Torn

I had plans for this Saturday. I have many books that are unread, and feel that I have abandoned them, and are urging me to relenquish them to a used book store soon if I do not attend to them. These were the books I planned on looking through this Saturday, but once again, my friend spoiled it for me.

I don't like having friends (sometimes) most of the time. This one imparticular, whose sole reason for calling upon me, other than my unoubtable likefulness, was because he hates being alone. His wife attended two baby showers today, a great feat for any person, and I applaud her for having such strenght. Meanwhile, friend was left alone, and he hates it. I tell him, "You have dogs. How can you be lonely when you have dogs." But this is coming from someone who will sooner save an animal from a bullet than a human being from wrongfully injecting themselves with a mislabeled vile containing the Aids virus.

I love my friends, and no I do not consider them a burden, merely a monkeywrench in the cogs of my selfishness.

You need someone to bail you out of jail, I suppose.

Jigsaw Thoughts

I screamed at the wrong one. I screamed and their eyes are no longer in the sockets, rather, they're hanging, dwindling from stringed meat that used to be stems. Your flesh is ruined, purple and dry, cracked as the ground of wasted depleted earth.

I didn't laugh for over an hour. I didn't want to think about it, nor was there a reason for me to go back and apologize. I did what I had to do, and now your lips are the shards of flesh you pick from your brow, and place gently on the table, forming a jigsaw puzzle.

Been S.O.L. Lately

Internet accesibility has been rare, practicully nill, but the ideas continue to flow. Once things return to normal, this board will erupt.

Carry on.

The Fridge Has Food

The piece below me, I'm very happy with. I'm late on unleashing it, but its out now. The story I made up when I first saw it on the page.

Watching Newsradio. It holds my favorite boss Jimmy James, played by Stephen Root, a fine, fine character actor. Phil Hartman was splendid, and the entire case allowed one another to apply personal feelings into the act, it was practically like therapy for them. I still miss that man. Comedy is so different without him, without many, many people.

John Candy, I adored his comfort approach. Rodney Dangerfield changed me because I knew I didn't have to be an innocent to be a good person, with George Carlin, Damon Wayans, and oh, thank the night for Dave Atell.

I have so many people in my life, and I'm ignoring a good chunk of them. I've taken personal care into reasons for that, sort of a tune up, reality check if you will.

Now I like it, and don't really want to go back. No one new has broken my daily surroundings, and I'm all for going out of these formal regularities, but I don't care if I do or not. I like me right now.

Silently Knocking

Here it was. And there they were, speaking between their windows. These homes are into one another. The only thing blocking them are their fences. The ones ripped from the ground every night, usually two.

Horses walked these streets once. Horses that carried great, knowledgeable men and women. They knew how dangerous it was then, yes, you horses. The damn things would have run, had it not been for that reign around their heads.

The new reign is here.

After Work

Yes. The Three Stoges are welcomed in this house. Me thinks of me grandpap when me sees it. That, Sanford and Sun, and other things.

Fell in love with an Office Depot, other night. I almost came in the staplers aisle.

Back in a few.

Hurricane Butterfly Lost Between the Lines

I saw you breathing for the last time, on the floor, alone, surrounded by the ghostly footsteps of strangers with their own lives, living them, losing them, and forgetting the important things.

You struggled, and lost, fought, and lost. It wasn't your time, yet, the similarities were uncanny.

Spirit appeared, and you were scared. You didn't even know you had one, but there it was, there it sat, watching you lift your wings, tap you heart, breathe your final breath.

Did you know it was you? Did it know whom you were?

All that remained was the road within the room without a light to guide you.

Mercy Day

A butterfly found its way into the building today. It was injured. Its wings had been folded backwards, accidentally. It was on the ground, slowly flapping, flapping, then fluttered every now and then, frustrated and frightened. I wasn't sure what the more merciful action to take was, pick it up and take it outside, or leave it indoors. I picked it up, it tried to shake itself loose. I placed it in a distant corner, away from the busy feet of everyone. I figured, had I taken it back outside, a young twerp would have planted their foot on top of the lost creature.

It's not like butterflies live that long anyway. And that's another thought for another hour.

Shallow for Some Rain

1827 November, 2

Phillip could not join me tonight. Lady Fingers had some special on the mead, so he be over there, gettin' all kinds of drunken. I called Leslie, he wasn't too intoxsicated,yet. He could at least hold the tools.

The dirt had recently settled, but only took about twenty minutes to pick through. The the boards were well secured on the casket, but luckily Schirelda, me crowbar, she's tougher than any hunk of wooden plank.

One push, but the cover simply splintered. I had to hammer Schirelda with the shovel to get a good fix on the damn thing, but got it off, I did, eventually. The corpse looked like my aunt Sonya, but she was buried four towns over. I'm not saying she was still in her box, but I'm saying she is four towns over.

Taking A Walk

Walking down the street as it cries, and the wind desperately attempts to console it. Another woman lost her world in the corner of Herrera and Buscamier. It was only for a night, only for her sick daughter, and only for the thrill of the kill.

The crack in the wall speaks volumes, instigating an urge I have not felt in years. A primal need, a beastly yearning for something more than straightforward madness, no, something else; whatever is behind the trickling blemish on the force of man.

Things haven't been the same since the corner store changed owners, and these newer ones covered up the dog with the droopy eyes, holding the snowcone, with some tacky colored paint, the kind that the sun will eat and shit withing half the summer.

I'm coming for you, grass in the sidewalks, flowers in the sewer grates. I'm coming, I'll find you. The shadows of clouds spread over the rooftops won't even be allowed to breathe until you are safe, and until the voices of the dead are long removed from the corners of their demise.