oh, baby girl.

you used to have all these thoughts

about elephants and orphans

and lampshades, all sorts

of interesting thoughts

but now they don’t come out to play,

it’s like that magic blew away,

and now you don’t know what to say

and even worse, you’ve met a man

who ties your tongue, or better

yet he makes you say things

you should never ever say.

and the second he comes

you forget what you said;

if you knew what you’ve said,

you’d wish you were dead.

babygirl he’s not worth it,

he’s not worth a damn.

so go take back your words

and get rid of your man.

why can’t you do it?

why are you scared?

chin up, shoulders back

and remember

what I’ve been trying to say all along:

if all is for art, you can do no wrong,

for all turns to god when it’s part of a song.

I knew I had been gone from Prose and from writing in general for far too long, but I had no idea that it has been a year since my last post. My absence has been eventful and worthwhile, but I realize now that writing will not fall into my lap. Like everything else of merit, whether it is education, fitness, or a good relationship, writing requires time and work; as we all know too well, success must be earned.

So I'm back! It's not yet New Year's, but consider this an early commitment to be more active in the writing world this year. I cannot promise daily or weekly activity, but there will be activity. I've acquired a copy of The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood, and my goal is to post my response to each prompt on Prose. Please read if you have time, and give me some honest feedback. I will try to do the same for others. Whether it ever becomes a source of income for me or not, writing is a talent and an important pastime for me. So I'm shouting this out on the Internet in the hopes that you will hold me accountable and help me grow as a writer instead of ignoring my own craft for another year.

Here's to 2019!

What is ’monia anyway?  Why can't grownups make up their minds? Is it a sickness or is it a cleaner? I wanted to ask Doc Schaeffer if he was saying it wrong cause how could I be sick with the stinky stuff my mother wipes the bathroom with?  That makes no sense. Am I stinky too? Will I make Santa and the reindeer turn around and ruin the whole entire Christmas for all of them? I said that to Momma and she laughed and said not to worry. She said it is definitely a sickness and Santa will definitely still come, but I'm not so sure.

All the candy canes I want.  That's what Momma said. If I wasn't sick, that would make me very very happy, but right now even a million billion trillion candy canes won't make me be happy, because how am I supposed to be happy sick and alone in my room and besides my stomach and throat say no.  Oh Momma will come up. She's been coming up alot. She even cried a little when Doc Schaeffer told her I must keep away from my brother and my sisters. He used another funny word that Momma said means she has to keep me separate from them. I think it starts with a q and we all know q words are hard.  My brother and sisters were nice and made me a pretty Christmas card that said very nice things about me, even about love. The sparkles are pretty but I don’t like it that they stick to my fingers.

Johnny said he wanted to sneak up to my room and sit with me, but Momma always figures everything out and she won't budge.  She says I have germs and I know germs are something not good. Maybe Santa will know about the germs too. Will germs keep him away? Johnny said germs are stupid and Momma says that's a bad word.  Momma told me not to be sad, and I don’t want to be sad, but how do I stop feeling sad when I can hear Jimmy singing Frosty the Snowman and Jingle Bells with Ashley and Monica and not me.

Every year all of it is the same, cept this year will be different cause I will be in bed and Nana will not come.  She went down in the dirt and I didn't like that one bit. When I asked Momma if Nana was scared to be down in the dirt all by herself, Momma said that's a silly thought, cause she can't feel anymore now that she's passed.  I passed my math test and I can still feel everything, especially this ’monia. Why is Nana different?

All of it is happening; all of this Christmas time without me.  Who will hang my baby ornament that says Jane's first Christmas?  And Daddy said last year I hung the tinsel better than all of them and then he even let me light a match for the fireplace. Monica doesn’t get to light a match.  She always screams like a baby when the burning wood cracks and she’s bigger than me. Not me. Johnny and I like fire and we laugh at Monica together and that's why I know he likes me best.  Momma said I couldn't have the cocoa neither. She said it would make me throw up and I don’t think so. It's not the kind from the packet. Momma makes it on the stove, real slow, stirring around and around till it's just right.  The marshmallows and whipped cream on top are the best part and Momma says for me to take my time with the best part. What good is it, she says, if you don't make the best part mingle with the whole cup. She never likes it one bit when we waste.  No, this Christmas will not be the same for me, not for Nana neither, cept I'm above the dirt all alone in my bed.

Maybe Santa hears wishes like Jesus hears the prayers.  If so, Santa, I am really wishing that you will still come ‘round and make Christmas special like you always do.  I am a little bit mad and maybe a little bit bad, because I don't listen when Momma says don't be sad about ‘monia, because I still am, and not just about missing all the fun for me. If you don't come ’round for them on account of me, that will make me a whole lot a bit sad.  Like a million billion trillion sad.

