Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Sam, from beyond the sidewalk (blue)

every summer, i would wait impatiently, on the painted wood stoop, off the front of the porch, at 11:32 each day for the white truck, the letters M-A-I-L, stenciled in blue down the side. our mail man's name was Mr. Hodgkins, and i was pretty sure that when he would round the corner and see me, he would intentionally slow down, because i know that Mr. Wilson was too busy fussing at that cat to have a conversation with him.

Mr. Hodgkins always wanted to know how my day was and how my family was doing, dragging out the moments before handing me a bundle of junk addressed to my parents. on special days though, he would call me back, after i turned away, to hand me the treasure i was seeking, a postcard from Sam. grabbing it, i would run, clomping up the stairs, across the porch into the house, leaving Mr. Hodgkins to neatly stack the mail i had dropped across the sidewalk in my haste and put it in the mailbox, with a chuckle.

arriving in my room, i would sit in the hard wood chair at the desk in the corner, placing the postcard in the middle, so that the magic could begin. the brilliant picture on the front would expand at the edges to fill my room, carrying with it the scent of whatever exotic location Sam happened to be visiting that month; beaches of Morocco, ruins in Italy, jungles in Peru.

large leafy plants would erupt from the corners of my room, the far wall melting into crystal blue oceans. my bed became moss covered rocks, embedded in the sun warmed sands of my floor. birds would call from the canopies of trees, where salamanders clung to the bark, their eyes turned to follow me.

i would walk around these scenes, thrilling in new tastes, mesmerised by the animals that walked slowly passed me. the chatter of languages that i could not understand danced in the air, beautiful to my ear. after what seemed like hours, i would turn the card over to read his words, which added textures, bringing these new places even more into focus. he would always end with Your Friend, Sam.

at night, i would rub the postmark with my stubby child fingers, like a genie lamp, making a wish to awake in some far off land, as i drifted off to sleep, clutching the card to my chest. as morning light spilled through soft cotton curtains, i would always awake to the same tousled covers, in same room, in the same four street neighborhood and poke my head out the window, just in time for Mrs. Lilly to steal another part of my soul. click~whir.

it never bothered me that the postcards were addressed to some guy named Tom, i knew they must be for me, a boy in exile, somewhere in suburbia. one day, i would meet Sam, somewhere on the outside, and tell him how each summer he inspired my escape, through little glimpses of life beyond the sidewalk, delivered in a white truck, the letters M-A-I-L, stenciled in blue.

This is a Theme Thursday post.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010


there are those
that lost their voice,
not like some quarter
slipped down the corner
of the couch,
quickly forgotten,
no they are forgotten.

these are those
that lost their voice,
but got something to say,
more than the words
etched on cardboard
in black magic marker
you see on the
side of the road.

hungry children,
beaten wife,
lost their job,
misplaced life,
one time addict,
mental strife,
broken soldiers,
your neighbor who sits home alone because her family forgot her...

there are those
that lost their voice,
take a moment of silence
now stretch it out,
wrapping yourself
in their cold, wet blanket...

and SPEAK...

long and loud
with how you treat them
giving voice back
to their hollow lips...
...because there is
no if, but when
you will lose yours own,
and come begging for someone to speak for you.

Monday, June 28, 2010

date night ass.umptions

i called you on the cell phone...asked you out on a date
being married...i could have assumed
you would want to go with me...

people do that too much....assume...especially once
they are married...but you know...what happens
when you

but you said yes.

we see a movie, The Last Song...choppy story,
poor acting and predictable lines...more like an after school
special...tore me between wanting it to over and just being with you...

air conditioning cranked until snuggle in...
leaving buttery fingerprints up and down my shirt...
probably won't come out in the wash...but i wear them proudly...

the moon is bright...boys staying at gramma's tonight...
watching stars blaze trails...across the ebony sky...
this could be my lucky night...but i won't assume that either...

but you say yes.

...especially when i don't assume.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

magpie tales: malice

shck. shck. shk. quick even strokes, bristles held at a forty-five degree angle, three teeth at a time, he slowly works his way around, polishing them to shine. admiring the smile, he unwinds eighteen inches of floss from the spool, twining it around his forefingers. he is old fashioned this way, none of the dentapiks that already have the floss strung between plastic fingers. that is too impersonal.

inserting the floss between two teeth, he moves it up and down, careful not to damage the gums. again he works his way around the mouth, ensuring meticulously that stray food particles and plaque are removed from the recesses.

perfection takes time, and as each minute goes by, another tooth complete, he feels his anticipation building. heart fluttering, he is nearly panting when with a great sigh he carefully removes the floss, discarding it into a disposable bag.

