Archive for the ‘fiction’ Category

Here in the tall willows, away from the eyes, the mockingbirds dare lie, they whisper in tunes, a hi, a hi.

Cindy laid in the tall grass, holding her doll, wishing it was real or this whole life was a dream.

Her brother had been killed in a war, Vietnam, her mother had cried there in the kitchen.

Cindy tried not to cry as she ran out of the kitchen, the tears were beginning to fly.

It wasn’t fair.

He was only 19.

He had told her he would come home alive.

He promised.

He lied.

There he laid, in that box, a shell, a corpse.

Cindy didn’t want to go to his funeral.

But she did.

Mother needed her support.

She had told Cindy that as Cindy sat in the back seat of the car, heading to the funeral home.

A flag covered the casket as it sat there, waiting to be lowered into the grave.

Mother never spoke of it again.

Cindy would hear her late at night, crying, for many years.

“I’ll be okay!” she told Cindy as she prepared to leave for her college.

Cindy got a call from her town’s sheriff, her mother decided to join Cindy’s brother by overdosing on sleeping pills and alcohol.

Another head stone to wait.

Cindy didn’t cry.

She shook friends’ hands at the wake.

“She was a good woman, she was strong…”

Cindy hated it, standing there, pretending her mother was strong.

Cindy was the last of the tribe, didn’t want to be, her father died before she was three.

She shut down, closed up, lied, said she was okay, Mother was with God and Cindy’s brother, but she wasn’t fine.

Mother lied.

Everyone dies.

She sat in the lonely quiet home, sitting on the floor, playing with that same doll, wishing she was real.

Was this life?

Just to lie, “I’m okay, don’t worry about me!”?

Cindy went to bed, to dream of a better time.

1684,
Number on the door,
Wine,
Drunk like water,
To drive that madness away,
Angry young men,
Waiting for the end,
A somber moment,
Oh drifting softly by,
To see,
That sea,
Oh hairy lies,
To feel alive,
In cosmic lights,
Drifting through angels,
Alive,
Oh beauty,
Oh father,
Oh mother,
Dying
On the vine,
A herald,
To hear,
A final sigh,
Angry young fucks,
Crying in the night,
Blasphemy,
In midnight hour,
To revel,
In made up words,
Of life,
Lies,
And simple things!

Somewhere outside of a bottle of a tequila, a monkey decided to grow wings and become a fairy of mass portions.

Little Rock was dying, Tulsa was next, America was a scene, somewhere outside reality, as I sat there, after taking a few edibles of various strength.

“Is this death?” Mary shouted from the top of the tower, leaning towards the right.

I shrugged as the world span out of control into the sun, seconds at a time.

It would seem the world would end in 30 billion years or a month, matters on how fast it could spin, fleeing, into that fiery ball of enraged senators.

Henry Parker, the man behind the illusion of reality, was sitting here too. His hands grasped the bottle of tequila like it was a religious experience.

“I saw Jesus back there!” Mary said as she settled back in the back seat of the car. She was high or so said her agent as he put her into the car.

Vegas, land of the unholy wild chief iguanas was boiling in its own skin.

“Beer!” Mary roared as she fled into the casino.

We never saw her again.

In a few years, I would be dead, a memory in some data bank, possibly even erased, to make room for those still alive.

The sky was gray; overcast, as I walked the two miles from my house to the beach, the wind hitting my face hard.

“Lyle?” a voice crept from my memories; July 12th, two years, maybe three years ago, I was seventeen, Aunt Tilda was dying; I couldn’t see her then, there at the hospital.

My mother was dying too, both of cancer. I tried to see them but I couldn’t, I was sick, the flu, I think, my father let me peek at them through the window of their rooms. Both laughed and waved.

I waved back.

When I die, I hope there is someone there to wave at me; a small glimmer of hope before the end.

I wrote a letter to mother; father gave it to her, please come home, I will make Chester pudding for you and father.

She never came home; died on the 20th of July.

Aunt Tilda on the 21st.

I sat there on the beach.

I did not think about death as the waves crashed to the shore.

I thought about life.

It was a good day.

