I hobble out of bed at daybreak
an Igor with dreams of being both doctor
and creation, waiting for just one spark,
juice enough to fuel that night's creation.
Excitement looms on this horizon
pregnant storm clouds heavy with rain,
whipped overhead by hurricane winds,
ready to strike, incite the dead to life.
Petrichor coats my tongue, fills my head,
lightning flashes, blue-white channels
blaze down these rods to these hands,
fire enough to burn, birthing this beating heart.
My blood boils, my eyes open.
*Thank you for visiting my writing blog. I hope you enjoyed the poem! If you’d like to read about its creation, I will be dissecting it next Friday on my Patreon.
If you would like to read more of my writing, I will be posting once a month (both here and on my Patreon) for the foreseeable future; I’m concentrating on my next poetry collection, as well as writing a novel.
In the meantime, Happy April--aka National Poetry Month!
My broken brain
lets memory fall through
the cracks, the fissures
of forgetfulness, crowded out
by newly made imaginings
Drunk on ink
I love to lose control
all sense of time
to the images,
the voices calling out to me
the words I’ve yet
to press into each page
Since today is Black Friday, traditionally the beginning of the holiday season, I thought I’d post something a little more lighthearted. Please, if you need to go out this weekend, be careful. Stay safe and well!
In the interest of Black Friday, I’m also offering
(while supplies last)
BLACK FRIDAY/CYBER SATURDAY ONLINE SPECIAL:
DIRECT FROM AUTHOR ONLY
my poetry collection, Soul Picked Clean
$12 $10 with free shipping within the Continental USA
my short story collection,
An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories
$29.95 $25 with free shipping within the Continental USA
BOTH BOOKS for $30
with free shipping within the Continental USA
autographed upon request
*Don’t forget to include your mailing address in the PayPal note section, as well as any special instructions if you would like an autographed copy.
**Offer good only Friday, November 27-Saturday November 28th, 2020.
My books are also available through Amazon, although this special deal does not apply to Amazon purchases.
“An Apology to My Reader”
Let me first say
an apology is not warranted
although I am sorry
you didn’t like my work,
I am sorry my words offend
or cause you pain, open wide
that hole in your heart
–yet isn’t that a part
of art’s ultimate calling?
–to make us feel something,
not always some things
we want but to unearth
what’s buried deep inside. It’s
the horror of the disgorged grave
as well as the exhilaration
of a ballerina’s pirouette,
the dispepsia of an undigested
bit of tainted beef versus
the ecstacy of a lover’s embrace,
the shoulders shrugged against
the enigma of an ignorant world
and the melancholic mind’s eye
turned inward despite willing
ourselves blind, so while
I wish you every happiness,
I also admit I want praise,
adulation even as I question
why anyone would spend
their hard earned cash, tender
payment to buy a book of mine.
I am sorry you are unhappy
with my words, with time
I tendered writing, recording,
with the hours, days, weeks
of creating stories, drawing imagery,
imagining metaphors, birthing similes,
reworking prose and poetries, so although
an apology is not warranted,
I will extend you this one exception:
I’m sorry, but I don’t give refunds.
Thank you for visiting my blog! I hope you enjoyed that little bit of snarky humor. I actually do have some more pandemic-themed poems, but I wanted to do something different this week. This particular poem was inspired by a prompt from Cuyahoga County Public Library’s Read + Write: 30 Days of Poetry. Wherever you are, stay safe, stay well, and read often!
The following story also appears in my short story collection, An Optimist’s Journal of the End of Days and Other Stories, published via Venetian Spider Press.
*warning: some profanity (three F-bombs)
George Griffith, affable and lovable nice guy, stood at the cliff’s edge, hands raised high in the air. He was accompanied by his loving wife of twenty years, their next door neighbor, Bob, and the neighbor’s annoying dog and cat. They mirrored George’s stance to the best of their ability. Bob, however, was only able to comply with one upraised arm–as the other cradled a goldfish bowl. Inside the bowl, however, his betta fish (who was also named Bob) hovered in the tank’s cloudy waters, his long floating fins in an attitude that suggested that he held his fins up in lieu of hands. The dog and cat merely lifted their heads.
