White (And the Plot to Vanquish the Worm)

My room is hideous. I wouldn't invite a pig over. I quit smoking. I have no craving for it what-so-ever. I have a strong urge to fly. But I've got nowhere to fly to. I'm hungry. It's raining. It's nice when it rains in the summer. It reminds me of when I was younger and I'd play in the woods behind my house. The air would begin to hiss because the little rain drops are all falling into the woods with me and hitting all the leaves. My mother or father would usually call me in if it started raining so I only had a little bit of time. But I remember slinking back up to the house because I liked the rain and I liked getting soaked. I started taking Prozac yesterday. The effects have been...
Well, I can't really say.
I think I've had ups and downs. But i can't exactly attribute that to the medicine. I've read that it may take up to a month or longer for the desired effects to begin. I can't wait that long. I need something to change. I want to be happier, more productive with my time, friendlier, healthier. I want all these things but I can't wait that long. Maybe I'll get a muffin. Maybe I'll finish writing this post and reward myself with a muffin.

012345678901234567890123456789012345678901234567890123456789012345678901234567890
5 4st f64nd the n40ber 36c2 6n the c60*4ter.
(I just found the number lock on the computer.)

What typically happens next is I scramble to the next idea that I can secrete onto the page. A lot of people take this drug. It's a brain drug so it's not uncommon I would have my reservations about it. I mean, it exists merely to change my brain. I don't want to be medicated. A lot of people are prescribed medication just like this one. I hear that it's over-prescribed, like not everybody who takes it needs it. I'm not completely sure I need it. Maybe I do, but I think I have this savior idea of what it will do for me (see above). Like the über-drug. Two days ago I didn't want to take it because I honestly thought the change would be so drastic I would be something or someone I don't want to be. But who knows what I want anymore.

When I was little, I told myself, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be somebody."
So what did you become?
I dunno, I guess I should have been more specific.

It's over-prescribed. People want attention. I want attention. But not attention to my problems. I want attention to what I can do. I want attention to my writing, my ideas, my art. What use is it to bring attention to my medication? How does that help somebody? Perhaps if somebody needed help as well. I would help them. That would be relevant to my medication. Otherwise, fuck off. Where was I..........................................................................
Oh, my art. No. That wasn't where I was....................................

So a lot of people take this medication right? I don't want to be that guy. The one that talks my ear off about how I take this and I take that. For those of you just tuning in, yeah, those people exist. And they aren't favored in this or any other social tier. On the same token, I feel like absolutely nobody wants to hear it anymore. It, being anything slightly pessimistic or depressing that may come from my mouth or my pituitary glands. Why do I care? Why do I feel this way? Is it because I do want to draw attention to my medication? Oh dear, have I imploded upon myself? Have I exploded upon my own grenade? Well hopefully the über-drug treats 3rd degree burns.

A Love Supreme, A Love Supreme

When I first became interested in writing, I read interviews with writers who said they often pulled ideas from experiences in life. I remember thinking nothing in my life was ever noteworthy. I must've been crazy to think that none of this is noteworthy, that none of you ever deserved mention in any of my stories. My new story Russo is riddled with these people and events. The other night I was feeling quite prolific and decided to write down a few.

In my Junior year, Me and my friends Kyle and Kevin drove around our high school racetrack in a van listening to Number of the Beast by Iron Maiden. They put us in in-school detention. This, among other reasons, leads me to wonder why it is I was ever intimidated by the high school administration.

When I was around 11, a boy named Brandon Campbell lived up the street from me. His family was poor. Brandon, along with this siblings were delinquent to put it short. I've grown up since then, and I've seen delinquent behavior. This family was ahead of the curb. I had an odd relationship with Brandon. He would tease me one day, calling me names, he would try to get in fights with me, but the next day would try being my friend. Fuckin' Crazy, I'm thinkin'. At the bottom of where his road and my road connected in the neighborhood there was a field where we'd play football. I remember my friend Adam, who lived next door to me, invited me down the street to play. I asked if Brandon was there and he said yes. We got on our bikes and rode down the street to play. Brandon was in the middle of the street, sitting, talking to some of the other kids and laughing with this grisly, cigarette-smoking, 12-year old laugh. It's funny what sticks with you in life. I can hear that laugh perfectly in my ears now as I'd heard it ten years before. Anyway, back to the story. I'm riding with Adam and telling him about Brandon. I'm fed up with the guy, I tell him. I look up and see Brandon sitting about ten yards away from me. I get the idea to race at him with my bike as fast as I can and hit him. I didn't know what would happen. I knew that I would probably hurt him and that's all I wanted. So, I'm barreling at the guy, hard pressed to start this here and now, and he notices me coming at him. Right as I'm about to hit him I chicken out. He jumps out of the way and I fly clean past him. I ride back around and he's cursing and huffing and puffing and I think he's ready to fight. I laugh and tell him I was just joking. His friends calm him down and I never tell him or Adam or anyone what I was thinking. I'm not even sure exactly what I was thinking. They left our neighborhood when I entered highschool. That summer a boy fell asleep and choked on his own vomit in Brandon's bedroom upstairs. I heard they moved to a townhouse close to the mall and I never saw him again.

