Friday, December 30, 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 forest canopy cut the sunshine, but it was too quiet. The animals did not like it. They burrowed into holes and screeched and sought out caves and dark places. The mottled light did not entice them - it seemed to be part and parcel with the irregularity. The ... something. A change in the air, perhaps?

The animals were not happy.


A young boy ran through the leaves, oblivious. The animals knew the boy and welcomed him, but they wondered why he wasn't seeking shelter, hiding - why he wasn't sharpening his claws. The animals enjoyed the boy's antics, but they did not understand him. 

In the thick of the forest, two men with hardhats smoked cigarettes. They were surrounded by old butts and empty coffee cups. They did not consider this littering; the whole thing would be gone soon enough. They were cold and wanted to be at home. So, they waited. When the men in suits showed up, and the papers were signed, they went home.

The younger of the two men took money out of the bank and headed for his favorite bar. The older poured himself a glass of bourbon and tried to hold back his tears. But he couldn't, and he rode them through the years.

He had grown up playing in those woods. He had kissed a girl for the first time in those woods. The first time he had ever gotten drunk had been beneath the benevolent boughs that cut summer light. He tried to unclench his jaw, but he couldn't. He could hear her in the other room. She was talking to the designer or the landscaper or someone. Someone who was going to turn their cabin into a magazine spread. He drank his bourbon and frowned.

She came into the room, and he was sleeping. She woke him with a kiss and a smile. 


"It's all coming together! I can see it. Wait until you see it!"

He nodded. She deserved this, even if the forest didn't deserve its fate. It didn't matter. It had been his mistake - he'd been trying to make up for it for years. He never could. The money would make her happy. Or something close to happy - the cabin would shine. It would give her something to show her friends. Maybe it would erase the memory of her public humiliation. Twenty years, but it still felt fresh. And he still couldn't forgive himself.

She would go to sleep. And he would take his shotgun to the woods. And the animals would know their fear was justified. And she would find a new man to live in the cabin - one who appreciated a good color scheme. 


And so, he left late at night. And he made the forest quiet. With a blast of light and sound that stilled everything.

The animals were not happy. They knew the old man, too. 


#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 16, 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 was a subtle terror folded in the creases of his subconscious brain. He rolled toward the campfire and pushed himself slowly onto one elbow. There was a flash of two eyes from beyond the fire - his stomach clenched, and he swore he could smell blood. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

He could smell blood.

He lay very still and his hand moved slowly to the gun beside his leg, inside the bedroll. The gun would do little except make a lot of noise, but it was all he had. In the moment and in life. The only thing he really needed. He also knew that, until his leg healed, every shot was life or death. 


He almost chuckled. Waste one? Or was it a waste? Or should he save it? The shot? His life? The questions were hard to answer because he didn't know. Couldn't remember. He just knew that he knew certain things. How to shoot. How to build a fire. How to find water. He could not recall his name no matter how hard he searched the corridors. His life was minutes old every time he checked - he was unmoored. 

And the eyes flashed.

He aimed the gun in the direction of the eyes and slowly pulled the trigger. The night exploded in a thunderclap of light. He blinked and tried to see, but couldn't. His ears rang. He had made the wrong decision. 


Now, he would have to find out what the next minute held in store...

#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 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...

Friday, October 28, 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.

Still too sick to play. Have at it. 

#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, October 21, 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 think I've died. Possibly. I can't play again this week, too ill. Sorry, gang. #BREAKTHEBLOG

#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...

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Zero Minutes. Stop!

It feels like I am being skewered with a sharp sword. I don't know why. But I'm calling it this week. Moving hurts. Sorry. If I don't make it, write on you beautiful bastards. #2minutesgo

Or, by all means, have at it. I'd love it. But I'm out. And not in a cool drop the mic way.

Friday, October 7, 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.

Get back to your station! You have been deceived by the smell of wildflowers; it is as they predicted. You feel dizzy because of the color. The earth tones of your station will be soothing after that. Can't you see color is an assault? You didn't ask to feel this way. You are longing for the comfort of your too-old swivel chair. There's no shame in it. In fact, the one with the silver hair on his temples is damn impressed by your gumption. 

Damn impressed.

But you need to look at this rationally like we do. Sure, you're not allowed to listen to music anymore. And the taste rationing is hard - makes eating a chore. That's new, and that's rough. But what good was it doing you? None! It was filling your mind with trifles that distracted you from what was really important. And the food was bad because it felt good. Remember, if it feels good, it's probably some form of treachery. 


Here's a brand new headset. The last one was broken - no - I don't care how it was broken. We're just going to overlook that, OK? And you can leave one hour early today. The man with the silver hairs wants you to go home and relax. Plug into your soothebox. Put your velvet eye-mask on. Retreat into darkness.

There's no shame in retreat. 


#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, September 30, 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 was a boy unaccustomed to feeling actual feelings and having original thoughts. He went to school, worked with the trainers, tried to avoid his parents with their perpetual scowls. He wondered why they seemed to hate everything so much. 

He wondered if that was what they were training him for. Hate.

Was it some kind of horrible inevitability? Would it come plopping out of him at an inopportune time, red and throbbing, dripping blood juice? Could other people see it - was he branded? Or was there still time to escape the iron?

The boy stopped dead in his tracks and looked into the sun until he could almost make himself believe the tears were from the bright light. He trembled and convinced himself the day must have turned cold. He did not smile because that had been left out of his training. 