“Now, jump.” Mary Sue motioned with the revolver’s long nose toward the cliff’s edge.
George tipped slightly to view the depth of the proposed descent, then seemed to think better of it and edged slightly away. His companions did the same, mirroring his movements half a beat behind his own. The collars of the cat and the tiny dark pug made little tinkling sounds when they moved. Wet Bob leaned further away in his small glass prison. You may think it’s impossible for a fish to lean, but I assure you, with determination anything is possible.
“Uhhhh…no,” said George, shaking his head from side to side.
His companions shook their heads from side to side. The little bells on the collars tinkled. Wet Bob swished in his tank.
It was annoying.
“Go on now,” Mary Sue said, motioning the characters toward their imminent doom. “Jump.”
George shook his head again, and his companions followed suit. They looked to George as their spokesperson. “What’s my motivation?” he asked.
Mary Sue rolled her eyes, slowly inhaled, and silently counted to five before answering. “Motivation? Are you serious?” She looked at the gun, then back at George.
George gave a quick, nervous laugh before answering. “Well…yeah. I mean, if we are going to jump off a cliff…en masse, I assume…?”
Mary Sue nodded, and he continued, “If we are going to jump en masse off this very steep and scary cliff to certain death, wouldn’t we need some pretty powerful motivation?”
“I’m holding a fucking gun on you,” Mary Sue answered through gritted teeth. “That’s your fucking motivation, asshole.”
“But is it? Is it really?” George’s voice had taken on the condescending tone of someone reasoning with an idiot, rather than a man bargaining for his own life and the lives of others. “Because from where I’m standing, I don’t see how diving off a cliff is better than being shot.” Just at that moment, an updraft from the unseen depths blew his hat dramatically from his head, whistling mournfully as if to emphasize the point. The other characters on the ledge followed the Fedora’s progress with their eyes, heads turning as the wind whipped the accessory over the edge, until it was lost from sight. “See what I mean?” said George.
Mary Sue sighed and sat down on a conveniently placed boulder, careful to keep the revolver’s barrel aimed at her intended victims. “Crap, crap, crap,” she muttered, then added an extra crap just to emphasize her point. “I was afraid this was going to happen.”
“What?” asked George. Taking a tentative step toward her, his movements were mirrored half a beat later by his companions. When Mary Sue made no additional threats, they took a few more steps. “What was going to happen?”
“That the characters take control of the story,” she moaned. “I mean, sometimes that makes my job really easy, you know? But others, like now, I have to worry about proper motivation, backstory, did I give enough foreshadowing. I mean, I should be able to just throw you all off a cliff if I want to, right?” She turned pleading eyes on her wayward creations.
“Well, maybe you just haven’t come up with the right scenario yet?” said George, affable and lovable nice guy. He wanted to help her, even though she wanted to off him and everyone he cared about. That need to please at any cost was hardwired into him; it was one of the things that really didn’t work about his character. She hated that.
“What better motivation could there be but a gun aimed at you and your loved ones?” Mary Sue was intrigued by his line of thought, despite herself. Well, because of herself, seeing how all her characters were just different manifestations of her own thoughts, but let’s not quibble.
“Maybe…hmmm,” George mumbled to himself, then brightened. “Maybe my wife was cheating on me with Bob!” He grinned. His wife looked horrified, but he continued. “Yeah, and I’m so distraught that I force them all off the cliff, then jump myself!” By this time, he had made his hatless way to her side and gave her a friendly pat on the back.
Mary Sue put her head in her hands. “No, same problem, right? You would just shoot them. How is a cliff dive better than being shot?”
“Because I don’t need to worry about disposing of the bodies?” ventured George.
“He could threaten to shoot me in the groin!” volunteered Bob the neighbor (not Bob the fish). “That would be pretty horrific!” He looked pleased.
“Shut up, Bob. You’re just a side character,” answered Mary Sue. “I didn’t even intend for you to have any lines.”
Bob deflated, but George carried on. “No, he has a point. Some ways of dying are better than others, right? Painful versus painless, heroic versus cowardly, that sort of thing?”