"you really should take better care of your teeth, my dear. the one small cavity is still in your mandibular molar. if only you had kept your appointment to get it fixed, your smile would be perfect."

pushing his thumbs into the soft flesh of her cheeks, he forces her mouth into a wide lopsided smile, before gently kissing her. pushing his tongue passed her thick lips, he traces the now smooth even surface of her teeth. a moan escapes from him as his excitement reaches a crescendo.

this is a new boldness that will ultimately lead them to him, but he anticipates that. honestly he desires it more than anything. removing a fresh new toothbrush from his bag, he places it in the hollow between his victims already cooling breasts; his calling card.

"yes. soon they will no longer call me Tooth Fairy, the moniker that the imbecile reporter gave me, but my given name, Dr. Henry Malice, DDS", he muses, "Or maybe just Dr. Malice."

catching the light switch with his latex covered finger on the way out of the door, he heads home to get some rest, before early appointments with patients. perhaps they will keep their appointments, so he would not have to do this again.

This is Magpie Tale.

Author's Note: This is obviously fiction, except that my dentist, growing up, was named Dr. Malice, which always seemed an ironic name for a dentist. Dentists have to be about the scariest thing in the world. Or maybe that's just me. Make sure you brush those teeth...smiles.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

55 - a promise 2 return

1 foot N front of another
eye head 2 where
the asphalt ends
and the dusty trail begins
where the giants stand watch
as i bathe N crystal streams,
drying N the sun's embrace,
letting wood smoke caress my cheek
and birds sing 4 me;
the place eye see
behind closed I'z

c U soon

Tell a story in 55 words. Write your own or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Love Triangles

Take a triangle, sit it strong on its base, tall & erect. This is man.

Now spin it, standing graceful on point, open & inviting. This is woman.

Shapes & symbols, arranged on a coffee table, finding those that fit together to create a larger picture. Each one independent, yet more when together, creating intimacy.

Slide them point to point and you have an hourglass, sands pouring one to another, because time is essential.

Time & intimacy move them base to base, forming diamonds, hard enough to cut through any cheap imitation glass.

None of this happens just placing shapes together, arranging them in infinite possibility, hoping they fit. No, then you get a mess, when there is no one to choreograph their dance.

We are more than just shapes on the table.

We sit in the living room, the scent of our bed still fresh in our mussed hair, drinking coffee, hot & black. You were reading, but when I look over the screen of my laptop, I catch you looking at me. The compulsion to kiss you is overwhelming. You can see this in my glance and move to the couch, where we talk about trivial things, and maybe even triangles.

This is a Theme Thursday post.

(Not the love triangles you were expecting, eh? Nah, one is more than enough for me.)

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

nobody, somebody, coffee & merlot

The air dances in a hazy steam that rises from the asphalt, as if any minute the road that runs in front of Billy's house might start bubbling and swallow the next car that comes along. I share this with him in a weak voice, all strength sapped by the heat of the day, and he chuckles. The shadow of the tree we laze under does little to break the sun's unrelenting assault. Sweat drips in slow rivulets into the dirt between the tufts of grass, hardening into crusty pebbles as the moisture evaporates immediately. The birds save their is hot and quiet, sleep overcomes us.

Billy was a nobody, recognized by nobody, acknowledged by nobody...he was just there, a nobody. We all knew where he lived, but no one had ever been to the little white house where he lived with his mom. The school bus would squeal to a stop by the tall grass that bordered the road and we would watch him jump the culvert and head toward the tree in the front yard to drop his book bag. He never went straight to the house, just the tree and he'd wave, as the bus pulled off toward the next stop, but no one would wave back.

I guess it was my mom's idea of instilling goodwill towards all men, that led to the phone call. We stood in the kitchen, my bare feet digging into the linoleum as she flopped the phone book on the table, running her finger along the neat columns. Finding what she was looking for, she spun the dial on the rotary phone and introduced herself to Billy's mom. I pleaded silently in the background, but she waved me away as she made plans for me to visit Billy and be his friend. At least that was the plan she concocted, like mothers often do, when we fail to make them ourselves.

