F**K Human Resources

How do I tell her? How do I explain in a text message that I am inexplicably caught constantly tabulating the incalculable burden of obligation? How do I confess that every single sleepless night my mind unintentionally fills and chokes full with formulaic frustrations, all neatly tallied and categorized into tidy little lists? Every day dawns stubbornly stillborn here in this place no longer fertile with the initial promises of illusive stability.  Life instead gets bogged down and impregnated with a cacophony of humdrum dial tone stagnation. The compulsion to try doing the “right” thing- measured by someone’s unlisted definitions, anyway.  Paying that bill.  And the next one.  And the one after that.  The unceasing drive to do a good job, even though very few people …

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Texting Tag

I have always been overly sensitive about receiving overnight texts, those snippets of conversation hitting my phone randomly in the emptiness of another sleepless night spent straddling the solitary decay in a fading City of Wayne. There was once a time when those texts were almost always transatlantic in nature.  And they almost always contained some form of bad news- another friend buried.  Or arrested.  Or overdosed.  And even when the content of the texts bouncing across an ocean contained happier tidings, there was still an invisible, underlying melancholy attached that taught me caution and stiff-lipped reserve when caught unlocking my phone after midnight. Now, though, here in the tempestuous midst of a pandemic still raging hard… and the western forests burning uncontained… and the progressive …

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Dream Girl

I cannot help but to wonder where she might be tonight. And I find myself caught hard in the tantalizingly elusive possibility of her very tentative existence. The underlying solitude of a disjointed former lover’s isolation gives birth to that unstable potential for a dream. The empty incompleteness leaves me questioning the fleetingly unique set of circumstances required to even begin finding her. The silence resounding unabated inside a shallow and echoing blue house causes me to ponder the curvatures of the flowing currents of happenstance, wondering which twirl of the unrelenting flood will ultimately land me safely on her safe shores of lasting acceptance. If she were here with me now, in this particular early evening hour, I would dance with her.  Unashamedly.  Our bodies …

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Labouring Through the Day(s)

The end of another Indiana summer, the likes of which has rarely been experienced in the whole of our history, has now officially come and gone.  The only reminder of its existence is just another “X” indelibly carved on to the calendar of an undeniably dystopian year.  A solitary mark pulling us all closer to the frozen stagnations of the impending winter, lurking threateningly just on the horizon.

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Confessions of a Broken American

It is the kind of late summer night that feels overly ripe for confessions. It is the kind of night that lingers and churns, as the bitter words balk and hesitate on the tip of a dry tongue.  Words that yearn to be screamed out from the very rooftop of a small blue house cornered nakedly in the broken heart of a City of Wayne.  Words aching for the altruistic freedoms promised by honest artistic exclamation.  Words that instead inexplicably cling tenaciously to the last gasp of decent decorum and the inherently flawed rules of a supposedly polite society that was anything but polite to me, in all the years spent in this shitty little flyover town so full of fucked up perspectives and priorities and …

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