wr_post40:subj_nonfict

AN HONEST SLIP OF THE TONGUE

"The CNN commentator just called New Hampshire the 'LIE-ve, Free or Die' state."

"Really?" she asked. "Meaning what?"

"I mean that she said it like 'live' in 'live birth,'" I answered. "Rather than 'live' like 'Live and Let Die.'"

"Oh," she said.

"I think it was just an honest slip of the tongue."

wr_post39:subj_fict

KIETH

He isn't sure when he started wearing the ski mask. The ski mask was definitely after the yard work glove. He remembers because after the hell his wife gave him for wearing one glove (with the elastic wristband, velcro strap, cutouts at the knuckles) the ski mask went down easy. At least when he wears that damn mask, she yells over the din of the tvs (four of them haphazardly piled one atop the other: a fools' tower of babel comprised of shrieking upset housewives and enthusiastic hirsute salesmen). There is plausible deniability and it spares her some of the grief. She pleads with an invisible police officer who has apparently wandered into the room. She has never seen that man in her life, she wails. Her mock innocence morphs into frustration as her gaze falls on a box of chocolate-covered raisin just outside the reach of her grabber. Now she needs him, he thinks.

His failed attempt at vigilantism is becoming a common topic of discussion around the condo. He leaves the fanny-pack in the glove box and the wiffle ball bat in the trunk. He's not ready to answer those questions yet. He has been drawing unemployment for two months. That is one method for measuring it.

Most superheros do something for the greater good, she yells. Fuck her, he mouths into the mirror on the outside of the bathroom door down the hall from her room. He leans in very close and says it just loud enough that he can barely hear it. The steam on the mirror charges up under his nose and leaves an angry wet dot. He turns the steamy smudge into a grimace and takes pleasure in watching the bullet hole of his noseprint dripping lazily down the vapor-man's stark visage. He tries to match it. He isn't convinced.

The youngest child opens the door an inch, shrieks and throws it shut. As the door closes he can make out two more children in the tub and a third standing on the toilet seat playing in the back of the tank. He heaves a great sigh, pulls the mask back down off his brow and snugly under his chin. He mumbles something about going to the store and smokes a cigarette in the Skylark instead. There are now only two left in the fanny-pack and the four flimsy matches in the Stop-n-Gulp book. Some clerk wrote 'you will die' on the inside of the matchbook. It's true.

The Skylark takes several minutes to warm all the way up, while various dash lights come on and off and the car makes noises like a motor boat regulating ballast water. Most times the light-headedness of the second cigarette wears off just as he's pulling out of the condo lot onto rural route 23, but today he waits til he's out on the open road to light up that penultimate dale. Terry's going to get it tonight, boy.

wr_post38:subj_nonfict

A HIGHLY SENSORY NIGHT

i saw buckaroo banzai in the 8th dimension. jon lithgow, jeff goldblum, christopher lloyd. in a movie about worlds within our worlds inhabited by aliens who are inherently racist. or something. the best/only good part was at the end when all the characters marched through a water runoff ditch in VERY 80s clothes to a happy, upbeat keyboard ballad. there was much footloose and fancy free walking afoot (every pun intended).
then i went to old cabell and listened to yyyy play the piano. i had this startlingly obvious revelation. the piano, in its form, is a beautifully self-limited instrument. one can only link notes that are near one another. if one desires dramatic pitch change without silences it becomes necessary to create two patterns or progress through the scale. there are no overly dramatic changes and yet theres this wonderful synthesis. its the kind of realization that makes you want to drop acid and look at the keys as they depress. the beauty of all things that can only be truly experienced through drugs (i assume...because though i wouldnt do them, the thought haunts me. comprehending the secrets of something. finding the world within inanimate objects. finding the life that people put into things when they interact with them. like the velveteen rabbit. the love made it real. the piano is real...or something). yyyy said something that triggered all this. its on my hand. i HAD to write it down, but the idea still alludes me. if i wrote poetry, THIS would be a fucking amazing poem. Everywhere and in everything i try to define aaaa. how it makes me feel. to the point that i stretch to connect things. songs, phrases, emotions that are at the core of everything we see and do. its fucking 3 am and i dont know what im saying and THAT is truth. this is the basis of my thought. sleep deprivation and nervous energy. unlinked dijointed paragraphs of words that, when read in the right sequence (not necessarily sequentially) reveal the meaning of my thoughts. the random quotes. to quote something the "vomit from my mind". ahh arthur miller, you sad bastard. the RAW ACID TRUTHS!!! the concrete its all i want. but back to the point....what yyyy said. it's been trying to play this song for a couple years (and i cant tell that anythings wrong with it) but it says it still eludes it. and it said...heres the money shot:
"I KNOW EVERY NOTE, I CAN SEE THEM IN MY MIND, BUT MY HANDS DONT MOVE FAST ENOUGH."
thats it. i know, or think i know, what it needs. i could be everything for it, if i could get my hands to move fast enough (and thats to be read symbolically). get it? theres some aspect of the execution thats missing. if i could get it right i would have it all. i would know what came next...
[TANGENT: I am a perfectionist]
then on the way back here i found a great big horse chestnut on the ground. it was smooth and brown with the grainy whitish spot on one side along with the indent. i tossed it around a bit. chucked it up and down the stair wells in rogers and holmes. then i peeled it open and looked at the meat of it. it reminded me of a walnut. so i ate some. it tasted like a really shitty walnut. like vomit or plastic. then steve had some too. i had to get a dew to kill the taste. i am like a fucking infant. i experience the world through my mouth. people were tossing the left over oreos at the picnic yesterday and i caught one and ate it. or the chicken nugget i ate off the commons floor at EHS. it would make me feel stupid, but i've done much dumber shit and im not done yet.
speaking of the picnic...i found a tennis ball at some point yesterday and spent most of the picnic trying to get it stuck on a ledge midway up the buildings surrounding the quad. i tried back spin, approaching it sideways to give it room to slow to a stop...nothing. then finally BBBBB chucked it on the roof. i think its in the gutter. thats sad. its not really what i was trying to achieve. im beginning to have a distaste for BBBBB. its a braggart. it cant really help it, but its stories go on and on and on. av;bheriaoghkj;fhbrd;lkahfg;lah. oh well. we all have problems and if this is the worst of mine, i'll consider myself very lucky.
it smelled like fishing (dead worms) again tonight. muggy muggy muggy.
i tried to slide down the wet grass near the amphitheater, but it was at the stage where it wasnt QUITE slick enough. i just stuck and nearly fell over.