Billy's mom stood in the door, brown barrel coffee mug in hand, smiling as we rocked gently in the car with the motion of their gravel driveway. Noticing my eyes wide, searching the yard, my mom gently reminded me to be nice, play the things he wanted to play and that she would be back that afternoon to pick me up. Her kiss on my cheek carried the weight of her expectations, a final goodbye before my death sentence was carried out.

Billy peeked from around the tree at me shuffling my feet in the dirt, as our mom's exchanged pleasantries, a safe distance between us as we measured each other's intentions. The awkwardness lasted only as long as it took for him to flash a pair of dart guns and a grin, and we fell into a game of secret agent, using our shoes to communicate encoded messages to each other as we snuck through the house in search of enemy spies.

Billy's mom was cool, at least in that she seemed happy he had someone to play with, and she let us do what we wanted without hassle, giving her ample opportunity to watch her stories on the television, always sipping from that brown mug. On commercial breaks, she would slip into the kitchen, to refill her mug, first from the coffee pot, then adding from a green bottle she kept in the fridge. That was the only time she moved from the couch, not saying a word to us until it was time for lunch.

I heard her calling us, but I had just found the perfect hiding spot and could hear billy's feet on the carpet around the corner, knowing if I answered he would blast me with an orange dart. Billy, likewise, thought he had the advantage, so we were in a silent stand off when his mom came down the hall. Our darts arrived about the same time, catching her mid chest, dropping into her coffee cup with a splash that polka-dotted the front of her house dress.

The red hue of her cheeks darkened, first crimson, then purple, lips sputtering as if the words were caught in her throat. I knew we were in trouble, but could not move, just stand and watch the last few seconds tick off the bomb before it exploded. When the words finally broke loose, they rocked us back our heels, all fuck and shit, as she grabbed us dragging us down the hall to the door, tossing us into the yard. The boom of the door slamming was followed by a resolute click of the lock driving home in the frame.

For a time we just sat, where we had fallen in the grass, by the stoop, staring at the door in shock. Billy finally stood, breaking my stupor, dusting himself off before heading toward the tree. Rising slowly, I followed him, finding my own patch of ground by where he sat drawing in the dirt.

"What just happened?"

"Nothing, just mom.", he answered as if that should explain it all.

I really did not know what to ask, it felt odd talking in the thickness of the air, so I watched his mom through the window to the kitchen, once again refilling her mug. She could feel my gaze and her eyes met mine before she closed the blinds with a flick of her wrist, leaving us at the mercy of the afternoon.

"It's the medicine she puts in her coffee that does this. Merde~low." his voice seemed distant, detached.

"What's it for?"

"Kids. Fuckin' kids, that what she says. I don't know why, I am usually the only one here."

There seemed so much more to say, but we just sat in silence, letting the sun comfort us, until it started to smother us. We tried banging on the door once, but the silence shooed us back to the shadow of the tree, begging for a little relief...

The rocking is soft at first, then more violent and I hear my mom's voice calling me. A stark whiteness greets me as I open my eyes, slowly gaining texture as my mom's face appears. I am wet, clothes saturated in a sweat, hair matted to my head, curled up by the roots of the tree. She is talking but I look for Billy, who is starting to stir, his blue shirt almost black he is so drenched.

Seeing we were alive, my mom crosses the yard, pounding the door for a few minutes, but gets no answer, so she starts yelling, while Billy and I stand behind her, still groggy from the sleep. We follow her around the house absently, as she steps through the shrubs to knock on the windows. Finally, getting no response, she puts us in the car, our pores tingling as the air condition washes over us. At first it feel so good, but then we start to shiver uncontrollably as she starts for home.

Billy stayed with us a few days, before a lady in a dark suit came and he got a new family, one that did not need Merde~low in their coffee. On hot summer days, like today, I still think of Billy and I like to believe he became somebody. Somebody people recognized, somebody people acknowledged, somebody that was there and loved.

This was written for the prompt "Merlot and Coffee" at The Tenth Daughter of Memory.

