The Daily {W}rite February wk o2

Friday,

Been thinking a lot about the military these last few days due to the fact that Emperor Trump has decided to  have a big "missile" parade to "support" our troops. I'm pretty sure it's just a line of bullshit. Trump doesn't give a shit about the military. If he did, he'd do more that make sure that the guys who fight for this country had better health benefits when they get back from whatever war that's going on. He'd make damn that they got the mental health facilities in place for the brothers who are having a hard time assimilating back into civilian life. He'd make sure that one, NOT one military guy lived on the streets due his inability to cope with peace time. But he won't. No, he'd rather throw a parade, shake a vets hand and say, "good job," hand them a fucking medal, big slap on the back and then . . . will that's it. None of those fuckers up there in Washington gives a damn what happens to the warrior when the war is over for them.

Friday, February o9, 2o18

I lose connection with myself sometimes. No, more than sometimes . . . all the time. Late in the evening my forgetfulness is most productive and powerful. I often find myself gone from this old-gray reality. Where do I go? I have no idea. I only know that I am not here. I look for myself, I truly do. Behind the couch, no, not there. Maybe buried away somewhere  within the layered mound of dirty clothes that guard the closet door . . . in the pockets of my jeans, my Spider-Man leather coat, perhaps? You see how frustrating it is to get so tired of thinking you just disappear, divide yourself into split images so black and white that you can tell if you control the darkness  or . . . is the darkness me? Is that where I've gone? Hiding out behind the wooden toolshed in the backyard of the old family home after getting swatted on the hand by an angry aunt when I dared to stick my hands in the fresh pudding she made. It did taste good until I got wacked! Then all the flavor ran out of my mouth as I ran out of the house to find my way to that dark space between the shed and the neighbor's ivy fence. Crying is all you can do when you're young. I cried. Great bubbles of pudding colored snot blasting from my nose, drizzling down my white t-shirt like a sadly happy rain.

I should write something else, I suppose. I haven't been out of the house for a couple of days, maybe three, maybe an eternity . . . I've forgotten how to walk. It's been that long. I've forgotten how dream. I sleep but I do not dream. Or if I do dream (and I'm sure I must), I can't remember what fantasy I went dreaming through! Again, lost.  Forever lost . . . except for memory, which refuses to be forgotten.

Sunday, February 11, 2018
Saturday was Mardi Gras in Norman town. Streets were blocked off by the police so the parade could pass down Main St. without the participants being run over by unware motorists. But it wasn't that big  of an inconvenience because the parade was only about two blocks long . . . and it was very short. So short they actually ran it twice! Hey! Not bad for a small town! It definitely was fun but so damn cold! The day after and my fingers are still freezing! Yeah, I know, why didn't I wear gloves? Because, silly, I can't pictures with winter gloves on!

So, I got through one pass of the parade without my fingers falling off, and I figured that's enough parade for me! Went to get me a burger at McNellie's. David came in a few minutes later a ton of Mardi Gras beads around his neck. He was so pleased with himself.

Flashback: 4:30pm, Saturday
David and I went to Walmart. Had to hurry a bit because we needed get groceries, gas (Yeah, I see the gas gauge on the dashboard flashing: EMPTY! "Hey, you're out of gas!" "No, I'm not! "Look at the gas gauge!" David looks, "HOLY SHIT!"), take the groceries home and get down to the parade before 7pm. Anyway, I'm getting some ice cream (Ben and Jerry, New York Double Fudge Crunch) And I hear this voice, "Excuse me, sir." I turn around and there is this young kid, maybe 18, and a girl walking away from me and they are laughing. For a second I blow it off . . . and then that old demon shouts in my inner ear, "You gonna let that little fuck get away that." "Hey," I say rather loudly, "You want something from me?" "No." Again, he laughs. Then he and his girlfriend turn the corner at the end of the  ice cream aisle laughing very loud as they disappear. And I start to lose it. my hands tighten up, my breath starts accelerate, my heart beating fast . . . I want to run after that little shit, that little pretty boy motherfucker and rip his fucking face off. But I don't. I just my head and wander off to find my shopping cart. I'm still thinking about that punk as I grab up some tomatoes, lettuce, a few apples.

Monday, February 12, 2018

So, I figure I shouldn't leave the last blog post go without a little explanation just incase it freaked you out a bit. Yeah, I've been pretty caught up in violence my whole life. Always the skinny kid I was the go to guy to beat up whenever some bad ass needed to stomp on someone. Angry stepfather knocked my front teeth when I was 16 years old. Sucker punch to the face. Then two years later he came at me with his 12 gauge. Wrote a poem about it:

Step Up

I grabbed him by his skinny neck

slung his naked ass out’a the bedroom.
For a moment he seemed to float through air

then slammed hard into the linoleum floor.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled

trying to stand up. “Son of
a bitch!” he shouted, stumbled
to his feet, staggered down the hall,
bouncing off the walls like a pinball.

He made it to the garage.

The baby stopped screaming.

Mother shut the bedroom door.

Then Click-click!

I knew that sound.

The fucker jumped out at me
before I could reach the garage
and shoved the unfriendly end of a
single barrel shot gun against my ribs.

“You know what this is?” he said poking

me several times in the gut.

“Yes, I do.”

His eyes went red. He’d been crying.

“You know what this can do to you?”

“Yes, I do.” I—

...And sometimes I wake-up.

Sometimes...  I don’t sleep at all.
Woodie 8-10-11

Wednesday, February 14, 2o18
Last day of the 2nd week in February, 2o18 and it's been a day of love and death.

Yes, another mass shooting this time in a school in Parkland, Florida. 17 children and adults murdered and the death tally will probably go up from there. But this an old story in America, is it not? Mass shootings at schools, movie theatres, universities, churches, malls, a country  music festival where fifty were murdered and 500 hundred were injured . . . there's not a place anymore that we can consider sacred. And our government, our "wonderful" President who is all gung-ho (or if you like, GUN-ho) to put the hammer down on foreign terrorists, stop immigration by "those people" and protect America from terrorists by any means  . . . but when it comes to American citizens (mostly white males) who go out with semi-automatic weapons and gun down as many people as they can . . . well, that's something that we can't talk about, do anything about because . . . hey! The 2nd Amendment. Bullshit. Mass shootings, mass murder is not a right protected by the 2nd Amendment. All those CONservatives, the NRA, the gun manufactures, the Congress of the United States, the Alt-right, they tell you all about the Bill of Rights  . . . but they don't know diddly about the Bill of Rights.

And of course, it was Valentine's Day today. And as usual, there's no love in my life. Love. I've never known love. If I have known love for a minute, for a month, for the time it takes to bat an eye . . .  I've  forgotten the  feeling. Love. I've never loved someone. Never. Sure infatuated for a while with some lovely blond, brunette, red, who spent a drunken moment to "get to know me" but never have I loved. Too ME centered. To interested in myself, my art, my soul  (if I actually have one) to ever give love to another. "Friends." I do have friends. But love? Love is a stranger to me. However, I have written  a Valentine's Day poem (what? YOU wrote a poem?!) that talks a bit about the few women who were able to make a dent in my ignorance enhanced psyche and who I remember (whether I want to or not) every now and then . . . in the darkness  . . . and alone . . . I remember. 

Not a Valentine’s Day Poem

I chose not to write a Valentine poem,

but then decided, what the hell,

I might as well, since it is Valentine's Day.

In The Garage, standing in line to order

a Swiss and mushroom burger you kissed

me, hard. It felt like a passionate, drunk

Mac truck had just smashed into my lips.

I will not lie and say it was unpleasant

because you did taste like 1979, the last year

that our mouths said hello to each other.

And the other one, you know who you are,

the one that I bought a Teddy bear for

on the 12th of each month just to tell you

how thankful an old was to have you in his life.

You were nice until you weren’t anymore.

And then there was the one, the only one, really.

Blond hair, English accent, glasses

that partially hid the bluest eyes . . .

I don't remember ever celebrating

Valentine's Day with you. Perhaps,

it was that every day seemed like

Valentine's Day when we were together.

So, writing a poem about ghosts

isn't the most romantic thing.

But when you have little left

except for memories? Well,

memories are better than nothing.

Happy Valentine’s Day