justwrite 31 december

when in the course of just desserts the skeleton keys open the wide ranging change of pace makers then shakers the salt below the halting verses cursing suggestive wayward goers slowing down around the corners and storming the bases until all bets are off course until the horse carts before the storage stuffed right in your face grunting in a punting pace until hike it's off to the score the store grinding into a rhythmic cheese spread all over those crackers stacking like no matter the tragedy there is an end in sight at the turn of the night and rolling over there you are a daisy a crazy shenanigan escaped from the ground brewing like a smell delicious in my ear and soft to my eye

justwrite 30 december

but i opened my mouth anyway and out came spiders without symmetry seeming to be spelling some sort of warning churning up a better butter but instead i spread it on thick licking the wrong fingers good and should i apologize for the compliments meant for others smothered into line like peanuts roasting in a blender lending an air of organic panic to the mix tricking all the cables and fabled stories of glorious medleys the berries and the lookingglass crashing into cashflow situations the market marked on the street and beating the pavement into a slowgo willcall stall hiding out behind my fingers but afraid not to peek i would like to tell you something but i cannot stop once i begin and again the words keep falling and my head drops with exhaustion the delivery it's all lost in the journey of a thousand words the syllables pouring into kind ears and the eyes never flash back not now but when they do and when i'm sorry even more the fear of fear itself chafes in the laces and can not be held back no matter how failing the railing is too icy to hold onto and the unglued tracks cheer as they break free though where the stop is no one knows and ringing the bell is too late to tell the engineer is studying his pants and wondering where the lines go though no one knows his are up and down and everyone else's are forward and beyond

justwrite 29 december

when you see the beta you'll want to upgrade right away want to shake those hands in closeknit mittens smitten with warmth their hearths blazing with bread and other comfort there are foods and then there are substitutions i like to breathe deeply but i also like my mouth full of taste and not just buds but closer companions to have and to chew and to draw close and be swallowed these are worth wallowing in these flings from forks forming pleasure in my lips slipping a tongue to unsung deliciousness flickering lizardly questioning sensors into the next dimension where to deny is to try to manipulate the best of times with the worst of rhymes and unpleasant climes where to climb out is to doubt the sense of purpose found in each bite the meals feeling real never stealing causes just substituting results for intuitive consultation i know that what i'm doing is i know that how i'm brewing is but the tea is the tease is the taste of a fated waist or a wasted stream of subconscious swimming a flavored sensation and the hesitation is swallowed is exercised off but not sufficiently to please the mirror though clearer than a thousand pictures is the smile meeting with potatoes or chocolate or love

justwrite 28 december delazyo

even under the dark there are no apples worth picking with these too-steady hands landing again and again in pockets like locket halves closed indisposably cozily matched the sockets worth plugging into and to bring you up to date may i state the following results which are merely the former causes listed without subjugated clauses wherefore and heretowhy when then again the prepositions not worth proposing are supposedly not growing at this time of year as the steering-clear heartache melts into its own chapter a highway disaster narrowly avoided like that story and the videotape the escape on double yellow liner notes and what i mean is there are no easy answers but love me when i'm on and i will try not to make you regretful in the next scene

justwrite 27 december

i am no longer interested but instead too tired for a headache to overtake my yawn the wideopen stoppers popping off the top of whistles twisting the sound out of my mind and away into the subzero tomorrow it's cold and it's holding its own hand very close all the numbers slipping away in red and black suits in cahoots with royalty spoiling the meat and the plans in their scans expensive and intensive like beets dying red and surprised at the lack of stacking blocks linking the logs together in historic harmony and let me just tell you i don't know what to say or who to play in this scene but the words i've been using must be out of date must be musty and the only ones answering are cats and children and i can hear but i cannot speak the answer the chances dancing backward over the moon or some other such direction and the correction tape is too white too bright to see through and i'm telling you something but it sounds like nothing and the circle is getting smaller the road is getting staller like a miracle of distance the speed and the time never rhyming with real poetry but snowing accidental overtones and undercoats mispronounced and pounced on like fire too fast for remembrance

justwrite 26 december

driving down the road or up the wherever it's forward always but a red light a stop and rearview check is a stonyfaced passenger and she is looking hard out her window maybe her arms are crossed and they might as well be and it's cold inside and out but he the driver looks over at her and then pauses and then leans over and kisses her cheek she still looks out her window but maybe not as hard and if she thaws a little i'm not surprised and i look at the seat beside me empty and i look outside my window hard and later sometime later when a kiss is on my cheek it will be cold and a fish and the lips will not melt me and the rearview will be empty and i will wonder why for her and not for me and why the driving and never arriving because some kind of destination is worth this trip and those lips will whisper to my cheek warm and kind and i will loosen my arms open turn my face and i will smile and say thank you but for now the seat the fish the cold the blank and someone is not ready and maybe it is me

justwrite 25 december delayzo

over the river and through the channels the fishy stations we tune into spoon into open mouths like baby-faced turkey sandwiches ditching the straight-edge and wedging all cauliflower into unexpected phrases so to speak but as we keep our heads up instead of nuts and pickles we set out loose lips and fish and chips there is no end to this search the just desserts just keep finding their way onto my plate into my hands fingers mouth heading south which is the center of the earth as per usual the confusion suspected from the beginning as the title seems to point to the jointed clues showing a little elbow throw though to go forward means to step outside and the rune and hide scenario that buries you in bands and scarves and eyebrows all swept away plucked like a sorry goose preferring not to be cooked or looked over

justwrite 24 december delayo

this is just to say late and night in the garden the midnight the cave we have to say is to mean to speak to feel i am made of a computer i am extinct i am watching the movie i am in and the swimming is like a flower underground expounding upon round robins the collagen expanding and it is impossible it is the world within imagination the staging ground of open curtains and certain waterfalls the call and response cascade the jewels of vernification destinations beyond expectation and it's too tired for an answer

justwrite 23 december

and who shall stand it when he planned it without anyone looking with no pancakes cooking their own backsides golden and smoldering like kohly eyes surprised by the trend of centuries to pass and the class to fail its own reward when the scored lines are missing an alto and as high as that is low there are growing beats off from the rests and the best of times with the worst of lines on their way to follow the arrows the public broadcasting dash through hundreds of yards and yellow brick cards darting their skirts and searching for an engine to carry that wait and see attitude up the hill and you think you can peaches but really you jar them which is surprising and shakes you off your ticktock rocker which is really something you should be grateful for like a great reward you started toward without a backward glance in the mirror lines of marker stark in contrast to the blank which is where your tank gets refilled freewilled and wonderful like who even cares about that hair and if the static gets you going then bend your knees and jump like a lump on a log and you know how high those kites can fly just try and fry eggs in that corner because browns like that don't hash themselves

justwrite 22 december

my fingers are too cold of being tired and the fired up eggs fry no legs to the south chasing pants and scant reasons for the season wishing for the light and breaking up green like lily pads scattered in someone's closed eyes a bathtub to run a dub drain down the painful swallows hollowing out the tree trunks to debunk scattered claims like clams in your hands and i am sorry i have no shellfish for you i'm too selfish for you and i want to make some jam from clouds and tuck it into your pockets but everyone shakes everyone's else's head instead of agreeing like they ought to but i bought through until tuesday so we might as well shake hands and make the best of this toast for most people want another chance but i just want one at a time

justwrite 21 december

can't catch that tune in eight bars or pockets deep enough for throats coated in trench living until fifty thousand tomorrows spill into splendid color live and in living giving back to the trackstars the suits in opposite languages chasing the space into minds hollowed by accidental meetings beating the rap slapping the step with feet wheat and white and the words don't make sense in your ears but steer clear to the other side of the map collapsing borders into leaping fences not worth mentioning the awkward meetings and the street fleeting in its usefulness the soundtrack of yesterday the night before the story glorying in starch and other hardfought battlestars galaxies away to stay out of sight like planes folded too many times to rhyme with cranes the flight discordant when everyone's a winner and no one has a name but it cracks up gum and fun and bubbles float in gloating harmony that not everyone can hit and that's it the notes remote from what you want to say oh and ah and well that's what you wanted to hear so there you're here again staying out of the light for it's lime and you prefer lemons

