Say Whaaaa Wednesday... 15 Minute Free write

Always fun to take 15 minutes and just write whatever pops into your head! You'd be surprised with what comes outta the mindless chattering that goes on up in that noggin of yours!

6 Feet Underground Scene

He’s got himself a homemade cigarette /
a nighthawk sitting slumped waiting /
for a dog day tomorrow /
he’s tried it all but it ain’t no use /
he thinks to himself /
“this town only dwells buzzards / whose feathers are a concerning green” /
a nicotine cloud hanging in his memory / offers no direction out /
he’s gonna be burning 6 feet to the underground scene /
where they dress in calico / with crimson blood shot eyes /
time to kill and places not to be /
no one goes there without baggage / wanting a soul to spew their lies /
knowing he’s burned out all his one night stands /
he sighs /
women strangled his heart and scratched out his prays /
keeping his dreams from sneaking up behind him /
pouring out their perfume / with a barrette in their hair /
they slips out as fast as he drinks his bourbon /
tearing the teeth out of the night /
with no thank you card /
the waitress interrupts his reverie / with a sideways glance /
her graveyard eyes punch through his mellow dramatic trench /
with grey strips tearing onto the caffeine soaked floor /
she knows he’s poisoned all his waters / put them in a suite case /
next to his switch blades / the man is no more than a boy /
with a toy pistol shooting nightmares /
he’s been 6 feet underground all along /

Madam’s Organ Blues Bar

A tired place; the walls are riddled
with photos of visitors whose toothless grins
reflect their false hope and forgotten dreams.
This bar, I visit often to watch and listen.
Tonight, two men were laughing violently
and I realized I am becoming apart of them,
apart of their laughter
with every inhale and short gasp.
Their breath disappears into their dark,
smoke incrusted throats,
their bruised lungs and forsaken hearts.
Our breath allied into a band of shit.
For a brief moment,
these men and I are together
within a world of thought;
where our false laughter and reusable relationships
become disgustingly real.
Where you give champagne to your lovers
and the shame of pain to your enemies.
Where Saturday nights
always end in a numb arm
from leaning on the back of a chair for too long
just trying to get hits with a pretty girl.
No one comes in here without baggage,
wanting to spill onto anyone who will listen;
I’ve heard it all.

Butch Deadmarsh

He was born tired and his head pressed
Hard against the concrete dead-end walls
Of mindless work.
His toothless grin; an apt title to his ignorance
And overly anxious laughter;
the sound of barricaded elephants
On their last leg.
No more than fifty dollars to his name
And a line of past dues and unsettled debts.
He sleeps, and eats, and drinks
And sings from a mouth clamped;
Emptied and topped off then emptied again,
Pouring his wretched breath onto those in his company.
The seat in the bar where he sits
Every Saturday, polishing the backside
Of the stool,
Is where he drinks a pint, till his memory
Drowns in a slew of senseless mourning,
Sip after sip.

