morning

It's 2 AM Christmas morning and the uncomfortable lover writes from his bed under the flickering glow of two candles.
And she exposed him.
The naked and ugly parts.
His room was ransacked.
His scars made clean and visible.
He sips biting whiskey from a glass stained with fingerprints and he ponders of stations, places and locations to hide -- there are none.
Smoke from a burning cigarette curls and colors the dimly lit room and it's Christmas morning. The uncomfortable lover pictures his unwrapped gift miles away, sleeping under sheets decorated with her lovely scent.
He recalls a kiss, an embrace, a look, unspoken communications and her tiny hands were always warm.
This cold room is confusion and the uncomfortable lover realizes that some things are incalculable.
"It's so difficult to compromise the desires of an aching heart."
A gift wrapped in soft flesh.
A heart swimming in blood of untamed devotion.
And the uncomfortable lover will sleep alone tonight.

mc (2.25 AM Christmas morning)

"the world just screams and falls apart"

U P D A T E :

I'm great, I just wish it would snow, rain, sleet, something. Fifty degrees and no snow in early December is ridiculous.
I'm currently working on multiple pieces -- a wonderful feeling. Specifically I'm piecing together a short story about Brillo pads, a floor of linoleum, the Blessed Virgin Mary, a young man with OCD, and escapism.
My screenplay is on the back burner; I'm focused on compiling a collection of short stories.
Speaking of short stories, every reader (all three of you) MUST read Denis Johnson's Jesus' Son. It's an unforgettable read of short stories and it's a definite must read for fans of Chuck Palahniuk. Steal this book. Visit your friendly local library. eBay it. Hell, send me your address and I'll send you my tattered copy. JUST READ THIS BOOK. Period.
x x End transmissioN x x

mc

i was walking down the street and everyone looked like actors, their costumes reeking of perfumes and bonfire smoke. briefly i wondered if the carnival was in town, but the carnies don't come here anymore. no, not anymore. they've left the scavengers to fend for themselves. birds collect crumbs with broken beaks and drug addled freaks struggle to speak. the lights of christmas illuminate this spectacle of humanity -- a rainbow of hearts, oxygen, pills and pretty girls of cell phones.

and now for something COMPLETELY different

At the risk of disgracing everything I've written on my precious blog, I present this hilarious segment from the tragically short lived "The Andy Dick Show."

claire

I need to buy more blazers, more sport coats. I feel comfortable, fashionable if you will, sporting a fedora, blazer/sport coat with vintage tee, worn blue jeans and a tattered pair of Chuck Taylors.
I purchase all my blazers/sport coats and tees at thrift shops.
I'm sure many of the coats have been donated by blue haired widows after clearing the closets of their dead husbands. Those tiny rooms reeking of moth balls and leather, packed with clothing wrapped in dry cleaners' plastics. Plaids from the '50s. Fabrics from the '60s. Pristine polyesters from the '70s. A black pair of leather shoes worn once to a mother's funeral. The trench coat of an ambassador. Various ties for special occasions: meetings, holidays and more funerals. Artifacts worn by beings from another time.
I scour racks searching for a good fit. Some of the jackets have retained their jet fresh scent. Others emanate old flesh and dead cologne. A stray hair is occasionally found, usually gray and thin.
The pockets are almost always empty; however, many months ago hidden inside the satin lined breast pocket of a blazer (circa 1974) I discovered a worn and tattered black and white photo of a woman, beehive hairdo, thick wire rimmed glasses. She was oddly beautiful.
The name Claire seemed appropriate.
Over the thrift store speakers The Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun" played softly. Poor Karen Carpenter. Such a delicate voice. And that emaciated figure of bone and skin. It all made the song so bittersweet.
A sound.
A voice.
Trapped in time.
And in my hand was "Claire," black and white.
Trapped in a moment. Captured. Secured.
A high school sweetheart. A young wife perhaps. Now nameless and left to suffocate in the blackness of a satin lined pocket, carelessly packed on a rack of fabrics. Tags. Prices. Memories expired.
I sat the blazer aside and held "Claire" in my hand. I was frozen with her, trapped in the lack of color like some strange time capsule. I traveled and there she was mute yet tangible.
"Where are you? Are you still alive? Is your body cracked with age and time and locked away in some nursing home? Are the nurses treating you well?
"Once upon a time you were a beautiful creature molded from beauty's model and some young man, a strapping young soldier preparing for war, kissed your precious lips one final time and bade farewell while flags flashed and tears glistened. 'I'll be back before you know it, baby,' that's what he said, didn't he? And you couldn't let go of him, you just couldn't. Trumpets blared the sounds of America, Freedom, War and Courage, and you knew, you knew, you just knew..."
And as I stared at "Claire" somewhere, not from the shitty thrift store speakers, not from some passing shopper, but somewhere I heard a voice, the voice of a young woman say, "Months later his body would explode, bits were recovered, and days, weeks, I don't know, time passed and a flag draped coffin, a coffin--mostly empty--returned, he came back home. The newspaper said his body was returned to 'The Red, The White, The Blue and The Indebted.'"
Some brutal advertisement blasted over the thrift store speakers promoting Senior Sundays and her voice disappeared.
"Claire," something tells me you've passed too.
And some believe you're with him again.
Somewhere high above all of this.
Hand in hand.
Floating in white.
His body whole. Undamaged.
Your wrinkles gone. Your face a blazing brilliance of color.
I gently return your face to the satin lined pocket. I try the blazer on. The fit is perfect. It smells nice. It smells clean. The color is as gray as the sky outside. A beautiful sky.
I approach the cashier and pull some wrinkled bills from my pocket. The cashier punches some buttons, a tiny bells rings, a total is announced and I hand her my money.
"One dollar and thirty-seven cents is your change, sir. Have a nice day."
"Thank you. I think I will. It looks like rain."

mc

safety

In fields of broken glass and shattered love I crawled on broken knees searching for the pit where bodies bleed to become invisible and join the void of permanence.

I'm safe now.

I'm safe now.

And creativity is crawling.



mc

perfect