Daily {W}Rite February 2o16 WK o3

Tuesday, February 16, 2o16
1:30 in the morning melts like black butter across the moons. Fingers across the rugged brows. Breathe in deep through the nose, the nostrils, dark tunnels. The ghosts can enter there. But always the itch begging to be scratched. A thought, a coffee cup full of thoughts spilling out onto the floor, the carpeted floor. It feels like blood, rich bright red, rivers of it circling around the bends, rich red flowing in warm circles. But the chill interrupts these . . . these . . . these . . . pleasantries when forming cold knots that block the natural currents, the natural rolling order . . . existence buries itself in flaking flesh. I look but see nothing. I rub the palms of my wrinkling hands against the temples but nothing changes. The patterns that the shadows make on the wall have become constant companion. I long for them to leave as I fear they never will.

Wednesday, February 17, 2o16

In a day a universe appears . . . No, a million galaxies . . . in the brown eyes of the chubby girl who hands you your coffee cup at Old School Bagel, her thin, moon-shaped smile . . . It feels more like a small sliver of sunlight on my eyes. Me and my friend sit a table . . . it wobbles a bit, the top still glistening and wet from the damp towel one of the bagel shop's random employees used to sweep away the Bagel crumps. We ramble on about politics, Hillary and Bernie, and we worry about who will win the general election. David produces a napkin from his pocket. The thing is covered with black letters . . . no words . . . a list of things he has decided we need to do in the next few days. For this afternoon it's a workout at the gym and then over to Spouts to pickup some muffins . . . Sprout's has really good muffins. But the universe always collapses iNevnto the black-hole region  of brain bobble.  My fingers implode no longer strong enough or wide enough to type another line . . .

I've always wonder if I'll wake up after falling asleep. My mother use to always pray with me at the side of my narrow bed. She taught me: "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake. I pray the Lord my soul to take." I think I found it, as a little kid, to be comforting, protective. But once when I got older I at the end of the prayer:  "And if I die before I wake . . ." Wait! What? Die? I'm gonna die?! I haven't had a good night's sleep since.

Thursday, February 18, 2o16
Ex Machina has been my number one movie for 2o15. Unfortunately, today David and I went to see the movie Brooklyn and . . . what a total surprise of a movie. Damn it! If I add Bridge of Spies to the mix, I now have three number one movies! At first I whitethat might be cheating . . . but the hell with it! I can do whatever I want with MY opinion!  So, my favorite movie(s) of 2o15 IS (ARE):

1. Bridge of Spies 1. Brooklyn 1. Ex Machina

Friday, February 19, 2o16

Greek House. Wonderful Gyro sandwich, but hot as hell inside . . . the Greek House not the sandwich. Blond girl, white t-shirt, very white
t-shirt, in bright orange the name CLEMSON across the front. I see my in so I take it. ME: You go to CLEMSON? Her answer a charming, perfect teethed No, I did go to CLEMSON. I live here now.
I can't believe it but the conversation goes on. She's a lawyer setting up some kind of student something or other for OU. Her husband in the Air Force pilots an AWAC. Damn. I'm impressed. Finally, her order is up and she leaves me with a cheery, Nice meeting you.

I'm home again. The sandwich is good. Messy as hell, but oh the taste . . . Mmm. My body aches with sleepiness. I don't know why. I slept deep and for almost five hours the night before. It's foreign to me, my body is. I can't understand what it's try to tell me. But my mouth knows and answers it with a loud, long YAAAAAAAAAAAWN! So, I get the hint and sit on the couch and close my eyes and . . . my eyes pop open no more than five seconds after I shut them. Damn my eyes! Bastards. They never want to shut down,  not even for a little while.

Saturday, February 2o, 2o16

Mr. Hyde appears out of nowhere, from somewhere behind the counter at Starbuck's. Foaming at the mouth, a slippery shout echoes from his mouth, "Are you crazy? Only Republicans can be bought. I mean, they have the Wall Street, big corporations, billionaires . . . the Koch Brothers?! I mean, what the fuck? Planned Parenthood doesn't have money enough to buy a politician!" That makes a kind of sense. Well, not really. But politics doesn't make sense anyway, and people just go crazy during the political season. I sip at my coffee and try not to go insane . . . no good. I feel blood in my eyes and say something like: "You know this fucking country is never going to survive if it doesn't get its shit together. We have to work together, Republican and Democrat, straight and gay, religions have to learn to except the other guy! Fuck! The founding daddies created this set of rules that we all have to follow if it's to work! You know what the grand design for America is? They created a place where everybody can prosper! That was their genius (or insanity), they believed that a group of people who have absolutely nothing in common could come together under one country, one flag and make something beautiful for everyone involved." Yeah, I think I'm screaming a bit. But it seems to do the trick. We're no longer arguing about politics . . . I rub at the headache that just took residence inside my skull as my bloodshot eyes watch Mr. Hyde shrink and fade away until he becomes the smiling face of the cute, blond Baristas who served me coffee about an hour ago. Another scary question enters my brain . . . why are all the woman/girls that I talk to blond and cute? I've creeped myself out with that bit of thought.

Sunday, February 21, 2o16

I say something like, "Why don't you give me YOUR signature and then I can look at it . . . " I have no idea what I was thinking, but I could tell by the look on the beautiful waitress's face (not blond this time, black hair, raven black hair eyes and dress) that I was sounding stupid . . . and creepy. "That's funny," she said without a hint of humor in her voice. I embarrass myself, make an ol' fool of myself all the time. I don't need help looking like an idiot. I can manage it on my own.

I feel like a tire, a bicycle tire, a thick bicycle tire . . . slowly losing air. Bubble, bubble. Air bubbles rising from the water we use to submerge our bike tires in to find the air leak. Mine is located in the center of my big fat mouth. There's another slow leak in the back of my head. I can see it, but I can hear it letting out all the common sense  . . .  well, the little pocket of common sense I carry around up there. It hisses like a tiny snake, escaping into the darkness that grows around me. Yes, I tend to go blind when I choose to act like an asshole.

So it's the last day in the third week of February . . . and I haven't accomplished a thing. Okay, I wrote a bit on the blog. But poetry? Movie reviews? Naw. I keep putting it off. Oh, there's always next week and the week after that and . . . This will be all I write this week. Thanks for putting up with my neurosis, dear reader. Ha! I had to look neurosis up: neu·ro·sis, n(y)o͝oˈrōsəs noun: neurosis; plural noun: neuroses: 1. A relatively mild mental illness that is not caused by organic disease, involving symptoms of stress (depression, anxiety, obsessive behavior, hypochondria) but not a radical loss of touch with reality when compared to psychosis.