Bob nodded his head in agreement, but Mary Sue glared at him before turning on George again. “Yes, but that is the point. I’ve just always wanted to throw my characters off a cliff when I’m sick of them, alright? Call it a writer’s sadistic fantasy. I make no apologies for that.”
“You’re sick of us?” said George. Being threatened with different types of death had been off-putting, but that really hurt. “Why?”
“Why?!” countered Mary Sue, incredulity dripping from her lips like venom. “Because you are annoying, alright? Your character is flawed, and you say things like en masse. What real person says such a douchey thing? The characters I surrounded you with in the story are just window dressing, not fully developed people–which is why I have them mostly just react to you, George. Maybe I’m just a lazy writer, but it’s easier to have them follow the main character around rather than come up with full personalities for each and every one. It’s a short story, so is it even worth the trouble? And the animals! Holy frakking hell, what was I thinking with the animals? Half the time I forget they are there, so why’d I include them in the first place?”
“Maybe humor? You were being quirky,” said George, unrealistically helpful, as well as affable and lovable as ever. Half a beat later, his supporting staff nodded agreement–including his wife, the dog, the cat, and the Bobs.
“They don’t advance the story,” she replied.
“What’s the story about? ” asked George.
“Me throwing you off a cliff.”
“Because I’m sick of writing about you.”
“Well…damn,” said George. He swished his foot in the red dirt at the cliff’s edge. The other characters did the same, except Wet Bob–who swished in his tank. “What about the gun?” He pointed to the gun pointed at himself. “That’s interesting, right? Imminent danger, all that…you could describe what it looks like, the long silver barrel coated in dust, the way Chekhov is engraved in elegant script along the side, the way you pulled it dramatically from the mantel to point it at us-”
“What mantel? There’s just rocks here and a huge fucking drop.”
“You’re the writer, right? Couldn’t you just say there’s a mantel?”
“It’s like I’m talking to myself.”
“You are, remember? We are all just different manifestations of your own-”
“-thoughts, but let’s not quibble.”
“You are missing the point.” She glared. She sighed. She hung her head in frustration. She found many ways to express herself without actually moving from the spot, adding additional dialogue, or forwarding the plot in any significant way.
“Can’t you just stop writing about us?” asked George, and his supporting cast…know what? You get the idea.
“No, it doesn’t work like that,” she answered. “The story needs to be resolved in a believable and consistent way.”
“But how is throwing us off a cliff believable?”
“You see my problem.”
“Well, for one thing you aren’t throwing us off a cliff… ”
“Because you won’t listen.”
“No, not to criticize, but I mean, you are trying to make us jump–which isn’t the same as throwing us off.”
Mary Sue brightened. “You know, you’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
“Technically you did,” said Bob the neighbor (not Bob the fish), “seeing how we are just different incarnations of your own thoughts-”
“Shut up, Bob,” said Mary Sue, and she shot him. “I don’t want to lose my train of thought, and I told you, you weren’t supposed to have lines.”
“-but…but…,” sputtered Bob as the life drained from his body, “but…let’s not…quibble.”
George looked at her in astonishment. So did his surviving supporting cast. Bob the fish flopped helplessly on the ground, where Bob the neighbor had dropped the now empty tank when he was shot. Both Bob’s burbled. It wasn’t pretty.
“So…,” mused Mary Sue, nudging both Bobs over the the cliff with one steel toed boot, “if I just shoot you first, I can throw you over the cliff myself. Then I don’t need to worry about your motivation.”
“Nudge, not throw,” corrected George.
She shot him. “And thanks for helping me establish my motivation.” In quick succession she dispatched his supporting cast: the unnamed wife who resembled her own nosy neighbor, the dog that resembled the stray that tried to bite her every time she went out her own front door, and the cat that resembled the one that kept her up till three every morning with deafening feline orgies.
She set the gun back on the mantel that was mysteriously present in this deserted location. Then she bent down and shoved each one of her deceased creations off the cliff, whistling a joyful tune all the while.
Close enough, she thought.
*Image courtesy of BigFoto.com
**Thank you for visiting my blog. I will post my next story in three to four weeks, due to scheduling issues. I hope you enjoyed my little piece of meta, and have a lovely weekend!