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Writer's Block: Good Morning Heartache

What is something you worry about everyday? How long has it been plaguing you? Do you think you'll ever overcome it?

I don't worry too much anymore. Not trying to be nonchalant, there just comes a point where you realize, "Hey, there is going to be a nuclear apocalypse, why bother?" I guess I just worry that said nuclear apocalypse will never come.

I actually worry about silly things. I used to drink cranberry juice every night and in the morning i'd cough up a red thick substance I thought was blood. For a long time I thought I was dying. I worry that I will never be successful, I worry I will just fade when I am gone. I worry that there is no Heaven or Hell and that life is just some program. I think what I worry about the most is that I can never be good at anything. I have no talents nor am I skilled or have any training in any vocation. I guess when you boil it down, I am afraid I will never belong anywhere or find my place in life.

Sleep deprivation is a strength and a weakness.

Heh, 8 am already.

Writer's Block: Supersize me

Have you ever boycotted a company or product? If so, what was it, and what caused you to boycott it?

Ironically enough, I often try to boycott McDonalds. I can literally feel each bite decrease the quality of my life monetarily and physically but what always brings me back is not the taste of the close proximity to my workplace (Wal-Mart, I know I am a slave to the man.) What always brings me back is that somehow I find peace here. The colors are drab, the people seem to be straight up stereotypes and it is fly infested but it will always be here, and for what that is worth, sadly so will I.

