August's 1 thru 10

"...expression becomes about the writing and not the message," is deluded pouting. Writing muddy sentences on your blog is one thing, but you accepted an invitation to write on my site, balked after your first submission was returned for a re-write, and quit.
When a kid did this, I understood. Still living at home, my editing scraped across his corrected-by-Mom scab.
Shoveling sentence fragments for a quarter-hour, followed by a few minutes chopping off extra words, will never result in a 100-word patch of quality. It may take hours and still need an editor’s grouting tools to make it fit.

Your blood knows no better.
By divorcing my half-sister’s and mine before they died (and entombing your own age-addled mother against her wishes) you cast my filial obligations like a Pharaoh—in tempera. You also, somehow, allowed your brother’s revulsion for family to spread into your daughter and in two decades, I—twenty years junior—become you, become grandma: a resident of, "...I don’t want to be here...please take me home...they hurt me".
For which they are poorly paid; get on board! The length of purgatory will be in your hands until you lose the strength to suicide.

Finding someone who brings bliss and contentment into your casa, and maybe future, makes me happy.
Attempting to shine a gentle light on the soiled pigeon in her rearview mirror, our sister’s replacement-place (campus) was her way of trying to forget the lusty fingerprints, scripted lies, and nicotine-laced oxygen of her latest meet market.
When culling the deceitful herd—using a one-way screening tool, having unlimited time, and obtaining double-blind protection carries the stigma: 'overly careful and tired of meeting on campus'. "We inter-met," may sound like snowboard-skydiving to those afraid of heights, but they don’t walk in your zapatos.

I’ve been practicing nostalgic recall.
When I squint my eyes just a teensy-weensy bit — the inch deep, football-sized chunk of flesh cut out of your left scapula, the additional nine months within scud-missile range of the most rabidly governed and impoverished millions on this planet, and the self-inflicted hurdy gerdy you danced because your concubine’s aunt Flo missed her stop-over flight — appear as inconvenient blips in a blessed existence.
Your e-mail filters more than the TDC sewer smell, the twelve-hour days, and the 5½-day work-week. (Is it still?)
But recollections always cause me to affectionately remember FDNY 1997 and 1998.

The foolish think old needs to be hidden; negotiating with time by repeatedly celebrating their twenty-ninth birthday. Although I didn’t know you at 29, I’m glad to know you now and extremely pleased with the us of we — today, at the leading edge of your fourth decade. I could be happier only if our backyard was ocean beach or forested mountain…and maybe our horizon is blocking that abode from our view. Thank you for being the perfect paramour. My happiness has become blissful because of your influences and willingness to share your life with me for the last twenty-nine months.

I do not publicly correct the grammar of friends or family (unless I’m in a banter-provoking mood). Today’s breakfast companion said, "I had this bamboo plant growing in a wine craft." I didn’t correct her. The Yankee-menace said, "It’s a kind of ham that’s curated." No correction. But I open a newly-trawled blog to '...obligation to people dieing of thirst if your knowledgeable of where to find water...' and I take a minute to comment. Why? Because spoken words are immediately lost in the hubbub. Hypertext is the new granite.
Don’t chisel until you’re cured and your carafe is empty.

Why—when I catapult over—do you categorically refuse to return my playful intentions? My cataclysmic vocalizations, pleading for active altercations, are always met by a minimal allocation of near-catatonic silence. I yell for your presence but you always skulk away. If you don’t understand the language of Siam, would it be such a catastrophe to try and teach me your Russian? Stop playing in the bathroom, alone, with that stupid ball; come out here and chase me! If your education doesn’t include how to play, then placate me...or my application to excommunicate you will be submitted in triplicate.

My window frame over the unnamed city street—antiqued and nicotine coated by dead relatives—is the same rough shade of raw as the unfinished edgy patches. Payne’s gray façades tower over book-page concrete almost obliterated by their creator. Random crowd impressions, adorned by slices of hardboiled egg-moons and cliché pentagons, become lost under bland window shades. Unbalanced staring at fire escapes, which hinge above crooked marquees; all signs direct, all arrows point one way.
Incessantly glimpsing this thoroughfare one decade on top of the next, I have ceased wondering about it’s unoriginality and begun questioning: Who lives in there?

Indoor-only Popcorn was let outdoors by a taker. Budroe P. Wilson died under a bush in my front yard. Scared of heights, Louie ran to a neighbor-roof. Samantha, caught by a dog, died in my backyard. Doc chose to live elsewhere after four days of snow. The unnamed Siamese caught leukemia. Spencer hated living in a trailer park and Lloyd was given away to an ex-step. Momma-cat was taken to a distant farm. Evil black was buried in a pasture. A car hit Missy. Moe was given to a neighbor to be outdoors. Cody got run over by a bus.

Memories naught, strange visages kept
Shadows caught, beneath foot swept
Images wrought, still carefully frozen
Criteria fraught, non-randomly prep'd
Headlong, hysterical, brief giddy delight
Dandelion diphtheria, foraged crabapple cure
Dirt-road rest area, porch-yard twilight
His boost her quench, slaked well water pure
Witness old fear, her balancing poise
Uncertain too near, she backs in alarm
Truck blazing steer with silent noise
Evening blight peer, bath light decants
Unwilling to face, unsettled turn
Autumn unfazes, petals unlearn
Chilling pout night’s ethereal warmth awakes
Pickle jar blight, perturbed contemplates
Gradual bleach to bone
Pert turns to stone
Lusty stares grown
Babes die

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