Tuesday, September 29, 2015

I guess ...

I guess I just didn't put enough thought into it. Thing is, I thought a lot. Thinking is my prison - one with walls that touch the top of the universe. But that wasn't enough. If it was, I wouldn't be wading through quicksand with one hand shaking, trying to get a finger up, but I've got nerve damage. Hand doesn't work right.

Small-toothed men told me. They said you gotta think, so I fucking did. I thought about God and got that sorted. I thought about why I was bad and that was a record that skipped more than a million stones. A million pounds of guilt, sweet legacy.

Maybe I didn't think the right things. Maybe the smell of lavender should have been enough of a warning. Foreshadowing can be a tricky thing. The taste of a nine-volt battery on your tongue. Hell, I tried to figure it out a million times. Tastes like nickels that bite.

So, I thought a lot, but I thought about life and people and nature. I didn't think about how to get the most bang for my buck passing, and that's tragic. That's a skill I should have cultivated. Smiling - should have practiced that, too.

Now, I'm a lonely show - playbills litter the street, picked at by vagrants and lost wanderers. I got some thinking to do. I guess ...

Friday, September 25, 2015

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 window sill supported her elbow, propped up her head - the sill was covered in mildew and old cigarette butts, but she didn't notice. If she had noticed, she wouldn't have cared. This was much more important than mildew or cigarette butts. He had not come. Or he was late, but he was never late.

She pulled a long, white cigarette from her pack and kissed it - lit the end and pulled the smoke down into her small lungs. She was dying. That's important to know. She was wasting away - hadn't been outside the apartment in weeks. She watched pigeons stamp and squabble. She watched children play and posture. And she watched the man who delivered her mail, not because he was especially attractive, he wasn't - he had a smile that never left his face. It was a smile that could tear the roof off the world. It was the highlight of her day.

A woman in blue shorts and a polo shirt that vaguely resembled USPS regulation huffed around the corner, and the woman felt a clutch of terror in her heart. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out on the carpet with the toe of a filthy slipper.

The man did not come the next day, and she did not eat. He did not come for two weeks. When he did return, he was tan and smiling a "brighter than regulation" smile.

But no one watched him.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, September 18, 2015

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 put it in the center of the table next to a small, white vase - underneath the shadow cast by an obscene lily. He put it down, gently, and closed his eyes - rubbed at them with the heels of his palms. He ground his hands into his eyes until red exploded into firework extravagance behind heavy lids. In some childish part of his brain, he was hoping it would be gone when he opened his eyes again.

Did he need to open his eyes again? Did he want to? Did he have to? These questions went splat against the inside of his skull, sliding into a pool of apathy which he had been cultivating for years. If he opened his eyes, he realized - there or not - it would mean action. It would mean decisions. He could hear the grandfather clock ticking, keeping time like an executioner. 

He counted slowly to ten and then, holding his breath, hands shaking, he slowly opened his eyes, and tears darkened the red tablecloth.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, September 11, 2015

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. 

But it's not this, and it's not that. Son, you just said a shit ton of words, and they don't amount to nothing. A mountain of fecal fury - no one's too impressed. You use words like grit-teeth lies. Abrasive, they leave marks and there's this grinding every time - sounds like an old man sleeping.

You can explain it any way, but away. It's never going to leave - it's your long lost cousin Jed. It's gonna sleep on your couch now. The smell will never leave, feet and fetid misery. You'll come to love the smell. And that's another lie, but it's easier than trying to be genuine.

Save your words - I've heard enough. Bacon grease and chicken fluff. They may go down soft and easy, but that shit ain't life-sustaining. 


Not the kind of life I want, at least.

Thanks for stopping by! Gonna be a busy day, but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Post your pieces on your blogs, telephone poles, passing pedestrians, etc. if you like...it's a fun web o' writing.

#2minutesgo

Friday, September 4, 2015

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. 

Delron had a genuine electric guitar. He always called it Jen-You-Wine. We were always jealous. It was a pawn shop princess. It never stayed in tune, and it was ugly, but it was an electric guitar, and you could play that shit loud. We beat on old acoustics and tried to do them proud.

No one ever really knew where the fake Strat came from. Just the same way we never knew how come Delron suddenly had the newest shoes. The coolest bike. We all lived in the same hood. We all knew each others' business - with that one exception. Where the hell was the magic Santa that visited Delron's randomly during the year? And then we found out.

See, Joey woke up one night, late, because he heard a car door slam. And be damned if it wasn't our Principal, Mr. Spencer. It was dark, but no one had a car like him. If thrift stores sold cars, they'd sell cars like Spencer's.


Delron's Daddy came back from the war a week later, and it was like he never left - once the yelling stopped. And the next morning, there was a pile of treasure at the curb with a sign that said 'free'. We didn't question it - while the other kids wrestled with the bike and playstation, I grabbed that guitar like it was a life raft. And it turned out to be just that.


ATTENTION, I WILL BE GONE MOST OF THE DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TOMORROW! Get 'em!

#2minutesgo

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Shit Disturber (not the CIA)

It's not here, it's in the ether. I'm not queer, and he's not either. I'm no pawn, but I ain't no Caesar. I'm Peter the fucking Pumpkin Eater.

I don't know what that means, it's for you to figure out. Probably something about my mom. Or God... Or Trout...

And that huffing is bluffing, all little pig stuffing. See, nitrous ... don't ... count! And well, yeah, a few mistakes here and there. I'm only human. Humans err...

This is the state of the way things are. I'll take you for a ride, but we won't go far. I'll take you out for dinner, but we'll skip the bar. We'll sing instead, to fog-soaked stars.

It's not a question of rhyme or reason. You can't kill me 'cause I'm not in season. And I do pride myself on some lightweight treason; I'll fight anything 'everyone' agrees on.

I am, in some ways, the court reporter. Only they got an alphabet much shorter. So, you should have listened, 'cause I know you heard her; she told you: I'm the fucking shit disturber.



*(That, of course, would be assuming that I am me and not an 'auto-blogger' set up by the CIA to see who comes to a blog to learn about sad childhoods, profanity, fishing, love, and subversion. And the gays. But don't worry, the CIA would never tell you they were up in this shit because that would be stupid... Or would it?)