Between breaths.

Try to make a fucking nickel while they make you roll a dime, I’ve got ice and fire in my veins from fretting from when I might die and how high I can get, the dichotomy makes me ossified to the troubles of anyone I haven’t met, worried about who I am and what it’s all comming to makes me forget to buy a new pair of shoes or go to the swimming pool, locked in a prison of fear and doubt until I can’t get feeling of the elements or hear all the voices of friends who wanna hang out, just a hampster in a cage just a pidgin who never goes out till my life has passed by and wouldn’t that be a crime? When you try to make a nickel and you’ve always had the dime, but there’s nothing to spend it on now when your years are gone and you get annoyed by all the noise as you stare in the void and what’s the point of playing the game with all the fake people and the fronts they claim to make sense of the world that it’s all cool and fine and just forget I said anything cuz it’s all bullshit anyway, all the stuff going on in the world why should we think about it any more when there’s no barrier to the evil but holding me up is an optimism from another era that tells me it’s all gonna get better. So I’ll just sit here and feel like 15 cents. 


I’m at work, two women of middle age in a yellow bug, the kind with the flower holder, came in and would not stop laughing. “Oh valet. So fancy!” Everything I said was funny and I began to feel happy and laughed along with them about everything as they bumble into the restaurant. Their car (despite being a convertable) reeked of weed. All things have an explanation.

The Times

“It’s all the illigals comming in here, the refugees.”

I nodded into my salad and wrap. The wrap was some kind of special and it had chicken and avacado and mac and cheese but they put some kind of sweet sauce in it that was going crazy in my mouth, it was likely meant to insulate arteries. I got the salad on the side instead of fries. I tell people it’s because the doctor said I needed to get more fiber but in truth I actually enjoy having a balanced meal. I could eat five burgurs if they gave me a bowl of sliced cucumbers as well. I was trying to enjoy it, but this guy at the end of the bar was under the impression that we were having a conversation. 

I was all for polite conversation about the weather. He seemed a normal enough guy, probably in his 50’s and my job parking cars outside means I have to at least be decent at polite exchange. Im fine with baseball, or cars, or movies, but you don’t really need to commit much to a conversation about those things. I have my own life with my own issues and people to talk with about things that matter.  Thas when things took a turn.

“God damned illigals are vicious,this 7 year old girl killed and sodomized.”

What a fucking segue. The bar was quiet except for that guy. Trying to talk to me and trying to preach to me about things I could go the rest of my life without having to hear told to me as if he was some enlightened individual and I was some uninspired sheep. 

I know the tone well, him sitting there behind his computer and newspaper and leaning in so that I could hear the spouting of all hateful propaganda like it was the holy truth. I could imagine him trying to connect the age gap, they never sayit, they just push, men filled with songs about getting kicks and hopeful to be dead before they got to this point. 

Now they try, they want to catch a peice of what youth is through us and instill their own life into us like we need to hear it. It makes me sad because it’s not just people who believe they fill babies with heroine and throw them over the border who do this, it’s a lot, good people too, clinging on to a world they remember which isn’t there anymore.

I think of my father sometimes, not at all the level of insanity that this guy was throwing at me, but still with that longing in the back of his mind to be back to where I am, be in my shoes again. And I try to respect that, I don’t tell him to go away when he bothers me because I know one day that I will be there, and all I’d want is someone to talk to.

You might wonder how could I listen to that guy at the end of the bar and just nod and turn away, why dont I say anything, set him strait, argue and fight for the idea that people are people and some are bad and some are good. How could I explain that to a man who lived their whole life with a big bad enemy on the other side of the world that there are no easy enemies, that the big bad is only an idea.


There once was a wardgarble big and strong,

Who played the tambourine all day long.

With a jingle and a jangle she would step to a beat,

And never was bothered by those who wanted her to eat.

The wardgarble went hither and thither and all the way fro,

Through the sand, the grass and, all in the snow,

Through sea, and sky, and through our great star,

No place is beyond the wardgarble to mar.

With no sympathy, aid, or any remorse,

The wardgarble continues its damnable course,

A Jingle and jangle all through the night,

An unstoppable force of power and might.


Ponce Fordure was the greatest talker in all the land. What he said didn’t always need to be the most important or on the most interesting subject, but his words carried like the loose feathers of a dove just sprinkling upon the unwashed faces of the masses, filling their ears with the soft avian folicles of beauty; O’ how his words tickled their inner ear and stuck to their dirt encrusted slymy-

Anyway, because of his powers of a-speechcraft, he often found that he had no need for money. Ponce lived in a great big house and he himself became a great big person for he was not in want for anything. The people often listened to what he had to say on the balcony of that great big house at 4 in the morning. Though no one quite remembered what it was thanks to all the laudlum that was so popular in those days.