justwrite 20 december

backing up to the track the suit sets up a backboard to bounce off of and onto the go which shows promise but basically looks cyclical and not in a tricky eyecatch way but like a patch over one and the stunning same with the opposite aim and around and around with similar sounds on parallel rounds checking x and o off of clipboards hoarding all the answers and changing them to C to be seen and not herded like cats scattering as they fall like rain and dogs hogging all the groundcover hovering like saucers tossing all the salad into tea cups and muttering about purebred instead instances the chances of that happening tapping in repeated heated towel rack stacks warming up the oven with bread instead of the other way downtown and i mean it when i say that blankets are the best thought other than bought outright happiness sold two for a penny down the lane in someone's heart starting and stopping and hopping off when the phone rings bringing answers and always with the questions but no one's messing up or listening for that matter and other rhyming words that repeat in the heat of the moment crave donuts to treat fleeting insecurity in a hurried swirl of icing and try as you mighting the stockings come up short and the tortoise lays a hair on a pear tree and wonders where it came from because mammals mainly that's who has those on their toes but it's not an exclusive arrangement or is it and do twittering birds and wordsworth and fishes and lizards all carry that weight and for how long and in what style

justwrite 19 december

oh my goodness
no i'm sorry
-whistles-

backward through time our rhymes twine with blackboards and the programs can not be compromised we're surprised to be apprised from the start that the open-heart department stores have recently run out have spun out on icy curves twisted yellow curbs into the sidewalk the negative space embracing this breath of optimism co-opting schisms and diagramming pretenses the dimensions of acquaintances not yet made or paid for in full the bulk packaging racketing up the wrenching teeth the smiles out of style with what's in keeping with today and the stayfresh retention of spaghetti memories the shivery breeze of nightmarish stares from square in the meatball corner pocket well i'll sink that rocket if you like it and strike it straight and narrow on the open arrow ledge wedging availability out of the equation the surreptitious raven croaking misspoken phrases the token days he's passed perched above my chamber adorable with that messaging the stress lessons and one more time and the rattle always the walls rattle stalling out calling about nine o'clock at night which might be better news in the morning but i'm warning your john hancock that the sock's on the other foot now! and how! just yawning into caffeinated supposing the golden closing of star-spangled arches smack in the middle of a banner year tearing through with speed and without reason though i'm reading all the papers and the neighbors seem to agree with the store-front TVs

justwrite 18 december

take him to the hospital bake him into a pie a rhinestone immediately after astoria the ascot opening day the stay in the circus tent behind the bush requesting a bus to rush delivery through the holes in the wall the stalling cubicles the musical renditions the pipes the pipes are calling and the legal aid planning consciously eluding the illusions examined by our own enterprises and i'd like to go outside but the ride is too cold too old and hard to swallow like birds the herds like cats scattering their smiles up and down the aisles and checking out the videoes the glowing stove baking up the trouble i didn't want to haunt that possibility i couldn't stop himself her fear calling all the children out to pasture the first thirst coercing a second sip the lips flipping pancake smiles out to you

justwrite 17 september

around about seven it was and the glue stuck to my fingers like hotsauce in a sideways mouth the north of it all piled up with bells on and shell games framed in a pretty row with laundry to go dirty again and the rising again the baking taking everyone's stomach to roost and the toaster oven buzzes with its own self interest the bank checking and saving all of those statements wasting the wantnot and catching all the criminals in their active imaginations staging the whatever and ever and why don't we just cut it here and chipchop the stopshop painting pictures of a tomorrow we're just not interested in and when we sign up to give away our secrets our answers our dances with left feet with wolves who will sign beside our names and who will claim our tickets is there room enough for four walls here when california can't refund and canada can't make you talk make you walk any sort of line well i'm doing fine in case you were asking and the tasks masking the tape issue a great escape a lake which houses fishes in their shoes with holes and the shoals all gravelly and the twine unravelly like looking glass mockingbirds never to kill and always to fill with generous donations of time and temperature awaiting the changing of the guard the hard questions for the easier seasons

justwrite 16 december

most hours can be eaten in this fleeting beating heart space the chase after the facts the tract uncharted carting the horse out of town on a rail flailing backward in overcrossing lanes changing drafts in mid-metaphor scoring the top of the rubric like stanley with a misplaced letter the forgetters wondering how to remember but the glass wall between the news and the toons means tuning in is awkward sloshing forward into three-part names being thrown around like testing the texting to see what passes for failure in regard to a hard to bear animal with arguments into a cave and one gets the feeling that reeling that rod-spoiled child across the commercial break getting you out of the leftover tupperware you can't care less than the guesswork and your best burst of energy slides apart your hard-earned attention and unmentionable lessons by which who means what but why should you pay attention to the drivel unravelled the travelling chance dancing backward a foxtrot you've got to see to be leaving early a churlish curl around the little finger the fits you've been giving the lack of charges on that bill got my fill of the real world and i'm turning to fiction in the missing blanks cranking out a redrawn outline of a tree and a shark and the dark's out to pasture getting in the heads instead of the lookout the game reclaimed with all the extra chips clipped onto your pockets and splayed potatoes growing out the ears and cheering up the crunch

justwrite 15 december delayed

waiting for the rating in line to be defined as a letter a number unlike any other A-1 undone by teeth or a street incorrectly numbered uncolored by smothered picking on the little houses with giant mouses grouchy too early and regularly surly on the uptake mistaken for a velvety nose predisposed to cold the chilly blowing all through the season all beyond reason wider than what you might think i've got to turn off the light by which i mean wash my hands with soap a ropey wrist kind of a habit on the edge of a seat meeting heels to toes and growing roses glowing in over-exposure the closure people seek toward the end and it's deep and creeping like always watching botching every line like it's the last tie to bind your collar and it's hot under but it's no bother the noise for the joys are endless with pretend bits of light high on the colors and blessedly fluorescent the bioluminescent urges of all creatures featured in the underwater showcase a great escape referring me out the door and what's more the whiff of a ball is all

justwrite 14 december

let me give you some wellthoughtout ideas some perfect bows tied up around your wrists twisting out extra lengths to give you strength of purpose on porpoises on parade staying over their welcomes and helping their folsome selfsomes to some selfless help the whaling elves having given up such practices to save themselves from the sea and deceit of their pants askance in glances misnamed and unfamed not infamous just unknown like a cover blown but no one notices like a hokey pocuses princess a monkey in the middle of the monogram the catalog leapfrogging away to stay some other execution cuter than a button sewed on your shirt last year or some clearly distant time a galaxy unwinding into bedsheets the complete set on page thirty three and the treehouse can't keep up with all the papercutting and my index card fingers grow bigger over the pages staging a revolution of dancing and fancying that those toes will go along with me will grow along the sea and its shore until no more merrygorounds astound the onlookers until they only see what they expect and neglect the opposite the opossums suddenly irish trying to rhyme their syllables without mockery and the hiphophypocrisy lending extra beats

justwrite 13 december

with my back to the oven the keys are too cold to hold in the palms of my fingers so the olives and the oil and the greenapple bubbles have just got to go to keep the flow growing fast and catching the last blast of summer the backward number up the hill on its way down sledding in the sleeting fleeting weather feathered into my coat like a thousand goats of unexplained origins bringing peas and carrots to the capital the yapping full of noise and joyous september the remembering of physical strain and the chain of a gangplank walking through the eggplants entranced by where chickens come from first and foremost and forewarned is nothing in this landscape this case has yet to be solved by a king or a common law with inherent flaws but longevity enhanced and the stance i plan to take is in favor of yes and against fancy dress except in the situation where hesitation is seen as incorrect and the wreck of the typewriter is its own reward for the scores of math cast aside in favor of language the tea steeping words into ways and i mean business here not thrift nor a shift too short for school or a tank too ruled by fuel to mend its ways with a needle stuck in a haystack or neglecting the hatrack for whose head is cold anyway not mine i'm fine just dandylion thanks

justwrite 12 december

this time the sky is filled with moon spread thick across vacant clouds surprised by the attention

not to mention the disgust entrusted to each camera lens the angles strangling the strategy where you can see the sideview of due diligence the repetition of corrections again again and a tendency to use the view as an excuse for excess the correctness of continental breakfasts the checklists that don't amount to Xs and the messes left behind when the combined charities overcome by disparities are combed over into hopeful accounting with no senseless flounting or flouting of jewels in the vocabulary crown drowned out by the steam of too much sunshine twining its tail between the hedges instead of the hogs and it's the dogs that ought to have the first turkey to trot but you've got that mostly right and tied up tight enough for supposition of another position as potentially beneficial

justwrite 11 december

the moon is a wet on wet watercolor smothering the opposite of pigment the pigman a day no will die crying for some sleepy town to wake up and squeegee the sidewalk for the worms are having a day and a half and i'd have to laugh if you asked but for now i'm keeping it to myself and the shelf is overflowing with notes i've taken and baken into pies and madeup words mostly like cookies looking backwards into the glass ceiling chasing white habits and underground rabbits like no one's checking up the board or guessing the chess range out of style but if you tell me what the time is i can tell you where to go