We flew,
To touch the sky,
To go where no one could touch us,
To bring us down,
To fly,
To sing,
Upon gilded wings,
We flew,
To find ourselves,
Among the clouds,
We saw,
The Heaven’s angels,
Singing to us,
As our wings brought us,
To that bliss,
Among the clouds,
So high above,
To softly drift,
Our life was ours,
To do as we wished,
To fly,
Dear ones,
To fly.

Mock bums, living life, in the eyes of social media stars,
Look towards the world; bright eyes dulled by reality,
Hard life, out there,
Going up,
Into made up names,
Swimming through broken lanterns,
I see impurity,
Beneath the sacred Church,
Called television,
Mother doesn’t know,
She doesn’t care,
She been dead a long time ago,
Cars honking,
God is on the street,
Pretending,
He is one of us,
Near the King of Neon,
Flashing threats,
Stop,
Roll,
The streets are dying,
Old hotels burning to the ground,
A toothless hag,
Her name is France.

Joey is dying,
Half past three,
Free,
Thrown in the garbage can,
Crawling out from our warm sacks,
Everyone is dying,
Minute by minute,
Hour to days,
Good night sweet night,
See you tomorrow!

INTRODUCTION:

The world did not see him as a human being; just a cog in a huge grinding wheel, nothing more, if he broke down, he’d be replaced, not even a mention on the grave stone.

I’m not an author, a writer, just some guy clacking at the keyboard, just some guy clacking at the keyboard trying to get the words out of my mind before they disappear like smoke on the wind.

CHAPTER ONE: TNT LOVE

Mr. John Patterson died as any man would die after having his love scorned by the woman he dreamed he’d spend his life with; he strapped sticks of dynamite to his chest and blew himself up a block from the brothel where his “True love” worked in.

Mary Soren, not her real name, heard and felt the explosion and thought the city of Butte, Montana was being attacked by the Germans.

She found out later, her suitor, who tried to persuade her to move back east with him, had blown himself up at her rejection.

She felt sad for a moment but continued “working” the night through.

I found a place; in my travels, a nice place, a place to sleep, to ponder, I don’t care if I’m homeless, I am sitting here, free to think, no connections to the world!! I am a philosopher, a dreamer, nobody knows what I have seen, released into a world, to captivate that audience, mindless wonderings of lies, dreams and ramblings!

Jesus loves me, told me so, in the Bible, or the Sears Roebuck catalog. I’m sitting here, pondering, wondering, seeing the world through alcoholics eyes; bottles; 23, I got them for a whirl, misses, disses, a lie in the sand, twirling around, fourteen skid row, trying to write a letter to the president, postage due, lies on the mattresses, fleas on my pillows.

Mister can you spare a dime? A reality in time, a misery in frame. She was laying next to me, her body my temple, she smiled in her sleep, rolled over, her arms embraced me, I felt love, finally.

I had planted a seed, in that wonderous garden, she would not tell me, till seventeen.

I cried.

There stood in the doorway,
Was the man who would love her,
For her,
I felt her breathing, against my body form,
The world was spinning around us,
As we made love,
Till 5 in the morning,
Murder,
Suicide,
A lustful sigh,
As our bodies ejaculated,
Filling our souls,
Filling our lungs,
Screams cheered,
Against the dying of the light,
Eyes red,
Weeping,
Is this misery full of lust?

Somebody wrote me a letter,
Making things complicated,
I’d want to hear her moan,
Driving her to Heaven’s door,
A hush affair,
As we made love till the morning aired.

The person
Full,
Of distant rage,
Screaming at the dying light,
Felt the motion,
Of the ocean,
Against her hair,
He cried,
As he felt her near,
That time,
Of his blessed life.

To this day,
We shall not sing,
That song,
That misery,
It all right,
I dare not venture,
Into silence,
Where the dark grows near.

Ransom slashed,
Half past eleven,
Nobody sees ya,
Man ain’t got no time for that.

Slow ride east,
Omaha,
Left train,
Gone,
Half past twelve,
On the Eastern track,
Going nowhere fast,
Lost my mind,
To a bottle of Jack,
July 10th, 1953,
In a waste paper basket,
Filled with fleas,
Flees?

Resume broken,
No jobs,
For two years,
Except shoveling coal,
And other stuff,
Five years to life,
Chasing broken dreams,
Drinking those shattered bottles to dream.