And she keeps hitting me in the fucking kidneys. And I like it. No I don’t. He’s kicking me in the teeth. I am sorry. No teeth. No luck. All sorrow. Good weekend. I just want to read that book that yo wrote back then.
There’s a drunk and another drunk at the bar and they are both failing horribly at telling the punchline to some jokes that they earlier have practiced way too much. He’s Andre and she’s sally. The people on TV are talking too much about porcupines. If I could bite off the ass of a porcupine it would mean so little. I would still just be the guy who bit off the ass of a porcupine. It would not win me points on match.com. It would make me pariah amongst the friends. I could love though. Mouth full of quills. Quills inmy mouth, writing the things I cannot say on my own. I miss so...
I don’t like writing about the good stuff. Not necessarily the bad stuff. Just the difficult stuff. That is what I prefer. But tonight driving through this town tonight, during this time of the year that I have a psychologically disposition to breaking down, was like flying. I have laughed until my sides hurt. I have realized there is someone that knows the ends of all of my family stories when the beginnings are told. I think there are songs that can and will be sung. I think I will make it through these holidays, and the rest will become...
There are soldiers out tonight, even in this city. I have seen them in their clandestine suits. I have wondered about them through dreams. Tomorrow will be another dream day for this fallen one. I am not broken or foresaken. Just fallen at this point. From the top of the hill over there the scout can see everything and with that everything he cannot move. He want to tell his comrades what there is to come, but he just stand still and the whole world passes, at once, through his eye. That is the nature of the scout. He has to understand it all. The soldier should understand very little if anything. There is this and there’s the hospital. There’s a nurse with a tender touch, or there’s another day. When they saw the whites of the eyes the muskets came ablastin’. The scout dreamed, closed his eyes and composed letters to his wife. There was 30 shot initially, and one when they came face to face. Was it brothers? Of course it was. In some place or not with a name or not. No names on placards or plce cards. There would be no wedding or funeral. Just some dirt sifting through fingers. One last look at the moon. My point being that the man who took the bullet and the one who sent the bullet are one and the...
It was down Moreland to McLendon some night and then a straight shot. Or before that there was always DeKalb Avenue involved. Or just down College from the place where you lived with your sister to that turn by the place where you sell hands and then working your way over in the truck with the love of Elvis to my place, or your place, or what would become ours. Or perhaps it is North on I-85 to SC exit #69. The business route, which used to be not the business route when I took it to see a woman that I only loved an iota compared to you. And then there’s a turn on Pine or some sort of street? And then on a Saint street? And then by the Quickie working the way back into the woods. Sylvan Court. Or it was further up I-85, for me always, for you after Christmas for a couple of years. Exit at East Club and then down, forking at Carpenter, and left on Cheek, then by the Church on another, and to the Dude Ranch. Did you think there would be cowboys everywhere? Or we could’ve taken Ponce to that little spur that takes you to Clifton and then a left, as soon as you see the traffic light ahead, onto the street with the good sledding hill – if it ever snowed – and right and up the hill. Or it could be down Briarcliff/Moreland and into the park on North and around the bend where you laugh because I always indicate when there’s only one way. Then there’s...
Seeing yourself in the face of the villain. All the while I thought I was, or wanted to be, the hero. The one who gets the girl. I guess I don’t even think too much of Winona Ryder anymore. I got older and she shoplifted and she can’t get a job in Hollywood to save her life, so our relationship is, for all intents and purposes, over. I guess there’s a demon inside of every Marlon Brando, Humphrey Bogart, Leopold Bloom. I imagine they try to do the right thing despite the fact that their mother’s held them too close to her chest. I am climbing a tree in this cold night, and the wind is blowing and I am looking down on the town without me. Jimmy Stewart. And there’s a baby being born at Athens Regional Hospital that could’ve been mine, in a different story. And people are coming home from Christmas shopping. There’s a light snow beginning to fall. I’m going to make it back down by morning, but for tonight I just like the view. Up here where I can be anything, or nothing, and no one comes or calls or expects or thinks one way or the other. It’s good to be but not be seen for a few moments. Sorry I didn’t live up to the billing. Roll...
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