justwrite 10 december

i'm tired of listening to excuseless views unreasonable news the truth that sets free or four more scores on air and unaware of the treason the season is unexpected rejected from tomorrow so let's start again and when i want to disappear you can hear it coming from around the corner storming the sessions and teaching the lessons on backwards guessing the stress developing from this crack in the sidewalk must end or extend into always and the trees will have something to say about that scattered brain remaining open to new suggestions the dimensions unfathomable by two like twain like mark masseting the crash course in movie-going slowing down response time but when it's an opportunity for democracy i vote yes and for chess i suggest no for the squares are always so and so and on and when i think it's time for lunch it's also time for a nap collapsing the day into a circular saw where seeing and being obscene are two different things with rhyme schemes that don't match and the hatches that grow into absurdity suggest therapy consider hypnosis and i'm looking for the closest matchbook to light a fire under that flame to name no claims and carry no weight to this date but wait until fate comes by and see who has what to say where about why and how the when ought to figure into this pen with all the little inky piggies bigger than their tails could ever imagine

justwrite 9 december

quiet disarray slices open the grapefruit by which i mean space and the lime times rhyme with no moss carry no cross to bear in boring beats through unswept streets and the feet that pass by the open sky are surprisingly high on the walk the sideways talk absurdly curbed like expectations and fascination worth repeating in discreet fleeting glances the chances of an echo breaking on the sidewalk again with the same image the collision of division when faced with multiplication the fascination with trials that spout into tribulations with no hesitation and the motion is subtle but the airwater bubble pops and drops a cheap payload in the middle of the road less taken the one often mistaken as yellow the fellow travelers having unraveled each backward step into neglecting the map and collecting collapsing traps like for flies or disguised eyeballs calling all kettle drums tumbling down the broken crumbs of a cake after the fact a tragic tract of land expanding its own ventures into the capital a cap full of detergent and an emergent democracy and would you believe it if i told you so and so what but the better butter has no mother and no waiting for the changing of the station in frustration in the seeking of a bleak future tense but let's not mention that let's trap our hands in our pockets and see what needs to be saved like lint from flit and sticks from chop the backwards crops of a different era to compare the dishes with vicious teeth to the wreath on your door a gaping mouth seeking more jingle more bell and a heartwarming smell to boot

justwrite 8 december

whatever they may say may do more harm than a firestorm power drill manhandled by a woman and scorned with coming attractions gleaming behind october eyes hiding disaffected eyebrows with scowls on trial and in denial of affection the collection of start again i'm sorry let me collect let me give an offering take a rebuttal for the fingers are all the talking rage the page has burned my head eyeward and the gleaming scream from the fluorescent hesitant twitches the bulbs sorrowful in its empty naked wirecrossed head the thoughts flashing backward and waiting for the pain to pass cashing in medical laziness a crazy excuse tor inactivity a tendency to add dimensions of pretension to ordinary areas of storytelling well mine was worse because and mine and mine it's all about though there are pieces of good news to use under the pillow tonight let's just check and see how those are coming along and bake our potatoes into our pockets for now

justwrite 7 december internot delayed

unbeknownst to most of the lesser-known swells the yells meant to regulate the state have fallen into quiet disarray in reality a fray of fraidy cats the frayed knots that once were strings walking into bars the cars that parked into lots of spots like millions of thirty-two per pup skipping decades and dimensions and demanding the attention of a more enlightened crowd here seen as loud and crowned with unreknowned knowledge which is a prickly one i'll have you know and a pair to go along with it a tree so to speak and too meek to tell a chamomile-styled nursery rhyme tucked in with extra slippers and fleece shishkabobs for when you think of peppers think of being open and hoping to find someone who will say yes and dress to address the occasion staged from the box and its top not trapped by dishes just glistening behind missing labels

justwrite 6 december internot delayed

cleaner air
obscener where the dust
has settled from/ down
out of/ rust/ of reach
preaching filtration
designating nations
united in stationary movement
chess plays/ monograms
stamps forever

justwrite 5 december

there's a space after tomorrow and beyond within with extra enough which means sufficient a glimmering limit a trip around the whirled winding road exploding with over-loaded devices tricycles carrying the weight of three to a wait and see circus but no one knows which ring goes first so there's a proposed purpose to lurch against and to clamber up the wall in a stall-out moment wait! she says from the sidelines but the bylines are too flashy and the methods much too cashy so there is nothing to be lost or done with just spun bits of color flying off the wheel the real deal in stolen goods and paper cuts disgusted by their own disregard hardened by disappointment the anointment with annoyance spread oily over your pores and scoring twice as fast as your hands can carry you toward the goal for the whole reason to ask last month is that trust rusts easily in a watering can neighborhood and i have got to get a different jacket to rack up the points because no one is winning anyone over and the way the rings don't phone and the lips clone former words into absurd derision leads to division from the present and collapsing on the past into a future unsutured together just flapping loosely into truthfully wayward directions without correction because anything could happen now and how and why will be undefined until the newest edition is out and the shout on the street is that the sun's in the east but no rising will be surprising until the answers meet their makers and the questions shake their takers

justwrite 4 december

and now i am accomplishing great things beyond all description i can't tell you how and i won't tell you when and why but there are other answers like seven and somewhat and on thursdays and yes and yes and when i tell you that there are others like us you will laugh but we will make cake and take pictures and lake boats and turn nouns into verbs for we are the writers of sounds and as we sing so shall we sew and rip and reap and sow and grow long socks which shall be striped and ripe for the kicking the picking of grapefruits and humble pies with modest sauces and attitudes too rude for hilarity too nice for disparity and the smiles will be outrageous and will be questioned with ankle itches twitching their way up from way down frowning as they go toeward forward toward the next best sidewalk the sly talk of accidental overcoats and the ability to overuse words like accidental in purposeful pairings of incomparable design and the alarm clocks that often follow the teacups the handmedowns the mustard sweaters and the alligator letters always spelling a and for apple a two apple salad a three apple ballad and bananas too outrageous to avoid and annoyed or not the noise you've got coming on is sounding sweeter than a tweeterdove to me

justwrite 3 december

the phone is not ringing but i am listening to you and the talking the music the moon there are songs and singing can be done in color the numbers are not important now and the soup will always be hot on this channel we are the smilers of words and the singers of sleep we are the science and the art and we are we are just awake enough we are waiting for the sun to laugh at the night and say just hold on i need to take care of something first and the rainbow that happens next we are keeping the engine running but not away just ahead and your hand to hold is waving into the distance and i am coloring you with clouds and sparkling sugar with the beat the eggs scrambling all surprises into dynamic black and white static the fruit falling into the sky when the tree is about done and says go free for you are ready to fly

justwrite 2 december

this is why there's a goldfish in her water jog bugging all the bubbles out of their muddled little hedgehog heads breading their sonic thoughts with store-bought crusts you've got to be kidding to imagine would follow the bidding of a studebaker a candlemaker and a reclusive baboon where to swoon is immoral is totally deplorable the moral authority adding up to tragedy a mismatched hat you see laughing along a collapsible hedge wedging its wayward way along the strand handing colorful baubles out of unruly glasses trashing the contents despondent and fair and cashing out the recyclables the tricycles missing tires expiring in mired greenery the betweenery of curry with blurry lines defined by indian tradition and british ammunition for dinner party hearties like lancers on the road and a sister to hide and a closet to box it all up and to cup in a comfortable trunk an overwhelming helping to have and to hold and to want not lest we rot our spotted calves in the circus wheel hole in the wall the stalling stallion galloping in cylindrical bridle striding gallantly toward trees breezing in ten gallon two by fours scoring high marks and whistling in the dark in the sparklehorse mix tape a quaking earth with universal appeal the feeling of steeling an apple and trapping a mouthful of clouds in an accidental coffee cup trumping the steel curtain a stellar cellar for certain with no one's feelings hurtin' which would be worse for the wear in the chance to compare earthworms to rainbows and glowsticks to sunscreen

justwrite 1 december

maybe i will talk to you about the dark because it's light out when you're up and out and at and other prepositions but the night splits open sometimes and the sky falls in like a trampoline alarm clock ready to shock your heart and chart the tops spinning around clowning like a down live wire right about to expire and the tires are four and core and corps and corpse like a scene from a chinese circus with wheelbarrows laughing redly instead we shake hands and suggest alternative commands like sleep and weeping willing chillers the fonts of our lives surviving up to the third floor and beyond though under the covers there is forgiveness a bigness of warmth and a soothing of aching calves unravelling like salads or sweaters or uncertain forgetters but all i know is i need more of those scores and i don't want to lose but i bruise easily and cheesy does it like a smile stuck in a tree a four dollar portrait with a comb in your teeth picking out the transgressions and speeding up the lessons the ten cents per dance trance and i want to tell you i am trying i want to be the stronger step on the ladder but i keep eating sawdust accidentally and the challenge is to disregard the motorcycles the curry powder and the alligator shoes trying to be crocodiles though no one is fooled this time

