Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Red Silhouette

Red Silhouette sways with the gentle breeze of the door like a blood stained reed growing out of the incredible muck. Feet stick to the floor where bottles of wine and booze and beer have been dropped by inebriates trying to hold on the tail of the Goodtimes Dragon, never learning it's impossible to hold on with its smooth scaly flesh.
A mass of newspaper and a trash bag are called, and declared good enough, until men stand frozen in their spots, trying with all their atrophied strength to move from their spots but only pantomime movement, swinging their bottles until exhaustion and inevitably adding to the trap.
She says nothing on her own to the sodden customers, ignores their questioning leers as they search in vain under her woven clothing for a hint of a curve. When directly addressed her answers are short and to the point, offering no curves of insight into how she spends her life outside of the flypaper store.
Some ask and compliment the ornate rings, some ask about her off hours. Still others have offered their theories on freckles and kisses from angels.
No humor, good or bad, is offered by the dark blue eyes. No judgment is passed like the dark hair behind her slender ears.
Outside the men gather and open their purchase, comparing notes and offering advice, none of which they are brave enough to take. One nice night they wait outside until close and confront the manager, but he tells them he knows just as much as them, except for what is on her papers.
An address then, they exclaim, perhaps if we know where she lives we'll know if she thinks she's too good for us!
The manager tries to explain as best he can that he can't do that. He begs them for understanding. He offers to clean the floor, if only they will let the matter drop.
Later that week they form a plan, as best as they can at their various stages.
Behind dumpsters and telephone poles and blades of grass they all hide, admonishing each other to be quiet between belches and vomits and giggles.
Eventually the store lights turn off and Red Silhouette appears, carrying her large bag and seeming not to notice the barely ambulatory ambush awaiting her.
Her tall black boots click against the sidewalk as she disappears around the corner. The mens' shoes squeak with the filth of the store as they make their way after her. After much fumbling and jostling they make it to the corner and after a debate the bravest one peeks his bearded head around and tries to focus.

But Red Silhouette is already gone.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Mother's Day

The young mother performed her job admirably.
She had stayed quiet, and so did he, because he heard nothing.
Slowly waking, he heard only the sounds of rushed footsteps and the door closing behind them.
And while her blood flowed into the floorboards and the apartment below,

his birthday gift bounced in the corner of the ceiling, pushed by the endless draft.   

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Waiting Masters

Berkly lies naked on his damp couch
chip dust settles into his chest hair
and buried somewhere between his legs
lies his half dead prick.
He laughs at every corruption
and those that think they all have it figured out
like he does.
The cross carriers
the ones with the invisible friend
the fools that are holding everything back.
Berkly shifts his weight unto his back, staring at the ceiling.
And allows himself to dream.
About the day.
The day certainly coming, where he, and those like him
the Wise

will finally be running things.   

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Just Another Day, Sadly

Just another day, sadly.
Took too many days off by one.
Rain, so can't drive. (I'll get those wipers fixed eventually)
Probably shouldn't spend the money anyway.
Would walk, but so many parks and kids.
A single bearded man wondering alone, they make videos about that.
I could wait until dark, if I want to get stabbed.
Besides, the perpetual fatigue is setting back in.
I'll manage to get that looked at too, once I find a doctor.
And maybe he can find some social scientist,
to explain this utopia we live in.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

The Indian Strange of the New Jersey Manlet

The Indian Strange of the New Jersey Manlet.
Ninety pounds of hoop earrings and hair.
Has a theory of life involving knowing people and circles.
Twenty-nine years old, feels twenty-one.
Says too old to go on like this, running with strange men.
Broken hearted over someone.
It's all circles. And life. And wanting to be known.
When her friends pick her up she'll get some food.
Indian Strange of the New Jersey Manlet.
Waiting patiently on the front stairs.
To continue her circles and be known.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

The Scarlet Speckled Whale and the Balding Wop

The Scarlet Speckled Whale and the Balding Wop.
Wild sexual deviants of the North Plains. Distributors of personal pestilence.
Wild echoed moans of street pick up threesomes fill the dingy halls. As one drunken sop after another falls into their perverted trap.
Nice enough folks, really, as long as they get their way.
Just a loosely attached sexual Bonnie and Clyde, bidding their time until whatever prevailing authority punishes them for their crimes.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Something About Karma, I Think

I'm a super mad meat cleaver,
gonna attack your face.
And when I'm done with my dreadful job,
you'll never get a date.