We sleep in the abandoned house On top of a worn, rough carpet. Small creaks are heard underneath From floorboards, that are Exposed in spots Revealing coats of wax and stain.
We wait for morning’s blur Pushing ourselves up With scuffed hands, still soft After the night’s search For baubles & bits worthy of trade From dumpsters, the urban Pandora’s Box.
You found a book, still new Though its cover is creased Said you’d become a writer Said it’s already been written ...Somewhere.
The city seems to flicker. We wait ‘til afternoon To take a shower at the center Looking for a cure to the night.
In the rec room There’s television news in the periphery Featuring the fallen... Car wrecks and shopping malls Losses of temper & savings accounts. Fashion zombies writing best sellers. Cops, cops, and more cops. Snow at five, touchdown at six. Stay tuned for murder at eleven.
The walls at the center glisten But so does everything. Oil shapes our safety From the gloves that handle our births To the glossy final finish in a box. Life unravels in microfibers. Even the old floor we sleep on Is topped with a polymer that flakes Its bits colored like peanut brittle.
An insane medium sits in a corner Next to a group of schizophrenics. She says, “Pick a fate. Any will do. But it must be done not as you, but by another you. Amass! Amass! Be a mass cookie cutter Fender bender, beach comber Record collector, gas cap aficionado, murderer. This isn’t reality TV, this is reality.”
We pick perfection as our fate One where our bare Feet glide across a tiled floor All smiles To a refrigerator filled With presents to ourselves, where The fat has gelled inside our ground beef And broccoli, still firm In its plastic bag. On shelves, there are jars of berry preserves As red as the day they were picked. There is a real bed, with a comforter We would make love.
Millionaires and sports heroes have come to the center to serve turkey to the homeless. It must be Thanksgiving. A news crew is here to tell the story About how real they are How clever they are to have picked their fate. They seem uncomfortable handling mashed potatoes. The medium smiles at us and helps herself to a huge portion Of cranberry sauce. She says, “Fate is that little dog that won’t stop barking At everything and nothing.” And she laughs, mimics a dog bark. Her lips are stained a weird kind of pink.
The cooked turkey is greasy, Oily. It’s basted in something unique. Our fingers become slick We lick them dry while heading back to The abandoned house Carrying leftovers.
You’re wearing your jeans The ones you have worn a hundred times. I know them so well I’ve memorized the weave Of their blue threads and The one button that won’t stay buttoned. It is as if you’ve written these memories down Inside of me...somewhere. We lie down on the ragged carpet Waiting for the night. I kiss your lips. They are softer than any other Lips in existence.
Danny sat beneath the Washington side of the Interstate Bridge 14-years-old, drinking a six pack of Lucky Lager Stolen from a warehouse near the railroad tracks. Warm beer. Lucky L had jokes underneath the bottle caps Silly verse on jagged tin, which he Stuffed into pockets of his Fort Vancouver jeans Worn out to near dust before the school year started Purchased in the boys' department of Sears On Main Street, a block from Kiggins Theatre Named after someone he didn’t know Or for that matter, gave a shit about.
A few feet above his head Cars travelled from one state to another Cool-like, 70 miles-per-hour plus. Their tires sounded electric… Rippling…as if they were lost static Flying into ether, with a polyrhythmic crunch. They hit sections of steel Truss thumping upon truss Large pulses of movement. The world felt like it was breaking into pieces. Any minute, he expected it all to come undone. Any minute, he wished for something to come undone.
Next to the Interstate Bridge Sat the Thunderbird Inn at the Quay Its deck dangling over the dead river Supported by a maze of oiled logs Poles stuck upright Into the shallow muck of the shore. A victim of the Bonneville Dam Creating a wooden maze, a black forest underneath An invitation to a secret mission for a bored kid With nowhere to go for no reason, irresistible. Danny thought “Remember that kid from a few Years back? The one who drowned, crawling Underneath the Thunderbird? What was his name?” He didn’t remember. But he remembered the kid’s crewcut.
The Columbia River never moved Unless you swam in it, against the current That’s when you look towards the shore And notice you weren’t getting anywhere Like being leashed to the banks, chained While the river licked you with its green tongue Of pea soup ripples and algae blooms. Never drink it, but swim until The big ships come, hoping to ride the wakes Like a lost rollercoaster car.
Danny only crossed the Interstate Bridge When the Multnomah County Fair was at the Expo Past Jantzen Beach In the land of the sloughs. He hitchhiked rides Passing under the green arcs of the bridge Expecting an epiphany Even if it had no meaning. He had enough money to get in, but none for rides. He chased girls for hours until his boredom reached For a wallet sticking an inch Out the back pocket of an undercover cop Who dangled a two-year-old on his shoulder. The cop was quick Had Danny’s head twisted backwards Like a Lucky Lager bottle cap. Other cops, dropped their camouflage Swarmed in around Danny As if they had found DB Cooper. The child never fell from the cop’s shoulder. Danny’s head twisted in slow motion Amid the midway of games Where dimes were tossed into dishes Balloons never stopped popping Softballs missed stuffed dolls Basketballs hit the rims of small hoops And the occasional cheer of winning.