justwrite 30 november

driving home or maybe away from
there's a spill on the highway
too early for headlights but plenty of red brakes
skating into collapsing piles accordions without music
nothing according to plan in this case
which is likely a case open spilled
wild clothes exposed all along the way
pressed wet into the black
waving into the flat macadam
cotton apart and open
the fabric of our lives left out
an open door or trunk
a backseat careless with windows
how could this have
we wonder
on our way to keeping it in
our layers our reasons our warmth
far too precious to drape across the yellow lines
what will they have when they arrive
where will they get and what will they wear

justwrite 29 november internot delayed

Jason is done with his lunch, and his story has progressed. He’s written the story to a point where a male character enters the store and the cashier analyzes his items correctly—the first completely correct set of guesses in the whole story. This is plot, not just characterization. How will she react? How will he react?
He’s ready to test this scenario.
Actually, he was ready to test this list yesterday, but she wasn’t there. The real cashier girl, that is. Not the fictional one. She doesn’t exist. Or does she? Jason is fascinated by meta-fiction. It’s a little awkward that neither of these girls have names, though. He’s stumped on that. Not that he should be making up a name for the real girl, but he just can’t figure out the right name for his character.
Plus, he finished this set-up section of the story this morning, but he decided that he was more likely to find the real girl working at the store in the middle of the day. Who knows how he calculated this, especially in regard to a store that’s open twenty-four hours a day, but something with the balance of shifts has led him to believe that the early afternoon is the ideal time to find her and to set this set-up into motion.
And, he also knows that it’s bad to go to the grocery store on an empty stomach. How can he realistically hope to avoid purchasing impulse items that aren’t on the list if he’s starving? No, he’s not starving, Carol, but you get the idea.
So, anyway, now he’s ready to go. He decides to check if his mirror agrees. He’s wearing jeans, green sneakers, and a Dr. Pepper shirt from Goodwill that says “I’m a Pepper!” Is this the real deal? More importantly, is this the fake real deal, which is to say, his created male character? Yes, and yes. This is Jason and this is some guy that he made up. Pretty weird stuff.
List in hand. Into the car. Jason finds himself a little nervous. He realizes he forgot his reusable bag. He goes back inside to get it. Back into the car. List. Bag. Wallet. Clothes. Keys. Go.

justwrite 28 november internot delayed

“Don’t worry about cleaning up here,” Ryan says in a tone carefully balanced between magnanimity and sarcasm. This exquisite balance is a symptom of having had a younger sister for some years now and desiring to fill his own occasional need for sarcasm, to keep his sister from completely getting it, and to keep his mother from hearing potential complaints from Emily. “I’ve got this,” he adds.
Emily has gotten his sarcasm for some time now, but chooses to play along. Why not? “Okay then,” she smiles up at him, then flips the channel to a promising looking program with lots of puppies.
Ryan deposits all of the breakfast pieces in their appropriate locations—cabinet, dishwasher, trash—and turns down the hall to his room. On a whim, he changes into shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers.
He leans into his mom’s office, but she’s not working in there. She’s not in bed, either. The light is on in her half-bathroom, though, and that’s where he finds her. She’s scrubbing the toilet. Big times.
“I’m going for a run,” Ryan tells her.
She looks up. “Oh yeah? A run?”
“Yeah.” It sounds really cool, so he says it again. “I’m going for a run.”
“It’s almost noon, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“’Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun,’ you know.”
“Yeah, well, I think I should be okay.” Ryan’s used to his mother pulling quotes out of the air like this. It sometimes gets to the point where he’s not sure if she’s saying something original or taken from elsewhere. In this case, it doesn’t really matter to him.
“Well, fine then, runner man.” She smiles at him. “Do you think you should be able to make it back within half an hour?”
“Maybe,” he says. “I’ll see you then.”
“Go to town, baby,” she says, and returns to scrubbing.

justwrite 27 november

The truth is that Joe is definitely not about to propose to the young lady in question. Actually, they just broke up last night. This time, the breakup might stick, too. Joe is not about to tell his mother this news at the moment, though. Breaking her heart won’t make his feel any better. Later, in the den, while Carol’s putting the finishing touches on dessert, Joe will talk to Gene about this situation. They will agree that she doesn’t need to know about it just yet. Joe has some time. Maybe things will work out with this potential fiancée yet—maybe she’ll come to her senses and realize that he’s a good guy and she can totally trust him and he will never hurt her like she might have been hurt in the past. Gene will listen and nod at all the right times, and Joe will feel well supported. Still hurt and pretty lonely, but supported.

At the moment, though, there’s lasagna to eat and conversation to direct toward things Joe feels comfortable talking about. This robbery that happened last week upstate where the crooks got away with huge jugs of premium hot fudge sauce and were caught at an unrelated traffic stop with sticky, guilty faces. A turn in the case with the homeless man was stomped on the chest in his sleep. The revelation that even if swimming immediately after eating does not actually lead directly to cramps and/ or drowning, it can lead to some pretty unpleasant clean-up requirements, as well as ensuing altercations. Pleasant conversation.

justwrite 26 november

Yes, she’s a rock star.

Is this likely to be the title?

No.

Come on.

Not that one either.

Whitney has never been to an academic team match. Not a lot of people have, actually. I have. It’s pretty entertaining. There are different rounds and different schools and different people staring and comparing answers and buzzer techniques and the sneak attacks on the stacks of brain cells dwelling well back there in the reserves serving up aces through the spaces that used to be empty and are now collapsing into synapses in hapless traps through tripping numbers and colors by Benneton united and divided falling all along the watchtower of popular culture and history and blistery speed heedless of audience knowledge in the college of bothersome facts that track backwards to somewhere in your past where someone once said to you or a pen bled through to two pages of notes quoting professors and stressors in such situations are plain to see meeting the eye with the armpit abyss of sweat of notyet oh no! answer blow-bys going high up and away where to stay is to be fooled again and yes again and then someone wins and someone spins victory out of defeat and heads home to chrome the dictionary or rev up the whatever just whatever some clever metaphor for studying just insert it here.

justwrite 25 november

“Just friends” is the thought in Whitney’s head, her prepared answer just in case anyone asks why she’s attending the academic team match. The question, presumably, would be, “Are you here to see Derek Roil? Are you guys going out, or what?” But is she actually secretly interested in him? Would we know if she was? Could she just be interested in the idea of being interested in someone?

Anyway. This is an academic team match, not psychoanalysis. All we need to know at this point is that she’s parking her mom’s car in the lot outside the school district’s headquarters office, checking her hair in the rearview mirror, and adjusting her different-from-school outfit. In support of full disclosure, she is still wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but they’re clearly somewhat [what? cooler? dressier?] different than those she wore to school. Anyone looking can tell this right away.

justwrite 24 november

So, look, I only have ten minutes to write right now. I know that this is about to be an argument, but let’s get it together here. To summarize:

Yes, Jamie does feel sort of bad about being sort of cold or whatever.

But really, who was he out with? Dave and Gina and Mandy. Or is it Mandi with an i? Jamie imagines it must be. She imagines Mandi is all over Aaron and asking for help with her technique in getting the ball where she wants it. Jamie imagines Mandi is a knock-out. Why fixate on Mandi? I have no idea. Maybe Mandi sounds cuter than Gina, and therefore more reasonable to be jealous about.

Wait, why is she jealous?

Jamie and Aaron are just friends, obviously.

Aaron wants to know what Jamie wants from him.

She’s the one who said they shouldn’t be a couple the last time they talked about it. Of course they’ve talked about this before. It’s not like a surprise that we—or even they—might assume that they’re dating.

Jamie is sort of quiet. Sort of like saying Well and But and following those up with not much more.

If she’s going to be all over him for going out with some friends—and they’re all just friends, thanks for the trust, there—then maybe she’s looking for something other than what they’ve got. If she’s going to act like he’s supposed to act like she’s his girlfriend, but yet she doesn’t want to be his girlfriend, then, well, he doesn’t know what to think.

justwrite 23 november

Ryan is trying to keep it together. His mother is not home yet, Emily is apparently starving, and he is In Charge.

This likely means that there are three possible meal options for dinner.

1. Macaroni and cheese. This is always a successful choice with Emily, which is important when their mother is not around to encourage them to behave appropriately. Ryan is not always thrilled with this choice, but it’s easy. Their mother usually isn’t too worried about this one either way, but she does make sure that their boxed mac and cheese supply is of whole grain noodles and low-fat cheesestuffs. Also, she insists on the addition of something green to this meal. Mixed-in peas or broccoli are the standard greens. Sometimes they have lettuce instead, but this is mostly always the white-ish kind of icy lettuce, so Ryan doesn’t really see how that counts.

