He walked in like he fucking owned the place. He didn't, of course. But he'd spent enough in here to give it thought. Maybe he had earned a stock option. His clothes were unkempt. His whiskey neat.
He couldn't count the nights he'd wasted, sitting on this same stool getting wasted. It's easy to get lost in a bottle and thoughts. But there's no way to find yourself without first getting lost. Not to say he was lost. He just felt lost. Lost in routine. A more realistic adaptation of the American Dream.
He thought of another life, a different life. Another time, a different time. He sipped his whiskey. It was neat. His thoughts were blurred. He saw the answer in the bottom of the glass, but never found it. He only found himself lost once again. Lost in the glow of neon lights, lost in another of those sleepless nights.
He was a victim of the cultural norm.
Wake up, work, sleep, repeat. That's why his whiskey was neat.
The plot never changed, each M. Night he wept.
~
He walked in like the fucking place owned him. It did, of course. He'd spent enough hours in here to give it no thought. He sure as fuck hadn't earned a stock option. His clothes were preppy. He didn't make enough to justify keeping his desk neat.
The timeclock, the man, could count the days he'd wasted. Furthering his career, shortening his life. He couldn't help but get lost in those 40 hours. It's easy to miss a deadline. He didn't always miss. It just felt like it. Missed deadlines, missed opportunities. Missed was the routine, a realistic adaptation of the American Dream.
He thought of another life, a different life. Another time, a different time. He tapped away on that keyboard. His words per minute were high. His desk still not neat. No spreadsheet held the answer, but he kept looking. He only found himself lost once again. Lost in the glow of the monitor, lost in another of those stress-filled nights.
He was a victim of corporate America.
Wake up, work, sleep, repeat. That's why his desk wasn't neat.
The plot never changed, each M. Night he wept.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Saturday, March 1, 2014
I Watched Half of a Movie Starring a Guy Who Lost to my Dad in Tennis
He cracked his windows and lit a cigarette. It was cold outside, but not cold enough to mind. It was colder elsewhere. His mind raced, his car sputtered. He pulled over to think it over. He thought of better days. Different days. He turned a twelver box inside out, and put a pencil to that parchment. The parchment of the people.
"It's hard to say, but maybe that's when Paradise was lost. Maybe it didn't need to be found. Or couldn't be found.
Maybe it shouldn't be found.
Maybe it's an idea, or maybe a time. A stop at Willoughby, a chance to unwind.
Paradise. The perfect idea for an imperfect mind. A goal unattainable, a life unsustainable."
He read that back to himself, reassuringly. He didn't really know what it meant. Didn't really care. He liked to write, and that's what came out. He had a girl on his mind, and he didn't mind. She had been in his thoughts lately, after a long hiatus. She was never one to stay. Maybe that's what scared him. What enticed him.
He took a look down at his cigarette. Biting at the filter, he tossed it aside. Outside. He imagined it as a metaphor for the fleetingness of life, of relationships. He fancied himself clever. He kept that to himself.
He decided it was time to move on, just as she had done so many times before. He got back on the highway, that barren stretch of 51. It was usually that way. Just a few cars with a slight hug of every turn, the kudzu monsters with a blight hug of every fern.
He approached Memphis while she dreamt of it. Not knowing what to think when she realized that dream. But She was coming. Like the great quake on the New Madrid Fault, She was coming. No one knew when, but he had an idea. A feeling in his gut, an end to his rut.
She was a free spirit in the purest sense. In a free world where nothing's free. He realized that but she didn't. She would. Would she? She might, and He wanted to show her. He was fine with killing one dream if he could reawaken another. He feared the words would escape him when they mattered most. He picked up that parchment and listened to his ghost.
"It's hard to say, but maybe that's when Paradise was lost. Maybe it didn't need to be found. Or couldn't be found.
Maybe it shouldn't be found.
Maybe it's an idea, or maybe a time. A stop at Willoughby, a chance to unwind.
Paradise. The perfect idea for an imperfect mind. A goal unattainable, a life unsustainable."
"It's hard to say, but maybe that's when Paradise was lost. Maybe it didn't need to be found. Or couldn't be found.
Maybe it shouldn't be found.
Maybe it's an idea, or maybe a time. A stop at Willoughby, a chance to unwind.
Paradise. The perfect idea for an imperfect mind. A goal unattainable, a life unsustainable."
He read that back to himself, reassuringly. He didn't really know what it meant. Didn't really care. He liked to write, and that's what came out. He had a girl on his mind, and he didn't mind. She had been in his thoughts lately, after a long hiatus. She was never one to stay. Maybe that's what scared him. What enticed him.