Snow day

The frost stung at the windows that day. Snow fell in delicate waves, following paths to the ground, bleaching the world. Snow has a funny way of purifying, it doesn't actually clean anything, it just blankets and congeals. There was a man in all that white, wrapped up in scarf, sweater, jacket and hat. His eyes, a light gray, mocked the chilling wind. With every visible breath the man dragged a plastic trash can through a snow covered nook, the space between a house and a cement wall. His daily routine of sweeping dead leaves and pecans seemed useless now that his yard was covered. The snow made his un gloved hands too cold and the cold made his back hurt. He was starting to feel his age. In a desperate attempt to salvage what little work he had done, the old man trudged along the alleyway stopping only to set his half empty trash can amongst its kin. Nodding with a smudge of satisfaction he set for his next duty.
The night had not been kind to Holland, the freeze played tricks with her. Stabbing her when she was most awake and causing the passing unconscious shiver as she slept. The morning came but she did not fully wake. Instead, she slipped into her winter garments, at moments nodding off when the stress of moving was too much.
A sudden warmth came from a voice beyond the darkness of a child struggling to put on her winter wear. " Aye sweetheart, you need to wake up first. Clothes don't dress themselves you know!" A hearty laugh came from behind a door letting in a sliver of light.
Holland slipped into her light blue jacket, it was bloated on her but at the very least it kept her warm. It was not too long before she was sleeping again.
The old man was working on getting the last of his heavy clothing off. He loved to sit on his chair in overalls, working pants and long johns and watch the day go by. A retired construction worker he knew the meaning of hard work but he also knew the value of relaxation. His chair, a dusty old gray with grape juice stains on the outside, was a recliner and this old man took every advantage he could afford from it. Before the old man could really settle in, a knock came from the door beside him. His house was an odd shape, years of extensions and renovations had procured a maze of a home. The old man wobbled to his feet and again wobbled to the door.
"Oh, Michael! 7 o'clock already eh?" The old man scratched the white stubble on his and tried to produce a smile from his broken teeth.
"Hey, Dad. Listen, I am running a little late, here's Holly." A man stood in the door way with a child on his shoulder, his long black wooly coat kept them both toasty in the beating snow.
"Hey, it is Wednesday! Remember the deal! You make me fried chicken!" The old man licked his lips a little as he spoke.
"Damn you got me Dad! Fine fine. Friend chicken it is." The man sighed and walked into the maze. He looked around and set the blue covered girl on a couch overlooking the old man's chair. The two men said their 'good byes' and leaned to make a hug but Michael tried to dodge. The old man, experienced from years of dodgy children landed right on him and squeezed him tight. A pat on the head and they parted ways. The old man sat on his chair, gave the girl a quick glance, and whether from age or fatigue fell asleep.
Holland, in a short fit, awoke to find herself on her favorite couch. More grape juice stains littered this piece of furniture, She peeled herself off her resting place to the old man in the dirty chair, snoring his life away.
"GRAMPA!" She kicked his chair as she screamed. Her blue jacket's hood covering her face and the rest of it puffed up like a marshmallow.
"What is it, Peanut?" The old man cracked his eyes and stared into the 7 year old's face with sheer grump.
"That is lady Holland to you, grampa! Quit snoring you woke me up!" Her pout turned to a smile and she took off her hood, letting her short black hair loose, her brown eyes lit up at she scolded the old man.
"Yes milady." The old man winced, recalling a certain younger man pulling the same stunt on him.
This was their deal, in exchange for homemade fried chicken, Holland was kept out of trouble during her winter vacation, but apart from the everyday spilling of grape juice and long walks in snowy parks nothing peculiar happened in those days. Nothing normal really happened either.
The park they visited was barren of trees and stood as an ivory temple amidst the normal winter winds and stinging cold. A large stage was setup in the middle of the park. Two railing led up the stage, one flat ramp, the other a set of stairs. The stage itself was large, enough to hold several families in the summer months. But this time, the roofed stage was empty, not even the snow set down there.
Holland ran up and down the ramp touching the cold wet railings briefly forgetting her disposition. The old man sat at the top of the ramp, like a hooded sentry.
"Grampa." She said starting up her mouth, "Why do you call me Peanut?"
The old man, as if surprised, rebutted. "Why do you want to know?"
"I don't like peanuts Grampa." She stared at him.
The old man slightly raised the black trilby hat covering his face. "Well you see." He cleared his throat, pretending to be important. "When you were young..."
"How young?" Holland interrupted, her attention already rapted.
"Very young, you were inside your momma's belly." He answered, holding back a hint of anger.
"Like 2 years old grampa?" She interrupted again, this time her intent was obvious.
