Prose: Friday 13, Locked, Loaded and Le Tired


Crusty eyes, if I lay here for a little while longer. What time is it? Shit, the clock. That’s it. Framed ax-yielding reflections and another sex joke. Hard to swallow, this head of mine. Walking shoes on. Hoodie zipped. Ear buds in. Gone girl.

The rain beat me to it. A few minutes’ reprieve. Buzz buzz buzz. Parked. Walk around the two old white male conversationalists, standing still. This path was made for walkin’. Not talkin’. Step aside. In the grass. Chivalry is dead. Chivalry is dead. Consideration for others is … Why don’t you, your baby stroller, your ugly mutt and your douchebag of a non-poop-bag-carrying husband take your freshly squeezed dog shit and go home. The sky darkens. I should still be in bed. Oh this head, of mine. Martini tweaks and not enough sleep. Friday the 13th has arrived, locked and loaded. Hello. Hello. Smiling faces. James hums from ears to …

Sometimes when I look deep in your eyes, I swear I can see your soul

Pace quickens. The moss dances in the trees, with me below. All is well in the world. All is we …

What the fu …? Forehead crinkles. Don’t need more of that. Neanderthal. French Fried Potaters and Mustard. Grunt. Grunt. Slings his duffel front to back, back to front, crosses the street. Headed my way. No. Crosses back over. Skull juts forward. What’s in that bag? Should I worry? I should still be in bed. Dear God. This is it. I look back. I shouldn’t have looked back. He watches me. I walk faster. I won’t look back. I won’t look back. Cross the grass, early. A cop. Say nothing. I say hello. I walk. Two inches before she backs out, texting. I pull back. She misses me. Sorry, she winces. Sorry. Fu … ! Texting, talking, into oblivion. If I hear one more thing about Trump’s asinine tweets, I’ll … I’ll … Oh this head, of mine. Should still be in bed. What would William Foster do?

Back in the box. They speed. Miss the memo? Where’s the fire? Where’s the party? Neither cashier nor bagger have ever been on a plane. Too dangerous. Ha, too dangerous. I lecture them, gently, jokingly.

The counters are bare. Where have all the French fucking magazines gone?! Why is Vanity Fair in the men’s section? Gloomy and gloomier. Nothing a Blackout Cupcake and a split-shot latté can’t fix, except my thighs. My guilt? Oh this head, of mine.

Throwing Muses …

She said, oh, my, why do you stare so bad,

                        Wrapped up like a doll in bad dreams and broken arms …

KEXP. Cupcakes. Coffee. Books. Camera.

Ahhhhhh …

All is well in the world. All is we …

Momentarily transfixed by fanciful aisles and wines, wow, even that one?! And … no, the way they speak, the way they … Don’t have this. Don’t have that. What am I looking for? What is it really that I’m looking for? I forget it all.

“Tense,” writes he. Who me?!

The sun is here. The road is long, but finally, finally. Head cocooned in a womb of pillows, music, incense and … sense.

And all is well in the world. All is we …


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