He took a look down at his cigarette. Biting at the filter, he tossed it aside. Outside. He imagined it as a metaphor for the fleetingness of life, of relationships. He fancied himself clever. He kept that to himself.
He decided it was time to move on, just as she had done so many times before. He got back on the highway, that barren stretch of 51. It was usually that way. Just a few cars with a slight hug of every turn, the kudzu monsters with a blight hug of every fern.
He approached Memphis while she dreamt of it. Not knowing what to think when she realized that dream. But She was coming. Like the great quake on the New Madrid Fault, She was coming. No one knew when, but he had an idea. A feeling in his gut, an end to his rut.
She was a free spirit in the purest sense. In a free world where nothing's free. He realized that but she didn't. She would. Would she? She might, and He wanted to show her. He was fine with killing one dream if he could reawaken another. He feared the words would escape him when they mattered most. He picked up that parchment and listened to his ghost.
"It's hard to say, but maybe that's when Paradise was lost. Maybe it didn't need to be found. Or couldn't be found.
Maybe it shouldn't be found.
Maybe it's an idea, or maybe a time. A stop at Willoughby, a chance to unwind.
Paradise. The perfect idea for an imperfect mind. A goal unattainable, a life unsustainable."
Friday, February 14, 2014
And You'll Find Me Where the Bottle Landed
I never claimed the South, but the South claimed me. It had a good riff to go with the raff.
I emptied my wallet and put $15 on pump 4. The attendant didn't care where I was going, but still asked.
It was Valentine's Day, after all. I had a date. Not one worth sharing. It came in a bottle and didn't cost much.
But I had a preference. Not one I made clear.
I had very little interest in telling anyone, much less the lady in question.
I couldn't bring her down with this (relation)ship.
Not without notice. Not without a warning.
So I drove off. Off into the uncertainty. One day I'd tell her. One day too soon, one day too late. Did it matter? It was a losing bet. One where the underdog covers the spread, the favorite plays dead.
So I drove off. I ran on fumes until I hit Hughes, Arkansas.
There wasn't shit there that I didn't bring.
And I didn't bring good shit.
I emptied my wallet and put $15 on pump 4. The attendant didn't care where I was going, but still asked.
It was Valentine's Day, after all. I had a date. Not one worth sharing. It came in a bottle and didn't cost much.
But I had a preference. Not one I made clear.
I had very little interest in telling anyone, much less the lady in question.
I couldn't bring her down with this (relation)ship.
Not without notice. Not without a warning.
So I drove off. Off into the uncertainty. One day I'd tell her. One day too soon, one day too late. Did it matter? It was a losing bet. One where the underdog covers the spread, the favorite plays dead.
So I drove off. I ran on fumes until I hit Hughes, Arkansas.
There wasn't shit there that I didn't bring.
And I didn't bring good shit.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Bluegrass and Blue Lights
The trooper's eyes were the last I saw. Directly. They rolled back in his head as he kissed my fist.
The point of no return ran by me, looked back and winked.
Judging, mocking, taunting.
I took the car, took the bait, may as well have sealed my fate.
So I drove. And then I drove. That '97 Impala and me. What an odd couple we made. The lawless and the lawbringer.
The tires hugged those Kentucky hills, or were they mountains? Hills hug back, mountains just shrug. This drive kinda shrugged.
Out of indifference, or indignance.
And so I drove that mother fucker into the ground. The unforgiving ground. The only option was to walk from here. One can take sanctuary in these mountain towns. They felt like mountain towns to me. Maybe they were hills.
The weathered sign read Maysville, I think. The one "L" shrugged, as if not loved enough. Did it say Maysville, or had the sign become self-aware?
The point of no return ran by me, looked back and winked.
Judging, mocking, taunting.
I took the car, took the bait, may as well have sealed my fate.
So I drove. And then I drove. That '97 Impala and me. What an odd couple we made. The lawless and the lawbringer.
The tires hugged those Kentucky hills, or were they mountains? Hills hug back, mountains just shrug. This drive kinda shrugged.
Out of indifference, or indignance.
And so I drove that mother fucker into the ground. The unforgiving ground. The only option was to walk from here. One can take sanctuary in these mountain towns. They felt like mountain towns to me. Maybe they were hills.
The weathered sign read Maysville, I think. The one "L" shrugged, as if not loved enough. Did it say Maysville, or had the sign become self-aware?
