Though I've written notebooks full of songs--and even straight up poetry--poems aren't something I'm normally in the habit of writing. I don't dabble too much in the that type of literary romanticism. And I'm not a big fan of reading it. Poetry can be so personal at times that no one else but the author can truly appreciate it. Do take note. I'm not bad mouthing it. There is, however, a type of flash fiction that I enjoy that I would consider almost poetic. And I suppose you can either see the beauty in it, or maybe it'll just fly right over your head. Last year I wrote a blog entry (read that sucker right here) where I used the traffic view on Google maps to help jump start my imagination. What resulted was my own made-up scenario based on evidences observed in a panoramic view on Google maps right in my home town. That particular form of writing is far reserved from what I normally do, but I find it both therapeutic and entertaining. It's a very satisfying form of art, if you will. I'd like to start sharing some of my pieces here on the weekend in a little segment called "Day-Off Drivel."
I suppose I would have to credit author/actor/speaker/opinionator/punk rock icon Henry Rollins for inspiration. He's written some books with a similar style. I hope you enjoy the micro pieces. Who knows, maybe one day I'll publish a little book full of all this drivel. Hope you enjoy it!
I suppose I would have to credit author/actor/speaker/opinionator/punk rock icon Henry Rollins for inspiration. He's written some books with a similar style. I hope you enjoy the micro pieces. Who knows, maybe one day I'll publish a little book full of all this drivel. Hope you enjoy it!
Not Quite Six Feet Deep But Deep Enough
"Dig it deeper." The drunk man commanded the two boys.
The man's dog had died earlier that day lying in the sweltering sun. Insects had started to find the corpse attractive; the sun helping lift the scent of death to their senses. The hole was already 4 feet deep—a ridiculous depth for a pet. But the grieving man's judgment was clouded with an alcohol-fueled paranoia, that one day people would move into the house he was renting and dig up his precious dead dog. He would most certainly not have that. Later, while the dog rested under the weight of 4 feet of soil, the man would treat the boys to BBQ for their suffering and sweat.
"Dig it deeper." The drunk man commanded the two boys.
The man's dog had died earlier that day lying in the sweltering sun. Insects had started to find the corpse attractive; the sun helping lift the scent of death to their senses. The hole was already 4 feet deep—a ridiculous depth for a pet. But the grieving man's judgment was clouded with an alcohol-fueled paranoia, that one day people would move into the house he was renting and dig up his precious dead dog. He would most certainly not have that. Later, while the dog rested under the weight of 4 feet of soil, the man would treat the boys to BBQ for their suffering and sweat.
Facing a Wasteland
You knew painting your door red would show the world how mad you were; that painting your lawn with the blue petunias would show the world how sad you were. And though you’d never let us see you, the dolls in your windows and your stone garden figurines told tales of your loneliness. Keep your curtains closed and your bricks stacked tight. It’s a mad, wild world.
You knew painting your door red would show the world how mad you were; that painting your lawn with the blue petunias would show the world how sad you were. And though you’d never let us see you, the dolls in your windows and your stone garden figurines told tales of your loneliness. Keep your curtains closed and your bricks stacked tight. It’s a mad, wild world.
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