Ain’t Life Strange

“Ain’t life strange / ain’t it funny / nothing matters much but love and money…cigarettes make the sun come up / whiskey makes the sun go down / and in between you do a lot of standin’ around…she wrapped it all in darkness / and I can’t find my way…I’m just another man / with an empty-handed heart / in an empty-hearted town…shoulda done / shoulda done / that’s my song…” WZ

Imbibing in alcohol is an illegal procedure when you have nothing more to say…shark bait for dark seas made for poetry on moonless nights.

My last meaningful word was in a bar…will be in a bar. With my harried history I will make the interstellar deadline when the time comes. I’ll have calculated my straight-lining for the unreal real estate in the undiscovered country. I’ll have the grain-like appearance in a full metal jacket of flasks and patented axes. Bladed in the fold of the knife, my senses sharpened by an illegal substance. Polarized by amassed options, I’ll brood for a day or so. Mood on the word in the saloon. Moon over the last meaningful syllable from a second-rate drunk. I’ll net work. I’ll scroll the nets and wind up in the last catch. Belly up like bad business. Winded.


Denouements and Denouncements

Dear reader, some twist in the wind, I unravel, and this is where I do it when I’m not running Dubai’s first camel hockey league, the DCHL. I’m partly truth and partly fiction, which makes me Kristoffersonian, so steel yourself for tall tales in small snippets.

Unraveling is a sport in and of itself, though some would argue that commissioning or decommissioning a camel hockey league in the Mojave’s twisted sister should be all one needs to unravel and that calling it a sport is akin to calling the moon America’s most distant abandoned golf course, which it is, so there is a grain of sandy truth in the unsolicited opinions of my trusted advisers, mostly drunks and pharmaceuticaled hausfraus. However, I find my role as commissioner of the DCHL a respite from the gleanings and mishandled fact-checking of the American Sociopathic Orgy of ClintonBushObamaTrump, or CBOT.

However you slash it or bodycheck it, what you will find on my blog will be the meanderings of a social pariah born of now and then, love and hate, and alcohol and tater tots, the runt love child of Ernest Hemingway and Marilyn Monroe, with the former’s sense of word economy and the latter’s flair for the dramatic finish. Both doomed to die soon after the time of my birth, an alcoholic and an insomniac, the flagellant hero and heroine of the American Dream in the American Century, aka the “Century of Death,” both spared of CBOT’s Syndrome and personal computers.

I hope what you find on my site is out of sight; it will definitely be out of mind, twisted in the shimmering glow of denouements and denouncements.