Chapter 3: Deer Hide and Seal Skin

The trucker was still staring at me,
his sweaty hands insulated a glass of scotch.
I could smell his odor of liquor, piss and diesel,
all mixed with loneliness and a dire need for a companion.
My judgment was interrupted by the waitress,
a sweet smell of cheap jasmine perfume pierced my throat.
“Thought you’d like some orange juice while you’re waitin,
its on me sweetie, you look far from near here.”
“Thanks. Naw, I’m from up north, Canada.”
My gulp of juice echoed throughout the bar.
“Canada?!? Lord, must be damn near cold up there.
I bet this heat is sure a kick in your ass?”
“Oh the heat is more of a knock you in your face,
fall to the jagged ground, kick you in your stomach
then steal your wallet.”
She looked at me like I was nuts.
“Well, I tell you what, I had a cousin who went up there once,
came back hallerin’ and preachin’ about the cold,
sayin’ he almost damn neared froze to death after one winter!”
“Yah, Canada’s like that, we live in igloo’s you know?”
She stopped buffing a drinking glass,
staring at me in confusion.
I felt bad for playing around.
“No!?? Do ya? Child you have done gone in the right direction!
I would peel over if I had to live in an ice cave! Jesus!”
“Yah, it ain’t that bad once you get use to it,
we just use deer hide and seal skin to keep warm.”
Now I was being cruel, Americans are so easy though.
“Deer? Seal hide? Well, I would have never guessed,
you don’t look like the huntin’ type?”
I shrugged.
My shoulder fell through the neck of my shirt.
Clutching my skinny arm I was reminded how starving I was.
I could tell she sensed this realization.
“I think your pancakes are ready!
I’ll grab ya some more juice and extra butter too!”
She waddled back to the kitchen,
hips twistin’, barely contained in her floral skirt.
I guzzled more of the juice and waited for her return.
My chest burned as the orange pulp stuck in my esophagus,
firing a pain only a smoker can understand.
I pounded my chest to get it down,
hacking out the pieces of delta momma love.
I then smelt the warmth of a buttermilk batter,
felt the heat of a freshly flipped flap jack,
saw the beauty within ol’ Jerry’s art.
“Here you are child! Stack of six, extra large! Eat up!
Don’t go chockin’ yourself now, I don’t got no room left in the basement.
Down there just won’t fit another body!”
I don’t think she was joking.
The pancakes were perfectly bronzed discs.
Each one placed delicately atop the other,
a stack of pride and pretentious glory!
Pancake sweat corrugated beneath the edges,
I quickly lathered each floor of precious cake with softened butter,
using a knife engraved with teeth marks
of a fuming beast.
Drenching the stack with oozing syrup
I watched the last drop plunge from a glass dispenser,
crusted with crystallized beads,
adding to the memories of the ones who ate here.
The first bite was indescribably orgasmic,
a burst of sugar and maple
flooded within a heavy dough
melted, as if becoming one with my mouth.
I don’t remember much after that,
my hunger overwhelmed my ability to experience the taste.
Too bad,
I had a feeling it was like the best sex of my life,
I was just too drunk to remember
and forgot to turn the video camera on.

Chapter 2: Lonesome Red Pancakes in Noseneck Hill

The entrance door screeched with stories of drunks and truckers
coming here to spill onto anyone who would listen.
The light from outside illuminates the place,
my entrance seemed to disrupt its sinister thoughts.
Music of an old jukebox was softly humming,
sounded like Waylon Jennings, before he got clean.
Cigarette smoke gathered at the ceiling,
a few shadows sat at a corner table mumbling about corn
or something that was horribly uninteresting.
Mismatched chairs and 3 legged tables
were disheveled throughout the place.
Dust gathered in crevices beneath old coco-cola signs,
pinwheels hung on the wall, shovels leaned up against doors,
and pictures frames of random folk
with disturbing smiles of hidden history
watched you walk in.
A old trucker was staring at me,
looked like he hadn’t seen a women in years,
if he got a hold of me
he would have tear me in two.
I tested his glare with my own and knew he would cower.
Taking a seat at the bar I realized this was no diner,
perhaps a marketing ploy to widen their customer base.
This place was gloomy, tired and incredibly sad.
A dark skinned women placed down a coaster.
“What’ll ya have sweetie?”
Her black hair pinned into a crows nest atop her head.
Pieces hung across her face like black thread,
a man’s oxford shirt hugged her hips
like morning bakery buns wrapped in cloth.
She had these beautiful turquoise earrings incased in silver
and a matching necklace.
A stained apron cinched around her waist
spoke of the years she’d spent here.
Her dark chestnut eyes crept into my soul
stealing my cold fate and breathing for my heart.
“What do you have for food?” I asked.
“Well, Jerry back there makes some mean pancakes.
You like pancakes don’t ya?”
I looked up from fiddling with the coaster,
“I love pancakes, I’ll get six.”
“Six?! Jesus Miriam Joseph Child!
Well, you could use some meat on your bones!”
I glanced down at my matchstick legs,
They’ve grown smaller since I last looked.
“I guess I could, couldn’t I? Tell him to make ‘em big too!”
She let out a big hum drum laugh,
an exhale of surprise
followed by an inhale of amusing pity.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the kitchen.