caroline1895
Grade school. So many grade school teachers ruined history. It should have been like a novel, but it was musty and flat and florescent lights cafeteria hotdogs asphalt playgrounds.
Blank. Drawing a blank. Insomnia for days in a row. A migraine. A funeral. The hospital and squeaky wheels. Debt and taxes. Death and taxes. A shovel of dirt.
Prison. Body. Mind. Sleeper. Celluloid cells. Cold cells. He sells stuff. He sells stolen stuff and winds up in a cell. A cold cell. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The weather. Where I will be tomorrow or next week or next month? Who's having a baby and will it be a boy or a girl? Healthy or not? We can more than predict now. We can know. We take predicting for granted.
Do I have it? It's fleeting. Whack-a-mole. Blackbird, no, a crow. Not sure what that has to do with belief, but there it is. That's the image. An enormous, scary crow. Slick and black.
Ahhh. My grandmother. Her belly was like a pillow and her lipstick always hibiscus. Her geraniums were huge and her white gravy sooo thick on chicken fried steak. Perfect. Perfect. I wish she could've lived forever.
elvis costello and burt bacharat. Painted from Memory is what I listen to at work, over and over again. Outside, across the street, people fire up the bbq pit. They must have a better job than I do. Hurumph.
We turned the station to try to find some clarity. The static was hard to take. Almost as bad as food smacking or knuckle-cracking. Those were the things that started fights between the sisters.
It's all in there. The drugs. The water. But it's heavier than life and leaving brushburns on her shoulders. They look like sunburns in two strips. Still, one needs to keep on moving regardless of the many many pockets.