Spaghetti Western Dinner

I am constantly burdened by the persistence of memory. Reticent voices long discounted still ring hard in my head, echoing in the abandonments of singular infections still festering.  Silhouettes of possibility linger stubbornly in the tenuous fringes of a near total artistic collapse, refusing to budge from the balcony view of my corruption.  Shadows of former glories undocumented shatter the steady focus of consistency, poisoning the well and tarnishing the intentions born of unavoidable confrontations. I carry the balance of experience across the swamps of my confusion, struggling to gain solid footing in a world that just keeps shifting in its decay.  I crumble under the weight of my definition unfairly gained in the heated fling of unexpected disagreements.  I constantly exude the stink of predictable …

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Nipping Buds

An Open Letter to the Fairer Sex: I just do not understand it. For the past few years, I have heard more and more of my female friends being overly critical of their bodies.  They lament the unexpected changes and shifts.  They scramble to hide perceived “imperfections” with expensively unnecessary makeup and currently trendy fashions.  They constantly confess to feeling uncomfortable in their own skin to the point of undeniable inhibition. And I just do not understand it. Obviously, I realize that everyone has some inner issue with their body, some nagging flaw or fold that just doesn’t seem right as it screams its way into the forefront of self-awareness every single morning in the foggy bathroom mirror.  Hell, I wish that I had muscles hair …

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Day 96: The Grind

96 days. 42 posts. 41225 words and counting. Lots of tears and an almost embarrassing amount of whiskey went into the creation of these pages. And lots of beer.  And scotch.  And other convenient little helpers ingested just to temporarily ward off the loneliness and the echoing fears of a tomorrow unfairly promised and never quite arriving. There was also tear gas. And bullets, both peppered and rubber, fired at me in anger. And an almost insurmountable isolated isolation suffered for the sake of the common good. There was this pandemically mandated quarantine, locked down tight, here in this little flyover town. And finally, at last, the City of Wayne is opening itself back up, though in measured, impatiently hesitant steps. But, I’m not sure that …

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Day 75: Head In The Clouds (Of Tear Gas)

Thankfully, my city did not burn last night. But, we still marched. It began as a quiet and peaceful protest at the courthouse green, the nearly spontaneous gathering of a multitude of different genders, races, and generations from all across the City of Wayne, brought together in united solidarity to mourn the tragic murder of an innocent man.  It ended in a sea of misinformation, tear gas, and more arrests. The vibe was initially a mournful one, the chants of “we can’t breathe” and “justice for George” echoing hard off the court house walls, the universally American symbol of justice and unbiased decisions made for the sake of the common good.  For the briefest glimmer, skin color, economic backgrounds, and the other divisions far too often …

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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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