Monday, June 21, 2010

trapped somewhere across the room

i watch you
across the room
watching me and
the things your eyes
do to me
make me wish
everyone would just
go home...

so i do
the only thing
i can think of,
throwing myself
on the floor
flopping like a fish
trying to get
to the water
while you escort
awe struck friends
to the door
making apologies...

entwined, we'll giggle
down a trail of
cast off clothes
and who knows-
letting your eyes
lead the way &
tomorrow, i'll
regale them with
stories of the miracle
that saved me...

if only we were
not stuck at
this party and me
in my fantasy

i watch you
across the room
watching me and
the things your eyes
do to me
make me wish
everyone would just
go home...

no, really, come back soon...
drive safe, and have a good night everyone.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

160 - magpie tales: among the shavings

whetstone raw,
his blade pares away
excess wood, to
what he sees inside,
and though i wince
(at times)
his artist's hands,
they comfort me.

happy father's day!

What can you say in 160 characters? (spaces included) Go see Monkey Man.
Also, this is a Magpie Tale.

Friday, June 18, 2010

in all seriousness

i got your email, last night,
where you professed your love
and the things you want to do
to & with me.

it went in the file
with all the others
in which you describe
how you copulate with your husband,
envisioning me.

maybe you think
these are funny or cute,
but they disgust me.

i have said it before
(in both comments & email)
and i will say it again
i will protect & defend
my family...

so stop.

they are unwanted,
you are unwanted.

leave me alone.

the thing about technology
in the hands of the right authority
they can track you down
and come knocking on your door
perhaps during dinner
with your kids & hubby.

(who's that mommy?)

you know who you are,
and now we do too.

funny, i finally wrote a poem about you,

This is all too real. I really wish it was fiction or something I was making up. I get quite a few emails, and I welcome them usually. For the last several months, this blogger (to remain nameless) has crossed a line, morally and ethically.

If someone ever starts sending you unsolicited emails that you are uncomfortable with, I encourage you to keep both hard and soft copies. If they do not respect your wishes to cease, the authorities have at least proven willing to listen.

Urban Cowboy did a great piece on this very thing, here.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

55 - self serve gas pump

the television is on,
showing another heartbreaking picture
of an oil covered pelican,
struggling against the tendrils
just dying to fly,
trying to survive,
stirring outrage inside,
yet you fill the coffers
of the men who did this
with each tank you fill,
claiming no blood on your hands
...and i am no better hypocrite.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

one-eyed Lilly (camera)

we would find her in oddest places, camera stuck to her face, as if she had been born with it instead of a nose and eyes. every where we went, we'd see her; in the play ground, at the super market, standing outside the chain link fence at the school, even under the overpass of the interstate that led out of town. we called her one-eyed Lilly, because she viewed the world through that long telephoto lens, twisting it round and round to bring everything into focus.

Mrs. Lilly lived somewhere in the the three block radius of our neighborhood, but no one really knew where. one day we stealthily followed her along the street, her yellow and orange floral sundress and stringy greying hair hard to miss as we darted from tree to tree choking back our giggles. pausing to slip by Mr. Wilson's house, lest he notice us, instead of that cat, we rounded the corner only to find leaves stirring in the summer breeze.

later that afternoon, clinging to the utmost branches of the old oak tree behind johnny's house, defending it from invading Mongol hordes, we watched her reappear from behind a neighbors house, camera firmly ensconced on her face. panning in each direction, she turned to walk down the sidewalk, by where we were playing.

eric wondered aloud if she worked for the guv'ment as a secret agent sent to spy on us, maybe in cahoots with our parents to make sure we was acting right. snorting his indifference, johnny said he read in a book, at the library, that some people believed that when you had your picture taken, it could steal your soul.

slowly, as if she had heard, Lilly turned her head, training that one eye on us and i swear it blinked, sending a shiver down our spines. not a one of us breathed as she chirruped click-whir, click-whir...sending secret messages or small bits of us off to some unknown place with each press of the button.

we never tried to follow Mrs. Lilly again, though many times we hid, afraid that she was following us...or that she might take a little more...

This is a Theme Thursday post.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

i love doUghnuts

between my thumb and forefinger, the glaze slides down the doughnut, gripping my fingertips in a fierce attempt to save itself from my indulgence, my other hand warm around a mug of rich dark roast.

across the coffee shop, framed in the sunlight streaming through the bay window store front, two lovers sit. her fingers brush his wrist, inadvertent in their wanderings, as words float, from her pink lips, across the table to his ears, a whisper on the wind created in their passing. his gaze so intent and relaxed, he swims in her eyes. their ankles touch beneath the table, a quick caress of familiarity.

mid-sentence, he darts across the table taking her lips in his. roses bloom on her cheeks, rendering her speechless, as he draws away. face breaking into a smile, she considers her hands, shy now at his forwardness. their eyes find each other again and he rises, retrieving their canes from the corner. shuffling to the door, he opens it for her, sun catching their silver hair in a brilliant halo, before they are gone.

sucking the remnants of sweetness from each finger, i take the final pull of acidic coffee in my mouth to wash it down. ready, finally, to face the day.

