeated the words in his head; they were warm and soft. 


You can count on that.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...