The old man gave her a strange look. "More like 2 months! You were the size of a peanut in your momma's belly. The first time I saw you I thought you were a peanut." He spurted each word out trying to beat his grand daughter to the punch. He waited a short time for her response. Holland stopped staring and ran down the ramp and around the stage. The old man, still awaiting a response, stared in her direction. The old man relaxed a little as she left his sight.
"That's it?" Holland was behind him now poking at the old man's hat.
"What's it?" The old man replied, startled and bothered.
"That is why you call me Peanut?" She continued to poke him.
The old man took the abuse and held onto his hat. "Yes yes! Geez! You are just like your father!" The old man straightened himself out and tried to regain some composure.
Holland stared at the back of his head as if ignoring him. "Grampa." She said, with her familiar starting tone. "Grampa." She continued.
The old man stood up and dusted himself off, paying special attention to his hat. "Yes, Peanut?" He responded. "What is it?" He said when he heard no immediate response.
The young girl walked in front of him and stared up at him, her hood was on again, making it hard for the old man to see most of her face. "Grampa, what is a lich?"
The old man's body shook as if her words had a physical impact. He looked down at her, squinted, he could see her eager smile. "Your dad reading those books to you again?" He asked and only received a nod. "Well, Holland." He tried to sound important without clearing his throat. "A lich is a powerful wizard that transfers his or her soul into a corpse so that he or she may live forever."
Holland started to swing her body back and forth, tapping the old man with her hands with each pass. "Like a zombie, Grampa?"
The old man stared down, surprised. He pretending her taps were knocking him back and took a step after each swing. "Zombies? Your dad read that book to you too!?" His back to the railings surround the stage, he took abuse from Holland's light slapping and the sting of the snow behind him. She nodded in between a pair of slaps.
"Kind of like a zombie but they use magic and are a lot harder to kill." He finally responded trying to block her slaps.
"A shotgun won't work, Grampa?" She made a shooting motion with both hands.
The old man couldn't believe what he was hearing, shotguns, liches, and zombies? Was this his son in front of him or his grand daughter? He let out a nervous laugh and pretended to be blown back against the railings. "No, you can't kill them like that. You need to find their phylactery and destroy it."
"Phyl... Dr. Phil? You need to destroy Dr. Phil, Grampa!?" She stumbled on every word and let out a fake gasp. Hands on her cheeks and mouth open she shook her head! "Not Dr. Phil, Grampa! Momma loves Dr. Phil!"
The old man stared at her and raised an eyebrow. He let out a hearty laugh. " No, Peanut! Phyl-act-ery." He made a box shape with his hand. " It is where a lich hides their soul."
"Oh... Phil actor eee. What is it though, Grampa?" She slanted her head as she asked.
The old man, rubbed the white stubbles on his chins. "I just told you!" He pretended to be angry.
Obviously confused and still head slanted, Holland stared at him. " No, I mean, is it a boxee, or a bally, or a rooster?" She made the shotgun motion with her hands again and pretended to shoot at roosters "Ker-pow!!"
"Oh!" The old man grumbled and cleared his throat through the grumble." Well, it can be anything, like a lamp or a box. Just as long as it has a soul in it."
"Grampa!" She interrupted his last few words. "If you was a lich where would you put your soul?" She ran around him, still shooting imaginary roosters with her imaginary shotgun.
The old man stared down at her, moving his head as she spun around. "I'd put mine in a quarter, Peanut, then spend it!"
Peanut dropped her shotgun and stopped the ghost rooster hunt. "Grampa, you've been thinking about this, huh?"
The old man smiled and stared into the desolate park. It had stopped snowing but it was still white as far as the eye could see. He saw himself playing with his son, using a swing in the distance. He saw his son fighting legions of zombies with his imaginary hand gun. He saw his son searching deep in the sandbox on a summer's day searching for a phylactery. The snow seemed to peel back time, opening the gray day to many blue. The ocean of white was a bright green and all those years were suddenly back, right in front of him. It was bitter cold outside but the old man felt a warmth rise within him. He stared down at Holland. "Let's go home and eat some chicken, Peanut." She nodded and they both started down the stage.
It began snowing again harder and harder as the two braved the five blocks from the park to their home. Michael's car was parked in front of the snow covered home. The three conversed about chicken and liches as the day turned to night and it was time for the two children to up and leave.
On the drive home, Holland was dwindling her fingers in the front seat. She turned to her father and asked, "Dad if you were a lich what you make your Dr. Phil out of?"
Michael, turned to her a bit and raised an eyebrow. He continued to look a head and keep his mind on driving. " What?"
"I mean, phylactery, Daddy. What would you make your phylactery?" She stared at the right side of his face.
"Ha ha!" His cheeks reddened. She could see a thousand memories flood his mind. "I'd put mine in a penny." The two laughed as their car sped along.
"Daddy." She used her provoking voice again. "Why does Grampa call you Jellybean?"
Her father shook with laughter. "Well, it started when I was 2 months old and in my mom's stomach..."