Monday, June 14, 2010

magpie tales: one red pencil

My bloodshot eyes burn, lack of sleep pressed like a matchstick in the corners, as I stare at the red flecked pencil shavings, piled in the center of my writing desk, wondering if this could be it. A rattling laugh erupts from deep within my chest, sending spittle arching through the heavy air, could this be it...

There are things you should know, I was not always like this, it started though in this same spot, my head resting on the desk, pushing the wood grain into my forehead, probing for the next big story. The blank pages of my writing journal mocking me from beside the cup of yellow No. 2 pencils, each one sharpened to a fine point, so that when the flow began I would not have to stop for anything. For the last month, nothing has come and I am starting to think I am done.

Let me help you...

Syrupy sweet and sultry, the voice whispered, startling me from my apathy. At first I thought it was my wife, but remember she has taken the kids to gramma's house to give me space to work through this mental constipation.

I know what you are hungry for, let me...

Dragging my knuckles through my eyes, I let them wander slowly around the sparse room, from my desk along the barren walls, passed the curtained window to the still closed door. Shaking my head, I chuckle over the thuds of my own heart beating. Stupid, been in here far too long...

If you are really a writer, why do you produce this drivel? Why haven't you made it? All you do is take up space in the bookstore, until someone realises you ineptitude and removes them...I can change that...

A single tear rolls down my sullen cheek, as I realise I have finally cracked, my sanity sold for a dream. In this, my darkest hour, I notice the one red pencil among the forest of yellow, and it whispers...

If you do what I tell you, I will give you all that you desire...

I wish I could say I put up a fight, or even tried to escape and think it over, but I let the madness of the moment take me. The next thing I knew, my wife was waking me, still in the chair, a weeks growth of beard scratching at my face and a complete manuscript sitting neatly in the middle of the desk, crowned by one red pencil.

That night I feverishly read what I had written, abhorred by the vivid violence to the point of souring my stomach. The meager contents of my stomach, rushed across my lips in waves, and once empty, I called my agent and submitted it.

This was the beginning...what few readers I had disappeared, unwilling to take the changes in my style, only to be replaced by hordes of bloodthirsty followers, eager for the next book. We moved into a modern mansion complete with pool and circular drive, though I never got to enjoy it, always on the road, promoting the next book, talk shows, book signings. My family was happy enough, every need taken care of and each month we would spend a weekend in an exotic locale. All provided by my one red pencil, all it asked for was blood and I willingly sacrificed any character on its altar.

Things changed though, as they always do, the day I filed my taxes. It was not until the news reported the massacre at the IRS office that I realised I had filled them out with my one red pencil. By this time, I had signed birthday cards, contracts for appearances, notes to my kids school...all with my one red pencil. All that it asked for was...

So now, I sit here, having broken the pencil, thrown it away, buried it, burned it and even reduced it to a pile of shavings...heh hehe...but every time I find it once more, hiding among the yellow pencils that used to bring life in my writing. What scares me the most, dear reader, is that as I draw my confession to a close, I find I have the red pencil once again in my hand, and I am afraid, for you...

This is a Magpie Tale.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

160 - backseat sparking

under a sea of stars
he vaulted the door
landing in her backseat
leaving her date
speechless &

a few years later
they had me.

this crazy kinda love,
i get it honest.

What can you say in 160 characters? (spaces included) Go see Monkey Man.

Had a couple people asking about Cole's hair, after seeing Logan's double mohawk yesterday. Cole went for the single...

Friday, June 11, 2010

me, Edie Brickell and a double mohawk

i got a paper cut
from the note you left
on my pillow last night
and now i am bleeding
all over our white sheets,
the drops forming little broken hearts
(you even took my band-aids
with you when you left.)

sometimes, love is like
sipping sherry
(with nails in it)
wishing it was always cheery
(but it's not)
sometimes, love hurts.

i threw my cell phone
against the brick wall
when you hung up on me
and now it's shattered
in a million pieces
arranged to look just like my heart
(you'll just have to leave a message
at the beep....BEEP!)

sometimes, love is like
sipping sherry
(with nails in it)
wishing it was always cheery
(but it's not)
sometimes, love hurts.

all in all, i'd have to say
i am taking it good,
although my dog might disagree

(repeat chorus until all lighters are raised
or enough vegetables have been thrown
on stage to make a decent meal...)

