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Not an Ode to Spring

It’s the hangman’s song of an unwanted winter’s first dance playing out across the face of another pale overnight.  Notes, heavy and hard, punch into my skull with predetermined regularity and there is much pleasure found in that particular pain.  But then, she never really did like the music, so I can only guess that she will probably disapprove of all of this, too. Not that the unique disparity of our discontent properly justifies anything- I simply have no proper excuse for myself so I will responsibly carry my share of that blame.  And given the turbulent nature of our histories so inconsistently intertwined, I honestly find genuine hilarity in that particular disconnect. But then, I have never been even moderately skilled at reaching out.  So …

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Winter Stomp

There is often a sizable vacuum left behind in the absence of a steady influx of fresh ridiculousness rolling into my life to help fill the gaps of pandemically inspired boredom and I have discovered that some semblance of a temporary balance might be found within the gushing inrush of unexpected nostalgia, surging up from a hesitant place to help fill that incessant hunger to feel something.  And when the familiar and intimate transcontinental texting lifelines last night understandably petered out in the crushing end-grip of another day of exhausted adulting, I was left on my own to find a way of filling another isolated night’s empty hours. And we all know that never ends particularly well for me, here alone and unsupervised, caught in the …

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Final Edits

It is going to be a long, lonely winter of edits. There are currently thousands and thousands of bitter words loitering embarrassingly around this forgotten and overlooked little blue house.  And they are all relying upon me for a polish.  Or a learned, insightful nudge into a more meaningful incarnation of themselves.  Or maybe even a brutally justified dismissal, if deemed to longer hold any value in the storyline unfolding. And it is a seemingly never-ending cycle of printing, scribbling, patching, and tweaking.  Over and over.  Night after night.  Marking time in the endless hours with only a red pen’s ink for company, indiscriminately mixing in a fair amount of alcohol, just to numb the underlying naked brutality of it all. It is a catastrophically flawed …

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Year 48…

I am not going to write the words. Not this time; not tonight. I am not going to write about the glaring disappointment.  Or the blatantly pointed and tenderizing dishonesty.  Or the near total lack of basic human compassion intentionally withheld for the sake of robbing a pauper’s empty purse of elusive emotion. I refuse to document the transparent, familiar injustices. Not again. I am no longer playing an uncontested part in the deceitful games designed to just fill this passing pandemic’s echoing, wheezing crawl. Because this infection isn’t going anywhere.  At least not for the foreseeably temporary future and as that disparaging truth burrows in deep through the isolated confines of yet another fucking inexcusable quarantine of the heart, I feel the compulsion to ask …

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Jumping Fences

The direction of the evening had already been predetermined by the time the late fall darkness fell down around the day, enveloping this City of Wayne in November shadows, despite the brightness of a waning moon above. The stresses of an uncalled election and social feeds full of divisive disinformation had already polluted the day.  Texts, spanning three countries on two continents blinged and blooped on my phone, forcing me to focus in order to keep track of the conversations for fear of somehow sending a ridiculously inappropriate response to the wrong recipient.  And that shit gets exhausting. I needed space to think and an unguarded moment to just process the seemingly overwhelming avalanche of churning change and possibility.  I needed perspective and quiet solitude to …

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