Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Dry it out

Damn it,
Damn it,
Damn it,

This mist behind
my eyes is starting
to get annoying.
It’s making things blurry.

When the world is blurry
it gets frustrating,
when it gets frustrating
I swear.

When I swear I feel angry
and angry eyes squint,
squinting makes me look

When I feel old, I feel tired
and I want to sleep,
sleeping leads to dreams which
tugs at my imagination.

My imagination gets riled,
gets the better of me,
gets me misty, and
everything starts over again.


Damn it,
Damn it,
Damn it,

Monday, August 25, 2014

Give it to me

             “Okay story, let me have it. Give me the words and phrases to make it all make sense. To put some structure and order to the world around me. Come on words…”, I said.
            “Naw. I don’t feel like it,” said Story.
            “Really? C’mon, it’s been such a long time for us to work together. Aren’t you ready to get something going again,” I asked.
            “Naw, there’s probably some really compelling televised dramas you could just watch. That should sate your story jonesing,” said Story.
            “I really don’t want to do that today. I’d much rather come up with some sort of colorful narrative, with complex characters struggling to eke out an existence against some harsh real world reality,” I said.
            “Naw, that sounds pretty boring if you ask me. Why don’t you relax and have another cigarette and just take it easy,” said Story.
            “That’s dumb. C’mon, why don’t you want to help me out,” I asked.

            Story slouched deeper in his easy chair. He pulled the lever on the chair's side and swung his legs up onto the extended footrest. He farted. He cleared his throat. He scratched at his inner thigh. He coughed.

            “Serious. You’re just going to lay there like a bum,” I asked.
            “Yeah. I am,” said Story.
            “You know, this hasn’t been easy for me either,” I said.
            “Whatever, why don’t you write about it in your diary,” sneered Story.
            “That’s not helpful. You know it’s not a diary,” I said.

            Story shifted his weight further down into the chair and groaned. I went to his side and shook his arm, but he ignored me. He closed his eyes and seemed to doze off immediately.

            “Hey,” I shouted, “don’t be a jerk!”

            Story smacked his lips and turned away from me. I stood next to his loafing and lowered my head.

            “Fine then, I’ll just do it myself,” I said.
            “Pssht, good luck with that,” said Story.

            I went back to my computer and sat down.

            “I’ll show you Story. I’ll show you good,” I said.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014



Laid out,


Under foot,
the details
of unnoticed



Tuesday, August 12, 2014


If you pick at your wound,
and keep drawing blood,
it will take a long time to heal.

Once it does close,
it scars.

Then you’re marked,
for all time with the
memory of your

The rest of your days,
you have this symbol
of the time you couldn’t
stop picking at it.

No matter the lotion,
the balm,
the butter,
the cure.

It’s on you,
this mark of memory.

The scar to sour even
the happiest of moments,
the richest, the wittiest, the bravest,
the saddest.

The symbol of your persistent
picking ever etched on everything
you do.

No one gets it,
each scar is unique to the
picker. It can’t be explained,
it can’t be easily understood.

It’s just there.

Marring what is supposed
to be lovely.

It has no humor.
It has no drive.
It has no ambition.
Yet, it is alive.

The scars.
The depression.
A struggle to survive.  

It’s difficult to see
the reflection of the person beyond
the scars at times.

Everything fades except
the hot white lines the skin

To look beyond is grand,
but it takes better eyes
at times.

Scars mark the moments
of our victories and our losses.

Depression puts the losses on
display like a sideshow freak.

“Come see the great Depresso!
The Saddest clown there is!
He’ll make you wonder if
it’s all worthwhile! See his
scars! See his mess! See the frown
behind the smile!”

Some see the clown,
Others only see the scars.
Some can laugh,
some can’t.

There’s no just sucking it up,
there’s no just do it,
there’s no just getting over it.

It’s our scar,
it’s there,

It’s a daily choice,
to see the scars or
see the smile.

Today it’s a smile.