I left work today and went over to the McDonald's across the street to grab a buck double. Before I ordered I headed to the restroom because I hadn't gone when I left work and knew I had an hour drive ahead of me.

"And while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the gleaming panel - stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, 'The horror! The horror!'".

Ok, so it wasn't Vietnam. Just a little piss on the seat and somebody's forgetful nature to flush. But with that I thought of whoever's job it was to clean it. The mental hurdles this person had to make. To clean up another person's filth, day after day. To face that task without fear. Without hesitation. It's amazing. I wouldn't ever be caught dead doing it, mind you. Though, if you caught me dead scrubbing a toilet seat I think you should call the Enquirer.

Unresolved Matters, But Nobody is Ever Really Caught Up

Ten minutes ago I tied one end of a piece of rainbow colored yarn to a key and the other end to a wire in my truck. If I'd done this sooner, My step-father wouldn't owe the towing company $150.00. Honestly, if I'd known he was paying for the guy to get my keys out I'd have found another way. I assumed he just had the right friends. What is about to follow has nothing to do with that...

I'm always trying to find something to hate you for.
Doubting.
Fatherless.
We are guilty of bigotry,
We rape your name with our tongues because it brings us solace, father.
But as all naїveté lets us do,
We are forgiven when we cry out,
Please help us.
As if your ear would bring us any comfort.
As if this world could ever yield such fruits.
Only it's cancerous routines.
Day in and day out.
Forever contemplating where I would stand if you hadn't left me with such a heavy heart.
For my Mother
For my Brother
And today wouldn't be the last.
Nor tomorrow nor any day after
that I should breath or speak or touch or see.
Or laugh or cry or think or love.
That you shouldn't impede such restful nights, father.
That without you I should live any life beyond those thirteen years.
That without you I should live any life beyond these thirty-eight years.

I wrote that about thirty minutes ago. I always think of Sylvia Plath when I write something this close. It's obvious that her less delicate style has some influence on me. I hate that I love her so much. Some writers don't believe this sort of writing should be publicized. Instead, they make it cryptic. They play it close to home but write in a way that the casual reader would never suspect a tragedy. I would like to cite the work of Elizabeth Bishop, particularly her work In the Waiting Room. I say,

Why not both?

In a poem, I feel the words are what move a reader. Whether it moves them to anger or tears and whether blunt or tactful, I think the reader will get what the need from the work.

We Are Humble Factory

I need medication. Definitely. I can't help but let these people get to me. They influence me to much. I'm talking about the customers. These dumb shits that think they're entitled to something. They think it's OK to yell out hey! when I'm with someone already. Or they think I'm going to be copacetic with them coming in right before the store closes to fix their stolen computer. It's not alright. I'm not alright with it. This shouldn't be my job. This shouldn't be any body's job. Nobody should be paid to work with these dumb assholes. These incompetent jerk-offs who want me to wipe their asses with my nose.

Angry has three syllables when I'm angry.

I'm posting from someone elses computer tonight. At my girlfriend's place specifically. It's kind of cool. Like when a celebrity comes to your hometown to speak or make some other such appearance. Except I'm not a celebrity. And nobody really cares where I am...

I quit smoking cigarettes two months ago. But today I broke down and bought a pack at the gas station on the way to work. I only smoked two. One after I left the gas station and another just before I got to work. The first one felt good. It felt great. It felt like all my problems were melting off. The second one wasn't the same. My throat hurt and I got a crazy headrush. I felt sick and didn't finish it. At a stoplight, I waved over a bum on the side of the road holding up a cardboard pizza box lid. I asked if he smoked and he gave me a look like I was speaking some insane language he didn't understand. But when I showed him the pack of cigarettes he said,

Hell yeah, man!