wr_post37:subj_poetry

(untitled)

two trees wrapp'd as one,
their branches intermingling,
i have to go poop...

wr_post36:subj_poetry

FIVE FUNCTIONS: MORE BAD POETRY

bob left me and jimmy needs new shoes.
how am i gonna put them through college?
i am a single mother.

jimmy and bob got the black lung.
yesterday the mine caved in.
i work in a mine.

bob set the axe against jimmy's throat.
"why'd you eat my chicken pot pie."
i am a conflict resolution therapist.

jimmy cracked corn and bob didnt care.
it's an awful shame how much corn gets wasted that way.
i am a transparent eyeball.

bob was entirely abstract and illusive and jimmy couldnt get through to him.
the relationship had really hit a roadblock, metaphorically speaking.
i am an avocado.

bob took jimmy's hammer.
now he can't hammer things.
i am a tool.

jimmy got the flu, but bob wouldnt get him cured.
surely jesus will save them.
i am a christian scientist.

bob says its his right to carry a gun, but guns scare jimmy.
"read the second ammendment, boy"
i am moses.

wr_post35:subj_poetry

4 YEARS OLDER THAN 12 YEARS OLDER THAN 7: THIS IS BAD POETRY

jimmy and bob drive the truck in the morning and the car at night.
steve miller advocates theft.
i am the money; take me and run.

bob owns the deed to his home, jimmy rents.
three times ten is...thirty!
i am a magic number.

jimmy hit bob in the head with a bat yesterday.
by ripping the cards we get a better sense for the plasticity of paper.
i am tito, you are lamar.

bob cut jimmy a deal on a new tricycle
jehovahs' witnesses cut out my liver and left me in a tub full of ice
i am an argument between lovers.

in school jimmy does better than bob
at home i found a penny behind the radiator
i am a stovepipe hat.

bob and jimmy are sitting on a log
frances mcdormand shrugged her shoulders and bit her nails
i am non habit-forming.

jimmy jumped on bobs trampoline until he was sick
so many beets should not be consumed at one sitting without a lawyer present
i am a part of this balanced breakfast.

bob and jimmy used to live near the shore and collect driftwood
furniture that is not functional will always be in style
i am art deco.

bob found a monkey, but jimmy told him to let it be
three out of four dentists recommend trident as a supplement to regular brushing
i am the living dead.

yesterday bob couldnt find jimmys parka
who you gonna call?
i am a gremlin.

bob, jimmy and i went ice fishing
looking back, my physics teacher was a creepy guy
i am a crash test dummy.

bob sells lemonade outside of jimmys house
12 years ago i was 7
i am a sand box.

wr_post34:subj_(non)fict

L'AIM

xxxx : cheeburger cheeburger
xxxx : i wanna tell you about a dream i had.
xxxx : there were three people in a rowboat and the first one said, there isnt enough food to support us all til we reach land so we'll have to draw straws
xxxx : the second man screamed and jumped off the boat. the third guy, brandishing a knife that had been concealed from the first mans view, stabbed the first man and ate him. now theres plenny of food he giggled licking the knife
xxxx : and the moral of the story is....
xxxx : never buy a pair of slacks that's too big just cuz it costs less
yyyy : ?
xxxx : i dont know man. i just dont know