I don't know if someone can actually parody themselves, but...this is what happens when you are listen to Edie Brickell at the coffee shop for an hour. Don't get me wrong, I like her voice and her music, but...hope at least you got a chuckle.

Here is a picture of my son's double mohawk, which was his choice for a summer haircut. Commander Greer, on Star Wars: Clone Wars, has one and was the inspiration.

Have a great weekend!

Thursday, June 10, 2010

55 - across the asphalt

across the asphalt
i watch them,
(unsure why,
other than a feeling
in the pit of my stomach
when his mom called)
and when i see the man
kiss the 10 year old boy
full on the mouth
i know,
knuckles cracking,
as sirens wail
in the distance
racing to beat me
across the asphalt.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

the candy lady

at the end of the dirt road, that snaked back through the hills, passing our house, sat a single wide trailer, in a yard with grass so tall it was mostly hidden. if you follow the skinny trail of trampled down grass you will find an aluminum door, the glass in the window fogged by age, and inside, seated in a brown recliner, clawed ragged by the feral runaway cats that had found a home, sits the candy lady.

not too many people would brave the trip to the end of that road, at least no after puberty sets in, but when we were kids and our parents had shooed us out of the house for asking too many questions, after exhausting all other resources, we would go see the candy lady to get our answers.

she smelled like eucalyptus and old cigarettes. though she never smoked in front of us, i once saw an pack of pall malls peaking out of her soft side purse that always sat within arms reach of her chair. the eucalyptus came from cream colored lozenges she would unwrap slowly, then place on the tip of her chalky tongue and suck on until they disappeared.

she always seemed to know when we were coming, waving us in as soon as we stepped through the curtain of grass. we would sit indian style on the blue carpet at her feet and ask our questions, or present our case when there was a dispute. she never talked much, just smiled a toothless grin, lips curling back across her gums, and pass around a crystal candy dish, that sat on the table beside her.

we always knew what to do when we left there, somehow the questions were either answered or became trivial. in many ways, she is the one that helped us through our childhood, but as we grew older our visits became sporadic and eventually stopped. sure, we still had our problems, but we had learned how to carry them so they did not weigh so much.

the day i graduated college, i thought of the candy lady, for the first time in years, and walked the dirt road to tell her thank you, but all i found was a field of tall grass. no trailer. no candy lady. just the soft smell of eucalyptus and old cigarettes on the warm breeze.

every once in a while, when i visit my family, i look out the window and see neighborhood kids traveling that same road, the determination on their faces letting me know, they are on their way to get their questions answered.

This is a Theme Thursday post.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

the great big picture show

the sunset is brilliant
blazing orange, giving way to
purple, then fading into black
behind the wide white screen
at the end of the field
where we play on the
slides and monkey bars.

as the curtain of night
rolls across the sky, we retire
to the back of the van,
hatch raised to allow
the fireflies to mingle
like ushers finding seats
for everyone before the show.

cuddle up here next to me
so i can feel you startle,
chuckle or giggle with glee
against my chest as
Shrek and Fiona take the screen
(and don't forget Donkey)
leading us Far, Far Away.

and just as he's
about to save the day
the sky tears open
with a might roar
so we watch the end
through the pouring rain
but that's ok....

with a hug and a sigh
you fall asleep in my arms
as i carry you to your car seat
and with a smile think
nothing can take our
happily ever after away...
except me.

Monday, June 7, 2010

magpie tales: silent scream

he found her on the porch, scribbling furiously into a notebook. over her shoulder he watched as she would draw a date and then, as if suddenly discontent, scrawl thick black lines through it.

bewildered, he asked, "what are you doing?"

clapping the book closed, her face shot pale, though he wondered if it was fright or guilt that stole her color. with a few quick breathes, she regained her composure.

"oh, nothing."

this, of course, was the moment he had to make a decision. if he pressed further, she would tell him, she always did, not one to keep her mind or he could leave well enough alone and leave her to whatever she had found to stick her nose into this time.

briefly, the old twinkle played in her eyes, when he smiled and said, "no, really. i want to know."

"well, if you must know, i was trying to determine the last time that we made love."

a twitch started in his left cheek, contorting his face, though all that he could push from his throat was "what?"