Friday, July 19, 2013
A Cautionary Tale Just Like Any Other
It started like any cautionary tale. Just a boy with something to lose and someone to impress.
A fifth of whiskey, a battered 6-string, and the desire for something more. He was no hero. No, not a hero.
She was the type of girl who deserved a hit song.
The kind with a riff that makes you stop what you’re doing, and a chorus that makes you forget what that even was.
He found that riff in that there whiskey, but the words escaped him.
He lit his last cigarette and struck a conversation with the Devil.
The Devil smoked Marlboro’s too, but he smoked Reds.
The embers danced through the night sky like fireflies.
He was never a god-fearing man, no.
Didn’t much believe in the sort. He just liked to play it safe.
The Devil seemed like an unsavory character, but a likeable one at that.
The Devil was a bartering man. Penchant to acquiring souls.
A soul for a song.
A song for a pretty girl.
But the boy liked to play it safe.
The pair talked and talked. Striking a deal before the sun rose.
Despite his reputation, the Devil is a reasonable man, ya’ see.
Not so different from the rest of us.
Just fighting to stay relevant.
The boy downed the whiskey and grabbed his 6-string.
New-found confidence in tow, he had a heart to win.
He cut the record that night.
She heard it the next.
His soul still his own, he surely had her now.
And all it cost him was a writing credit in the leaflet.
The riff roared, awakening feelings unknown to her.
Each strum more powerful than the last.
She was his. This he knew.
The verse entranced— each note tugging harder at her skirt.
But he couldn’t do it alone.
This wasn’t just his song.
So he let the Devil sing the hook.
And sing the hook, he did. Each word tugging harder at her heart.
Where the Devil didn’t claim a soul that night, he took a heart with that hook.
And writing credits.
Writing credits that would forever be engraved in the young boy’s heart—reminding him of that night
he made a deal with the Devil and lost.
It ended like any cautionary tale. Just a boy with someone he lost, and no one to impress.
A fifth of whiskey, a battered 6-string, and the desire for something more. He was no hero. No, not a hero.
She was the type of girl who deserved a hit song.
The kind with a riff that makes you stop what you’re doing, and a chorus that makes you forget what that even was.
He found that riff in that there whiskey, but the words escaped him.
He lit his last cigarette and struck a conversation with the Devil.
The Devil smoked Marlboro’s too, but he smoked Reds.
The embers danced through the night sky like fireflies.
He was never a god-fearing man, no.
Didn’t much believe in the sort. He just liked to play it safe.
The Devil seemed like an unsavory character, but a likeable one at that.
The Devil was a bartering man. Penchant to acquiring souls.
A soul for a song.
A song for a pretty girl.
But the boy liked to play it safe.
The pair talked and talked. Striking a deal before the sun rose.
Despite his reputation, the Devil is a reasonable man, ya’ see.
Not so different from the rest of us.
Just fighting to stay relevant.
The boy downed the whiskey and grabbed his 6-string.
New-found confidence in tow, he had a heart to win.
He cut the record that night.
She heard it the next.
His soul still his own, he surely had her now.
And all it cost him was a writing credit in the leaflet.
The riff roared, awakening feelings unknown to her.
Each strum more powerful than the last.
She was his. This he knew.
The verse entranced— each note tugging harder at her skirt.
But he couldn’t do it alone.
This wasn’t just his song.
So he let the Devil sing the hook.
And sing the hook, he did. Each word tugging harder at her heart.
Where the Devil didn’t claim a soul that night, he took a heart with that hook.
And writing credits.
Writing credits that would forever be engraved in the young boy’s heart—reminding him of that night
he made a deal with the Devil and lost.
It ended like any cautionary tale. Just a boy with someone he lost, and no one to impress.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Two
A shot in the dark, a shot in the foot. Such is the progression of a past transgression.
Too soon, just right. No, just only for a night. Usher in the new year without a past fear.
A different chapter of the same book. A subtle glance, an innocent look. An awakened feeling when one is reeling. Not a chance I'm folding, no matter what you're dealing.
Stay the course, fight the fight. Reignite. It can't be wrong if it feels so right.
One is on you, two is on me. You can't strike out without trying for three.
Too soon, just right. No, just only for a night. Usher in the new year without a past fear.
A different chapter of the same book. A subtle glance, an innocent look. An awakened feeling when one is reeling. Not a chance I'm folding, no matter what you're dealing.
Stay the course, fight the fight. Reignite. It can't be wrong if it feels so right.
One is on you, two is on me. You can't strike out without trying for three.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