Going out Ponce would hike up his pantaloons, snap his stocking into place, straiten his gurdle, be sure that the third button of his fourth ruffled undershirt was sufficiently fastened to the collar ruffle of his 2nd over-vest, afix seven red bows on the tail of his ilustrious wig, buckle his shoes, take a bath, change into his outerwear, and be sure to smack the cane child on the way out for safe passage on the muddy streets. Wherever he went he was recognized and the good people waved and smiled and said “Frandurdlee dee do pop zing!” Towards his area. 

When walking into the bankers, all that would need be said on the part of Ponce was “Gud dey.” And the banker would lavish the man in an endless stream of apple turnovers. It was a serious affair.

It became that Ponce had forgotten who he was before he was known so well, in fact he forgot what he was known so well for. The people who he spoke to no longer seemed like people and he was perhaps some kind of God among them… 

Thus, 4 years later began the second stupidest war in all history, the invasion of Holland by the Filthy army of the Great Ponce. Since that day whenever someone is acting like a freakin ponce, you call them that so they don’t invade Holland. 



“I remember when the snow fell” She said looking up through the glowing window. The grey light fell across her lap, the finely quilted blanket that covered her was torn slightly under her clouded fingernails. The lint gathered grey under cloudy nails under grey light. 

“I remember the flakes falling. We were so happy to see them. What could be more beautiful than a crisp white winter world. Yet- I only remember the color of the roses. I watched in the garden as the cold crystals rested on the petals. But it never stopped, it kept comming. And the cold only got colder and all the colors of the world were drained, and all the color was lost.”

I watched her as a tear trailed through the wrinkles. The silver tear rolling down the valleys before lighting against the top of her upper lip. Within the droplet, a spiral of soft chalky red was drawn from her soft skin. Slowly gahering as it passed across her red lips, it hung at the corner of her mouth before falling to the blanket leaving a spot of red in the grey.


One day Darren and the gang went out to find some traffic cones, it was 1:30 in the morning and they were hammered. The silver taurus was nick’s rental car and so imagine, if you can understand, the reckless abandon in which nick drove the car down the darkened salt soaked and muddy streets of a new England town.

 Among the six of the people crammed in the car Darren was the most lucid, however she had at that point in the evning decided that things don’t matter anymore, like the packets of ketchup that keep sliding across the dashboard with the unknown pair of sunglasses, the way the outside world was becoming only wavy obstacles. 

Darren looked over to the others in the car, rachel, messiah, nick, and hank, (who names people hank now a days? King of the hill enthusiasts most likely). They were laughing as the world of the car interior flung their long hair and jewelry and their heads at precisely the same moment with each bump and sketchy turn through the unknown world of dark trees and grey road and snow. 

Nick began complaining about not seeing any traffic cones and drove on. He lit a cigarette and lowered the window and the gust of 50mph wind tore through the car, tearing at garments and sending cold incarnate across the passangers. Darren in the middle seat was accosted by a tumbledryer of messiah and Rachel hair. 

As nick swerved out of the way of an oncoming car Darren thought to herself I’m done with this. But the confines of the car seemed impregnable. Fortunately however Darren was half etheric and had shapeshifting abilities. 

“Hey i’ll like…catch you guys around.” She said as nick dropped his cigarette between the seats and scrambled to look for it in the light of another on comming car. No one said anything, they only looked at darren with judgement.

With that she transformed into an etherial falcon and flew out from the car through the roof. She flew higher and higher towards the stars and probably fought dragons and shit cuz she ain’t about basic people. 

Lesson of the day:

Don’t get into a car with anyone named nick.


It was like the spear points of God raining down on the hard slate shields of the roof. The clamor of battle drones on all around them and yet the space of warmth in the room and the crackling fire brought about a muffled comfort. 

AND in that room and in that muffled comfort those within talk. They sit by the warm fire and among the carved tables and the hanging clay cups above the bar, under the artwork and the crests of a thousand age heraldry, and the smoke and the drink. Within and among, All things are spoken of and the world set right. The drive that makes it turn and the pleasentries of facing challanges.

And the night goes on. The brambled speech and the endless drink and the endless smoke and the endless food churns about them, feeding their ideas.

And when the fire is low they laugh and cry their goodbyes and wear their wisdom like armor. And still the chill of the air makes them shiver. And the rain pierces them through.