Thin Ice

I walked the frozen streets of my little sleepy flyover city tonight. The arctic air strained hard at my chest. Each breath seemed filled with piercing little icicles of crisp uncertainty stabbing at exposed, tender flesh. A familiar ache coursed through veins pumping more whiskey than blood. But the night was brittlely cold and the gentle kiss of a familiar anesthetic promised me a temporary warmth. And I had to steal the significance of that moment. The streets were empty, save for the cast off traces of winter lingering hard in rapidly solidifying mountains of frozen inhibition piled by the roadside. A siren screeched somewhere in the night. The clarity of the air carrying the sound far longer than should be reasonable for such a late …

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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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wingssite

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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