2. Something Ryan saw on TV on the cooking channel or online. This is Ryan’s favorite choice, as it means that he has a great deal of flexibility, as well as the chance to pleasantly surprise the other members of his family. Plus, it’s usually true that the other two will not have seen this dish before, so he has the opportunity to fudge the original design as necessary. Emily usually either loves or hates these meals. Their mother will usually nod pleasantly while trying Ryan’s creations, and will only be concerned about the potential messes involved in such experimentation.

3. Fast food or take-out procured from an establishment somewhere along their mother’s way home. This is sometimes the tastiest option—pizza, Wendy’s, Chinese—but it’s also the most unpredictable. This option is only available if their mother calls and offers to pick it up on her way back from work. Also, due to a series of double-dinner mix-ups, the rule is now that she must call before 5:30, and if she hasn’t called by then, Ryan needs to make other dinner arrangements. Emily likes option three. Ryan finds it challenging, due to the scheduling difficulty presented. Their mom usually arranges it as some sort of apology or reward meal, as it’s the only one of the late-home mom options that requires any work from her.

It’s now 5:25. The options are about to dwindle.

justwrite 22 november

Why does he always get the same kind of detergent? Look how many other kinds there are! He pauses to start to count them, but then realizes that this is sort of a pointless exercise. Who will he deliver this information to? Or, if he’s going to be such an English major, to whom will he deliver this information?

Ahhh. He could put it in his story. He loves it when stories have specific details like that. Would the grocery girl know something like this? It’s likely. Would she really work in a grocery store that had such a ridiculously broad selection of laundry detergent? Yes, he decides abruptly, and goes back to counting.

The resulting number is surprising. I’m just telling you—I was surprised, too.

He checks his pockets for something to write on or with. Of course he has nothing. He’ll just have to say the number over and over in his head. A woman would probably be able to write it down right away because she’d likely have a purse with the right materials inside. Am I trying to make a point? Am I saying that it should be socially acceptable for men to carry purses? Am I trying to say that men have better memories? No. I just mean Jason has nothing to write with or on, so he just has to remember the number. Stop asking so many questions—do you want him to forget this number?

Number.
Number.

Luckily he’s at the store well before most people are getting out of work, so there aren’t too many people in lines up front. However, there aren’t as many registers open. Seven is open, but there are two people already.

Enough with the other numbers!

Number.
Number.

justwrite 21 november

Lindsay blushes. She abruptly decides that the book she needs is somewhere far away, so she’d better go upstairs or leave. These are clearly the only options.

She goes upstairs. This means that the book she is looking for will be non-fiction or non-existent at this point.

Lindsay searches.

All of the books she finds, not surprisingly, due to the loose parameters of her search, seem like they might either be helpful or completely useless. She makes a big pile on a table, and sits down to sort through them.

Time passes. Piles appear.

Are you anxious to know whether she talks to that guy? You know who he is.

She thinks about talking to him while checking out. What would she say? “You’re right, you do look in paprika. Do you have that Haruki Murakami in? Oh, only one copy? I guess you and I could share, if we had to. Shall we say your place, at seven?”

Lindsay hates cheese. Unless it’s made of dairy. Then it’s the best. It’s not like she’s some recent presidential candidate whose quirks include eating pizza with the cheese removed. What a maniac! And I voted for him, too! And he won, too!

Anyway.

Let’s just let her keep looking.

Also, it might be helpful if she has piles of more than one. Otherwise it’s just a widely spread range of singe-book categories. I'm just saying.

She’s aware of this. If she could think of better categories, she would. It’s not like she’s in a high school Advanced Placement Language and Composition class studying classification as an essay format. Come on.

justwrite 20 november

Because in this book you get to know most, if not all, of what I know, I can tell you that Harry and Amy have already discussed this briefly, if “discussed” can be used to describe a situation in which one person delivers three to five sentences on a given topic in the presence of another person who is multiplying percentages on a calculator while examining a catalog.
Harry leaves the store. He loves this feeling. It’s sort of like the feeling he used to get when he was in school and he got out for a dentist appointment or something during school hours. He always felt like people were looking at him and thinking in slow motion, “Heyyyyyyyyyy--- thaaaat kiiiiid ought toooo beeeeee innnn schoooollllll!” Yes, a rock star.

Wendy’s? Yes. He heads to his car. Could he walk to Wendy’s? No. It’s more than a mile away. Well, technically he could walk there, but it would take like all of his break to get there and back.

So?

True.

He gets his wallet from the car and heads out down the road.

What if he gets hit by a car?!

He doesn’t.

justwrite 19 november

A little more genuine, authentic sleep, and Jamie wouldn’t be feeling so cranky right now. When did she even fall asleep? The only reason she's sure that she actually fell asleep was that she definitely woke up. When she did, Aden was on the right side of the bed, so there was only one side to get up on: left, and, clearly, wrong.

Plus, her hair. Because of the rain, Jamie’s hair is doing this weird poofy sort of thing. Her mother used to have the same hair, but she always described humidity as giving her hair “more body.” On her, it had looked like body, but on Jamie, it looked like poof, and not the magical puff of smoke kind after which something amazing appears. Just the kind where you hope nothing really significant happens so you can just get through the day without anyone really noticing the problem perched on your head.

Another problem is the cupcakes. She managed to get them in to the trunk of her car without too much water pooling on top of the large broad, flat box, but it’s a longer walk from her car to the front of the school than it is from her house to her car.Also, she’s sitting in traffic. How is this even possible? Of course it is. She’s listening to the radio, which is okay. Some part of her suggests to the rest of her that she could appreciate this chance to catch up on more of the news and events of the world. The rest of her tells that part to shut up.

justwrite 18 november

In the corner of her eye, as she enters the building, Whitney sees people talking. For some reason, she believes that they are talking about her. Is this likely? It is not. How often, however, does such a possibility occur to the average high school girl? According to a recent survey, approximately two to five times a day, depending on said girl’s most recent potential involvement in a variety of activities [especially those of questionable merit] and also depending on what she is wearing.

Whitney’s recent behavior has generally been of good merit, and she currently believes that she is dressed appropriately. Under her jacket, she’s wearing jeans that can’t help but match with her t-shirt—her ideal “real me” outfit. In fact, her t-shirt says, “This is the real me.” You’d think it might say something more clever, like “See me” or “Inquire within,” but it doesn’t. Actually, she and Rachel made a matching pair of these shirts for twin day last year. Maybe it was sort of lame, but they thought it was hilarious. For a surprisingly long while afterward, she and Rachel referred to each other and signed notes and emails to each other as “The Real Whitney McCoy” and “The Real Rachel Anderson.”

Everyone’s a rock star.

You would think that was the title of this book, with all of the rock stars showing up.

It’s not.

The title of this book is not yet apparent.

justwrite 17 november

Jamie doesn’t know why she’s not bowling. She does know, but she thinks maybe Aaron should have insisted more so they wouldn’t have gotten into that stupid little back and forth. Whatever.

Instead, Jamie is leaving the grocery store with all the supplies required for making cupcakes. She feels like she makes cupcakes and cookies so often she could pick up the materials for either with her eyes closed. This is the fate she chose when she decided to teach elementary school. It’s not the worst fate ever.

Tonight it’s yellow cake mix with chocolate frosting and a tube of white piping icing to spell “WE WILL MISS YOU BOBBY H GOOD LUCK IN COLORADO” on top of three dozen cupcakes to be perfectly arranged in an often reused sheet cake box—the kind with the cellophane window, so that the message is clear.

Once home, Aden’s message is pretty clear, too: JAMIE I AM SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU YOU ARE THE BEST! This is his regular condition. Even though she almost always comes straight home after school to walk him or at least to let him out for some business, he still has the potential to be delighted when she’s gone out again and come back again. This is one of his most endearing characteristics. Dogs don’t have the same attitude problems that people have.

justwrite 16 november

Travis appears suddenly behind Lindsay. She knows he’s there because he taps her on the shoulder as she’s considering how to address the eight year old looking boy in front of her watching his family sized box of Frosted Flakes reach her hand on the conveyer belt. The boy holds up a credit card and looks hopeful.

Travis has the ability to sneak up suddenly without appearing to have made any noise producing or even physical movement at all. It’s sort of freaky, especially later at night as the store empties out and gets quieter.

“Lindsay!” he announces in a booming voice. Why must he announce, you wonder. Perhaps to make up for the sneaking…? I don’t know either.

