2 Minutes. Go!

The edge of the hedgerow was the edge of everything; I gave you safe passage, invited you to come and dance as the honeybees toiled. You told me that your Dad was a bad man, and I believed you. I picked you flowers while you cried and said you couldn't say anymore. Smell of BBQ from down the shore. Lawnmowers and cut grass. Everything smelled vaguely of kerosene. I wanted to punch your Dad to death for making you cry, but I didn't. I just picked flowers and told stupid jokes and that was enough. Summer turned to fall and we met by the hedgerow, shyly.

My Dad didn't do anything bad. He didn't have it in him. My Dad was like freshly starched laundry smelling liniment. I asked what he did that was so bad, but you only cried harder. For the sin of men.

Teachers feared us, flip and arrogant. I was the jester and you, the heir apparent. You spit your light like a gasoline fire, arrogant. You were dangerous, but no one knew or suspected shit. They never realized that you would grow up to be the kind of person who serves on committees and boards. A person with influence.

And now that I think about it, rainbows and beaches, crooked joints pulled from tubular sweatshirt pockets. Yeah, it's all there. Nitrous flashes be damned, I'm telling you that I heard something with my eyes and you're straight fucked. You might as well never breathe again. No one can help with your problems unless you talk about them. Sitting and crying don't do shit, Slim.

I can taste electric citrus. You are just the devil's mistress. I caught the shit, but the fan just missed us. Dissed us, kissed us, sunshine blissed us. And yeah, of course I love it when you call me Big Poppa. Now pop a couple more because we're headed for the dance floor. All you suburban kids. Hands in the air, life on the line, pop another Percocet and have a good time.

And you age and grey and get old if you're lucky. Look, you're a mom, and you're a point of civic pride and nobody knows about the fucked up games that get played in your basement. How you make the poor folks dance and prod each other. Anything for your amusement. It's just money. They're just bums and drug addicts. This is life. This is fucking theater. I saw a drunk junkie, and I threw a TV at her.

The smoke climbs the wind and the evening fawns over all of us. Degenerates rejoice. Paranoids shut their blinds. Saints keep right on dying. Me and your mom are done trying. But you can still call me Daddy and not be lying.

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.

Shoes on. Teeth brushed. Scraped the rust off my disposition. I punched myself in the solar plexus for good measure. Chest out, Comrade. We're on a search for buried treasure. We're circling round the pole - balance as best you can. 

The night is coming, and it's a fucking doozy. You'll see.

My central nervous system is down for maintenance. I am sitting on the top of a cliff-side rock, and the earth is shaking. I want to get off. 

The animals are weary. They are tired of our bullshit and they aren't going to take it anymore. Yeah, right. They've been taking it for years, and they will take all we got, praying that we all die before we take everything with us. 

Jet black hair and teeth sharp. Tongue darting, you are the viper queen. Your saliva is caustic and acidic. You've got it all, sweetheart. Except a heathy septum; that thing is fucked. 

So where does this leave us? Chin up, son. Chin up. It will only make you stronger. 

#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...#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..

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 have one cliché to play. I'm tapped out. My pain tubes are empty. All my fake people called in sick - the plot is thinner than usual. It's non-existent.

I spent the last two days wondering if I was finally going to break as a human being. I was kind of nervous. Things got hectic there for a while.

My brain is tossing smelly fish; why are you giving me attitude? Just try and remember we're on the same team here.

My ears are ringing like someone threw bells down a fucking staircase. There are chips knocked out of the stone.

There are all kinds of noises. There is the slap of warm meat and a high keening sound of despair.

There is magic in the air.

Just let it happen, man. Let the words fall like corrupted snowflakes. Affect a haughty attitude and stand in the shadows - no one is going to tie the wool over your eyes.

But now, it's time to move on. Trade my truths for silly lies. Buck up, boy, the carnival ain't ever leaving town.

#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...#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..

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...

#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...#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..

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 24^th 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. 

#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...#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...

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.

#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...#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...

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 know what you’re feeling. I know those sly delusions that slip through the cracks in your window panes, ceilings. They smell like sulfur, steeped in pain. I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Who could have foreseen this? Who could have guessed you’d steer us toward such disaster?

They asked the boy what he wanted to be called, and he said he didn’t want to be called anything. He wanted to be left alone. I know how that feels – to hear that, to feel the rage explode inside you until you find yourself panting, everyone staring like you’re insane.

I know what it feels like when you see what you did and you see yourself like they see you. I don’t know why I couldn’t be a happy boy. I don’t know why, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I know exactly how it feels.

Don’t trip.

You hear it forever. That’s something you don’t see coming. I expected there were things I would always see, but I didn’t know about the sounds. How they would come in the still, dark hours to claw and tear. I know how you’re feeling. 

Scared.

