A Coffee Story

Morning abolition are infantile more pleasureful when the act ends with a cup of coffee. Even if the resulting mug of Joe is morning mud, there remains a mental picture of pleasure in the form of milk, coffee beans, and sugar spiked water.

Coffee Cravers

Java Jive

Caffeine visions danced like sugar plumbs in my wandering mind as I contemplated my current row with writer’s block. Wordless hours have turned into wordless days, turned into wordless months, and I turned to word filled pages of a writer’s workshop book.

Pressed between the covers of that book, I found a tale of many would-be writers who are not unlike myself. Strapped to the hilt with ideas but not a story to see. Plot lines not plotted and climaxes obscured. We can’t seem to see the story from the trees.
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To Be Right…

I love always being right.
This is the central motivation behind all of my actions in life.
Note this does not mean I am right, but that I strive to be right.

To be right is to…
…give more than empty words.
…understand chaos in the universe.
…live long past the point of no return.
…transgress popular culture and get to the root of the mater.

You become pop culture as a by product.

I have spent a life of procrastination
to escape the rigors of a desk job.
I never wanted a profession that weighted on my life.
Occupation, like marriage, is a prison sentence.

To be right comes with…
…a set of skills of it’s own.
…no remorse or hard feelings.
…the understanding of why you are right.
…the bottom of a bottomless heart.

You only appear like an asshole.

Of all the ways one can live their life,
There is none better than being right.
Which of course takes in to account
more than the ignorant notion of being right.

To be right takes into consideration…
…the truth.
…the humans.
…the environment.
…the change.

A universal view can see the big picture.

Neo-cons wouldn’t know the first thing about being right.
Nor the punch drinking liberals.
The truth is not pretty,
but it shall set you free.

The Story

There is always a story. For a writer, and thereby meaning anyone who has a running inner monologue circling their Grey-matter, there is always a story. Maybe even two or three. Sometimes there are so many stories bidding for attention that the mere though of writing any one of them becomes a terrifying task.

Which is where I have been for the last year or so. Could be more. It’s hard to tell when
One is out there having fun in the warm California sun. However the real issue is the golden idol sized case of writer’s block.

Though even as I type that statement, I’m in full knowledge of how stupid an excuse it sounds. Writer’s block is what my friend calls “White Problems”. No one cares if you can’t place words on a page. No one but your overactive super-ego.

The small tiny voice that drones on and on, like an over-protective mother. Yet procrastination comes on strong like a good drug. Dopamine flooding into the context of the cortex.

Television, the New Age Nanny, becomes visual junk food where everyone is a clown or king with big pearly whites, all the better to eat your soul with, my drear.

Though one comes back to the place where it all started. A chair, computer, desk, and an Oxford comma for good measure. Speakers turned up to 11. Elton John belting out homogenized tunes through a lisp.

Outside the world falls apart bit by bit. Predicted and prescribed entropy for a rapidly decaying society on the cliffs of time.

You want meaning, You won’t find meaning here. We’re all tapped out and the bunghole is dry. Inebriation gives way to realization. It’s better to have the bottle in front of me than to have a frontal inspection at the airport.

There is no depth, no substance. We are all only skin and knee deep in a river of shit. Tempering our resolve. There are two ways out of Shaw-shank, five hundred feet of feces or the body bag.

The choice is yours to make and suffer the consequences. The decision becomes, at least in part, the story.

 

 

Irish Guilt

“Oh I Am, what happened last night?”

After a night drenched in liberated spirits, some people say the worst part is the hangover. The pound of gray matter against the skull. The explosive reaction to sunlight reflected off white walls. The ache from every joint in the body. Surly, each aliment is hell but nothing compares to the guilt.

“No, really. What did I do?”

The answer to this question turned Bukowski dark and left Ireland sedated by the British. The real curse of the Irish. Not the limp of a dink, as if a fault of the phallus is a curse to the over populated. Nothing compares to the conjured ghosts of shot glass past, summoned forth to reap their havoc in slighted mental shows. Lamp shade nightmares bubble to the surface and join the heart upon the sleeve.

“Really? Am I that daft?”

Children learn by one burn from the stove’s hot top. I do this every weekend and add mental retardation to the list of my deficiency. Doubly so as the splintered bits of recollection are collected from the editing floor. A strip here, a segment there, drama displayed in a 50 foot horror show, “Attack of the Drunken Boob”.

“I am never getting out of bed.”

Doom and Gloom are kiddy rhymes in the bed of shattered memories. Broken conversation take demonic faces and laugh with a Jackal’s jowl. Worst than a bad acid trip, the flashes flood back to the cortex in uncontrollable spasms. Watch thy own self fallen down the bottom of the barrel.

“Or ever drink again!”

More promises to break in the weeks, days, hours, and minutes to come. The hair of the dog eases the pain and temporarily breaks the lycanthrope curse. I can stand on my hind legs and walk like a man. Free to take one down, pass it around, and wake to more horror in the morning.

