Insomnia

There is a certain stagnation that results from living with the constant burden of unpredictability, caught inexplicably immobile as the first hesitant sparks of an upcoming war that threatens to be anything but civil rain down upon the desiccated tinder of everyone’s day to day good intentions, just waiting for the right mistake to catch and take hold. An accompanying exhaustion, crippling and numb, often robs the restful sleep so desperately needed and replaces it instead with the regret-filled void of decade’s old sin.  It is a wickedly infectious insomnia, red and raw, twirling around a ticking clock whose only remaining function is to lie convincingly about the time. And all I can do is simply lay there in silent subjugation, night after sweat-soaked night, watching …

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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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Loathing the Fear in Wayne’s City

The Republic is undeniably burning tonight. And all the accompanying fears seep in hard and unrelenting through the smoke, probing and penetrating daily against secretive hushed boundaries in  surprisingly offensive retaliation for our uniquely dysfunctional national immaturity still unraveling nightly on the world’s stage. Fear that is never quite fully mitigated; an underlying uncertainty that never seems rationally moderated.  The terror that is neglectfully left unrestrained and unsupervised on the naked battlefield of our pandemically tainted zeitgeist.  The constant unchecked gluttonous extinguishment of weary victims keeps occurring, even long after that supposed final shot.  Or that untrained uniform squeeze.  Or the metallic click of unjustified handcuffs.  Or an unmasked cough’s wet rattle. So the cities are caught in the grip of violent protest tonight. Citizens march …

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Only Quitters Quit

DISCLAIMER:  I am fine.  No need to text, call, or post.  Just another dark night of the soul spent inside my head within the confines of this City of Wayne.  And I’m getting the demons out in the most transparent manner available to me.  Because fuck secrets.  But if you, or someone you know, is currently struggling, there is no shame in reaching out to the N.S.P.L: 1-800-273-8255. There are seldom healthy choices left to make when drowning unsupervised in the exhausted collapse of another bottle’s last splash. There are usually just invasive regrets that linger in the shadows, as the day inevitably surrenders itself over to the dark, an opaquely familiar and dependable foe so persistently insistent in its tick-tock regularity. The steadily irregular rhythm …

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Operation Frequent Wind(s)

What happens to truth when everything around you has become ironic? And that is all I see around me these days, ironic icons and images and gify-emblems of social masturbation, bleeping and blooping, gleaming and glistening in our every day-to-day, just cheap Chinese plastic dreams imported to sustain a never-ending parade of stylishly-clad cheap Chinese plastic Holden Caulfield wanna-be’s, even though he actually had the balls to disappear inside the bowels of the big Apple City, instead of just whining and blogging about the great nothingness of it all. But no one ever dreams of going in the rye anymore.  Everyone is far too busy texting, tweeting, or taking an endlessly pointless stream of digitally-fingered food photos because, hey, look…they have food.  Like that has somehow …

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