"making love.", she nearly whispered, as she could see it was not confusion but something much deeper that twisted in his stomach, threatening to erupt.

"just last week...", he started.

"no, richard. I am not talking about you weekly grunt and sigh before you serenade me with snores over your shoulder..."

crimson became purple, in his cheeks, as he stammered, huffing and whistling, before turning back into the house, retracing his original path.

"where are you going?", she called to his retreating back.

"if you must know," mocking her now, " i am going back to watch the game again, because i can sure as hell can understand that."

letting out a soft breath, her eyes wander around the porch, flitting across the array of flowers that had recently come into bloom. their beauty was a rich reward for the time and diligence she showed in their care.

finally her gaze, settled on the statue that sits in the corner. she had bought it at an estate sale, thrilled at the look of awe and wonder on the face of the girl. things are not always as they seem, and today the bust looked more like a silent scream, captured for all eternity, tight in the cold stone.

finding her place in her journal, she began once more to work her way back through the days, pausing briefly at their wedding date, before scratching through that as well, but that one, just that one, she thought, was done out of spite.

This is a Magpie Tale.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

160 - swinging by the evening noose (news)

mama sed
TVd rot mah brainz,
sew i wachdit ntentlee,
to mak shur
it dint sneak up on me,
tho sum how it dun got me.

hooda thunk shez
talkin bout
da evnin noose.

What can you say in 160 characters? Go see Monkey Man.

Saturday, June 5, 2010


he never saw it coming, too busy playing to the crowd of buddies, gathered to witness his latest pummeling. eyes flashing wide at the wet crunch of knuckles smashing into his temple, then roll back into his skull. no one breathes, in that moment, as Goliath falls into a crumbled, bleeding mas, quivering on the ground, and i am the only one smiling.

only, it doesn't happen like that...

i am the one getting intimate with the tile floor, cheek stuck to a tacky puddle of piss, left by some third grader with bad aim, while Goliath dismisses me with a wave of his hand before back slapping his buddies, making jokes about my masculinity. swallowing the shame, i let it burn slow, until just the right time to extract my revenge.

only, it doesn't happen like that...

when the mousy teacher asks me in the hall, i lie, covering up for him, because tomorrow is coming and it's only going to be more of the same. perhaps if i keep quiet, i will get a reprieve. he'll see the error of his ways and let me into the circle of friends, watching the next poor shmuck sweat it out in the center of the ring.

only, it doesn't happen like that...

now, years later, he's in jail, pants around his ankles, planted face first in the bathroom floor, mewling 'daddy' to his own Goliath and i can't help feeling sorry for him, instead of the anger i once carried, because no one deserves that.

only it doesn't happen like that...

because sometimes, i want bad things to happen to bad people, too. because justice is crippled, blind and fumbling the light. because he showed me no mercy, so why should i...each day, i climb this mountain, built on the rags of my own righteousness. some days, reaching the summit seems almost attainable, yet others i am back on that bathroom floor, picking myself up, then putting one foot in front of the other.

This is a 10DOM post.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

55 - a perilous spring day...

listening to wood bees
munching on deck boards
of the porch
beneath my rocking chair,
humming & munching,
humming & munching
like sweet music
in the humid air,
with a cooling breeze
lulling me to sleep,
nestled in hopes they
do not succeed
before i wake...
but hope & ignoring
won't stop the would be's.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try, or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

smugglers blues (white)

for a time
i wore a white sportcoat
with bright colored t-shirts
and loafers
like i lived in Miami
on a boat
with a gator named Elvis.
(which went over well
in my pick up truck,
pinch of skoal home town)
but you can only pretend
to be someone you are not
for so long
so i traded them in for
long hair, jeans
and old leather Jesus sandals
a whole lot more
comfortable in my skin
than yours.

This is a Theme Thursday post.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010


steaming, wet lumps
of my partially digested breakfast
paint the chipped maroon bricks
in the alley off 4th St.
though it still
clings to me,
in long tendrils reaching
to my lips,
until i swipe them away
with the back of my hand.

feeling better already,
my day seems brighter,
lighter, the world's color
returning with my own.

sometimes it just seems
better to let it out
than to let it roil and bubble,
ruining your day (life)
though why i let it in,
in the first place,
is the better question.

perhaps i should brush my teeth
so the memories don't live on
in the aftertaste...