"OK" said the day
by Brendan deVallance
Not caring if I get it right.
That broken shit ain’t really broke. At least that’s how I’m seeing it. The darkness that runs from the sunshine. The bundle all tied in a bow. The bullets with no gun. Good days, rocket dreams, no prayers unpunished. Sadness will strangle you like fast growing vines. Turn into the wind, don’t be set asunder by the grinding wheels. Oh Despair, you pull at me, undone. Digit over fist, parts, sum of, greater than . . . I will get alone, get long little doggies, the cow punchers lament. I dream of the days when my legs swept against the sagebrush and cactus protected by my leather chaps. Drunk on fresh air and old Rice Krispies I make my way through the day, just like every day. Just like today, just like every other day.
Ride that elevator, ride, ride it to the top, ride it like you can’t catch your breathe. Up to the high floors where the whippoorwills call can not be heard. Sealed in tight from all that may blow. I’ve eaten glass off the kitchen table thought it was a meal. Seen the sky turn dark like the world went off. Held the the the petunias in my hand only to drop them to the floor. Sweep the floor, mop the floor. Junk revels in the bastions. Small side salads and ankle busters unite in one long drawn out fall down the stairs. Reimagined lost ships, market drops and aisle nine leave static in despair (disrepair). Not to stand tall in the jumpsuit, not to drive over the embankment, not live or die in the good fight. Small towns and melting ice cubes. Ain’t that the way they say it goes.
|3||Grim shadows light my way into the unreachable aspects of a tripped up stumble. Good days fall away, with me left holding the one line gag. Gags and bags of gags, and sunny thoughts trumped up inside, trouble on the side. Speaking out the left side of my mouth, both hands full and dreaming. Junk stores and mattered loses, the definite movement and hand closed fall. Market crash, like a dropped bottle on aisle nine. No paper towels this time and trouble will find its own Spanish actor. The merry-go-round crush verses millwork and sad dreams gone awry. Cemetery eyes on a face no mother could love. Drowned ambitions, verbose reactions, driveway tears and a resignation of sorts. Magic tears a hole in the understudy noisemakers.|
|4||Ingress to dirt, 6ft underrated and dying. Like water that needs a drink or brain that needs a think. I hear the sound of gas as it fills my tank. The lost bags and wrong taken bridges are piling up like mad markers to unthought murals. The junk I have lost in my own junk drawer is astounding, remarkable, note worthy. If I have it, sometimes I don’t have it. What I once had, the good times, they are peeling away like the wrapping paper of opened presents. But the paper is the present, and the argyle socks are now made of wood. Hand shake deals over barrels on the porch give way to thunderous rounds of thunder in the distance. Because, well, if you’re on the porch then there will be thunder. Thunder overhead, over heard.|
|5||Strewn together like rough caskets for an unexpected slaughter. Tumbled down piles of lost marks on torn down walls. “I used to be this high”. Marked paths can often be lost to wind and rain. But my mind is intact, housed in it’s shell, living hell. Oh well, I scream loudly, melting. Living hell is the best revenge. Good drunk, bad drunk. And days of no plan revealed plain. I will be the offer rid or ridden, the home base, the scourge of the microphone morphine drip. No dope kicker. Shabby the habit that douses the flames. The burning down house will become a friend to the lost souls with no way home. And for every broken neck a double check. Steep stairs and magic marks to the sky as the life that is lived is revealed.|
|6||Another thing broken, another arm severed, lost days, gray days, fill my mind. Egrets peck at my closed eyes, that’s the feeling I get. Glorious birds and my bloody sockets. Like ice in a drink I am the winter in your spring formal. Into the fray, Into the shouted shadows. Ceilings are reveled to be higher than previously thought. Enemy Sounds. Cross hairs from the higher ups on my top hat. It has a warm, glowing feel. Nice to be wanted other than ignored so I’ll take it like a puppet takes the strings. I’d like to be considered as candy, an after dinner mint, palate cleanser. Grief councilor on a sunny day. Songs to sing with a mumble, aghast. Lost trails in the forest covered by leaves. King of gashes, Prince of bruised knees, I will jab and roundhouse regardless.|
|7||Shivering bones: Seven days a week, a hand held, a war waged and a war won. Holding tight to the no-leaf clover. Luck is in the mind not the finger tips. Broken mirrors are not your friend, and I would be willing to hack away at one just to prove my point. Live life as you find it. For every hand a hand grenade. Hand to the heart at attention, like a statue, just standing there, lost to the gods and dogs. A ropes ties may bind you, the thought of pot pies will be your undoing. Relax for christsake. Metal against metal we will break things. Fall to the proof and pain. I have the keys, you have the leaves (me vs. trees). Sidewalks will always win this battle. Picking the flowers also kills the flowers. Don’t kill no roses, don't kill no roses for me.|
