The Gambler

The compulsion is to just get on the road and drive. Thoughts of forward momentum creep into every moment that I am unable to keep myself properly distracted in rational, adultingly productive containment. They constantly consume my sleepless overnights, that predictable collection of empty hours spent tossing and turning, like a hastily rented car pin-balling south through the mountains. This stagnation is choking my hesitant possibilities. The cookie cutter repetition of each day spent alone melts into the next, just like the limp and deflated traces of the last of the winter snow whimpering just outside the windows of this little blue house. They combine predictably into this tick-tock symphony of stale blandness that bores me to the point of ridiculous self-harm and the compulsive looping …

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Duality

The hilarity of opposition tickles me tonight, as I sit and begin to drink type away another Friday night here in this nervous and twitchy City of Wayne. Creatively, things have never been better.  My first book is out in the wild– and doing surprisingly well, considering both the subject matter and the fact that it was written by an emotional toddler, banging away unsupervised on an antique typewriter for the seductive amusement of his fickle and fleeting muse. But it is out there.  And that is something. The heat rising up from the Smoky Mountains intensifies with every rekindling text message sent and eagerly received.  It’s been a hilariously intense reconnection, making it ridiculously difficult to keep those early promises made to not catch feelings.  …

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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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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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