I’m a survivor

I’m a fighter

I’ve fought for my life

Fought for my freedom

Fought for my rights

I’m a survivor

They hate me for it

They hunt me down

They shadow me

Try to fighten me

But I’m a survivor

They can’t get to me

I long to be free

No more hiding

Let me be

I’m a survivor

I have battle scars

But they have become

Part of my beauty

I’ve been strong

I’m a survivor

I don’t trust anymore

Earn my trust

Is a must

Can you do it?

I’m a survivor

I guard my heart

It was shattered

I hold it together

Inside its walls

I’m a survivor

But not just a survivor

Against all odds

I healed and thrived

I’m a thriving survivor

Messianic Don found tarnished appeal

trumpeted bluster thwarted

with muted (hip hip hooray) Democratic zeal

played (on microscale) like quashed

ill fated braggadocio big deal

bombast, sans General George Armstrong

Custer's last stand,

viz Little Bighorn, achilles heel,

where Native Americans

showed deadly steel

against cocksure doodling

haughtiness didst conceal

Yankee sited in cross hairs,

who got comeuppance,

whence his notorious

reputation did never heal,

thus markedly high light

ting (albeit in deadly fashion) might

whooped, undermined, and

served just desserts,

when forces of the Lakota, Northern Cheyenne,

and Arapaho tribes did unite

defending their turf against

7th Cavalry Regiment of the

United States, mauled as bloody sight,

which justified comeuppance,

and whipped up white

settlers fury like an inferno doth ignite

combustible material showing

no mercy toward "red men"

unleashing brutal, short

and nasty genocidal spite

long a tragic footnote in history

proves tummy at hefty price

that present swaggering presidential chieftain

more'n halfway thru administration thrice

occasions brought third "shut down"

(the first time in more than 40 years)

during his opprobrious term,

now got meted "no dice"

cuz commander in chief usurped, provoked,

and kickstarted retaliatory actions, I.C.E.

suspect, where staunch stonewalling tactics

unexpectedly found paunchy big boy lice

sensed to shame, name and blame Congress

i.e. as he thrust forward power,

and hood did launch

bully tactics doth evince,

how he does not play "nice"

demanding five billion dollars for

pet project wall barring Mexicans

(and other asylum seekers south

of the border) did not entice

unanimous concurrence thus sets device

sieve ness roundly shows

Trump doth need strong cussed hard advice!

how can I explain it to you?

that there is nothing more in me

to give?

some parts of me... they are just flat

I can't put myself together again

into a shape

anything, just not flat

Pt. II

‘Too Close to Home’

(Edit #2)

(Based on a true story. Names and certain situations have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Jim Hudson was studying the wall of TVs linked to cameras that were surveying the outside perimeter. He was trying his best to show interest in the claustrophobic survelliance room with the sterile light blue walls that were devoid of any charm. It looked like a men’s bathroom for a public pool in here. Being a security guard in an office the size of a closet might have felt like a totally meaningless job with no mobility, but Jim was the only one in the staff that was trained for this position now so it wouldn’t help anybody if he all of a sudden up and quit on his company. The security job consisted mostly of scanning the sidewalk around where the parking lot owned by the company was located for suspicious activity. The parking lot was only open during the day, but Brunswick was a small town with little to do but dream, and the kids were always fucking about in the lot, smoking reefer, and finger-banging each other on the top floor of the ramp. Jim was expected to wear a security guard outfit, with a blue suit and hat, with a hard plastic badge. The outfit seemed excessive, as he never left the survelliance room for anybody to actually view his official looking uniform. He was glad for this, because security guards weren’t as feared as police officers, in fact many teens thought they were an stupid joke and asking to be fucked with for choosing such a profession, (and sometimes proved to be right) when guards like Elroy Peterson, who was 51, and in the employ of the same company as Jim, would buy beer for the little shits when off duty, or have ’em over to pass a bong around.

Jim was praying he wouldn’t get another middle finger in the face again today from the passerby, but this was what is was like manning a camera that was not an extension of himself, but of societies increasing paranoia and totalitarianism. A man, with a black jacket, and raised collar that cast shade over his face suddenly passed into view under one of the cameras that Jim had eyes on. Remembering his work, Jim willed himself back into attention, and tried to forget his increasing hunger pangs. The man in the jacket came onto the stage, from the left with his back to the camera. Suddenly, he swung around and stared directly into his lens. The stranger’s eyes gleamed at Jim like they were made of glass. He drew up closer to the camera, almost entirely filling it with his body that was encompassing the lens. The stranger seemed to be inspecting the camera throughly, like a thief who is calculating how to steal a safe with the smallest risk.

“The fuck is this guy doing?,” Thought Jim, as he felt a chill pass through his body.

