No more scribbling the loops in my name on yellowed ghosts decades gone, a half-dozen paper cuts will never heal. No more dreams encased in nightmares, copper in my ears, magnesium scalpels my scalp. No more half-written tales, one town over and 15 years later, suicide windows, when its said and done, and that sad, sad city with no second chances where a cop named St. Cyr drinks in a tavern called Uptown Jo's, served soda water over his shakes by a woman more defined than parts of his own daily existence. No more more. Is there Heaven? Is there a God in man's image and if so, will St. Peter punch me in my balls as I stand in front of graffiti-covered gates? Is this life a continuation of the Hell I lived until I died in 1959 along with George Reeves, Lou Costello, and the 99th victim of the Our Lady of Angels fire, serial killers Harvey Glatman and Charles Starkweather leaving just before that. I just want to keep my memories, is that so selfish and bad? I want to remember the bartender, the cop whose name means sincere, my hatred of snow, the glass in my bones. And my paper cuts will never heal, ever again.
10 comments:
i can naver really make much sense of what u write :(
Plan to get St. Peter first, my friend.
I really enjoyed this post. I am a little confused about your writing though. I have a problem knowing what is what when. Do you understand that???
Ah, Wayne. You are indeed the rarest of poets.
Thank you thank you thank you.
I'm impressed that you're left handed. That explains everything.
well, quite a mixed bag of comments here. lee, i don't know if i'm lefty, i have a cerebral palsy from birth on my right side. catholic school teachers tried to inflict their tortures opun my withered hand. dharmabum and abbagirl, let me maybe help you out some; i am a writer that writes almost exclusively about real life, mine in particular. don't try and guess what i am making up here, because it is all true. bob and charles, thanks. etain, i love your sound effects, as usual.
You should include that pic of you dead on the fire escape -- looking like some of Eliot Ness's men caught up with you. "He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue."
I'm typing that quote as an incredible Sean Connery impression, you just can hear it, because, you know, it's printed.
Ah Wayne, we all write from real life. Except me. I don't have one which I why I borrow from my neighbor, who leads a sensational life. I only hope he doesn't learn what I'm doing and demand that I return it to him.
By the way, in journaling I made you an off stage character in a recent post. I can totally see you hanging out on a farm in colonial America, making life hard for the indentured servants.
Ja Wayne you must go and see What Stewart did to you....hihihihihih....in his writing that is....:)
(Boot connecting with back of pants)
So, where's that novel you've been working on?
Be well.
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