Million Dollar Turtle

Demitri thrusted the doomed fly deep into the plant's gaping maw. It shut slowly, releasing an aura of content. Demitri only fed his Venus flytrap on days when he felt like feeding his life to that green oblivion. Today was one such day. Demitri awoke, not really awake but conscious, a few minutes before and felt the tension of such an early day. His dirty blond hair stood up on his right side, the side he slept, and he had grown a bit stubbly seemingly overnight. His plants lay in a window pane on the way to the bathroom, on a normal day he would pay them no mind, but today he felt all but strange as he crept like a zombie to a door that lay bathed in light down a short narrow hall.
While preparing for his day, Demitri tried to recall the occurrences of the night before only to pull up Ritz crackers. How he loved his Ritz crackers. The thought of the crackers he loved so elevated his stance. Now he could reach the sink. He prepared for his day, scraping skin and hair off his face, making a vague attempt at fixing his hair, and hitting the radio. The day held much for him that he knew was inevitable. Demitri felt as if his life became an inevitability. Skipping breakfast and most of the morning, Demitri, who had slept in his work clothes was already off to work.
Demitri drove a hardy and worn Ford Focus, a common sight in his town as there had been a Ford factory in his town for many years. The factory had shut down 6 months ago, 3 whole months after his father's death. Neither event seemed to wholly shake Demitri but he was the kind to throw his worries to the back of his head. East Park, a pleasant town if such a thing existed was small and had a constant homely feel to it. It was constantly dry, but not from heat or weather. This impassive community, was the result of many years of everyone knowing everyone. Every father worked with another father or the like and the Ford Motor Company owned them all.
Demitri's car radio was playing one of his favorite tunes by an artist he only referred to as Ms. Fitzgerald. His mind wandered off as he drove. Into a place where maybe he came, saw and conquered the one he loved, an imaginary woman with long black hair and even longer white legs. Before he knew it, his journey had ended and he was at work. A small office naturally called "Real Estate". He loved where he worked and loved selling homes but lately they had him doing a new matter entirely. Enter Appraisal: a practice of mostly tragedy. It was gruesome to tell someone what their entire life is worth in a dollar amount. None of this really phased Demitri, telling John and Jan Does how much their home was worth was actually a concept that worked better with an obscure amount of anonymity. He picked up his papers and was on to his quest of retail value.
The first two homes were almost clones with each other, bad roofing, bad plumbing, the usual. He passed the details on to the owners and each went their own way. He completed this with machine precision and near machine ruthlessness. What happened to these Does was of little concern to him.
"Hey, there Demmy, if I knew it were you that was a' comin', I would have cleaned up a bit." An aging man, mid 50s stood to greet Demitri in the front porch of his third home.
"Sanders?!" Demitri yelled in both trepidation and excitement.
The two exchanged protocol in a strange way, punching each other in the gut while they spoke about the old times. Sanders was a friend of Demitri's father, his best friend in fact but could not have children of his own. Much of the raising Sanders did was of Demitri and his siblings. Sanders was ready to leave East Park just like so many before him when the factory went defunct. The factory stood there towards the center of town, what was once the heart is now a tumor gathering dust and poison memories. Demitri had worked there for a short time with Sanders and his own father but moved on to real estate when he realized his languor when it came to physical work. Sanders often teased him for leaving for a lower paying job but this baggage has a way of sticking with someone.
It was still his job to check on the house, the memories flooded back to him. Demitri used to box his dad on that wooden stage in the back. His brother used to throw rocks at him from those now dying trees. Demitri's sister would draw pictures on a now decrepit shed. The old home was falling apart. It suddenly struck Demitri, his whole town, his whole life was being torn asunder. His father was gone and it seemed everything he stood for was leaving along with him. The grown man felt as if a young boy standing amidst a sea of memories and a life. The town had changed and little Demmy along with it.
Demitri could not break the news to Sanders, that what was left of his life had no numerical value to it, that 20 odd years of loving memories now accounted for absolutely nothing. He told him a lie about much needed calculations and head on to his fourth house to finish off the day.
Mr. Armstrong was pouring out those blues late this afternoon and like the man Demitri was he drank it all down. Tears filled his weary eyes and made it difficult to drive but none the less he made it to his destination.
Demitri regained some of his composure and tried to talk to the first person to answer the door.
" Que? Uh, Senior no habla ingles!" The elderly woman motioned to him as if confused but like instinct she beckoned to a young boy. " Mijo!" She called to him.
Demitri interrupted, he had been doing this job long enough to know enough Spanish to get by. He made an attempt to speak to the two, explaining why he was here and asking for permission to look at their home. The old woman agreed and the young boy followed him around. Their family was also leaving the town, the old woman's son and grandson both worked at the factory but now had trouble holding a job in this now unforgiving town and it was time to pick up and move on. Demitri saw himself and his family in this house, playing, running, being kids. He took a few steps around the home and realized he would not be able to tell this family either, they were just like him, living a broken life that no longer existed and clinging desperately to what the factory once lovingly supplied. He tried to use the same lie he did with Sanders but the old woman was busy. On his way out of the house the young boy stopped him and handed him a round pocket stuffed with meat and normal Mexican fixings. Demitri smiled at the boy, motioned his happiness and left.
The drive home was an arduous one, what the town had once been haunted Demitri with every turn and with every stop. He wondered if it was all for nothing. He wondered if every fond memory, if all these homes that Ford built really had any value in the long run, if all these lives really meant anything in the long run. His mind was swamped with doomed theories. He parked outside his home and accepted it, we are all nothing. 20 years of his life and the lives of countless others was inevitably nothing. While leaving his car he noticed an object struggling across the road in front of his house. A turtle about a foot in size was trying his luck to get across. There was obviously nothing important on the other side of the road but Demitri noted the turtle's determination. It did not look back once, it just held up its head and wiggled across. As Demitri stared at the turtle he noticed a car heading up from the distance. It stirred him, if his life was worth nothing to him, maybe it could mean salvation to some random turtle. He ran toward the turtle, striding his legs as best he could. He grabbed the turtle and leapt toward his front yard. The car, a Ford explorer narrowly missed the two and honked loudly as it passed. Demitri, still panting gave the turtle a pat and released it onto his yard. He picked himself up and dusted himself off. Dark clouds hung overhead, Demitri smiled at them.
"Looks like rain." Demmy said to himself almost laughing. He walked off into an aura of content, his dirty blond hair moving in the breeze.

