The drip. It is my one constant.
From Some Stones Don't Roll
Ficmem on Kindle
The drip. It is my one constant. The drip. The traffic. Where was I? Yes. It was Charlie Pride singing in my head. And Bill sat next to me. And next thing you knew he was twice his size inert on a table in a Pittsfield hospital. I figured it was him. I said it was. It was not the Bill I knew clever and bright. It was not my singing buddy up on the riser at the Lion's Den. Now I cannot remember a song we wrote together. I cannot remember anything but the fear that he would strike again. I cannot remember most of everything. One day I imagine I will simply dial up memory at will. In my immaterial future saved from that abyss within the finitude of heaven beyond being carved up and disposed of. Yes, I shall donate myself at death. Drip. Drip. Bill did you bring your pills? Did you take them? That is the story we believed. He didn't take his pills. I never knew that he was sick. I didn't know a thing.
There are no pigeons today. I watch for them. I listen for the gurgle of their confident communication. I see their bulk and wonder how they fly so easily. The heady newscasters are macerating the thin yield of news of a missing 777. When things are lost they are lost that's all there is, Oh yes there is the toll to be considered. The endless tears of love eviscerated life undone.Who knows. Some I miss some I don't. Love is visceral. Love is bodies. Love is mutual memories. Love is lyrics. Love is the anxiety of failed favors. She is almost moving outbound now. She will start her daily five miles after completing her 120 sit ups. She traverses all Manhattan. She is the walker. I sit, She walks. I watch for pigeons. She watches for ice and what careens. She smiles. She is a child. She saves me daily. She is not going to New Jersey. Bye bye. Walk careful.
Solitude, Drip. I roll forward and back. I shake the coffee. Nothing left. Traffic. Inaudible breath. Now. I have not even gotten to now. What else is there? Envy! Yes. If I could just write like... If I could spin a verbal sophistry. Drip. Whoa. I must look at my email. Ah, some forex spam and a chance to get one of my Kindle books reviewed. Nothing heart-breaking. Does this mean my prescience is finished. I have moved into my now stage. I am quicker on the draw. Fastest mind in the East. Or does it mean the day ain't over yet as my friend of the road used to say. Maybe I shall call her. I am doing another book of digital art. When I showed her some she complained they did not MOVE. They do for me. I sell copies of my first one. I am on to something. The eye is art. The art world is dross. Drip. It is clearly time for more coffee.
Ficmem on Kindle
The drip. It is my one constant. The drip. The traffic. Where was I? Yes. It was Charlie Pride singing in my head. And Bill sat next to me. And next thing you knew he was twice his size inert on a table in a Pittsfield hospital. I figured it was him. I said it was. It was not the Bill I knew clever and bright. It was not my singing buddy up on the riser at the Lion's Den. Now I cannot remember a song we wrote together. I cannot remember anything but the fear that he would strike again. I cannot remember most of everything. One day I imagine I will simply dial up memory at will. In my immaterial future saved from that abyss within the finitude of heaven beyond being carved up and disposed of. Yes, I shall donate myself at death. Drip. Drip. Bill did you bring your pills? Did you take them? That is the story we believed. He didn't take his pills. I never knew that he was sick. I didn't know a thing.
There are no pigeons today. I watch for them. I listen for the gurgle of their confident communication. I see their bulk and wonder how they fly so easily. The heady newscasters are macerating the thin yield of news of a missing 777. When things are lost they are lost that's all there is, Oh yes there is the toll to be considered. The endless tears of love eviscerated life undone.Who knows. Some I miss some I don't. Love is visceral. Love is bodies. Love is mutual memories. Love is lyrics. Love is the anxiety of failed favors. She is almost moving outbound now. She will start her daily five miles after completing her 120 sit ups. She traverses all Manhattan. She is the walker. I sit, She walks. I watch for pigeons. She watches for ice and what careens. She smiles. She is a child. She saves me daily. She is not going to New Jersey. Bye bye. Walk careful.
Solitude, Drip. I roll forward and back. I shake the coffee. Nothing left. Traffic. Inaudible breath. Now. I have not even gotten to now. What else is there? Envy! Yes. If I could just write like... If I could spin a verbal sophistry. Drip. Whoa. I must look at my email. Ah, some forex spam and a chance to get one of my Kindle books reviewed. Nothing heart-breaking. Does this mean my prescience is finished. I have moved into my now stage. I am quicker on the draw. Fastest mind in the East. Or does it mean the day ain't over yet as my friend of the road used to say. Maybe I shall call her. I am doing another book of digital art. When I showed her some she complained they did not MOVE. They do for me. I sell copies of my first one. I am on to something. The eye is art. The art world is dross. Drip. It is clearly time for more coffee.
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