#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, September 23, 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 know what a diphthong is; I often use ellipses. And I know. I'm gifted. And just too pretty. So ... lay down some witty lines you lifted; make sure those shits be witty. Too cryptic? I'm not tripping on it. Curbs. Broken sidewalks. Those are the shits that trip me up. And head-hopping, shop to shop, nope, put that one back - I don't like the pattern of his tie-dyed knapsack.

I have all the appendages I am supposed to have. So far. Don't get me wrong. Don't be silly. You're not seeing it right. I know that everything can change overnight. I could wake up right when I start to nod off. I could stand up too quick, spin the dizzy vertigo ballet. Cover the walls in crimson spray. 


I have this tiny invisible box that I keep my feelings in. Go ahead. Look at 'em. Poke 'em a little. They won't mind. They'll take what you got and return in kind. Just remember, I know what a split infinitive is - and I know what it isn't. And I know what I'm going to hear when you open your mouth. 

More television.

#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, September 16, 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.

BTW, I debated not doing it this week. But Rich would have thought that was stupid as shit. RIP, brother.



Of course the sun sets at a different time down by the water, glistening. You see them damn hills? They say there's gold, but I sure haven't found any. I've found wisps of time and goodness. I've lived years of horror over the years. And years of horror in a day. This isn't a competition, no, it's just the American way. And I'll bite my tongue as my daughter pledges her allegiance to something when she doesn't even know what that means. I can't wait until she's old enough to get my point. 

But there are so many things to be angry about, and you gotta glance at 'em sideways to see how it's funny.

See a woman in the ER screaming in pain. Feel the cold heat of the white. The goddamn white. Beds, shoes, clothes. Everything is white, and it's terrifying. And the woman is cold, shivering. And the doctor is twelve and you about shit yourself. And the woman's red dress stands out, stark. Like a blood clot. And she screams and it sounds like some kind of divine torture you don't understand. And you recoil, filled with a morbid fascination, as the doctor raises high in the air - fresh from the woman's vagina - a tiny Velociraptor, inert and silly in its plasticity.

And the doctor looks at you. And says: it's not real. And you laugh.

I know, you say. Ya maroon.


#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, September 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.

You're so sweet it makes my teeth hurt, and it's artificial sweetener - shit's probably giving me cancer. I'd rather have a buck-toothed-wine-drunk smile at me than look at that fake, white bullshit you show off every chance you get. I know that smile - daggers, probes, death blows. And the rest of it. All lining that lying face around the clean, white smile. 

I'm tired of the smell of vanilla. Makes me feel like I'm in middle school. Or a strip club. Step your game up, or down. Real people smell alright, you know? You don't have to smell like Bed, Bath & Beyond to make friends. You'd do a lot better trying to have a genuine personality and some common goddamn sense.

You stand big, but you're so very small. The urge to squash you is strong, but then you'd win because you could bust out the martyr grin, your favorite. So, I bite my tongue and taste the blood, but I don't care. You're a giant fucking billboard, and I got more than enough blood to spare.

#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, September 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.

This is my stop, and I want to get off. I don't want to ride on your train no more. You got such clear eyes, where did you get them? Your hands are so soft, how do you keep them that way? Your smile is a flashbulb, turn it the fuck off. It's too early. My head hurts. Don't you understand how one small thing can kill a man?

I'm passing cornfield after cornfield, and I want to stop and look. They don't all look the same. Don't give me that shit. They don't all smell the same either. Some smell like crap and some smell like sunshine. Some smell like the apocalypse and some smell like chamomile. They all sound like wind and song. Don't look at me like that. I'm done with you.

Your clear eyes and your soft hair and that little kink in your vacant stare. It's starting to make me uncomfortable. Not in an existential way, no, I mean I can't sleep at night because my brain can't find a cool spot on this jacket bunched on rough, old wood. The damn thing keeps turning all night. Flipping and flopping. I can't shut it off. That's why I aim to get off. Just like Aaron did - you never tried to stop him.


Sure, the sky's pretty once you leave the city. Sure, the clouds float higher here. Sure, I like the folks we meet and the smiles they pass us while we eat. The problem isn't them. The problem isn't you. And it's not me. It's those clear eyes and all the things they see.

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, August 26, 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

Good Lord. (Not the sky one.) I don't know where I went wrong. It doesn't make a lick of sense, I swear it doesn't. I realize that the past can be a dark, dark corridor and I never claimed to be a saint, but I'll be damned if I don't keep meeting horrible people. And I try. I try to make the right call for myself and be there for the ones who don't have the strength to call out. And I'm not trying to be a martyr, nor noble. I'm just trying to be what my Nana called 'decent'. Why do there have to be so many assholes? 

And why do they drive such nice cars?

We need to mobilize a pacifist army. Get this shit sorted. Get the rewards to the good people and let the politicians and 'celebrities' worry about money all the time. I just don't understand how the system got so twisted. How stupid are we? You pay a firefighter enough to buy a decent house, but someone who fucks people for a living gets a Mansion with a royal garden in the desert outside LA?

And I got nothing against porn stars. Weird that that sprung to mind. Because I'd much rather round up a bunch of white dudes with nice hair, grey suits, secret atrocious appetites, and coke habits - roast 'em in the middle of town and then watch the real vultures feast on roasted vultures for weeks.

You telling me that a nurse should make less than the CEO of a company? Two minutes are not nearly enough to tell you that the person who picks your fucking food should live in a pretty decent pad. And be treated with respect.

Ya shortsighted bastards. Oh, and good morning. The drought is making me cranky.

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, 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.