Spillwords published a short story of mine. The Death of Art. I like Spillwords because it’s WordPress’s magazine, with an editor. So, it’s connected to WP while being its own entity. The story, if you haven’t read it already, is a mix between Stream of Consciousness (James Joyce, Proust, and others) and Edgar Allen Poe’s Single Effect Theory. It’s a horror story…maybe. I tend to like implementing multiple themes. It’s not an easy thing to do. The story is not long. It would qualify as Flash Fiction, which is perfect for the internet. Give it a like using your WP account as access to Spillwords and take advantage of Spillwords yourself! The link to the story and Spillwords is below. Thank you for the support! I’ll be reading your posts!
A trail near a lake called Burnt Lake. Might be a little hard to see on a phone.This is the trunk of an old growth tree. There not many of them left. They look a little different than other trees.
WordPress handles spam messages well. However, there used to be spam written by bots that I miss. They were so entertaining that I would regularly read them. Now that AI alleviates grammar conundrums, these funny miscues have all but disappeared. Here’s a few of the old ones I received and my responses to them.
“My salad has done better this summer but just in the last couple of months when the weather improved.” –I’m so happy to hear your salad is doing better. I was worried!
“You know a complete lot its almost hard to argue along.”-You’re right. Don’t argue along. That would be taking my side, and I know a complete lot.
“I’ve got much clear idea concerning from this post” –I’m glad you’ve got much clear idea concerning, because I’m much confused idea concerning your message.
“Why people still make use of to read newspapers when in this technological globe the whole thing is available on web?” –Things are indeed strange in this technological globe. I tend to read newspapers, because they hire “real” journalists.
“This enables that you simply much better picture of how your business is creating. We are all human beings.” –I’m glad to hear we’re all human beings. I was beginning to wonder.
“These pieces really set a standard in the indrytus.” –I am so happy I’m setting standards somewhere.
“Weeeee, what a quick and easy soiunlot.” –Wasn’t that cool? Soiunlots can be so tricky. Weeeee!
“This was so helpful and easy! Do you have any articles in rehab?” –Well, unfortunately, a couple of them have checked in. I heard they were doing well in editing.
“Hey hey hey, take a gardener to what’ you’ve done.” –That’s a great idea. I’ve never thought about inviting one.
“That’s a posting full of ingiths!” –I know. I’m full of good ingiths.
“Just do me a favor and keep writing such trnhcnaet analyses, OK?” –By all means. I’m a master of trnhcnaetian theory.
“If you’re looking to buy these articles, make it way easier.” –Mmmh? I’ve never thought about buying my own posts. That indeed is easier. There, I just gave myself 10 bucks. Woo Hoo!!!
“Thanks for spending time on the computer (wiritng) so others don’t have to.” –You’re welcome! I think?
“Continue to be down the great operate! You realize, many individuals ‘re looking near to do this facts, it is easy to aid these products.” –Roger that. I will continue to be down the great operate to aid the products.
“I like to party, not look arcleits up online. You made it happen.” –I’m glad I made that happen. I wouldn’t want you to resort to looking up arcleits online and keep on partying!
“It is possible (and frequently done) to build over 200k crop armies (aka, World Wonder armies) from a six cropper.” –What? I mean…what?
“Why does this have to be the ONLY reliable source? Oh well, gi!” –What can I say? Poetry is most reliable source ever. That’s all you need to know. Ain’t no gi about it.
“I’m making posts about scientific explanations behind everyday ––appearances.” –I knew there was something weird behind everyday appearances. Thanks for providing scientific explanations for this unsolved mystery.
“Stretching is discomfort.” –I’ve told my cat the very same thing! However, he doesn’t listen and keeps on stretching! He looks comfortable doing it though.
AI’s first attempts were crude and frequently you would receive a busy signal. Boldly exit where no reader has gone before (Just watch your step).
When the Willamette River meets the Columbia River, the latter breaks up and forms a delta of islands until it converges downstream. (A clue? Is this poem really a murder ballad?)The Clackamas River near an interesting little town named Three Lynx.
April is still cruel And this city? Still unreal. The snow will melt Daffodils will bloom Arrows will still fly Even Cupid shoots them With awkward aim
Are we mistaken to listen to the wind? That whisperer that works Its way between warm clothing ...Tickles, biting softly On the ends of our touch Imprinting its song on our necks.
“I would have never thought You would become my lover Having passed you In the hallway a thousand times Among the smell of floor wax Cafeteria food, and The slamming of locker doors. ...Excuse me I’m younger than that”
Now, in the city of Yonder Stands our orphan With his gun Walking along the edges Of an eternity of assumptions The quickest way to freeze Us into madness...oh, do not Ask what is it? Even Dorothy killed two witches And I swear The sky has been etherized.
For I have known it, known it all Have known evenings, mornings Afternoons Have known The familiarity of strangers My nose buried in their bosom Of warm, warm skin, bared to Gravity, orbit, & galaxies Moving...moving... Moving
“What a Sunday drive it was Unplanned, without directions. The heat of summer blew Into our rolled down windows”
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider.
In this poem, I abstracted lines of famous poems and lyrics to shape my own poem out of them. Along with the poem I added on of my abstract images. Thanks!
MoonCat 