Lines - a kind of free-writing

Trouble will follow a redneck bitch like vultures follow a hawk. She will pick your bones and leave little for the varmints.

Harry kept a box of shells buried in the sock drawer with his Trojans. His rifle was in a case in the corner. He might have to move faster to lock and load than his old bones could manage, but he took comfort in the knowledge that it was there.

This town has more people per capita with no visible means of support than any place I’ve ever seen. They call them trust fund babies, but I’m not exactly sure about that. I suspect that most of them are on SSI. We also have more massage therapists than anywhere in the world. That may account for the number of people out of work. Massage is a way of life around here. People get a massage like most folks smoke a cigarette. I don’t go for that myself. I don’t like being touched, especially by a stranger. If a woman is going to touch my body, I would prefer that she have something else in mind.

God works in strange ways. If He asks you a question, the easy answer will never be the correct one. Think carefully. Always go with the obscure. He will reward you for not choosing the obvious. He will also reward you for not asking Him any questions of your own. God stifles curiosity. He’s tricky that way.

Trouble has blue eyes and blonde hair. She flirts from behind a bar, diner counter, or teller window. She has also been known to work in the Post Office. Here’s a piece of good advice: Always keep that counter between you.

Trouble will draw on her cigarette while holding your gaze with her eyes. The second hand smoke will get you in the end.

Cool is the death of creativity. One shouldn’t try to be radical. It is far better to have genuine ideas that are so unique that other people find them radical. The intentional iconoclast is a bore. He always lets others dictate his behavior.

It was 2 a.m. in an organic food store in Kent, Ohio. McNeilley was clever. He had waited until all the assholes were done and gone, before reading his poetry. Those who remained were waiting just to hear him. He had their full attention and he did not disappoint. I cried when I got the email that he had died. Amy stood behind me with her hands on my heaving shoulders. Death is never unexpected. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. If it seems like a shock, it’s because it is a slap in the face that wakes you back to reality. So many of my friends are gone now, fine poets all. Vonnegut put it best, “How did I get so old?”

Good bye and good luck. And if I take the trouble to tell you that, you can be sure I mean it.