Making Widows Wince

Explain nothing, except your self. I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me. Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans. At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum. Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating Schrödinger with the...

I love this poem  Tadeusz Dąbrowski “Sentence” It’s as if you’d woken in a locked cell and found in your pocket a slip of paper, and on it a single sentence in a language you don’t know. And you’d be sure this sentence was the key to your life. Also to this cell. And you’d spend years trying to decipher the sentence, until finally you’d understand it. But after a while you’d realize you got it wrong, and the sentence meant something else entirely. And so you’d have two sentences. Then three, and four, and ten, until you’d created a new language. And in that language you’d write the novel of your life. And once you’d reached old age you’d notice the door of the cell was open. You’d go out into the world. You’d walk the length and breadth of it, until in the shade of a massive tree you’d yearn for that one single sentence in a language you don’t know. 

Julian of Byzantium Upon the announcement of the death of the Apostate, Once he was seen to be surely felled and toppled on his side, They chiseled his face from the bones of the stone and removed him from the myths of the remembered. Michael S Brady

Sure, you hate me, but who are you? Well into winter, no hint of warmth or light from the sun, only the precise metronome stillness of a hard rain. It’s hard to remember the last day of whatever -- the tides of time slide by without any sound – just relational crap until you map it out and find some kind of human sense in the disordered movements, usually by tying them into loose sheaves of something both explainable and real enough to fool the casual. All just marks on a stick, and who has time for that? I remember lighting my cigarette on a gas stove, hair held back with one hand, black light staggers around a Hawaiian kitchen and the belief I’d never die. I remember it like it was yesterday, just like I remember yesterday in the spotty sunshine as the same old music reflected off a dashboard as I sat alone in a work truck waiting for time to pass. I remember the click of avocados as they separated from the tree over my bedroom. I remember counting the s...

"Find someone better than yourself and hold on." Randall Burnett Dear god: I know where I am and I can read the leaves, Nothing can change The memories of what seems From the fact that this ends Machined gunned in a ditch. I know who I am and know what this means, I'm blinded by the sun For the length of your kiss.  Michael S. Brady

Happy Holidays “There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own.”  Herman Melville As the rhythmic tick and tock of holidays fade, like OCD worked corduroy or a disastrous cherry Kool-Aid spill -- the evidence of skid marks combine with shiny patches of spackle throughout the house and soul to become nothing but the history of dead repairs and hard feelings, stored away in luggage of the never to be touched again, until the next year. And that’s just the inside stuff. Do I seem like someone you should be that comfortable with?  This thought comes up every holiday and although to me the answer seems obvious, I don’t think many others get it. I get fat in the fall to store up enough energy to survive...