Archive for April 13th, 2011

We Met at the Bottom of a River

The last I remember, seemingly alive, I was judging the business owners in the flat prairie with webs of railroad tracks in the valley on the way to the city for continuing to operate businesses that were flooded every couple years and wondering how they could possibly acquire insurance. It was not a 100-year flood, but it was a major flood.

I seemed consciously aware of being dead to the prior world because I was standing in sifting mud, dark chocolate brown, completely under water in an area that seemed clear only for me, surrounded by thick cloudy water that was so dirty, it appeared to be milk chocolate sauce, or perhaps more accurately, the stuff that came out of my dachshund, Daisy, that should have been solid but was only soft liquid because she had her frequent digestive problems, and I was breathing the clear water in and out as if it were my sustenance, staring at a beautiful woman with a silky dress, long and reaching the river bed but with an intriguing slit running up the left leg.

I know my angels. I’ve felt my angels but I had never seen my angels.

The woman was my angel and I was dead to the old world. I was certain. She was staring at me and by her stance and facial expression, I knew that I was expected to be doing something to meet unknown requirements. It was like my first day on the job, hoping my new boss doesn’t think she made a horrible decision by hiring me. I was nervous, but I stood waiting for her to give me instruction, waiting in my new world.

All of the spiritual wreckage, the trail of sick damage in my old world was running through my mind at a super high speed with a whine in the sound, and I was hoping hell would treat me kindly. My intentions were almost always good regardless of my outcomes, and I was praying in a fashion that some entity in this new world might recognize that, but I was doubtful.



It’s Inspiration Monday VII but it’s only I (roman numeral I, not me) for me. The title of this piece was one of the great prompts. Check out BeKindRewrite’s post for other intriguing efforts.


, , , , , , ,


Your Morning, Not Free

You felt like you stole the morning.
Drove it like you stole it.
Saturday morning with windows down.
Free from obligations.
On your way for non-medical cures,
An entity gave you the stolen day,
but it only lasted for three minutes.
Someone held a hand out.
You couldn’t grab the fucking thing,
So here you are,
wishing you could run in the yard
in your plaid gray,
black and white PJ’s, smoking your cigar,
smelling the moist bird shit,
knowing that some day you won’t need
to steal it.
You have had more desperate Saturdays.

, , , , , , , , ,


%d bloggers like this: