Can’t Do Nothin’

I cannot write
And I can’t do no right
I can’t do much, at all, tonight
I run in circles
And stand in the rain
Out of the faucet drips a story
Of people and of pain
And the Morse code splashes all wash down the drain
I can’t do a cartwheel
And I cannot tell a lie
All these feelings that I feel
Provide no method to deny.
I cannot block out flashes
I can’t wave off the smoke
The ashes and fumes
Pummel my mind, and I choke.
The tears drip from my eyes
They tell a story, they improvise
A brand new method, a brand new way,
To brand my flesh with scars from broken days.
So I run in circles, and I sit in the rain,
And I pray to God that one day, things will change
Cuz I can’t do nothin’
No I can’t do nothin’
Nothin but wait, and run in circles, hyperventilate,
I can’t do nothin’
But to wait
For you
And me
To be


Train of Thought #2

Caution: wet floor.
The sign says that, says to be cautious of a wet floor.
It does not say why to be cautious though.
I guess why is one of those things you just learn from experience.
Like why not to touch the toaster when its on.
I did that once.
I was little.
My mom said not to touch it.
So I did.
Burnt the crap out of my fingers.
Curiousity killed the cat I suppose.
I don’t like cats very much.
They never sit on command, and they aren’t very fun.
Too moody, Meh
I’m tired.
Tired of working mornings.
I’m tired of 30 minute breaks and 8 hour shifts.
I’m tired of… The repetitive motions of my life I guess.
It’s alright though.
Could be a lot worse
Or better.
I don’t know.
My eyes feel heavy, and my mind drifts to poetry.
I want to write something, but I don’t know what.
It’s a maddening feeling.
I could continue my story, but I don’t really want to.
Have to clock in soon. Ugh.
Wow. I just noticed something.
The floor tiles are all squares, save ONE ROW. One row is divided asymmetrically, by a random black line.. its weird.
This is thouroughly disinteresting.
If anyone reads this, please comment on how totally lame it is.
My thoughts are very lame today.
So I’ll stop.


I’ve kept count of all the days
We’ve been apart.
My broken heart
Forces more shed tears,
As months and years,
Just disappear.

It gets hard
Pressing on.
Moving on
Isn’t all its cut out to be.
Finding something to replace misery
Is not really all that easy.

I think of you most every day.
Unhappy thoughts are cast my way.
Miserable is just how I stay…
Counting minutes and hours away…

Wish I could call you on the phone.
Wish I was not here all alone.
Wish I could repent, of time poorly spent
But all my time is bent.
Doesn’t matter… Anyways…
I’ll keep counting away the days…
Wishing.. for you.. to come back home… Again.

Falling Into Love

My heart dances,
My body flies
My wings spread wide,
I glide
Over obstacle and misfortune
The horizon is in view.
Over the walls of insecurity
Past the white-tipped cliffs of misery
Away from a land of suffering
Into your arms, into your heart,
Into a forgiving brand new start.
I am gliding,
I am falling
Into love.
You are everything I dreamt of
In my shadowed state.
You tore prison bars away,
Shredded shackles, turned fear,
Burst into my fate
And you opened my eyes,
Opened my wings,
And took me in flight
To heaven above.
Now we are falling
Into love.

Immeasurable Grace (Picture it & write 16)

My opponent and I
Stand face to face
Under an empty sky

Her hands at her side,
Across the field
She seems to glide

My hands are shaking
My knees knock… knock.
Our eyes lock.

A blink and she’s here.
So fast I can not breath, I do not run
The end that forever I have dread is near.

She blinks and exhales,
I feel her warmth,
My defiance fails.

I cannot speak,
I cannot cry,
I am too weak,
I can’t deny
The itching
Of my heart.

I can’t restart
I can not let go
But that she already knows.

I release my fate
Release my fists
I stare into Hell’s gate

I gaze into her face.

And we embrace.

Forgiveness is the impossible.
It is the only way.
There is nothing to say.

Tears stream down
My miserable cheeks
I am empty and weak

Each day and week,
The months that speak
Countless volumes of immeasurable decay
That has amounted every day
Without her here,

Guilt and pain wash over me
I whisper
I’m sorry.

She does not speak
She has her prey
And she touches its cheek.

The chains that have bound me
Are tighter yet
What I deserve I am bound to get.

Yet somehow…
That beautiful face
Conceals words of immeasurable grace.

I hear her say

It’s okay.

My shackles clink
Upon the floor.
We speak no more.

Woman in Blue

Oh woman in blue
Alone the meadow,
Why do you stand that way?
Head cocked,
Eyes locked
On something unknown
Hovering at the horizon.

Tears fall
From your eyes
And I’m chilled by the sight.
You don’t move,
You don’t blink,
But I think that you think.
I’m not sure if you know
That I am here,
Just watching.
I would offer a hand,
A word,
A thought or a prayer
To you
But even if I could,
I don’t think that you would
Accept what humble help I can give.

Garments of blue
Twisted by morning light
Are lovely and bright
Unlike you.
You are mournful,
And ever focused,
Breathlessly hopeless
Yet hopeful that what might lie
Past your horizon
Might put a spark in your eye.

I hope that one day, that might come true,
Yet selfishly, I know too,
That your suffering will remain,
And your beautiful frame
Will refrain from leaving my view.
You are mine forever, oh woman in blue.


Chapter One: Meet Frank

For many years, I kept a private notion that those in life that face a great misfortune, particularly a physical one, are so far influenced by that misfortune that it leads to “enlightenment.” Through their injury, those afflicted folk become something greater. They become the most caring, kind, and hardworking sorts. Even with crippling wounds, they carry on with unfaltering resilience, never giving into negativity or sorrow, and despite all odds, they would always succeed. (Mind you, this was all in my head.) As I watched these silent sufferers passing by in life, I was inspired. I was inspired by their archetypal quest, by their epic under-dog-ery, by they way they faced such a cruel fate with such bravery. In my eyes, they were gods among men. And I respected them, any and all of those hurting folk, to the highest degree. The respect I had for them was one that never faltered, diminished, or failed. Until I met Frank.

Frank was a dick.

Frank was a paraplegic dick.

Allow me a moment to summarize Frank as the sub-human being he was, and is.

Imagine Tiny Tim. Not any of that “God bless us” crap, but Tiny Tim’s physical figure. This is the basic exoskeleton of Frank. Seems pleasant enough, right? Now cut off Tiny Tim’s legs. Ooh, creepy, but he is still just a rather small and frail child. Now, add 45 years onto Tiny Tim, inject his belly with a good 40 pounds of alcohol-derived blubber, and hang a picture of a permanently scowling, ruffled older-than-his-age man over his face. Now, in place of the good will for mankind and hearty kindness residing in Tiny Tim, place in him instead a burning, psychopathic, aimless rage, a rage only quelled by belittling whatever misfortunate person, or thing, Frank decided should be put below his crippled self. Add an inferiority complex comparable to a self deprecating Tyrannosaurus, the common sense level of a dodo bird, and a bad attitude comparable to Lucifer himself, on a bad day.

To say the least, Frank was an unpleasant person.

I first met Frank when I was working a graveyard shift at the local garbage heap of a fast food restaurant, The Shack. If there was food to be found at The Shack, it was sub-par. It was a ratty, ugly, flea-ridden hole of a miserable estate. I often use it to justify the highly unfortunate state of the planet Earth. You get the idea.

At about midnight, someone pulled into the drive thru. If only I had known the horrors in store for me. The headset beeped into my ear, awakening me from my fast-food trance (those of you who have been employed at a fast food restaurant understand) and my mind snapped into half gear. The lightbulb over my head buzzed.

“Welcome to the shack. Just… Go ahead and order.” I hated working there.

“Excuuuuuuse me… sir.” a voice slurred, “I came through earlier….” A long break. I sighed. “And I have a… complaint.”

If only I hadn’t responded.


The soon to be catalogued voice whipped into instant fury.

“Watch your tone mister, or I’ll make you regret that you’re still a virgin, you half…….. Moron!”

I winced. The headset shrieked with metallic malevolence.

“Listen man, we close in like.. ten minutes, why don’t you just cool your…” A click. He was gone. I shrugged.

A crow bar asserted its way through the glass of thr drive-thru window.

“MOTHER MARTHA!!” I exclaimed with fearful vigor. (I am still unsure of the identity of Mother Martha.) I recoiled in horror as I stared into the wide, blood-shot eyes of the the hockey-masked face of Frank. He looked displeased. And drunk.

I raised a hand halfway to my gaping mouth, where it remained suspended awkwardly, leaving me in a pose one would only observe in a award winning foreign interprative dance. The masked man in the wheel chair threw his arm out, and pushed the smashed window inwards.

“Come over here boy, and ill give those sorry nipples of yours a good twisting!”

I felt like I was in a long lost Monty Python skit.

I fumbled for the work phone at approximately the same moment the crow bar hit me in the face.

When my eyes peeled open, it was 12:23. I slowly sat up.

Glass from the broken window was spread across the floor. The register was ripped open, and tattered Washington’s and Lincoln’s fluttered in the cool evening breeze. The lightbulb over my head buzzed. It appeared as if Frank had relieved himself through the window, into the restaraunt, and some of the puddle had reached my legs. I rubbed my thouroughly swollen left eye, wondering how a man with no legs managed to pee through an open window, near the level of his head, and hit me at such a great range.

I fumbled for the phone yet again, and dialed 911.

“911, state the nature of your emergency.”

My drive-thru was just ransacked by a drunken cripple!”

The you-just-got-hung-up-on fairy began its monotone solo. I’ll admit, in that secretary’s shoes, I would have hung up too. Working this late sucked. And that particular sentence was not one of literary genius.

The next call I made did not go so well either. To summarize: after a short conversation, the owner of The Shack made a late night visit. After I explained the story to him, he gracefully bestowed a stunningly accurate synopsis of my character upon me, using a very poetic, rhythmic repitition of several choice words, and sent me home. Several days later, I received a phone call from a charming man, whose name I have forgotten, but title I have not.

The Lawyer.

One lawsuit later, I was out of work and out of dough. The appartment followed the rest of my minimal fortune through the window. I spent some time in a homeless shelter, thinking up my own character synopsis for Frank, heaven forbid I meet him again.

Sure enough, I did.

Who would have thought next time it would go worse.

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