Withdrawing from his extreme close-up with the camera, the stranger pulled away, and looked at the camera with a tilted head. It was as if he was trying to see through to the other side, but there was no telling his true motives, as his face was still shaded by his collar except for the eyes that were a piercing grey. To the left of the camera, and behind the stranger, there was a long black shadow which at first glance seemed like a small door on a building, and then with further inspection, revealed itself to Jim to be a person hanging in the background like a gargoyle. Jim was almost certain that the original stranger wasn’t aware of this more recent onlooker. The first stranger thankfully gave up on investigating the camera, and went on his way into the oblivion of the night. The one that was hovering in the background continued to stare into the camera for the next hour like a terrifying owl or possum with the black eyes that go on forever. The stranger was cleverly positioned at a spot that was out of range of the company’s property, but still eerily fell under the eye of the camera. Halfway into the standoff, a kid passed in front of the stranger, and stopped to dig a prize out of his nostril. By the time the kid had made his way out of the frame, the stranger in the background was gone.

Jim glanced at the wall clock and realized that he only had twenty minutes to kill and his shift would be over. After calling his house and checking his answering machine, he heard a message from his pal Bernard who was doing a private investigating gig for some lady that was being harrassed. It looked like Bernie wanted to know where to get a good two-way radio so his client would have a way of contacting him during a break-in. Jim called Bernie back and recommended this place up on Third Street while he pulled his coat on, and offered to pick it up for him on his way back home from work if Bernie could have some beers waiting for them.

*

Danielle had been a constant on Bill’s mind since the incident, and he couldn’t help but think that the attacks would continue. Such a pretty young woman, an ex-nurse, and a good cook to boot, all these traits should have equaled the perfect roommate. Now she’d gone missing right after her attack in the dead of winter, had been gone for two days, and Michelle and him were beside themselves with worry. They had both agreed to live with Danielle after her divorce, and they thought their pleasant family life would rub off on her, and make her feel that life was worth living, but the responsibility of living with a person who was constantly under the gun seemed horrific. Bill was always looking over his shoulder, and gazing out the window, trying to be on the look-out at all times. His was a middle-aged man in his fifties and this was starting to burn him out. When he should have been reading the paper, he was found smoking cigarette after cigarette by the window, and playing his Vivaldi records too loud. The records were the only thing that came anywhere close to soothing his taxed mind.

Michelle was past being fed up with Bill’s nerves, and Danielle’s disappearance. She had plans to go and stay with her aging mother in Portland until this whole thing blew over. This was a testament as to how stressed she was because her mother was Hell to live with. She tried to talk Bill into it, but Bill seemed obssessed with being there for Danielle when she turned up. It was like he felt responsibility for her disappearance.

“Bill, honey, she’s not our damn child!”

“We told her folks that we would stay with her, and that’s what I aim to do.”

Later that night, Bill had been boiling tea in his teapot, while reading a John D. Macdonald crime novel in his study. He was following the exploits of the Terrance Mcgee detective and admiring his bravado and free-wheeling life. The Mcgee character was right in the midst of chasing down a suspect on the run, when Bill realized the teapot must have been going off for an hour or so. He ran downstairs, and saw that the pot was indeed black, and that the flame was still burning under it. He heard a crash outside and ran out to the side of the house where he found Danielle crouching by the kitchen window. It was freezing outside, and she was dressed only in a negligee. Her hands were red from the cold, bound, and there was a nylon tied tightly around her neck. There was a piece of tape on her mouth that Bill carefully removed.

“What happened to you, Danielle? Where have you been?”

Danielle took a long time to speak, but at last she finally found the words.

“I saw...white tennis shoes...I was going to get that box that Mom had given me before I moved out...and then a person hit me from behind with a block of wood...I think he had tennis shoes on ’cuz I saw them in front of me before it all went black...”

“Why were you gone for so long? Do you remember where you were?”

Danielle didn’t appear to have anything more to say, so Bill went inside to phone the police after getting Danielle something to drink. He was happy to have her home, but still very troubled. After the cops came, and took her sparse statement, they agreed to do a 24 hour 'Watch and Search' of their residence on Berkley Street. The survelliance was supposed to begin the following night. Officer Mindy and her partner Chip O'Flannery would be in charge of the case. Bill remembered Chip from grade school, and the memory didn't make him feel any more safe. Chip was perpetually the class clown and skirt chaser. Bill made himself a drink of scotch, and went upstairs to check on Danielle. He was surprised to find her on the phone in her room. Her face had lost all of it's rosy coloring around her perky cheeks. Her skin was the same color as her nightgown, and it seemed like at any moment she could just disappear forever. Looking like a mime that had just been robbed, Danielle dropped the phone, and it bounced up and down on the pink coiled string. She stared right through Bill, and Bill felt a chill shoot through his body like a ghost had just passed through him.

“Who was that on the phone, Danielle?”

“It was them. The one’s that kidnapped me. All I could hear were their whispers, but I know it was them. They were telling me all these bad things that are going to happen to me. The ways I was going to die, and the ways they were going to make sure it was clean, and that no one could help me. I think they’re trying to scare me to death.”

(To be continued...)

What am i without a soul:

A lifeless dark angel 

sitting beneath a leafless tree 

with my head to my knees.

This anxiety rush

detaches me from myself

and pitches me 87mph

into a brick wall.

Shattered and numb

I watch myself decay