I passed him the pack and told him I was quitting, and he was actually doing me a favor.

Real Groovy...

Yeah, real groovy thing addiction is and not being in control of your own body. Fuck...

Brought to You by the Good Folks At...

Ugh. I feel disgusting. I fell asleep for about an hour while watching TV earlier and now I feel like dirt. Add to that a feeling that certain people are disappointed/upset with me and an element of being broke as hell. I don't mean to do these things. I mean, I'm trying.

Today, I woke up late for work. I actually slept in about thirty minutes late and thought:

"What's it gonna hurt? They aren't gonna fire me for being late 15 minutes before the store even opens for an eight hour shift."

Well, I actually arrived to work on time. I don't know how I feel about that one. When I got to work I immediately felt sick. I've just been so tired lately. I need to be re-energized. I need a vacation. My boss told me I needed one. He recommended somewhere South of the Border. Maybe Mexico. He spent a few days in Guatemala last year, volunteered building stoves for the poor. I think I could do that. Making stoves in Mexico sounds good. I'd build them during the day, sweating and burning in the sun, then at night I'd drink beer and watch the coyotes. I'd like that.

My girlfriend doesn't like Superman. I don't understand it. Superman is something that transcends so much. It plays on such a universal desire. Anyone who has ever wanted someone to stand up for what's right. Someone to stand up for them. Even now, I'm 21 years old and when I see someone in the bottom right-hand corner of the page saying...

Look, up in the sky!

I get goosebumps, because I know when I turn the page he'll be there, saving the day. Doing what's right. It's such a simple thing, but it hits me so hard I can't help but get excited when I turn the page. I think people have this idea of Superman as goofy, with the red and blue tights. But I think it's amazing that the red and blues have survived for so long. I mean, that's an original superhero concept. Tights and underwear on the outside. And such bold colors.
My girlfriend likes Batman. But to me, they're almost the same character. Only, one's an alien. Maybe one could give it to Bruce that he went through some tough times to get where he's at, but so did Superman.

I guess I'm just saying I appreciate Superman. And Batman.

About Batman, the other night before dinner, we stopped at a print/book shop on Broad St. It's a great little shop with comics, books, prints, posters and just various other collectables. I found two Batman trades, The Black Glove and Batman:R.I.P for $4.00! AMAZING. These books go for about $15 or $18 each, retail and I can get them both for $8! ugh, I wish I had money. So, I hid the books behind some other books on the shelf for me to come back to. Made a quick little note in my phone so I could find them again and left. Now we play the waiting game. I hope they're still there. Gonna be so disappointed in my hiding skills if they're gone in a few days.

Valentine's Day, 2011

"Today I hit the thrift shop looking for bait. I'd recently decided to take up fly fishing and thought the thrift shop was as good as any place to start looking for a catch. So I walk in, past those hip shoulder-padded lady-suits and Acapulco shirts to the old lady at the desk. I ask her what she recommends for fly fishing and she points me to a back door with a bright glowing red exit sign. Just beyond is the a great big blue dumpster. I tell her I'll sleep on it, I've always been more of a rodeo man."

That was today, Valentine's day. I didn't think it would happen this year to be honest. Last Monday, I made reservations at a place called Avenue 805. Typically, this restaurant boast a deal they call "Cheap Date Night" on Mondays and Tuesdays. Apparently, this deal isn't available on Valentines Day. Instead, they have a different deal for $10 more.

Lately, I've made a habit of leaving restaurants before I order. I've done it a handful of times and everytime I tell the waitress I'm not interested and am leaving.

So tonight, when me and my date found out about this "Valentine's Dinner Special" I was more or less dissappointed. The last thing I was drop the big Not Interested Sign on another waitress (which I recently found out they aren't called anymore, they're referred to as "servers" like that's any different AND if your income relies on how much I tip you, I'm gonna call you what I want,) but I decided I'm not confined to socially accepted behaviors. I shouldn't have to sit here and pay $10 more for entrees, appetizers and desserts that I don't like.

Oh, and I've never wanted to burn every vineyard in the world like I did when I heard what the waitress was offering. I don't care about the crazy Italian words coming out of your mouth.

Recipe for a Dream

1 Cup of Random Thoughts
1 Cup of Reminiscences of the Day
1/4 Cup of Memories from the Past
1 Cup of Love
1/2 Cup of Friendships, Relationships and all those ships...

Let these boil in a large pot. Add songs you heard during the day, things you saw, to taste. Serving is for two.

