Stay Drunk, Ponyboy….

Another cold, empty winter is fast approaching- I feel it tonight in aging, creaking bones and I can smell it clearly on the winds blowing in hard from the west.  Memories of humid summer Indiana afternoons disintegrated under the blanket of an early darkness falling.  Thoughts of a hopeful spring rejuvenation, growing lush and green and virginal, are nothing but a distant mark in a rapidly crumbling recollection, bullied away by invasively invisible invaders all out on the hunt. And the final kill knows no season. Above me a limp, unimpressive skyline of an increasingly infected and judgemental City of Wayne tries unsuccessfully to hide itself behind the skeletons of trees blown bare from the incessant crawl of an isolated winter’s fatal touch.  Too many punctuating …

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Empty Bottles; Broken Promises

  She couldn’t; I always did. But there was never any real choice involved.  There was no enlightened resistance possible when caught in the gravity spiral pull of another night dragged into the swirl of her booze-fueled disconnect. It was always premeditated.  Our paths, and our roles, were predetermined long before we ever began that final heated collapse on a cold Christmas morning, ultimately leading us into just more miscommunication in a chain reaction disaster of conflicting intentions. It was just more indignity shouldered with bending back, watching her kissing the bottom of yet another fucking bottle.  Or several.  Stolen or purchased with sticky change salvaged from underneath wedged cushions- it never really mattered to her. Because to an addict, it always tastes the same. But …

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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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plague

Day 45: Play That Fiddle Music, Fool

The City of Wayne is burning tonight. I can feel the claustrophobic heat of the ever-encroaching flames, sitting here under the dying gasp of the twilight’s last gleam.  I can hear the chorused coughing cacophony of a city’s choreographed death rattle rattling.  I can smell the cloyingly unique stink of the pyre’s smoke blowing in through little windows originally opened in a last gasp attempt to finally breathe free.  Little did I know that it would only let in the muffled wheeze of distracted bad decisions, sharpening the precision focus on the desperately unmet desires of a single solitary guilty man. Many mutual mistakes were made that night, behind the masked bandit kiss of a pandemically inspired stolen embrace.  Harsh lessons were learned hours after, blowing …

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