Tagged: prose

Poems – The Light.

We’ve all been there…we’ve all had our shadowy moments where the light of life doesn’t shine as bright. Sometimes that shade can overwhelm us…if we let it.


When you’re tired of one path, stand tall…that courage has the power to open the shades and let the sunshine in. Let your own light shine. Be well, and thanks for reading.


Monotony – A Story, Part 4

We bought ninja stars and throwing knives online and hurled them like major league pitchers at anything that we could puncture. Nothing was safe from our alcohol infused ninja wrath, as boxes, bags, and everything in between fell victim to our onslaught. We fancied as ourselves blue collar sportsmen as well, and developed our own Olympic caliber games, such as the legendary sports of Warehouse Tennis, Wall Ball, and the venerated Quarterback Challenge. We shoved hunks of raw meat and random bits of leftover lunch under a broken crevice in the concrete floor one entire summer just to see how many maggots and critters that we could attract to it. Needless to say, we succeeded in attracting a city’s worth of bugs to that hole like animals to the Ark. You name it, we did it; nothing was off limits, no dare was too great, no joke was unworthy. Great cardboard tubes that once held monstrous fabric rolls became fabled swords and wicked spears, and hole-riddled boxes stood as a testament to the epic battles and wars that we waged against each other to pass the hours. I was an Obi Wan with a cardboard tube. And the time did fly, let me tell you. It passed in a drunken haze; we spent untold fortunes of cash nearly every day on bottles of booze, bottles that we’d skillfully guzzle throughout the day by the cupful, right before the eyes of management and the front office. We toted our red Solo cups around with pride in fact, and downed our spirits in front of all who dared enter our sanctuary. We practically dared them to approach us about it. And we only got busted once. Our livers suffered greatly while playing the role of a Brita filter that summer, yet we became remarkably adept at getting the job done while being loaded to the gills on whiskey, rum, and whatever other distilled goodness we could muster. The very definition of functioning alcoholics. We were a well-oiled machine, though our gears were greased with Jack and Coke.

Monotony – A Story – Part 1

It was a cold, black morning. The weatherman had predicted warm and sunny days all week, but in typical weatherman fashion, he was highly mistaken. Don’t they get paid to make educated guesses? Why can’t I get paid to assume? My eyes opened to a not-so-welcoming blast of crunchy, static laden 80’s rock on the dusty alarm clock; loud music to begin with, but even louder since I’d decided to crank the damn volume up to the max the night before in an attempt to jolt my tired ass up. It was a piercing, deafening roar that uncomfortably jarred me from an uncharacteristically pleasing deep sleep, a sleep chock full of unrealistic oddities and meaningless mystical journeys, coupled with beautiful damsels and angry zombies. I was running from them all for some strange reason.

It was hard to pry my eyes open that morning; it felt as though they’d been buffed to a high sheen with extra grain sand paper. Someone must have felt that my tongue needed a good sanding too, because it was as dry as the bottom of a homeless man’s feet, and tasted the part full on. Maybe it was the spirit of last night’s frozen .99 cent meatloaf special come back to haunt me. I roared a massive sigh, and shifted a bit to get comfortable; I lay sprawled out wide on my back, the dim blue light of the alarm clock illuminating my tiny, disheveled room. My eyes lazily floated about in the shadowy light, and I felt disgusted; not at the wretched taste that was eating my mouth, but the fact that my microscopic room, and world for that matter, amounted to the value of a dilapidated shit house.


She found him there, lost within the
shadow of himself,
stolen by the gaze of his unrelenting sun-
she mended his wilted petals, and sheltered
him from the ruddy embrace of his drought…
she was the sip that he’d never tasted,
the wine that he’d been too afraid to drink*


I can’t help but drift off into daydream when I 

spot a plane in the sky-

maybe it’s the child in me,

still stuffed full of wonder and awe as it glints off the

sun like an afternoon star-

I wonder then, of the lives above us,

bound for the winds of everywhere…

some eager, 

some pained,

many excited, nervous, or afraid,

journeys and endings, departures and destinations…

I wonder what they’re thinking as they’re looking down upon us,

or if they’re wondering what I’m thinking while looking up,

and if our thoughts ever somehow intersect in the middle*