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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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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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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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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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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