Blue (no answer)

It's called Blue because that's the movie I'm watching. Or was watching. It seems second priority right now. Or third. It's Bleu by Krzysztof Kieslowski. It's about a widow trying to uncover her deceased husband's secret life. Kieslowski created the Colors Trilogy: Blue, White and Red as a commentary on the Political Ideals of the French Republic: Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, respectfully.

It's called Blue because I'm suffocating in reality. In the truth. It's a cold truth so there's also blue there. My entire life I've been sheltered in a middle-class comfortable life-style. I never knew about debt. I'd never seen a late fee. I didn't know what overdraft was or why anyone would undergo it.

The New American Woman: Through at 21.

I supposed today's post could also be entitled green. Seeing as that is where all my problems may be coming from.

The Back Story...

A few months ago, labor day to be exact, me and my girlfriend split. I lived with her for a year and a series of events led to the relationship's demise. I moved out and moved into an apartment in downtown Richmond. The apartment landed me in more debt than I could have ever foreseen. I thought I could afford it but I didn't take into the account the other costs of living and any other costs I might accrue.
So, I fell into debt. My other credit cards gained late fees because i was paying rent and other bills. This, coupled with my personal life in a mess and my school slowly spiraling into the like. So, I've developed some anxiety and stress problems, no big deal.

But I was able to salvage what was left of the relationship and rebuild it with commitment and hard work.

In December, I had somebody interested in taking over my lease. Ecstatic, to say the least. So i packed up all my things and moved back to my parents. On the way to my parents, with my dresser and mattress in the back of my truck, I received a call by the girl interested in the lease. She can't take it because she would be stuck paying for two rooms if someone doesn't sign as well. So she backs out.
Now, I live an hour from anywhere. It costs twenty dollars in gas to get to work and back home. By the time my next paycheck comes in, I typically average about $5 on a good two-week period.

But...

When things like Norton Internet Security charge me twice for the same account, it doesn't work out that way. So now I've over drafted and I have forty dollars to my name until Norton refunds my money (3 business days I'm told,) and that forty dollars is for two days of work.
I'm waiting for my tax refund now. I will probably be reimbursed enough to pay off my apartment and pay for a few other necessities including medication and parking tickets.
I feel like I can't catch a break. Everyday is another uphill battle. Everyday I am paranoid, neurotic, anxious, irritated, depressed, exhausted. At night I have tics. My little brother has tics. He bats his eyes heavily. The doctors told us it was a nervous habit. At night I yell things behind tight lips and gritted teeth. My head shakes back and forth as if I were saying "No". I fall asleep early in the day because I can't control my sleeping habits and wake up at night to write these posts. To tell you what is wrong and I don't know how much more I can take of it.
My girlfriend is bothered by some of the things I do, some of my behaviors. The depression, the sleeping, the irritation. I don't blame her, of course. Who would want to deal with that?

What happens now? I stop kicking against the pricks. I acknowledge that there is nothing I can do. I've tried the best I can and the best I can is good enough. There is a hint of worry but mostly indifference. I don't know if I'll ever understand it or stop driving myself crazy over life. To me, it just seems more complicated than it needs to be and I don't understand why everybody doesn't think this way and do something about it.

I may watch this again.

Dip vs. Spread

It has been a very productive day today. Continued writing on Russo and my cross-medium work "The Yarn Painting". I haven't been this productive in a very long time but I told myself that as long as I wasn't in school I would work on these projects. Don't worry, there will be pictures.
I'll be in Richmond tonight, quality girlfriend time. Frozen Yogurt, Used cds, that sort of thing.
Earlier, my mother asked me to try her superbowl dip.

"Is it dip or is it a spread?" I asked her.
"Just try it."

I need to know if its a dip or a spread. If i try to dip a cracker into a spread, it will break. This is a serious question that she doesn't understand needs to be answered before proceeding to the dipspread.
It was a spread, The cracker didn't break because i assumed i should be on the safe side and use a knife. It wasn't very good anyway.

Have a good night.

Junot Díaz is a Writer Who I Admire

We travel at breakneck speed.
Desperately, our fingers grip the soil,
We attempt to plant a seed.
We know it will be a prisoner too.

You should leave this be or you should let me drown.
At the hospital we breathe but there's gravity in your words.
They just won't hold me down.

