Friday, December 9, 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.

I work too hard, and I'm too high strung - I'm afraid I'm going to burn out young. And I remember when I didn't care, but it seems like a long time ago. Now, I want my daughters to have a Dad as long as possible. I knew a lot of girls who grew up without Dads. It's infuriating though, to find the medicine and then find out that the copay is so goddamn high. Guess I'll stay low. Easier to lift little ones onto your shoulders that way.

I've got a trunk full of long-expired Afrin and Mini-Thins. If you have a bottle of whisky, you can be my friend. I see him in dreams, sitting in the corner of a room, smoking. He wasn't happy. He was not-sad. Numb. There's a big difference. I've sold enough of my brain. Frankly, I'm surprised I can work a computer sometimes. I can sure as hell take back pain.

Sorry, Doc.


What I can't take is any more chances. I didn't see any of this coming. There was no Disney drummer drumming. There was freedom in the apathy. But it got damn lonely. So, I'll keep throwing away old shit when I find it. I'll keep that mental tape so I can rewind it. Remind myself that it wasn't fun most of the time. Most of the time it fucking sucked, but I convinced myself it was fine.

This? Hell, now things suck some of the time, but most of the time I'm styling. Coming home from a long day to three smiles smiling...

Yeah, this got sentimental fast, and that wasn't my intention. And I'm sure that there's still a lot of shit that I forgot to mention. But I got two minutes and my brain's still asleep. So, you get what you get. I'm going to try to keep what I can keep.


#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, December 2, 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.

You can bang your head against as many walls as you want - ain't gonna hurt the walls. Not if they're well made. Your head might hurt. Heads are made well, too, but it's like comparing cannonballs and cantaloupe. So, yeah. Stop it already. And quit looking for the most confusing trail through the forest. Stop sniffing for invisible gas leaks. Relax while you sleep. Hell, if your teeth were made of diamonds, you could bite through a lead pipe the way you clench that jaw.

Stop trying to play shit off like no one saw. 


You think they're that naive? You think there aren't more coherent lies to believe? I think you should focus more on the birds swinging electrical trees. You want a new car because your old one had bald tires?

What the hell are you going to do when you retire?

You hurt so much; you feel angry for no reason. Why are you so guilty if you did nothing wrong? You silly bastard. I'd like to cut you some slack, but I put my knife away. We can try again another day. Until then, you just keep putting one foot behind the other. Fake a pratfall. They'll love it. People crave that shit. And maybe it will shake things up a bit. Make them feel human.

You're a sad sight, wringing your hands like that. Pretending it's the cold because you don't want them to know. Hiding in drugstore shadows because you don't want anyone to see. Why don't you step out into the light? Let it be what it is. No one gives a shit. Period. And until you accept that, you're going to have weird dreams and heartburn.

Or go see your doctor. She has a magic notepad that fixes everything.


#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, November 25, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Dark, Now Light

I close my eyes and the blackness is tepid. Green blinking lights intrude, turning the ambient red into a schizophrenic obsolescence. This is the price I pay for having internet access. Goddamn lights. And it's never dark enough here. The neighbor's bathroom light antagonizes me. And I whine, I moan, I tumble in the covers and groan. I am surrounded by love, but feel all alone.

I want to punch my emo face to pieces. It's not just you. I annoy me, too.

I want to be one of those guys who doesn't give a shit, but I give a shit about so many things. And the glimpses of beauty I see - I wouldn't trade them for the world, but they are also a harsh reminder of ugliness. And I know, I don't know the half of it. Poor me. I'm going out to eat worms.

I remember when things were different. Because there is a way to make things dark as the bottom of an old country well. But it didn't turn out well. It was a carefree hell; I don't even have an adequate way of explaining it. So many rocks and hard places. I've used that line before, and I don't give a fuck.

Things are easier if you don't care, but it's hard not to. I know how to turn it off, but the tradeoffs aren't worth it. So, I lie in bed and my eyelids filter green and red and fluorescent nightmares.

But, fuck this.

Everyone has a hard life. At least everyone I know. So, I'm going to keep looking at the light. The sun. The flash of smile from the two best things I've ever introduced to the world. I'm going to try to wrap my brain around my thoughts so I can put them on paper. And we can all share the cost.

Light can kill darkness, but damn if the darkness isn't strong. It's like a constant gnawing pain. It's like being lost in a cold forest at night. You know there's nothing to worry about, but that doesn't calm the stomach. That doesn't stop me from thinking, holy shit, all my friends are suffering. I have no right. I have lots of wrong. It's been too long since I've written a song.

Life is a battle, and the enemy is different for everyone. For me, it's a fight for optimism in the face of cowardice. I am not a superhero. Hell, I'm not even the dorky disguise. I'm just a guy.

Tonight, I will cover the green lights and hope my neighbor snuffs her bathroom light early. I will hope that I don't clench my teeth all night, but I probably will. I will remember that life was easier when it was all one dark blur, but that it was a cop out. And that I missed out on a lot.

Life isn't supposed to be easy. It isn't supposed to be anything. It is what you make of it. And I'm getting out the glitter and glue. I'm going to paint a rainbow that includes every goddamn hue. And I'm going to try and smile when I see you. Shake your hand. Forget about light and dark for a while and just live in the dawn and twilight.

I will try to be the hawk waiting patiently on man's electrical tree. Rain or shine. I will sit vigilant. Waiting for the slightest movement. Glad that I don't have to kill. I will spread my arms and pretend at buteo silhouettes. I wanted to write a nice story, I swear. I have regrets.