8 Kinds of Somedays

Somedays, you grow older and another candle appears on your birthday cake. The army of candles melt the icing and glow with enough light to bring daylight to darkness. They cast a fluorescent glare over your life. Every blemish of wasted potential is highlighted in the looking glass. If you had only applied yourself, you could have been the prefect human being, but you remained content to sit on your ass.

Somedays, you wake up with a nicotine headache and computer eye strain. You haven’t shaved or showered in a day, maybe two, and your face shows it. There are new pains in your knees, wrist, and vertebrae. John, Paul, George, and the Shining Time Station’s Conductor start to sound groovin.’ NPR has become entertainment. You open up a newspaper, magazine, and the occasional book of nonfiction. You are old, but there is no way to stop it.

Somedays, you should have got a Brooks Brother’s suit and become a social vampire. You should have went to an institution of higher education and allowed yourself to be molded into the cookie cutter. You could have been a marketing executive and set your mind to swindle the general public. The infusion of graven images to public icon is big money, if you can bare to sell a little more of our soul. You could have been something or made something out of your life, but you didn’t.

Somedays, you come to the full realization this is your life; the cluttered desk, bathroom, and kitchen. This is the thing High School prepared you for and you find yourself to be ill equipped. You wake up. The calender says it is Monday. You know Monday is a day, but have fuzzy logic beyond that. Mondays used to mean something, like the start of the week. Now, you cannot fathom Garfield’s frustration.

Somedays, you wonder if it all worth it. You haven’t seen the Ocean in two months Two months is eternity to a sea side life. You miss the small stretch of beach at the end of Winnacunnet Road. Over the seawall and beyond the street light view, where the stars dance to an ocean roll beat and fog horn tune. Celestial bodies collide in meteorite showers to her lullaby.

Somedays, you are faced with the question “So what’s wrong with you, why no significant other?” and you have no answer. You can’t comprehend how someone would want a common face in their life, yours or theirs. Your distrustful of the ones who will have you and you want the ones who won’t. Every horoscope you ever read says work on your craft and the rest will play out. The advice appeals to your Virgo logic and you put trust in the cards.

Somedays, you think Steve is right. We live in 50 years of The Beatles and wonder if the band should still cover the face of pop culture. Every year, new bands are spawned and new voices take the scene. Yet, you hear no love on the radio dial and the Beatles remain important. The music is adapted, while the message is unperceived. No voice to broadcast the meaning and music lost its soul, but its face is printable a million times over. You could be that voice, but there is glitter and pretty lights to distract you.

Then somedays, everything works out. The birds chirp out a tune and the universe begins to make sense. You fear the other foot’s fall as calm waters lead to stormy weather. In this moment, you reach for clarity. You strive for perfection and keep back it’s ugly form of self molestation. You keep in mind your choice to get out of bed, your choice to become responsible. The streets are littered with the humans who gave up or gave into a holy life. You could be one of their numbers and the choice is your only freedom.

Overstimulated and Underachieved

If there were a better title for life, the universe, and everything else, than my own feeble mind couldn’t comprehend it. Days have grown into months and months have turned scarily close to a year.

The introduction of cable into my own home drove the final nails into the coffin of my procrastination. Flesh of living dead burned by the light of day.

Yet, the fall happened much earlier in defeat, a white flag waved and aimed at an unjust world view. Far too large to fail and broken at the core. Life intrudes upon intentions and reality dissolves into wavy, hazy, tones of acid colored chaos.

The hounds chase the fox in patriotic colors. The Pied piper leads the rats past the sewer and into the great race, for God, dog, and country. Blind leaders storm the valley of Cyclopes, where the two eyed man is destine for striped shirts and cafeteria style meals.

The point shines as Tinker-bell’s light, it scurries from here and there. Avoiding, escaping, and always just beyond reach. Rain falls upon the windscreen, as the wipers bolt too and fro. Miles to go into pitch blackness with drivers asleep at the wheel.

Veering into on coming traffic, back to the point shone brightly through the droplets of water splattered over a plane of glass. Words and metaphors collide as warriors clash across a battlefield.

Stand not far from the fray. A slow jaunt back into the swing of axes and ring of swords printed across the front page in thick black fonts. No direction maps out the path and wooden signs point in all directions.

The mighty stand at the way side, with eyes of hawks and motivations of greed. The meek walk in the shadows with eye pointed down and feet kicking rocks. History revolves as planets move around a bright ball of heat.

Souls cast into a fiery pit of third-world, cracked, baron earth. Green is the color of the Emerald city where the grand Wizard is nothing more than the long con played out on a city of Dwarfs. More than hot air fills the balloon that carried him over full spectrum of color cast against tones of blue sky.

Past the mirrors reflection and into the wonderland of tea parties and games of croquet. The hand cover the face and spin, in a race with one constant turn. Daylight blinks nighttime and a traveler sits.

Though every ride reaches a destination in the form of conclusion. Change become the fulcrum stationed at each set of crossroads. To ponder, to plot, and on to a path.