You there! Transparent Caesar. Blood awful all full of holes.
Tell me, is this what it feels like up there aboard your empty martian ship?
Take me with you.
There's no air down here.
All the recent events have tied ropes, tied tight around our tongues.
And yours is the most beautiful I have ever seen.

There are candles in the compass tonight. Lights equalling a million or so. Walking along the spilled wax, I wanted to know if these were things that mattered the most.

We hang in your curtains and we're afraid we may have wished for too much as our tears fall and evaporate with the room.

"And the more I thought about it, the more I dug out of my memory things I had overlooked or forgotten. I realized then that a man who had lived only one day could easily live for a hundred years in prison."

Ad. Ults.

I was hoping my new story entitled Russo would be ready tonight. But I'm getting tied up editing and re-editing every little bit before the last. So it's quite possible it won't be ready until Monday or Tuesday. I'm really liking it and I hope you guys dig it too.
I got paid today. Plus a bonus but of course bills (just remembered another one i gotta pay right now) knocked me on my ass and burned enough holes in my pockets for them to star in a Uwe Bol movie (BuzZING).
I was working the store on my own the other day and I asked a customer how he was doing today. He was a pretty average looking older man. He had walked past me by the time i had finished asking him so I think it took a second for my question to register. But when it did, I think he was ready to say the most brilliant thing I've ever heard an old man say in my life.

"Ain't worth a damn. How bout' ya'self?"

Wow. I couldn't react. He stifled any follow-up i could've thought of. I laughed a half-hearted sort of pseudo laugh and shot him this puzzled look. Anyway, the old man turned around and left with that same damn smile he walked in with. I wonder if that sort of brutal honesty works as well with others. I can't imagine most people blog about such a character.
Also, I typed "What would the world be like without Adults?" in Google search images and this picture is what i found. Enjoy.

For My Mother

It's always funny to me, the way life works out. It's such a strange progression our lives take on.
When I was 14,15,16...I really don't remember my exact age but I know it lasted throughout my early teenage years, after my father died in '03. Really such terrible timing for the inauguration of a single mother of two.
My mother, my younger brother and I would always do things together. I had the worst, unfounded attitude about leaving the house with them. Where ever we were, my brother would throw a tantrum and in turn, I would get upset for whatever reason. I never had enough good sense to know my actions weren't helping anything.
I was an awkward teenager who didn't like being out in public with my mother and little brother. I had pimples, shaggy hair, it was no secret what i did at night. Did I have this idea that I would be destroyed if somebody noticed me? Like my highschool reputation was that precious?
I guess I'm writing this because I feel so terrible about these days. It's also this strange feeling that there's always some ominous version of me in the future watching me type this. Watching me scream, watching me cry, watching me go crazy over this girl or be embarrassed by this moment.
How much pain would we save ourselves if we knew what our future selves knew?
And if this is true, which it is, In most cases,
I suppose pain is essential in being human.

Pilots

I work in retail. It really wears you out. I'm telling you this because I experience on an almost daily basis, these people who astound me. I stress that word, astound. Perhaps i've been judging these people too harshly, but i can't help but wonder what provokes the awful things that come from their mouths! It must be their strange, black and white, pseudo-logic that gets me the most. Some people are blatantly wrong, and some are just looking for attention.
Anyways, I've been told I should blog the interactions I have with these people. I've posted them elsewhere on other websites about this wonderful world wide web. But I suppose the more of you know about these people the better. I was reluctant about the idea at first, I did'nt want to become that guy. Something in the same vain as "Waiter Rant: Thanks for the Tip" by Steve Dublanica. Which isn't an awful book, I just don't want to do it that way. I don't want this to be my Schtick. So, perhaps against my better judgement, I'll be introducing you to these people in the coming days. I'll alternate these people with my stories and poems to give you a rest from the cynicism.

Years

Years I’ve grown to love the taste
Sweet seeds of a bitter end’s embrace.
And there is not enough to grieve upon.
Come to think of it, there never was.
Only once did I ever compliment her.
On the good her life had become.
Maybe if there was conversation,
Between the liar and the other one.
Maybe if there weren’t so many ways
To tell her that I love her
When the rain stops, I ask her to come in.
She waltzes through the drops.
She’s only the Bird Girl, I thought but I,
Her eyes are made of stone.
A yellow magnolia machine churns petals.
Of a Gerber daisy’s heart.
Warm enough to drive us home tonight.
But Cold enough to keep us apart.
And oh, the sleepers
Come to the county fair
With ambitions in hand
And failures long passed.