The Frosted Flakes hopeful hears this voice of authority, looks at Travis with a face full of alarm, and bolts. He’s out the door by the time Travis continues with what his announcement. Travis talks/ booms on, and Lindsay wonders whose credit card that was and why the boy was so concerned about such a dubious figure of authority.

justwrite 15 november

Washing the dishes, as the green apple detergent seems to agree, is The Right Thing To Do. Three sets of plates covered in various stages of creamed chicken and biscuits, as well as salad bowls, utensils, and cookware, are The Right Things To Wash.

Whitney is awash in The Right Things.

Not for the first time, Whitney subconsciously enjoys doing the dishes. Like mowing the lawn—a paid task, not a rotated chore—washing the dishes provides an opportunity for contemplation not otherwise afforded by other activities or even by lack of activity. If she were to just sit on the back porch staring out into elsewhere and thinking about whatever came to mind, and her mother came out to see what she was doing, Whitney’s activity might be described as “being lazy” or possibly indicative of some concern. “I’m concerned about Whitney,” her mother would tell her father. “Why?” “It’s like she’s always thinking.” Her father would laugh. “Good! That’s our daughter.” Whitney’s mother would shake her head. By doing this, she wouldn’t be indicating that Whitney was not their daughter. In fact, she is. Whitney’s mother would shake her head to indicate her confusion over the need of both her husband and her daughter to spend so much time thinking about things. Whitney’s mother would not recognize this same trait in herself if she had it. In fact, she does. Why else would she be spending so much time thinking about Whitney’s thinking?

justwrite 14 november

Now, Carol is looking at leafy green frills of kale and spinach and fancy cabbages and stalling out. The idea of making something healthy to replace the pork chops she had planned for dinner has wilted a little in the face of all this nutrition. It’s one thing to eat healthy, and it’s another thing to make a meal of leaves and beans. And Gene probably wouldn’t like it.

Here’s you: Who wouldn’t like it?

Here’s me: Gene. You heard what she said.

You: Yeah, right—Gene. Of course that’s the real reason she doesn’t want kale.

Me: I like kale.

You: Your mom likes kale.

Me: Yeah she does.

Carol: I’m not getting kale.

Carol is resolved to make something healthy anyway. She wanders through the produce section, eyeing colors and all kinds of vitamins and fiber and that sort of thing. The peppers catch her eye, and she wonders about stir-fry. Would Gene want stir-fry? She vaguely picks up an orange pepper and considers this question. She tries to look like she really knows a lot about produce. No one seems to be watching, but she likes to appear sophisticated. Who doesn’t? She sets the pepper back down. Whoever was imaginarily watching her now probably imaginarily believes that she has found this pepper lacking or somehow inconsistent with her lofty culinary goals.

Produce. Yes. This is the right place. She’s not being very productive, though.Oh! Melon! That’s it! She’ll make breakfast for dinner. Some melon or fruit salad, French toast, and eggs. Gene loves breakfast for dinner. Carol loves Gene. Isn’t it nice to be loved? Isn’t it nice to have breakfast for dinner? Yes and yes. Is breakfast for dinner ever as healthy as kale and beans? Does Carol feel badly about this? No and no.

justwrite 13 november

Heading down the aisle, Jamie is awash in joy. Office supplies of all kinds delight her to no end, and here there are no ends—just corners to be turned in the discovery of fresh packages of colorful opportunity. Markers with perfect tips, as of yet not pressed to lips or smashed into desktops, wait proudly in their perfect rows. Construction paper bristles with wholesomely genuine artistry, ready to carry creative ideas to the bulletin board and beyond. Pencils march on in standardized perfection, passing pens [with their propensity toward high school dispensations] and permanent markers [elementary school necessitates a flexibility not permitted by such permanence, except in the case of labeling backpacks, lunch boxes, pencil cases, etc], keeping their gloriously pink hats bright and clean.

Jamie is currently looking for folders. All she needs to pick up is a class set of three-holed folders with pockets, but she can’t help shyly peeking down each aisle, and then giving in to the desire to see it all.

In aisle three, Jamie nearly collides into a flat-looking man standing in front of a display of binders. He seems startled to see her, as if wondering how she could have gotten into the building.

justwrite 12 november

A good choice for any logical person would be to sit at a different lunch table. The “good choice” centers of eighth grade boys, however, are notorious for short-circuiting at inopportune times. It’s lunchtime, which is one of the many inopportune times available in Ryan’s life. It’s not enough to have weird hormone stuff, but having brain train derailments on a regular basis, too, highlights the tragedy of the adolescent male.

Once again, Ryan sits down at the same table. Once again, Ryan has packed himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Ryan is a rock star. Ryan is considering whether to try the noise blocking focusing system again today, but so far Cody hasn’t said anything particularly tedious, and, unlike Jeff, Cody does pause to allow for and to encourage responses.

“So math, right? What is her deal?” Cody starts off vaguely but vehemently.

“I know, right?” offers Ryan in equally vague response. At least Cody isn’t as obnoxious as Jeff. The stuff Cody says doesn’t always make Ryan’s head spin, but who wants a spinning head anyway?

“Totally.” Cody hefts his rectangle of pizza to his face and sinks his teeth into grease and some sort of pleasure. It’s not good pizza, but at least it’s pizza.

As a downside to Cody, he does chew pretty loudly. Ryan blocks this out by counting his own chews by multiples of two. What a weird kid.

Speaking of weird kids, as I am, Ryan suddenly realizes that it’s been a while since the bell rang and most of the kids buying lunch are sitting down, yet Jeff is nowhere to be seen or heard. “So, where’s Jeff?”

Cody lights up like it’s Halloween. Not really Christmas-type lights, but enough to know that someone’s putting out candy.“Oh man! I thought you knew! Didn’t you hear about in Mrs. Bader’s class?”

justwrite 11 november

Deliciously comfortable is how Jason feels when he wakes up. He’s still on the couch—which you probably saw coming—and it’s already ten o’clock. Shock! He didn’t plug in his alarm again once the headache storm passed in its drastic path through his temples in its worship of unpleasantness. It’s fine, though, just fine, and lining the tablet now lying on the floor is a store of letters fresh bought or possibly caught in his late night flight of fancy—the dancing of mind designs within awkwardly defined lines. It’s easy to see where he started to fall asleep, when to keep within margins was too narrow for the sparrows of his thoughts, caught on a breeze of what? And why? was he trying to write something now? And how reasonable could such ramblings be in the clean light of day? Jason stretches into the morning and considers whether to get up or to stay down or to read and explore or to ignore the chicken scratch that managed to catch on the pages…

The headache is totally gone, it seems—possibly spread thickly in some sickly awkward phrasing, chasing pretentious dimensions into the literary field.

Q: If you work in a library, do you automatically want to write books?

Q/A: If you take an airplane flight to somewhere [also, presumably, from somewhere], do you automatically want to become a pilot?

A/A: No.

justwrite 10 november

Jason is looking for a comfortable position. He needs to fall asleep right now so that he can wake up later and do something. Why sleep now? It’s his head. Instead of working, it’s somewhat broken. The parts are spoken for and his token door [a metaphor] is closed and no openings are available in the next few salable hours so why not close up shop and stop trying to buy more time with the few sense he has left?

He’s in bed but instead of asleep he’s keeping his eyes closed pointlessly. a disjointed spree of fireworks jerking his temples from their moneylenders and sending his broken thoughts across hopscotch paths to nowhere. Two Advil ago, it was the same painful growth of spurts and now it just hurts to consider the light from the alarm clock so he unplugs it and shrugs it off, scoffing at any pretenders of reason within this treasonous season of biological betrayal.

justwrite 9 november

Ryan is okay at lunch because he is practicing a technique not unlike visualization in that he is in pursuit of an improved view of life and an improved life in general. However, because his current visualization of junior high kids and green beans and droopy French fries is already so strong, and seemingly irreplaceable, he has decided to work on sound and “not sound.” His current setting—and preference—is “not sound.”

Across the table, Jeff’s lips are flapping in some sort of rubbery dialogue. Except at this point, it’s actually a monologue, which Jeff does not realize. Why does his mouth look so crazy without sound?

Actually, what Ryan has achieved is fairly impressive. Separating sound from its point of origin is a tough sell. You rarely look at a trumpet and consider the instrument and the sound it produces as two separate entities. To be honest, you rarely look at a trumpet to start with. Not that you have a problem with trumpets, of course, but it’s much more likely that you’re more often stuck somewhere you’d rather not be and listening to someone you may know talk about something you don’t really care about. Still, it’s someone you may know, so you could at least act polite.