Mas mas poetry.

Screw that

I am not wrath. But damn I do hate it when
People grab me
Pick me up
And bite on my head just to put me down again.
I am not a saint but Jesus Christ,
Please put my cap back on.
I must be in Hell.
They use me
And use me.
I do not need feelings to know what I am worth.
Less than the blood you pour out of me.
Less than the paper you scrap when you are done.
I don't see you biting
That page
Or that desk.
Not even a fork gets this kind of treatment.
I am as valuable as the air you breath.
You are nothing without me.
How else will you tell anyone anything?
Stain the page with your blood?

I wonder

You know and I wonder.
So please tell me...
Why don't the stray cats ever say hello?
Aren't all gardens for eating?
What is so pretty about a plant's sex organs?
Doesn't the infinite dog conference bother anyone else?
If getting drunk makes you sick why do you do it?
Does hiding in the cover make my problems go away?
Can you build a pillar to the moon?
Will the problems ever go away?
What is world 'piece' anyway?
Don't the moths know the flame will burn them?
Is there really a worst time?
How many questions can I ask without sounding negative?
What are the chances of the sky falling?
What is a poem?

You say worn, I say soft

Gray by default but black with time. My skin grows flimsy with each passing month. The children that stabbed me with their sharp fingers now stroke my arms and leave their hair.
I was once a monument to my time. Firm and rough now sags and fluffs. There was one that always treated me the same. He gave me an eye each passing day.
The years passed and that one no longer came. Did they leave him on the side of the road?
I have trouble making my legs kick and my back stiffens with every touch and go.
The years still come and go. I saw the babies grow to have babies.
I have seen every show on television.
I have seen every graduation and every birthday.
I saw his funeral. There was no side of the road. Not for ones like him.
They tire of me, this I know. My legs won't kick without a good shove.
My back flops with an ounce of strain.
I want a funeral not a side of the road. I have been here as long as that one.
Please, Oh lord God, don't leave me on the side of the road.
Please God, just let this couch die.

Mas poetry

Even the Best of us may Hang

This tie, a chromatic noose.
Her eyes, bifocals of a time I can't remember.
This chair, my last podium. My terrible Pride.
I told her I would not have it. I told her and I told her.
She never did listen.
This scourge I lift from my breath, but a whimper in the night.
A faint caw.

We had substance that the gods themselves did Envy. Perhaps that is why they have stricken me so. It left a mark I could not articulate. It pulses in my head. Why did she betray me?

That man that was not me. That love that was not mine. That Lust that held your throat.
Those arms have no space for two. These eyes still locked on you.
My only one.

I grew Fat on those words you fed me. As I am sure you grew Fat on mine.

She did not listen. My words went through, floating on a gentle breeze. She Slept while standing, right in front of me.

I sought reason. I sought control. I sought to dominate. I sought it all. As once I had.

You would not listen.
Her deaf was my death.

