Broken Lace and Fraying Angels

There is inside of me a growing, insatiably relentless simmering, ceaselessly stoked by the taunting heat of unexpected peculiarity boiling and steaming just under the fiery implications of my better intentions. Smoke rises high and hot from the mountains down Tennessee way, clinging to the hills so stoic in their perceived immobility as bare passions rekindle under the threatening storm’s electric, sparking touch. The jagged peaks of less gentle mountains beckon from the rockier west, out in the Centennial state which holds the unique typographical distinction of being where my heart so cleanly divides down Interstate 70’s winding slopes. But then the rhythmic lullaby of a warm gulf’s waves cresting against clean, uncomplicated sands echoes hard enough to be heard over new music played to fight …

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Smoky Mountain Hi!

I really did not want to write tonight. With the year finally coming to an end, and a major writing project teetering on the fickle razor’s edge of a final completion, my plans for the last evening of 2020 were rather unspectacular. I was just going to hunker down here in my rather unremarkable bubble, safely insulated from the sickly city streets of Wayne, turn on the playlist hinting at mediocre successes just around the corner, and stare blankly at a meaninglessly sterile screen. Then my phone bleeped. Five simple words sent from the heights of the Smoky Mountains greeted my eyes when I managed to wrestle my phone into a sufficiently unlocked state. Five words that were enough to change my whole evening. I hadn’t …

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Run, Forrest! Run!

These words that I write are my confession and I feel confident expressing them within the context of a pandemic’s roaming scourge, trusting that they will be strong enough to weather the inevitable scrutiny. I realize that with all that has happened, perhaps feelings or opinions of me have understandably changed.  And that is okay. I acknowledge that there is a time for brutal honesty.   And that there is a time for a gentler, though more unfamiliar, touch.  I just could never successfully make that distinction. People everywhere around me are hurting and breaking. And I am here on the sidelines, watching them hurt, with no practical avenues available to actually offer help.  And that feeling of helplessness is mercilessly suffocating my spirit.  It has me …

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Kid’s Table

It is a silent city’s final consequence, burdened by the feathered weight of a damaged angel’s broken wings.  Under the unexpected wreckage echoes a familiar, righteous wail, desperately screaming for an answer to what memories still live behind yellow eyes. Jaundiced cowardice.  Inebriated discoloration.  What matters the label when the world still burns and coughs, sputtering deathbed confessions ultimately destined for publication, much to the scavenging crowd’s grim delight?  What context can be teased from a final calculation when the underlying equation itself makes no sense? Everyone seems distracted in their naked delight witnessing the carnal carnival of someone else’s total collapse; everybody wanna see a falling star.  Distant disasters distractingly entertain and obfuscate, forcing the focus from introspective injustices to a more entertainingly contaminated conflagration. …

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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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