kriskenn

kriskenn

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stunt

It began as just a way to get attention. To bury oneself in shock and awe. To finally stand out amongst the crowd of down gazers, noses plugged into whatever is happening anywhere but here. But your little stunt snapped them into the present. Like a tiny lightbulb flash. Making them have to actually come face-to-face with what they think they might have witnessed. Thanks David Blaine.

High up in the dusty attic. A box. Flaps weaved shut. Below the layers of newspaper clips from a better time. The final recording of his voice, his radio show, lie dormant. He worked his whole life to make them. Call it a feebile attempt to try an make something, anything, that could out last time. But a generation later, it is but a fool's errand.

headlights. They crawl across the dark living room wall, as if to be a gentle, almost ghostly warning shot that the hard conversation, the one that can't be avoided, is about to explode as soon as he parks. The only thing standing in the way is a sullen walk up the driveway.

sirens echo down cavern streets like a master calling out for a lost dog. the anticipation of what could be wrong, what might be wrong, what's definitely not okay lay at its destination. it's only a place for those with a certain knowledge, that of the medical variety. no boy scouts allowed.

it doesn't matter what else you're doing right now. putting away the groceries can wait. flip off the tv. Get on the phone and call your senator, damn it! stop the texting about how you can't believe your boss is making your work the weekend. There's real stuff going on in the world. And it's way more serious than whatever 1st world inconveniences are bugging you.

bland

everyday. the same thing. I clock in. stare. day dream. clock out. go home. tv. no adventure. no spice. nothing to break this cycle of sameness. Is this what teachers meant by you can be anything when you grow up? they meant be nothing?

piercing the placidness of the everyday grind. Shaking that Groundhog's Day movie feeling. Shattering your tunnel vision, forcing you to see that maybe every moment is special. Maybe every single moment is worth paying attention to.

flock

together, buzzing through the sky like V-shaped musketeers. One for all, slicing through the clouds, honking like rush hour or big rigs chugging down a highway making sure that everyone stay out their way.

bait

in the middle of the vast blue, it's floating. limp, but present. waiting like nothingness for a train that will never come. But don't let it fool you. One bite, and life as you know it is over.

toned

sweat beads down his forehead. his eyes, focused with a piercing stare. he can endure this self-inflicted pain he puts himself through. he can do it for the beach.

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writing since 1969 · 170 entries · 167 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means NuSol showed up.

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167days written

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on this day 14 years ago

NuSol wrote about alive
“dawn breaks, that annoying beep of alarms blare, we pound it silent with our fists. monday. we drudge our way to work, dreading the coming week. but rarely to we stop and think that maybe, …”

the words NuSol reaches for

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