Sunday, February 25, 2018
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Friday, February 9, 2018
Saturday, February 3, 2018
Cutting Through the Familiar Tune
Friday through Sunday, the nighttime traffic is audibly livelier: the brain accelerated by that get of yet-another glorious-weekend is put instinctively to foot to pedal to engine to wheel in a thrilling pavement song, oh and how the rush of those freedom days roars over suburban rooftops. Out beyond my bed on a lovely silhouette hip sit twinkly, mark pretty by streetlights those East Side hills, kingly-on-over.
All of this presently, and sailing through my open window on a winter chill.
Then a shriek! Cutting through the familiar tune, X-ACTO! How mighty a wail is in daylight is that same wail made thunderous at night! And with it a company of shouldered-up fiends dare match. But even louder that cutting shriek goes, “WHO ARE YOU?!” A verbal fight. In the neighborhood across North White Road. A soup of a curses salted by accusations, and an acidic sprinkling of crying children. Again the question explodes forth, “WHO ARE YOU?!” And again. And again, this time with a venomous “YOU ANIMAL!”
What does a weekend bring? Family gatherings? Mirth? Truth? And if a truth does not contribute to that mirth? A shout to fight the pain away, surrounded by familiars who by force now certainly hear what ails her. Then when the constant question isn’t answered, with the accused left broken and back indoors along with the tired others at 12:40’ish on a Saturday morning looked kingly-on-over by those hills, someone who heard and saw it all (and knows her affectionately) screams:
“YOU’RE FUCKING DRUNK!”
All of this presently, and sailing through my open window on a winter chill.
Then a shriek! Cutting through the familiar tune, X-ACTO! How mighty a wail is in daylight is that same wail made thunderous at night! And with it a company of shouldered-up fiends dare match. But even louder that cutting shriek goes, “WHO ARE YOU?!” A verbal fight. In the neighborhood across North White Road. A soup of a curses salted by accusations, and an acidic sprinkling of crying children. Again the question explodes forth, “WHO ARE YOU?!” And again. And again, this time with a venomous “YOU ANIMAL!”
What does a weekend bring? Family gatherings? Mirth? Truth? And if a truth does not contribute to that mirth? A shout to fight the pain away, surrounded by familiars who by force now certainly hear what ails her. Then when the constant question isn’t answered, with the accused left broken and back indoors along with the tired others at 12:40’ish on a Saturday morning looked kingly-on-over by those hills, someone who heard and saw it all (and knows her affectionately) screams:
“YOU’RE FUCKING DRUNK!”
Friday, February 2, 2018
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