Ryan nods politely and takes another bite of his sandwich. It’s not a bok choy sandwich, if that’s what you were wondering. It is, however, made with all-natural peanut butter [the kind that separates in a fairly unappetizing manner, though Ryan’s mom says that at least you know what you’re getting when you see this kind] and banana slices [the kind that come from bananas, which Ryan’s mom buys all the time, despite her occasional deep sighs about carbon footprints and that sort of thing]. Would an eighth-grade boy risk bringing a peanut butter and banana sandwich to lunch, where anyone equally steeped in adolescence could see him? I’m telling you Ryan does. He made it himself. Plus, he made one for Emily, too. What a good big brother. Clearly. It’s easy to be the hero of your own thoughts. Ego! he thinks, and tunes back in to Jeff.

justwrite 8 november

it reaches up from in me and yanks me down and for some time all i can do is follow the jerky dips and swells of sobs welling up inside no hiding it when you're alone alone and no one hears or sees through the open window which is fine is good and just to ride it out is the better thing to do the only thing to do not to pick up the phone and if it rings this is not the time and the line is drawn somewhere around in the sand a chalky outline of flailing a bungled trail leading straight into the ocean and floating seems harder than swimming but if i just hold my breath i can keep out the water but the sky changes its mind and i find myself back on the shore unsure of why and what is wrong with me and why can't i be more like me as i see as i want to be seen with a clean set of dishes and comingtrue wishes and even when they do my hands are too dirty to reach out and instead of thank you my lips say i'm sorry and i turn away away into myself a tight ball stalling out on reason and freezing into shivers unforgivable and damaging though there is no break and i am falling still again choking in sandy sobs crusting my eyes with tears tearing out of my shell the never-tell adversity to struggle with through though what is there to worry about and when i catch myself falling i can only let go for a moment and then i am running to catch up and to find out and to charge that bill for fierce independence and will there be change and will there be tips and when will the trips eclipse the fall of all calling birds and who gets to fly and who is baked into a pie and when are the words to sing

By the time she has written this down, Lindsay can breathe a little better, but the feeling that woke her up is too raw to allow a return to sleep. It's 7:00 and she has more time for sleeping-- her first Monday class doesn't start until 9:15-- but she doesn't think turning off the lights and rolling over will really be worth much in the way of settling down.

Maybe some tea.

justwrite 7 november

“Freestylin’,” the most annoying ringtone ever to, well, ring, ruins another perfectly good morning. Whitney groans and rolls over to fumble on her nightstand in hopes of silencin’ the stylin’.

Q: Why does she have her alarm set as such a terrible ringtone?

Q/A: Is there any ringtone that can make 5:15 seem like a good time to wake up?

A/A: No. Whitney despises this ringtone so zealously that avoiding any possible repetition of the mechanical sing-song ding-a-ling keeps her from hitting the snooze button and forces her at least mostly awake.

Q: Isn’t it sort of a cliché to start a chapter with the ringing of an alarm clock?

Q/A: How did your day start today?

A/A: It’s not like everything you read comes from nowhere, you know. That is to say, everything comes from somewhere. To avoid starting a day—especially a Monday—with the ringing of an alarm clock would be like walking into a lame duck session with an elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about until the donkey’s red glare has left the building. That is to say, it just wouldn’t make sense.

justwrite 6 november

Someone else right now, among others, is Aden. Aden is ready for a nap. Aden is having a really good day. He got to take a long jog in the morning, lunch was really good, and the sun seems just about right for a perfect hour or so of sleep before something else important happens, like dinner. Aden stretches out on the living room carpet in the big patch of sunlight and curls up without a care.

Someone else without a care—or at least without the right care—is Jamie. Jamie has suddenly realized that she has no ice cream and she therefore needs to go to the grocery store immediately. As a backup explanation, she also needs cheese, milk, yogurt, and bananas. Who is going to ask her for this explanation? This much is unclear. What is clear is that her hurried striding across the living room means that she’s about to trip over Aden.
She does.

"Watch out!” barks Aden, jumping up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie! I didn’t see you there!”

“Yeah, that’s likely,” frumps Aden into his whiskers, shaking off the shock. Really, what is her big rush? So she’s out of ice cream, right? Big deal. Some of us are trying to have a good day here.

Jamie kneels down on the carpet and scratches Aden gently behind the ears. As if that’ll make a difference. As if it’s so easy to make a dog happy.

justwrite 5 november

It’s bok choy, is what it is. Why does Ryan know this? He just does, okay.

The crazy lady drizzles some more soy sauce into the pan, and then spreads some flowery garnishes along the side of the platter. A few more toss-ups in the air, for good measure, and the stir-fry is apparently done. With a huge, somewhat forced smile—or maybe her face naturally looks like that? It’s hard to tell—the woman slides the colorful compilation from the wok to the great blue open with the rice-white clouds.

Does Ryan think this bit about the clouds? No, that’s me again.

As the credits start to roll, the woman carries the platter to a table set for two just to the edge of her kitchen set. She seats and serves herself, and then deftly picks up a bite of bok choy with black lacquered chopsticks. Even as this bite passes her lips, she is nodding vigorously as if to confirm that by the time any of her tastebuds actually meet with this morsel, they will be well pleased. The camera zooms in close on her face and her lips seem impossibly huge as she chews and smiles at the same time. Try it right now. How easy is it to chew and to smile at the same time? It’s not. It takes practice. Ryan practices.

justwrite 4 november

The old blue Toyota lurches uphill into the driveway and Harry puts it in park and sets the parking brake before getting out to open the garage door. There used to be a garage door opener. Now it’s Harry. That’s fine. It makes his daughter crazy, but it’s not like she lives there anymore, so there. Elsewhere, so to speak.

The rickety garage door doesn’t always stay up, so Harry wastes no time pulling the car onto the grease spot slightly to the left of the center of the cement floor. For your reference, this car used to be called Turtle. Harry’s daughter called it this some time ago, though mainly because she wanted a turtle as a pet and Harry’s wife had said no. The fact that turtles are rarely blue had not interfered with Andrea’s decision to name her father’s car Turtle. The last time she referred to this car as Turtle was two years and three months ago. At the time, she had a boyfriend who had a pet turtle. His name was Josh. Josh was now a thing of the past, along with his turtle. Or was the turtle’s name Josh? It really doesn’t matter at this point, I’ll just point out.

Actually, it was the turtle who was named Josh. The boyfriend was Steven. Don’t get hung up on this. I just wanted you to know.

justwrite 3 november

In fact, this is not a story about Maureen. Having peered in closely at her habits, we’ll backtrack to a wider angle, or at least try. But why not Maureen? You probably think now that she’s some kind of unclean deviant or a completely uninteresting walking potted plant. While that’s setting up a complete either/ or fallacy, I can’t agree with either option. Have you no logic? The truth is, Maureen’s a very nice person. You probably are, too, but this novel isn’t about you, either. Sorry.

Lindsay, though—she’s somebody. Please don’t be offended. You’re somebody, too. So is Maureen. So am I. There are only so many words here, though, so we all have to take our turns. Lindsay’s going first. This doesn’t mean that she’s better than any of the rest of us, but at least she’s doing something.

As it turns out, as she burns out, Lindsay is scanning. Lindsay is making that confirming beeping noise to indicate that yes, this is an item, and yes, it is being purchased. Not only is it being purchased presently, but perhaps it’s being subtracted by the inventory and sorted onto a slowly evolving receipt. With full disclosure here being a must— at least at this point, we’ll say— it is true that Lindsay isn’t making that noise. It’s actually the whole contraption between the register and the laser scanner thinger that makes the noise. Even Lindsay doesn’t know exactly where the speaker is. Do you? The beep just pops into existence at exactly the right split second for the split pea and the not-spilt milk and their ilk, swiping their bars like cars on a giant slalom solving their disparately weighted proportions by sorting out north and south on the way to the house but first a bag— sort of a drag after all of that beeping, really—

justwrite 2 november

In this case this space is full of shoppers like a hopper full of popcorn a Sunday morning and a little after straight from the lurch of lunch after church, for the cupboards are bare and families are staring straight into the working week to which they may or may not be welcomed but it’s helping itself to their time which is no crime but a calendar already subscribed to whether you hide through a fallback hour or spring beyond ahead full of sleep creeping into the creep-out savings of daylight a hayride up the hill to mounting concerns unearned through turns churning up the altitude—but not to be rude: you’ve brewed your cup and you’re ready to drink up the rest of the thought so I ought to resume the tune I started singing before leaning into a different key and stumbling through an unlocking door once more and reaching through the breach, dear friend and King Henry, too. Anyway, to peer past those great shakes, please pardon my mistakes. So Sunday it is and this seems to be the day of creation, though investigating the situation leads to the conclusion that this could be confusion for isn’t that the seventh day and god rested or bested whatever was left of the schedule? In that case, the first day was Monday, so it’s not too surprising that this was tucked away as a fact and packed into the second slot on most calendars ever bought—But in this case, our story traces its origin and its species to a Darwin-like dawning, to the survival of those rivals and friends extending their reach to the beachwide sunrise of Sunday.