|8||Cracks the heart right in two, right in two. I’ve opened letters like that. I’ve sat at the crucible and played it like a piano. And it really does warm the fingers. Like a hand shake with Satan. I have devised a plot, a plot to remedy the shark bite. I stand here bleeding to death and I may actually catch a cold and die as the blood puddles below me. Stand tall and be smart. The gift is the hand shake against all unnerving, all undead. The undead do not shake hands. And journeys do not always end in silence. Some with a crash. And home is made of splinters of wood, that get stuck in the hands and arms. Blood, blood flowing unseen, behind the scenes, like hardcore. Like a mail delivery. We will live as visioneers, siding with the winners every time, against all tyranny.|
|9||Wrote that book, saw that play, bailed that hay. Inside the boat there is no upside right. The moth to the light determined the way north, my hand on the rudder is the silent sound. Made of wood and staring at starry skies. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in pages, the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts with anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs. Dogs will not bark at the sea if they are not there. Horses will not bay at the moon. The horse is the boat and boat is at sea. And I will look bow-ward, despite the direction we are headed. Underground is good, underwater is a life worth living. Surface tension,
and the book will sink right to the bottom. Eye on the time. The wheel goes round
|10||Beyond comprehension, awestruck, devastated beyond the tunnel of retribution, sadness. Lost keys in an effort to sideways down the car park. The house not entered, the storm unrealized. Coulda, shouda, winter. Standard lines of truth vs a life well lead. Feet well fled against a sky of high water. Aghast at last weeks unfinished news and the history of good times that will not become of road map. Oh, I’m sorry, did my existence just fuck up your day? Really, I’m not crazy. Really. I’m just relegated to the front lines of my own life, against my will. I will take up arms against the day. Me against them. From the tumbler comes the wicked dice tossed into my face, into my life. Good, smart then fall apart. I hope you find what you’re looking for (the door, the door).|
|11||Candy on purpose. The matter at hand. Live another day and wreck reigned in to upset proportions. I love the aftertaste that money leaves. The lingering stench. Lagoons filled with murk (oh the murk). Can I revel in the murk? The stand off existence will prescribe then don’t ask why. Shadow makers and mystic fakers and I will drive the car along the pocket. No defense is the best no offense meant none taken. A drawing will always be a drawing. As long as it is drawnt. And side-views cast through rose colored sunglasses take a stab at the night. I’ll take a stab at the night. The night as it was originally intended is a dark thing, a dark thing plopped down along the earth like a soldiers rucksack. Crash glamour is barking and I am still as loveless as a pylon.|
|12||Flower of the month. Stuck in my mouth. Business side down. My energy up. Young, bitter and bored: constant aggravation. A smart-ass frustrated by the dim-witted. The devil, you know. Degenerated beyond the magic that music makes in your head. My energy up. Please sing me songs of days gone by. History as you find it. The underwhelmed are eternal, or perhaps the plain old whelmed. I’ll not give up the ghost at any price. Segue to a downhill stroll. Flower on the mouth. Shucked corn and radiate. Star finder set towards the night sky. Radar radio, nonsuch. A great list of things written down of things for me to do. A great list set in time set in motion. Stand alone against the tree breeze. Stand alone in the garden. Grabbing at straw. My energy up.|
|13||Prince of Dead Dirt and stuck like tuna tar-tar to the roof of the last gasping mouth. I should have something to say but not with these words. A death sentence really for a writer without good grammar. I’d rather be a righter. Fix the wrongs, leave the unforgotten to their misery. I will have a long bath or a long walk, something like that. Spinning in my grave above ground with the others. Toss a dreary aside my way. Looking for the time of day, it is not in the Times. It might be half drunk and passed out. The great groans of the masses and the grim reality which passes. I shall have my tea and biscuits, my PB&J. Let us walk together in the trenches and the tree lined streets. The boulevards of screaming filth they will not hear our cries. The crisis will march towards us, not away.|
|14||It’s news to me that I’m not dead. I seem to be in the dream state waking life. Dead, not dead, dead, not dead. Door knob is my style. Or is it doornail? I have forgotten. Memories may stay that way as memories often do. Hello, I love you. And this is the days of eaten bear. Hollow hands hold back the sour age of the masses. With rhythm of those hands against the drum of solid ice. No one hears the sounds. Ice pick Armageddon will fall the world and perhaps, it comes to mind, might not make not a bad coffin accessory. Unleashed, released. And the barb wire. Oh, the barb wire. And the scourge of molasses. And authors will run screaming through the streets holding commas in their bloody paws. Sorry, brains on fire.|
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