The blood is slick on the Bowie’s handle and you pull with all your strength. No purchase. Blood and suction. I know exactly how it feels.

Trust me.

#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...#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...

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.

On tender feet, she waits for me to call

Singing with dry lips that curse the dark night

She knows my weakness, knows how I will fall

Sipping, slipping into sated respite

 

Her coral skin shines bright in mid-day sun

She shimmers beauty through the window pane

She sings as softly as a stream doth run

The red blood that courses through villain vein

 

I am helpless in the shadow she casts

Dependent on the sweet relief she brings

I am the pain that, still enduring, lasts

Mocking peasants, paupers, false knights and kings

 

To quench my thirst, I reach for her again

And in so doing, return eternal sin

*Yeah, I wrote a sonnet. Bonus points for correct interpretation. ;)

#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...#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...

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.

She was waiting in my office when I got there, and I don't leave the door unlocked. Never. Tricks of the trade and all that. I wasn’t worried about it; the lock could be picked by a third-grader with a bobby pin. In fact, I was impressed. It didn’t hurt that she looked like Marilyn with black hair and the kind of body that altered gravitational fields. She was magnetically charged. So was I. I started wondering whether we would attract or repel. Her red dress revealed much.

“Ma’am?”

“Mr. Saunders. I’m sorry I had to … let myself in. I can’t be seen here. Anywhere really. That’s why I’m here.”

“Somebody’s looking for you?”

“Yeah. Cops.”

“Ma’am, I’m gonna stop you right there. I don’t mess with the blues, and they leave me alone. I don’t…”

“It’s a frame up.”

That’s usually a guarantee of guilt right there, but her eyelashes were practically tickling my chin, so I bit.

“Who framed you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are they saying you did?”

“Murder.”

“And you didn’t.”

“Of course not.”

She smiled. Didn’t look a bit offended. That set off all the red, blinking lights and whistles, but I was still enjoying the way she smelled – like cigarettes, butterscotch, and perfume people like me can’t afford. She was dressed to the nines, too. Her fur could have covered the rent on my office for half a year.

I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch.

“Drink?”

“Please.”

So, I made the fucking drinks. I even lit her a cigarette. Ain’t I a goddamn prince?

“Do you believe me?”

“That doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

She said it in a way that meant maybe more than greenbacks, and I wasn’t sure if I was happy, angry, or tired. I yawned. Adjusted my pants.

“Would you tell me if you did do it?”

“No.”

“Smart.”

“I try.”

I put my worn boots on the table and lit a cigarette. I took a deep drag and let the smoke envelope my face. Even through the smoke, she looked like a goddess. You gotta worry about all of them, but especially the pretty ones. The prettier dames are, the worse off you are. Cinch.

“So, what do you want me to do? Start poking around?”

She smiled bayonets.

“No, Mr. Saunders; I want you to kill my husband.”

A sip of scotch got caught sideways in my throat. I coughed for a good thirty seconds, but she didn’t move a muscle.

“Listen, lady. You are very, very pretty. You also seem crazy and misinformed. I’m not a hired killer. I’m a detective.”

“Everybody has a price.”

“Not me.”

She passed me an envelope,  and I took it. I expected it to be fat with cash. No such luck. Maybe just an offensively large check, then? But no. It was a polaroid picture. A picture. Of me. A picture of me that would put me back in prison for the rest of my life. I thought I’d destroyed all the evidence. The picture was like a punch to the solar plexus. My hands were shaking as I filled my glass and watered the table with cheap liquor.

“Where did you get that?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I guess not.”

She pulled out another envelope. This one was as thick as a Presbyterian’s skull. I looked inside. Enough money to buy my way out of the game. I extended my palms. She stood up and walked slowly around the desk, making sure I was watching every little hip twitch.

“Can I ask why you want your husband dead?”

“Sure, doll. I’m tired of him, but divorce is so unseemly.”

I was about to tell her to take a leap, but then I looked at the picture. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, but it looked plenty bad, and I had no convenient explanation. She sat down on my lap and looked into my eyes. She ran one manicured finger along my jaw. The jaw I hadn’t shaved for weeks.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think it’s time to make a terrible decision. Or a few.”

I took her on the desk. She was calling the shots, though. I was just too scared to do anything about it. And, well, she wasn’t ugly – it wasn’t a chore is what I’m saying. And there was a good chance I wouldn’t be seeing any women for a long, long time. No matter how it played out. Only thing I knew was that I was not calling any shots. On the desk or anywhere else.

When we finished and got decent, I grabbed my hat and overcoat and slipped a flask of scotch into my pocket. She freshened her lipstick and wrapped silk around her head. Big sunglasses. No point putting it off. I dragged a hand down my face and tried to look ready. It didn’t work.

#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...#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...