Carving out a corner to post random crap.
…and therefore Constable Excessive-Force was instructed that teenage girls in bathing suits (neon floral and other such summery motifs) pose a most grievous threat. Why, the concealment of weapons beneath all manner of itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenies is a public safety calamity! The only action available to Constable Excessive-Force, one in which he had intensive training, was to draw and aim.
Fire with extreme prejudice.
"Ok, I'll concede the point," Stevie said in-between bites of a pineapple and Gruyère sandwich on banana bread, "but what I was trying to get you to understand is magic is made up of words, words are found in books, books are a nifty and convenient delivery system for language. Language creates worlds where magic lives. That's reality right there. All I'm saying is you need to read more. Doesn't even matter what at first."
"Huh?"
"I'm not judging, but I usually don't befriend people who aren't into books."
Micah didn't think of himself as a fish out of water. He didn't like the confinement of schools, is all. The more people wandered into his circle, the more Micah felt outside the action, like an observer of an experiment with which he had no connection. Crowds made for lonesome company, so the back of the classroom, back pressed against a cellulite-patterned taupe wall, was the most comfortable seat to sit and listen to his hopscotching thoughts. Like the one about
the new girl's skin is shiny not oily shiny but more like she tosses glitter in the air and runs through the cloud of sparkly particulates until she's sufficiently covered the effect is not unpleasing but it makes her look like the survivor of a crafts store explosion but her braids are nice and I like how the patches of her skin not hidden under little foil slivers like silver reminds me of Gramp's Jerseys makes me miss the farm but we're only real as someone else's memory
Micah had no reason to be, really, but he was interested in the new girl and wanted to know what she called herself. He knew what the others called her, but no parent would give a kid a name like that. Not where he was from, anyway. Despite Micah's warmish feelings toward her, the new girl gave off a haunted, hunted vibe strong enough to give Micah nerve pain in his teeth. The chill that ran through his body when he got within a few feet of her was love and revulsion all bound up in one big spine-rattling shiver.
time and being turn
turn words backwards to hide crimes
crimes of omission
An upright knight has made an offer:
"Ride into the hills with me."
Flask in hand
Hooves pounding sand
Hit the trail all romantic like
Under the hot white
Pocket full of stars
And coins so bright
They chase down every
Last shadow.
The night never stays for long.
A stranger.
An angel in cowboy boots and a 3-piece suit.
A savior.
Check the tag.
"Where did you get your wings?"
My name is Reed Wallis. I live inside a faux bison hide tipi more than likely at the end of your street. I carve initials into things, like T.I.E. on the gray, axe bit-mangled post which supports your letterbox. I like ladies called George. One of them slipped me this on the back of a grocery list as I carved up her letterbox post:
"Failure after long perseverance is much grander than never to have a striving good enough to be called a failure."
Good one. You may now discuss amongst yourselves what your grandest failing has been. If you are one of the unlucky, fear not. The day is sure to arrive.
M.S.G!
Words in the right order conjure incredible visions. So do words in the incorrect order. It all depends on what it is you need to see. Belief in something bigger than a breadbox helps. Whatever your thorn-in-the-side happens to be, make it hard to pluck out. We live our days shadowed by at least one indefinable idea.
"What was that, Darla?" Ort asked as he hefted milk crates filled with crafts out of the back of Darla's pickup. "Didn't catch what you just said. Who you talking to anyway?" The vendors' parking area filled up as early bird browsers patrolled the perimeter in the hopes of being the first to scope out the day's special bargain must-have(s). Darla, with dry mouth and moist eyes, pointed at a painting Ort had tucked under his left arm. Ort's right arm was ringed up to his shoulder with wreaths made from Keurig K-Cups.
"No one likes to be corrected, but we all long to return to the sea."
Dear Mesmeric Cleric,
Please stay out of the light, away from the spin machine, and off the sticky track. It's so much better that way for both of us. And just so you know, you are right when you write: "The work must speak for itself." I agree on all seven levels. I don't need to see your knees or teeth or sunburn or bad haircut or pale blue eye to know you are a skilled trick whistler who leaves listeners listless after the last twist of the tongue. Hey, I'll admit it. I Am One. I speak what I don't know in hope of you coming one day to show me. I promise to look the other way when you do.
Yours in all false modesty,
Fanula
The notion of truth (What is it? Where can I get some? Does it come in my size?) makes my head pound. I mean, we know truth when we see it, right? Ok, then. Give me your systems and processes and phenomena and I will show and/or tell you what is what. You can do the same for me, too. It's easy, no? There's a special form of shorthand we all use to distinguish T from F (learned it as kids, we did.) Easier than the alphabet.
Shit blocks our sight lines
choke on a thought you forgot
dare to tear my heart.
Then comes the hard part
construction ruins the view
I speak one true word.
We move with the herd
home is more an attitude
shoved inside a box.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 