For the Last Time

I once had a problem with lying. Oh the stories I would tell.
I killed a man once you know? I used only my pinky.
I broke my leg trying to fly off my roof.
I told everyone at church my name was Josh. I told her I loved her. My car is in terrible shape because it is a lemon.
I want to be a teacher. I am a devout Catholic. I would never kill a child.
You were my biggest inspiration. I don't miss him at all.
I never cry.
My printer was broken. I know exactly what love is.
I never inhaled. I need to go home.
I never felt bad about lying until the moment I grew up. Now, I can't lie without it weighing heavily on me.
Because in reality, I can't tell the difference anymore.

Ode to the song I can't remember

To the song I can't remember whose title I do not know. To you, I sing with doos and dahs, a song I do not know.
I'll hum and mumble every off-key note.
To you the song, for whom my memory will not hold. Your beat, the taps of digits on my desk. Your rhythm, a distant dosey doh?
Your artist probably turns in his pit.
His a legacy is now my morning shave.
Do not damn me with your knowledge, oh song of songs.
Next time I won't sing you wrong.

Knife's Edge

"Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today, I want to be a part of it, New York, New York!"
Wails and moans bellowed into the night sky painting the gray sky a new color. Blue. I could see it on their faces, a color I have know so intimately myself. It was your standard wake, women and children sitting down giving silent praise, men trying hard not to shed a tear. They all wore black, for the most part, I did spy some strange cartoon ties or ruby red shoes. What a way to honor the dead! Splash in a little color!
I stood in the back, amongst the filled benches and empty walls. I decided to tough it out as the bright clad stranger looming in the back, every sad moment had one. Unlike the ocean of black and mahogany before me, I wore a simple bleach white dress. It made me feel androgynous, tart even, but I had a lot of memories attached to this dress. It was on me while I actually mourned someone or maybe something. I was the one with those ruby red shoes but I cherished someone different entirely. Nor was I ready to cry for my purpose. This was why I was here, to cry, but it seemed fruitless when I arrived. You'd think sobbing voices and watery eyes would be enough to make any presence sorrowful. But I stuck out, like snow storm in July, I stuck out. They all whispered tales for Vincent, a man who walked two bottles too close to his own car. No, mine had a different name. Coren, a dead man just like Vincent but he was not in this church. I did know where he was, only that he is now dead.
Back then, wherever I went, crows followed. They darkened everyday. Now that I think of it, perhaps for some time I fell into madness. No one else could see these crows and they never quite acted as crows do, pecking and swooping aimlessly. No, these crows laughed at me and stared and laughed. My husband had been dead for almost 3 years, before then there were no crows. My husband for 4 years, Matthew, was a carpenter he moved as if by the will of some divine force with chisel and knife across endless planks and flooring. His absolute favorite thing to do was carve small animals into our support beams. He said it was for our children. We tried many times but the children never came. No, the only pitter patter came from my own little feet, an emptiness I can't even begin to describe. I would often find myself holding my belly with my eye closed and waddling across our wooden floor, trying to imagine the children that would never walk through there. Matthew said I looked like an ancient penguin looking for hope in a barren wasteland. With that in his head he embarked on a grand project. I came home late from work one day to find Matthew crushed under a large ebony carving of a penguin. Always the dreamer, to this day, I still don't forgive him. I hate those damn birds.
Crows, crows, crows. Everyday was rainy, even when there wasn't a cloud in the sky. After Matthew died, I found myself at his grave every time I missed him, naturally it was everyday. But everyday turned into every Friday which in turn changed to every month. Subsequently, I forgot why I was even at his grave, I had forgotten Matthew and tiny feet. I forgot the pitter patter. There were only crows when I met Coren.
He would often fight me to this day about the details of our first encounter but I do remember something. He was at the cemetery I frequented, drunk to high heaven singing, "These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray right through the heart of it, New York, New York!" He forgot the words as he strayed to and fro. There were evident, "Yadda yadda New York!" and even a few minutes of drunken humming right before he passed out at my feet. It was snowing like hell. Shards of frozen glass and glacial bone fell from above. I feared for this stranger's life. Maybe I saw my Matthew in him, a grown man crippled under a weight they brought upon themselves, or maybe the cold and the crows convinced me it was bad to leave a man there to die, no matter how distraught. I took the poor idiot home, dragging him with whatever strength fate could afford me and tossing him into my car. He burped and hick upped unconsciously the whole way. The drunk idiot.
Once home, I threw him in a room I once hoped to use as a nursery, it was still filled with the life of baby blues and princess pinks when I rolled Coren in. His body was limp and he was still breathing but good Lord did he smell terrible. I closed the door quietly and headed to bed myself. In the middle of the night, common sense got the better of me and woke me up. There is a strange man in my home! What the hell was I thinking? What sudden clairvoyance had guided me to bring a strange drunken man into my home! It was like putting an unconscious lion in your lap, sooner or later it was bound to come to it's senses and cause some real damage. In this half awake demeanor, I fell asleep with a broom in hand like a soldier with a rifle right in front of the door. That was how I met Coren, just some drunk I adopted for a night. He left that morning, somehow without awakening me, and did not take or leave anything. I did not see him again for many weeks nor did I come anywhere near that cemetery. There were no more crows.
