Category Archives: prose

yet reduced in writing style – looks a little like poetry here

Good dreams are better

good dreams are better than good tweets

like the one i just had
messages after a video game
advances,
places you somehow got past in childhood
like someone who’s deceased telling you
what you need to hear
whispers in the wind

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“Don’t be a stranger.” ☺

438
That’s what she said

The traffic, that Saturday morning…
Dead, tired, or cold, slow—sporadic, much like the snow that fell in the afternoon.
It flew, that day, and I am worn.
I walked in the snow that day.

It was fluffy.
It fell to the ground and onto my head.
I walked to the mailbox just find it empty.
Again, twas morn; night fell, and I was screwed.

WordPress and Twitter cannot be handled one at a time.
Miss Either, and no matter; disappointed, “I am done.”
“Your comment is awaiting moderation.”
Thanks for reminding me: no community here.  A stranger.  Alone.

And Twitter can be the worse, the Favs and RTs, TYs, wink chains, trains…
Shit.  I hit the Like button, attempting to refrain.  Frickin’ touchscreen.
And now a mistake, for all to see, though no one ever looks.
How sad.  But more tired.

Exhausted, and late, and I have fifteen more to read…sigh-groan
And then it gets weird, but then I understood.
Empty there.  Just one here?  No way.
I should reblog this.  Lend exposure.  No post was published for the day.

Received, and replied, P.D. said Thanks.
But an idea popped into my feeble mind; I replied, You’re Welcome, and then some.
Anticipation.
Obliterated.  Input; hell, come.

I think, in all matter of sorts, and then of what others think.
Moving, my path slowly adjusts; but I am tired beyond reason.
Sleep—2 a.m. I need sleep…
…But I am far, too far behind.  Another passing season.

And then I became really sick.  Sunday morning.
My body says, Purge.
My mind, pulled into this year, continues, Purge.
Mysterious WordPress unfollows…Purge.

Mistakes…I am ashamed.
I can’t retreat fast enough.  Escape, escape.
But I am fat, and obtuse and horrifically out of shape.
But I pour over, and pore over in the effort to catch up.

Whatever it is I enter, I never quite handle or show.  I am a stranger, nonetheless, almost buried in the snow.

Final Hours

It closes in.
You can feel it.
You try not to get swept away in fear.
But you can feel it.
Real or not, it preoccupies the moment, then the hour.

Something is inescapable.

All of that time you had to change.
All of that life failing to make any real contact.
So much rendered “meaningless” in comparison to the tall order that awaits right ahead.
And you thought you felt small before.

And who can say what comes after?
You can’t.
You can only feel it.
And you don’t quite want it to arrive.
But it does.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: on-ON-off

Someone’s birthday—didn’t know

Shirt changed, short-changed, destination change, arrival.
Stupid paper, entertainment all—no wonder the 60% public distrust of the media.
That courtesy of a door held open? No, and not a word spoken, but a dirty look.
Hit the stairs, seven floors, and recent memory of all run many times at once in rage.
The common break, to wait your turn, to sit and scan, memorize…Emmy® winners.
This time bowels may need to be held, standing up—damn GMO white corn chips.
Continue reading Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: on-ON-off

Thursday: Really, Really Long Walk on the Beach

More pain, more numbness in the left side of the face.
After dreams forgotten, mundane/unreal, I sprang for plans.
The Kashi® biscuits, of course without milk.
The changing of clothes.

More sitting in the car.
New symptoms disclosed, yet what’s addressed before made it.
The new issues, in a “laundry list,” would be forgotten.
After more deadlocking and useless appointments, I had it.
Continue reading Thursday: Really, Really Long Walk on the Beach

Thursday: another day

Another day added to the days of virtual emptiness. And, of course, the computer has to act up with all of its mysterious hard drive activity…
Alone again, this day I have time to write this, though with more nerve bundle stress pain in my left arm, even after sleep.
It’s a little…unnerving.

It’s another day of taking three antibiotic pills for an abscess underneath a wisdom tooth. Yeah, wisdom tooth. It mocks my scant wisdom, the medical issues being as they are a result of my inaction.
To think, and only think: wisdom over heart.

It’s another day of low self-esteem. Males are most vulnerable to stress without it, and overbearing fear can cause sudden death syndrome in any life form.

It’s another day of zero affectionate love, acting only on ideas, self-preservation and the willingness to start my life again.
One day, like the last I tried to start, features the same limbo: no opportunities appreciable or enjoyable.

At 28, what separates these days from the last is the gained faith/foolishness of reaching out before whatever many months or years I have left run out so I don’t remain in limbo.

Another day, after yesterday that I saw “Non-starter” was already taken — not that I should use such an unattractive sub-domain!

Another day, where I’m left with only my thoughts, downloads and my unfinished and somewhat pointless work. Some reading materials are quite good, but I should’ve read them and thanked their authors years ago despite their seldom reply.

Another day, this time writing for something that may or may not happen. My writings are often unwritten, misunderstood and usually not taken at all.

(It’s another day where I’m supposed to be good at marketing or a dead-end job.)

It’s not quite the kind of day where I may come off as only angry or self-absorbed. To possibly hear, “This guy doesn’t deserve anything; he doesn’t do anything.” What can I do?

Another day, knowing all I’ve done will be reduced to the moment, as if I’m complaining about a toy being taken away. If I act in being serious or different, the actions may be deemed a legal matter, no matter how law-abiding I am.

It’s another day to find that I’m more physically blind than the day before. I’m able to read the ironic “You have a choice!” off the newspapers on the floor.

This day I’ve compiled information from all these days into one ball, appearing to make the mistake of mentioning everything important all at once, as to remove the right to ever mention them again over the hatred of redundancy.

A thunderstorm arrives, and it hasn’t really stopped.