And Today is Thursday

This was the product of an exercise i began one morning. I would attempt to write one story every morning. Soon that exercise became tedious so i decided i would attempt writing a story throughout the day in bits and pieces. Enjoy.


She was now on to preparing the turnips. She vigilantly washed each one. Under the faucet, the cool morning water ran down through her brittle hands. Her husband had picked these only a few weeks ago. Cultivated from their garden in the far back beyond their little house, the turnips were beginning to wither. She cut the roots and leaves, and gently placed them on her small wooden cutting board.
A little about the Husband: he was an avid gardener. Countless mornings he rose to check his stock. The luscious cucumbers and ripe tomatoes blossomed from their vines. The old man would clip them so gently as if he felt guilty for what he’d done: taking these herbs from the earth, from a garden that had fed him and his family for decades. He owed something to that small, fruitful plot of soil he’d tilled so long ago. After he’d picked his share for the day making his way back to the house, he enjoyed the morning’s brisk air and soft dew. Past the apple trees, past the shed that housed his tools and tobaccos (a habit he’d done well to hide from his wife the last few years,) he soon came up on the house that sheltered them since their wedding day. He’d wash them once with a garden hose at the back of the house so he could gaze into the tomato’s lush shining red. At the door, he kicked off his shoes: ensuring he wouldn’t track the forgiving soil into the house. This was her domain.
She thought about him a lot these days. His smile, the way he grinned for fifty years every morning when he presented his bounty to her. “Gettin’ colder out every day,” he’d murmur behind her as she’d wash each vegetable and place them in his air tight mason jars, (a collection of which he’d grown quite fond of over the years.) It was getting colder, every day the breeze seemed more chilled than the last. She recognized this more than anything now. Pulling a knife from the drawer she began slowly peeling the turnips. They shed their skins into the sink. With the sweet flakes gathering in a pile, she pushed them down into the deep black hole in the center. Running the water, she flicked the switch above the counter, and in the abysmal noise that shook the house and silenced her thoughts, the skins disappeared forever.
With the turnips peeled, she began chopping them tightly into small cubes. A great handful this made, surely more than enough she thought to herself. She shifted her attention to the boiling pot of water resting on the stove. She brushed the turnips in, listening to the delicate plop of each solitary cube hitting the water and sinking to the bottom. She stirred the pot for a century or two, admiring the mixing and swirling of the produce, her senses embraced it.
She thought of his eagerness, when he’d get to the table inside their quaint little kitchen after picking up sticks from the yard. They’d sit together, a perfect beginning to the day when they looked up from their meals and catch each other’s eyes. Old and fragile now, they smiled and reached across the table to where their hands would meet and their fingers would cross each other’s. This was their morning routine.
With the soup finally cooled, she picked a bowl from above the counter. With a wooden ladle, she scooped the soft fragrant soup into the bowl. She always took the most of the turnips. It was her favorite of his garden after all. He didn’t care too much for turnips himself, but knew how much she appreciated his effort to grow the simple root. She took a pitcher of cranberry juice from the refrigerator placed it on the table. She reached up high to take a smaller glass from the top shelf of the cabinet and took her seat at the kitchen table. She loved the way the cranberry juice tasted in the morning, always cold and fresh, with a hint of bitterness that spiced her tongue and calmed her thoughts. She spooned the turnips into her mouth. The sweet aroma and taste brought something of emotion to her when she looked across the table. She became accustomed to seeing that smile. Those withered eyes chiseled by the sun and harsh wind. There was nothing she wanted more this day, than to reach across the table to find his warm hand in the center.

Of Tribulations

Breathing becomes more difficult for you.
Each day births another sore.
Those maddening tribulations,
Always knocking at the door.
You search and search,
Your hard, wooden floor,
Until you’ve lost your chair behind you,
And can’t return anymore.
Where your dead sea meets your living shore.
There is a blind bird.
Perched upon the shoulder,
Of a lonely, tattered whore.
Grasp her throat,
And hold on tight.
Here’s your deposit of fleeting light.
And ye though we walk through this angry house,
The curtains have all become your blouse.
And the boards that were once your stepping stones.
Well, they are now your brittle bones.
And the streets you loved as a child so much,
Are overrun with flowers and such.
But the fair is over now,
There is no room for you here.

An Experiment in Social Inequity

I haven't written in this blog in a while. My posts are spotty, at best. I would like to start posting my writing here. As a hopeful attempt for some voyeur to find these crumpled papers i've thrown around mercilessly. So here we go.