The black began to move. Amongst the lost ones I was a skinny dove surrounded by crows of all sizes. Their cries for Vincent grew louder, almost unruly. I guess I had missed the priest who would talk about how God can give and take away. The crows formed a line that weaved in and around benches, circling to Vincent who laid in the middle. Poor Vincent, an eternity of lying is all the awaits you. They stared at his corpse as they walked by, filling the air with their sniffles and deep drawn breaths, that was the saddest music of all. No tears rolled down my face. I snaked following the flow of the line and recalled my Coren.
I did end up back at the cemetery again. As soon as I approached Matthew's grave I was hit by a smiling face. A short field of trimmed crimson hair accented by three walls of black hair. Glasses and a trimmed beard greeted me. This was the first time I actually saw Coren. Before then he was nothing more than a random thug covered in rags, snow, and liquor. I remember thinking him quite handsome but my mind was still on my Matthew. He introduced himself only as Coren, and until a few hours ago, was the only thing I knew him by. Coren lived right behind the cemetery. After almost an hour of conversation, I found I hadn't come to grieve my Matthew at all, I came looking for a drunk singing old Sinatra tunes, what I found was Coren.
The world is sanguine, covered in the blood of our suffering, even those who don't know are dying in there own eerie little ways. I used to really believe in that, I did more than believe it, I sang that tune every time there was silence, I lighted those candles every night. When the world gave me darkness, I gave it a grin and shoved darkness right back at it. Coren was the fire to my ice. Shortly after meeting him, I learned the day I saved him from the cold clutches of inebriated graveyard death was the day he thought he was meant to die.What a romantic fool. Coren was born alone, his mother died giving him life. I guess he always felt he killed her. He was drunk because he had grown up an item of the state, never had a family. That day, he lifted bottle after bottle, missing a mother he never met, thankful yet filled to the brim with remorse, cheap drink and song. That night I saved him, he shook himself out of the door stared at me for about an hour. Broom in my hand I laid at the door guarding it in some fit for my own safety. He leaned in kissed my forehead said "Thanks, Mom." and left.
I finally reached Vincent. Motionless black suit with a dark purple tie. Stiff arms laid crossed over his stomach and into the open infinite of his ebony casket. He was more handsome in that box than he probably ever was in life. His long brown hair rested at the side of his head, I'd say was at least 50, a life long enough to live but short enough to not dwell on regrets. Some of us seem to have been born with regrets. I bent over and gave this gentleman a kiss on his cheek. "Take it with you." I whispered into his deaf ears. Maybe someone somewhere will hear me and pass it on.
I thought I was in love with Coren, but he was smarter than that. He turned down every motion I made towards him. I was just tired of being alone. He was a lost accountant, I, a lowly writer. The chemistry is almost obviously catastrophic. I grumpily tossed him aside with every kiss he deflected but he followed me, worse than those damned crows he followed me. I often talked about my Matthew and he took in every word, I told him about the children I'd never have and he'd tell me about parents he always wanted. One day, as if out of the clear blue, Coren told me something I'd never forget.
" We all live on a knife's edge, ya know? You might wanna see what is on the other side and take that fall or you might wanna stay on this side of the knife your whole life, ya know?" He reached his hands towards the clouds while he said it. Pushing up his glasses with every 'ya know'.
It was my supreme discontent to find that Coren had a gambling problem. He never told me about but I had always somehow knew. A man doesn't lose his car and home one day only to have a bigger house and car a week later. He borrowed a ton of money to fuel his habit. Sometimes his 'borrowing' was of the illegal type and was with the very same.
Vincent, I know you don't know me, but I am glad you were alive and hey, 50 years is a good time. You seem to have left a great family and a lot of wonderful. If you could measure up someone's life by the amount of tears they left when they died then you, Vincent my friend, must have been a king. I decided to take my leave of this flock of crows and head back to my own nest. My car waited patiently a block away, none of the mourning birds noticed me in entry or exit, my random funeral home caper went off without a hitch. I knew the drive home would be a long one.
"Police said to have found the car of Magnus Coren Mendoza in the Saint Francis river. Mendoza was known to have many mob connections and was in under investigation for 4 counts of money laundering. No body was found but investigators suspect foul play was involved." Magnus!? His name was Magnus? I laughed for several minutes when I heard the news, but it really sank in when I walked across my wooden floor. Pitter Patter. I felt my stomach fall into itself and a giant crow perched in front of me staring with endless red eyes.My Matthew... My Coren (Ha ha! Magnus?!)... I collapsed in shock, those red eyes never stop staring, I felt them in my dreams. A week after I got the news, I grabbed my mail and decided to head to my husband's grave. It was just rock and dirt now. Rock and dirt can't rip out your heart like this. On my way I thought of Coren. Each mile grew more intense, I just couldn't bear it and drove without thinking, without hearing, without being. I ended up in a funeral home, Magnus C. Mendoza funeral home. I did not even notice the sign, my grief was too great. I read Vincent Costanella and walked right in and stood in the back staring at the flock of crows, my old friends.
I felt like I found some peace on my long drive. The mail was still sitting against my passenger seat. I instinctively reached for the biggest one and found the biggest surprise of my life.
A silhouette of some grand statue in front of the setting sun. She stood proud, her crown pointing to the heavens. Her face frowning but proud with an aura of strength. I was puzzled from the postcard. I turned it over.
"Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today
I want to be a part of it - New York, New York
These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it - New York, New York
I wanna wake up in a city, that doesn't sleep
And find I'm king of the hill - top of the heap
These little town blues, are melting away
Ill make a brand new start of it - in old New York
If I can make it there, Ill make it anywhere
Its up to you - New York, New York"

