Luck and Slack

The town has finally dealt a truly devastating blow and I dodged another bullet. I feel the guilt of being passed-over whilst others get the axe, and wonder how I managed to fake it this long. The strange thing is that I am more optimistic now than during the most manic of lusty booze fueled rages, whence I bounded higher than Falkor with no regard for the ground below. The page I have turned is a blank one, and I still have not fully burned the previous chapters, but things are looking up. My routine is simple and needs to be tweaked a bit in order to account for creativity as well as self-improvement. I need to make these repairs before I can be of any use to others. Ah, first world problems, how you blind me to the suffering of anyone but myself. I will now be off to the thrift stores to find my slack. Maybe I will find the next love-of-my-life digging trough the dusty boxes of Xmas albums. I hope she doesn't smell like an ashtray.

poor dog.

You know her's a sad specimen, but she depends upon you. Her also don't ever smile, but to laugh she needs you. You can never hold Gracie too tight. Her will squish the wurms out. She just wants a mother's warmth and some ants or beetles. Everyone will declare their love, But she won't do it. She can't even reach for a hug. Being quite the shortest. Gracie wont give up her trust, And who can blame her.

Smoke Pony

Twister return this house that hill without pony she swills outside the chamber in the crowd. They smite her house-fire to the foundation with red scabbed finger-bones, helmet gleam above that house-fire or finger-bones, higher above her velveteen widow moan. Else a wind-chime ain't breezy, An acrid chimney brick then twists slightly crumbly. Trolls toll that bell outside a bellows erect under a cape, her jagged fallen aerials spanning through faint smog- disavowed bowstrings will spring from anger or her pony from her hill.

Food

Elaborate flavors are created by a broad range of ingredients in exotic ways around the world. Many things that my culture would never consider eating are thought of as food elsewhere. Lizards, insects, amphibians, and even waste products like nests and dung are used as staples or delicacies. In China they love their bird-nest soup and harvest it from limestone caves. The peasants who climb the walls must be oblivious to the dangers they face. The nests are made of spit, and whatever debris exists in the stomach of these creatures. One would think it would be a good way to catch SARS or bird-flu or something. Another danger could be the half naked peasant grappling the cave walls without a harness, oblivious that in the US, OSHA would be cracking down; also the FDA, because birds nests as food seems like a good target. The climber' foot slips on some slick guano, and the hand that grasped for the delicate nest involuntarily crushes it to powder. Tumbling midair, he hits the bottom, 40 feet down without a scream. Only his legs and some ribs are broken. He came alone today.

Memorial Day Weekend

I was tasked with the honer to dispose of my nation's banners in the proscribed method. I dug a shallow grave and attempted immolation But the fabric was not cotton, nor linen or hemp; Some artificial fabric made of plasticine fibers, They smoldered like Gary, Indiana, and melted like American cheese, Ronnie Wax, it was called in the 1980's. But a government job was a boon for us now, in the 90's, If only seasonal. Hoarse mewling caught my attention, and I tracked the source next door, to Vector Control. The deformed creature, was barely a mouse, What should have been kitten, Perversely wounded with opaque, matter framed eyes. It squawked between the most hollow and hopeless Drone of the summer. Chain crusted with precious, unfortunate detritus Was wrapped round it's neck and bolted to the dog house Outside of that Dachau for meaty cast-offs. The guards had gone home for long Independence weekend, And I, on the night shift, was alone with my duty. I closed off the part that nurtures the sick, and switched to the role: The firing squad loner, the hooded axe-wielder, My shovel, a stand-in for swift tang and chop; The hopeless little wretch was buried with honers befitting a hero.

8 Lives

Filthy city tried to put a rope around my neck; But I loosed the noose, I cheated death. Evil spirits tried to grab the wheel and make my car and me a wreck; So I split the tree, and I cheated death. Silas Cool shot the driver and my bus flew off the bridge; But I called in sick, and I cheated death. Depression sent me out to throw my body off a ridge, Then I stubbed my toe, and I cheated death. Freshwater sharks were stalking, flipped my little boat, But I held my breath and I cheated death. CO2 filled up my room and made me really choke; Next, sirens woke me up and I cheated death. Wheel snakebit by pothole, on my skull, potential scars. I cracked my clavicle, but I cheated death. Saw my fate in crackled faces of the buddies at the bars, But I sobered up and I cheated death. And I could not find a reason why; No Devils, grinning, pulled me down, No gods chucked rocks from on-high.

Roaches

Nearer swept the voice, croaking down the hall, Coco roaches waved, his wind shoved them to the cracks; And closer in the dark, thump creak on tread and wall: Lumens snake under door, as the switch clicks! And spark behind eyes with no cypher from him, Inside grizzled drummer breaths the rhythm. (Wishing me back to my sleep, the flying swim). He shouted my name! Though not without kindness, “Did ya find a job?”, half joint pinch-pushed to sleepy hand; He passes it off and “no” I must confess; I drag on the short, “things didn't go as planned”; He turns on heals whilst he speaks, I hoarsely thank him for the sluggish treat. “You need to move out within two weeks.” Freshly clouded mind, makes crooked sense of this mess: Flophouse door slams and I retreat to unearned sleep; He was not cruel, he was not kidding, and he meant the best; Thudding, knocking on the stairs that he built too steep; My scumbag squat since before last Fall, I'm asthmatic and spotty and built too small, Choked by skunk, and puzzling paint upon the wall. I'm fading fast at nineteen, and twenty-seven is all I hope: Looking forward to fuck-all, far too young for these regrets; Ain't switched to whiskey, still counting on the dope; Decades later he's still there, with his pets. Like rats like roaches, how've we survived? I've fallen to pieces, Still I'm revived: (Knowing so much less than at twenty-five).