Posts Tagged ‘random stuff’

Vincent sat alone at the bar, his glass half empty, with broken dreams and stolen promises of greatness lifting into the air, falling hard to the ground, to collect around him in such a way, to seem, as if he was a leader of some great army, misery.

In the madness which was his brain, he thought, tried to dream, hopefully to be free, to be with that one girl, that one love.

“Wanna another?” the bartender said, taking his glass.

Vincent nodded as the bartender poured another.

Dust was playing on the jukebox, a slight breeze moved through the place, James Dean was sitting on the other side, drinking a scotch and dreaming.

Somewhere, a woman in a soft silk dress, danced merrily with her small child, she was beautiful, she was in love with another, and it killed Vincent inside.

He downed his drink, one swell swoop, never mind the rim, and eyed the clock.

4:45 pm.


Vincent nodded. He was beginning to like this bartender.

By 7 pm, he was singing songs from his grandfather wars.

“Over there!! Over there!!” his voice boomed out, filling the room, the men and ladies sang with him as if it was their generation’s songs.

There among the barflies, Vincent became the king of this world, and died there on the floor, among his people.


She sleeps, there, curled up in the darkness, dreaming sweetly, inside a magical land.

I sit here, by the bed, trying to realize the magic of the moment, failing instead.

I wish, I could, peacefully sleep, like that, alive in the moment, a wish I dare not say outloud, for it would then not become true and instead, would wake her from that deep pleasure known as sleep.

I dreamt once, a long time ago, as a child, it was a day like any other, in that dream, my mother cooked, father sat at the table, reading the newspaper.

“War is approaching!” he said, crumpling the paper into a mess and throwing it to the floor.

“Do not read such things!” Mother said, pouring him a bowl of soup.

He ate and sighed.

Why I would dream of such a thing I do not know why, just a random dream, I guess, from those days of childhood.

Mother told me it meant nothing.

Father had died five years before I had told mother.

We both had a good cry and then laughed.

Why, I had no idea, the whole thing seemed funny at the time.

Now, here, even more years later, how I wish I could go back, to that time, just a simple moment, sitting at the same kitchen table, eating a bowl of mama’s soup and laughing about a random dream.

Sickness, it does consume, when it comes, you shall never know when it will come, but it comes for all, like death, except death is a relief, you’ll pray for it, when the time comes.

When death takes those in your life, you’ll curse it, call it horrible names.

“How could you God!?” you’ll scream into the heavens, even the atheists do it.

But when the time comes, you’ll embrace death, as a good friend, a lover almost, the greatest lover you’ll ever know.

Sickness is a bitch; the worse you’ll ever get to meet, she’ll come into your life, beat you to the point you’ll want to kill yourself, but by God’s grace and your inability to hurt the ones you love, you’ll keep living, one day at a time, but soon, you’ll utter that prayer, the one which begins — please death, take me from this misery, let me not wake to another day of pain…

Death will be an asshole though, it will not come too soon, it’ll tease you, whisper in your ear, tell you, “I’ll be there soon…” but it won’t, you’ll hear a knock at the door, a hint, maybe?

But it isn’t death; it’s just more sick, a cough, a spot on your lungs, a twist in your spine, more pain, more tests, more doctors smiling trying to keep you from blowing ydaour brains out!

But one day, you’ll pray, please death, do come, to carry me away from this pain, let me not wake another day, to this pain, to this disgrace. Deliver me into green pastures, where I may sleep, and dare say dream, of better places!

And here I sit, another night, sleepless, in pain, another night of dreamless awake, praying a prayer, utter in hope, before dying, maybe?

Oh WordPress, you fool, why do you even try to make suggestions to me on what to write about?

50-best-cocktails-insideI take your challenge, you blogging system, that ensnares me into your grip, and 3:30 in the morning, horns outside are blaring, I live a half block from the center of the bar and club scene of Louisville.

“Shaddup lady, I’m writing here!!” I scream at some people for randomness they can talk about later as they eat their 9 dollar breakfast platter from some greasy spoon down the street.

Away from the mean old writer taking his dog out for her nightly pee break.

“Did you see his sleep pants??? Spongebob Squarepants?! Who wears THAT!?” the lady laughs, three cocktails just now hitting her brain.

So here I sit, still wondering what to write about, failing miserably, but my usual poems, stuck on some back burner, slowly simmering away will be back again some time soon, for your devouring eyes to read, hopefully with glee.

But tonight, you get a “Suggestion” post, something delightful to read, perhaps to enjoy, or not, matters your taste I guess.

What will it be about?

A cocktail?

Don’t mind if I do!

Good night sweet men, sweet ladies, those eyes drift close, and I say ado!