Random poetry.

I hate poetry. So much.

Consider the Wolf

Legs laid out like a compass.
An incoherent wish.
Two orbs shine without love,
Hatred or the like.
Those hungry mouths,
awaiting those laid out legs.
A chance never had.
A beast in a car playing possum.
I stared into the face of sin,
But saw only you and I.

How the Dice Rolls
It is my great misfortune to say we are falling.
Every infant and child, every man and woman who posses a soul.
We are all falling, over the edge into the hole.
Through this endless spiral we all fall, in and out of God's memory.
As if we never existed.
Save your tears, they will be washed by the current.
Save your screams, for they can not be heard.
In this great abyss we live, falling to the corner of Time's great Eye.
Breathe this breath as if it were your last.
It is as a twin to your first.
Savor everyone between

Say something.
Something wild.
Something optimistic.
Something, child.
Say something that will stick.
Like candy I can lick.
Give me words I can hang.
Words with a bang.
Give me text give me numbers.
Give me jumbles, give song.
Baby, promise you love me, and I'll hold you all night long

How to be a Father
Never hit without good reason. Never get carried away.
Never use anything but your hands. Never pick up the wrong bottle.
Never say one thing and mean another. Never say 'Because I said so.'
Never answer with 'I Don't Care'. Never do what you'll regret.
Never turn on the TV until you say 'Hello'. Never forget why you earn money.
Never go to bed without saying 'Goodnight'. Never stop teaching.
Never ignore a bad dream. Never forget a day.
Never take the world home. Never say never.