Regardless, this is what you get.

Friday, November 18, 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 drank wine while she cooked, and she always insisted on making dinner. And, certainly, no one thought of complaining. And she would tell them. Stay out of the kitchen while I'm making dinner. And hours would fall while she concocted dishes that smelled like symphonic need. Hell, the whole family agreed.

She did make the wine stay out of the kitchen.


Thus, it is hard for anyone, even me, to say. Hours. That's a lot of time, but they never thought about it. They had work to do -  had balls to throw and fields to traverse, and they were always going forward, never in reverse. 

The house was neat and orderly like a catalogue house. She had hiding places. These were for the vodka. Bottles of vodka snuggled in the linen closet beneath piles of blankets. She kept a bottle in every room. Behind a bookcase. In the back of a closet that no one ever looked in. Safe.

She was a perfect statue of poise and grace. Always. I can picture her now. Neighborhood barbecues. She stood tall, proud, hair that went from blonde to grey. The right way. She never put on weight. She wore stylish slacks and blouses. She laughed. Everyone loved her.

She did not laugh alone. She did not love herself.

Once the details were arranged, the kids decided to go through the house. Keep the treasures, give the rest to Goodwill - sell the house and split the profits. 


And then they found the first bottle. 

By the end of the day there was nothing to say. Shy tears hung to quivering eyelashes. The house smelled of chain-smoking. 

And they sat, wine glasses in hand, wondering how much one can really bottle up.

#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, November 11, 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.

Chicken Little, loud and livid, has moved inside my ear - he's banging pots and pans together, and I can barely stand the weather. The fear. There are dark clouds forming and the air tastes like blood; there will never be enough soap to make me clean again. I walk the same streets, same shoes, same feet, but no one wants to nod hello. No one's smiling. Nope, EVERYBODY is out profiling. Making uneducated guesses based on skin and dresses. Punk rock tresses. I'm too young for this, but I'm also too damn old.

I can't handle the whiplash. From small, sweet hugs to hate and back. And I wish I had a way to say - I don't care if you're straight or gay. I don't care if you're white or black or brown. I don't care how you want to live your life unless it hurts people. Be you. Identify yourself. YOUR choice. I only make choices for me. And right now I'm trying to keep two small girls from catching a glimpse of a passing TV. 


I don't like to see my wife scared. I don't like to see my friends angry. We have every right to be angry, but I don't like to see it. And this is not about the election anymore. Not about Clinton, nor Trump. We have finally been forced to look in the mirror, and we're ugly down to the bone. And I mean everyone, because we knew this was coming and didn't want to believe. Walking around with Chicken Little on our sleeves.

George Wallace never went away, he's just been laying low.

I'm not making apologies for anyone. I'm not going to be quiet because being loud might get me shot - because it might not. And, regardless, right now truth is all I've got. And I've never been a liar. If I had been I might have climbed the ladder higher. Now, I'm kind of glad I didn't. Distance. I don't have much. 'Cause I've been in the trenches.

So, I'll try to sleep. I'll try to pretend that two grown men didn't try to fight each other in front of my children in front of an elementary school. That's what Chicken Little is saying now. Fuck the sky, pretend it's not happening and just get by. 


I never did listen to chickens.

My blinders are not on. If I was Phil Ochs, I'd write a song. And if I could buy an island, I'd invite every American who feels scared, everyone taken unaware. I'm not looking for people to target, I'm trying to be a teacher because it's one of the few things I'm good at. 


And I'm trying not to call so many people and tell them, lay low. Because my fear is less important than the truths we need to hear. This is not about Islam, not about color, not about politics, not about locker room talk or email schlock. This is about the chickens coming home to roost. We ignored them for too long, and pretended everything was going to be OK. A lark, a song. Because it was easy. Now, nothing will be easy, but that's exactly what we deserve after all the steaming lies we've served.

Pain like this doesn't go away without a fight. I will fight with words because I believe that is the most effective way. But I won't shut up. Chicken Little has sung his battle cry. And we need to know why. And I need every scared American to know: I have no problem with anyone. I am proud to have white friends, black friends, latino friends, gay friends, trans friends - I'm proud of the remaining Americans. The ones that are trying to uphold principles we should hold dear. I'm proud to know strong immigrants, and I could give a shit whether they had time to deal with bureaucratic bullshit. Sometimes you just need to find a safe harbor. I get that. I think we were all supposed to get that. I'll get up and go about my day. Because there's no other way.

American hypocrisy is here to stay? 


Hell, it never went away.

#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, November 4, 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.

Man, it's a long way to the parking lot. You gotta know that. You feel it in the electric buzz of your numb legs - it walks with you: the white, sparking revolt. Your brain is a ball of tapioca, it's leaking out your ears. Your bootstraps are long gone. You got nothing to pull on. 

You started out all right, had your heart in the right place. You said the right words and people listened, but, somewhere along the way, you stopped listening to yourself. I wonder why? Is it that hard to live in a world this cruel? Is that even a fair question?

Me? I've been knocked down a bunch of times. Getting up is hard, but you need to do it. Otherwise you end up staring at blinking lights and a blinking box and wondering...

She stopped loving you, and I know that hurts like hell. I've been there. But I was honest enough to realize my culpability. Sometimes you make someone stop loving you without meaning to. Without being mean, too. It just happens, whips up like autumn leaves and you can feel the red and gold fire of it.

But you got to get up. And if you can't make it past the parking lot? 


Brother, I think you're stuck.

#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...