justwrite 1 november

Just like your last meal, this more or less starts at a grocery store. I don’t mean it’s your Last Meal as in like The Last Supper and someone painted you and your friends waiting to eat food for hours while the details were worked out with all the clothy folds and the soup got cold. It probably wasn’t your Last Meal as in you’re going to be put to death shortly because the likelihood of you reading this book in that small interval is very very slim and even if you’re in that general situation there are lots and lots of chances that you’re in some state where enough judges and lawyers and doctors have read enough tenth-grade persuasive research papers that the date of your execution has been postponed indefinitely until all of the MLA formatted citations are checked for accuracy because they make a good point. Plus, if you’re reading this at all, you’re probably not ever going to die anyway, so let’s just relax.

justwrite 31 october

in the non-fiction world the unfurling is too predictable the ridiculous supposition that someone talks when you're ready to listen is laughable the graphable probability is a bowtie crossfiring down the amazon and to the left two doubledoors on the right send fright through your horror movie mind and the well-defined reminders the cliches the re-animes the space between acting and retracting the shots from a short there's a certain hurting beyond the measurable unjustifiable three trials full of no waiting though the jury's out to lunch and they're not coming back they're suddenly all losing track of their fields of vision initiating collisions with immovable objects in their schedules like chicken salad residential regulars down at the corner there there's a store as you might guess though you must dress like you're nobody and act like you're something if you want anything to be made of your order the leastof which to mention is the gift of pickles tricking brine through teeth caught and released from the barrel unsterilized and ready for some tricks sticking to molars and rolling on regardless a card messing full of names exchanged for credit or for a dubious sort of series of worlds at war with their dials and crying out for turning in with answers made of static

justwrite 30 october

i can tell you there was an entry here but to be clear there was and the scuzzy saving didn't and the hints i received in a awkward breeze swept away the clay fingers i have now but they're back and attacking the recollections as i scramble for all the eggs and stuff them into one basket with runny escapism draping the drama into commas which are pauses and the laws with their mistakes are chafing with irony i had lakes frosted with cold and also cakes but there are no ways to recreate so imagine the paratrooper and his super super something a trusting jump into where there are no words and when he looks into the microscope what does he see and how can he tree that porcupine when everything was fine up until that word that absurd collection of meaning screening out the silver and the cost and why not have lost something and pretend it can't be found when it's just around the corner but to storm on over and bite up clover with your teeth can't be pleasing it's more like treason with a milkshake and you know what dairy america would have to say about that and all those cats and their closeness their spaceless days trading turns with each other and exchanging mothers for dishwashers and there's only space for supposition here but the fear is real and the steel does not cut fast enough for this infomercial

justwrite 29 october

let's imagine a supposition an easy-listening hierarchy of needs feeding seeds into my teeth to grow into weaker ideals stealing ketchup from the fastfood altar faltering when the napkins run out the door scoring salt packets and rackets upon which bounce tennis and menacing athletic endeavors clever enough to avoid the draft seeping in from the borders abroad the barns and the nobles hiding out from the scouts and buying all kinds of cookies to fortify their defenses and their minty endeavors though let me say that if it were up to peanut butter this would be a different story and the glory of the color ten would be imagined when the picture clicked faster than fingers could blur the words into impressions the thoughts into lessons to be conveyed to be saved by the waves crossing shores and uncertain curtains opening up on plans in high demand but only by the postman who wants more and doors adore his coming his humming and the dog that bites nobody's hand that feeds nobody's scandal just papering up the floor to keep off the rain and in spain we're talking plainly about precipitation but in this nation united under dogs we know it's not always coming from clouds clearly

justwrite 28 october

gentle ferrets earn demerit badges accidentally the tragedies of quiet politeness the frightless herds of flightless birds absurd in deserving their own rewards the just absorption of pleasure in measured doses the hocus pocus holy moses rollers now appearing live and in driven color with wheels and a rink and two blinks of a slurpee in a kery circle twisted around the walls calling out as cannon balls splash into the middle as belly-floppers squash the whoppers right out of their malt the halting crunches that bunch into teeth subverting the cavities and the depravity of the human condition with vegetables missing glistens in a hard candy coating too remote for television too collision-bent like a bumper car starring a collapsible fender lending tender inches to a life worth speeding for the opening of the cellar door drew barrymore found so appealing like tumbling from a bluesky ceiling and landing in a time warp a golf course and the costume having run its track to field stealing each ounce and individual package of divided rackets candywise speaking heaping brackets around each glowing mound of colors and peanuts and the survey of the day says to stay is too long a measure and the treasure worth seeking is keeping its own counsel at my chamber door unsure whether to knock or to lock from the outside the undecided arrogance of knowing the chance is a choice a boisterous voice like a guatemalan watermelon the scandal of a felon and his too-rich uncle stumping for fools and electing disregard shuffling cards into three hands where the pecan pie can fry its own reward and the napkins the napkins are never enough

justwrite 27 october

i am starting to think of the plan but when the words are too many i write and there is not yet space for this language this story will make believers and enemies and my name shall be called not in the dark places the spaces left gaping once teeth are pulled and the nothingness is tender sending our tongues out we taste the absence the deliverance from primeval fears through abstraction for the concrete beneath my feet between my toes grows closer to my sole salvation i sleep in the space of giants and my prologue has been eaten whole stolen in the night with its liquid eyes blinking back the day staying wise and quiet despite the uncertainty of land and an understandable thrust bursting through an accidentally open door the store room of the previous devious message-taker the eraser of shaken mistakes but where could they go and to know is impossible to deny with a try and seek mission statement a fate meant to be magical a carnival of supposition glistening in a caramel smile creeping up the corners warning all comers that these numbers are by the books that these brothers are made by brooks and this elegance is never too hasty never quite a reachable fad clad in long limbs swimming in light and the laughter of a kind not quite understood or intended for common consumption mass production these calls are too fine for this dime and the ring goes unanswered

justwrite 26 october

maybe in the headlights there will be directions corrections in the tone of voice involved a flattering shape than a flatter escape no paler shade than this light this bright open scandal to handle the bars and the wide-open doors is to store up a shed full of answers chancing cancerous delusions to grow up in confused adolescence a complete convalescence of excuses the damaged bruises of dreams we have not filtered and in the meantime apologies that could be dealt with differently are free and far between in comeuppance the chance to faze a stance out to cash the chips about the edges and sorry sorry the ride again i can't imagine how the stage is set until the paint has dried and yes i see how this will turn out right and left

justwrite 25 october

now there are quiet places
right out in front of everyone
and they are watching but
no one wants to be the one
everyone wants to be everyone
unless that one is so good
unless everyone is wrong
put your toe into the mess
squish your fingers in the
well we're not sure what it is
to be right but wrong is not
the way to go and when you
know which way to well
what i'm trying to say is
there are places and people
some of these are important
when you take notes well
it doesn't help you don't know
when you meet them face them
end up smack in the middle of
but sometime later you will
stop right in the middle of
something completely else
and say where was what again
do i remember to remember all
of those pieces of some other
picture the frame rearranged
with capital improvements
this project funded by a
rubber band playing its heart out
strung along on a shoestring
and a secret and also memory
which is like luck which is not
to be relied upon although everyone
everyone all and one and all
does definitely

justwrite 24 october

there will come a time
when you will wait
because you have no
other choice although
it will seem you ought to
be able to get up and run
also yell and tell them
with a capital t that you
are the capital letter here
and you need a sentence
and also end punctuation
but the question of what
and how that sentence
may develop is of concern
and it may be too long
or too troubling to maintain
or a painful reminder of
the quiet time before
when the words were unsaid
steady on the blank edge
a plastic seat a metal frame
unnamed like the fears here
sometimes unbalanced
with chance and also yes fear
the dancing which is falling
waiting for the steps to add up
in a small room with uneven
pictures and a very loud clock

justwrite 23 october

well there are suppositions
and there are glistening listeners
twisting into the spotlight
bright enough for the occasional bulb
plugging along plugged in
crackling out of step out of whack
back in again like a handful
of chestnuts yesterdaywarm
pockets full of vegetables
grown your own excuses
you were young and foolish
there was love at the table
time in the stable
sodium had done no wrong
songs sung out to dry
so as i was saying to the sun
let's you and me see this through
to the end of the day
and to play was exquisite drama
the charming kind with popcorn
worn slippers and a neveroutside
sweatshirt hurting for a hem
rambling into toughlove cuffs
scuffed into substantial advantage
the hood goes up and ears are in
back in vogue and other collages
the letters all mailed
female subscribers crying their hives out
spouting relevance
i am the answer chaser
we see the now come true