Monday’s Rune: Code Red?


Patience Grasshopper

I don’t give a damn what
you think about what
I think I thought
that am entitled to,
or what is my business.
Motive matters. How are ya
means I fucking care
about you and your problems,
no matter how ya got ‘em.

When you shut me out,
when you will not talk,
when anyone close
informs me just
exactly what the fuck
is and is not my business,

Blood boils, tongues twist,
ears backen, and eyes redden.
Sir, the witness has rights!

Code fucking red. RED!
Read it right. No matter
WHAT! I’m on your side.
Hell, high water, thunder,
fucking flashes of lightning
or the end of my damn sidewalk.


Look both ways and see it as you must,
but I’ve been minding the gaps in this wall for more than 50 years.

 

I suppose it depends upon what it is applied to and how.

 

Sammi’s Weekender #269 (variation)

Click the graphic for Sammi’s page with links to other 67-word wonders.

Texas
is not a State
of sameness.

Variations abound.
What animal husbandry
and agriculture
ain’t changed.

Yonder are
the Gulf of Mexico Coast
Great Planes,
Interior Lowlands,
Basins, and Ranges
overlapping with

Pineywoods,
prairies, marshes,
savannahs;
south, rolling, and
high plains;
storybook names
like
Trans-Pecos;
mountain ranges
like
Franklin, Chalk, Chinati,
Chisos, Christmas, and Davis;
Guadalupe, Palo Pinto,
del Carmen,
Diablo and Vieja.

Texas is many places.


Look, “Highway 6 goes both ways” *.
Mind it all; the gaps, the plains, and the mountains.
There is not another place like Texas.

*Texas Highway 6 runs 476 miles, from the Oklahoma border to Galveston, Texas. The quote is a pejorative quip or gibe at Texas A&M University for complainers who dislike the place. It’s like don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. In other words, the same road that brought you here can take you away in two directions.

Friday Fictioneers for July 22nd 2022

Today, Mistress Rochelle, Queen of Friday Fictioneer Musing, and Fleur Lind have provided a photo prompt that (I admit to getting lost here) took me to a movie scene and jerked my sense of political humor. If I offended any Texas Reps, they have my most insincere apologies.

If you want to play with us (and we are a diverse, international, fun lot), click on Fleur’s photo to serve up Rochelle’s page for your personal written invitation and a quick brief on the few story-telling rules and suggestions.

Click PHOTO PROMPT © Fleur Lind to share an intimate moment with our Mistress of fiction.

Genre: Political Humor
Title: Sexist Mandates
Word Count: 100

***

After sipping her wine, the lady at the next table tossed her head back and yelled “yes, yes, yes.”

Her knickers slid down to her ankles.

Our waiter asked, “Have you decided, sir?”

I smiled, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

He asked, “May I see your driver’s license?”

I laughed, handing over my Texas license. “I am way over 21.”

“That’s not it, Mr. Bill. The wine you requested is forbidden by Abbott Mandate for males, which your DL says you are. It can cause multiple orgasms and no biological males can survive that.”

I ordered Bud Lite and Roadkill.

***


Look both ways as I remove my tongue from my cheek.
Mind the gaps found between truth and fiction.
Live, love, and laugh often.

Click HERE to read more fantastic Friday Fictioneer stories.

If you are unfamiliar with the scene from the movie, When Harry Met Sally, allow this YouTube trailer to make your day.

Monday’s Rune: This Bad


Hopeless is bad enough,
often said with sarcastic humor.
But helpless is feeling
a deeper truth.

We believe we can,
and maybe
for a time,
we can, and
we do. But we are
being watched.

An inevitable
universal reality
brings truth to
the rarity of existence.

Entropic inevitability,
be it a mayfly, a giant star;
you, or me, degradation
into disorganized chaos
and randomness rules.

As everything changes,
nothing ever changes.


Look both ways into the abyss of eternity.
It is the way, the only way.
Mind the gaps and appreciate the flashes of life.

Sammi’s Weekender #268 (year)

Click the graphic for Sammi’s blog page and links to more 46-word applications of “year.”

Neverending

It’s how I remember the year that she died.
I watched for weeks while she suffered, and I cried.

It made a big impression on me although I was still a young man.
Her life was over—suffering ended. I still do the best I can.


Look both ways year after year.
Mind the gaps as we try to remember, and we try to forget.

My inspiration:

Friday Fictioneers for July 15th 2022

To test out my creative muse, Mistress Rochelle apparently worked out an international picture deal with everybody’s ever-smiling, favorite Canuck, Dale Rogerson. A summer day residential photo of the otherwise Great White North ginned up a fib about two Yanks looking about.

Click on Dale’s photo to open Rochelle’s page to read about how it’s done.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Genre: Travel Fiction
Title: Canada Wry
Word Count: 100

***

So, this is Canada, eh? Where’s all the people?

Inside. It’s too warm. Thirty don’t ya know?

That’s not warm?

Celsius. Eighty-six Fahrenheit. We’re north of North Dakota.

They use metric?

Yes and no. It depends.

What else do I need to know?

Canadians are the politest and friendliest people on Earth. They say “sorry” a lot.

That movie, One Week, made me want to move here even before 2016.

Yes. But Gunless is better. Funnier. We need to get out of here.

Why?

Dale is taking our picture. If we stay, we’ll be all over the internet by noon.

***


Look both ways because everybody has a camera these days.
Mind the gaps but be nice.
Keep your passport current and safe.

Click on the cute but rough looking couple to open access to other fine 100-word (or fewer) stories inspired by the prompt picture.

This is a trailer from the movie Gunless in case you wanna see what it’s like. I’ve not seen it, but may giver them a try.

Monday’s Rune: Hank’s Wine Whine


Bukowski had six cats,
a horrific history,
(eventually) a (2nd) wife, a daughter,
and hated his father,
maybe mother too.
he smoked cigarettes
and drank wine
while writing poems
until the wee hours
while
listening
to classical music.

He drove an old VW bug
and was attractively
unattractive.

Playing the horses
was more than
a gambling vice,
it was an avocation.

You say so what?
I say, you don’t know?


Look both ways when you need a poem to post on a Monday.
Mind the gaps cuz yer on yer own dude.

Henry Charles Bukowski: a “laureate of American lowlife.” Time (magazine).

Sammi’s Weekender #267 (return)

Click on the graphic to link over to Sammi’s blog page and links to more 31-word wonders.

 


 

Time would stop,
no mellowness
or ripening dead,
no ageing,
green callowness everywhere
on everyone;
sameness would be
one forever season
as it was for me
to never return home again.

 


 

Look both ways but remember that life is lived in the eternal present,
planned forward, understood backward,
and we each have a story.
Mind the gaps, and keep a nickel for the exit fee, or you may never return.

***

Sammi’s weekender (as I call it) is a word use and number/count challenge. But I am often called to music and songs by prompts, as in this case. The chorus from the song M.T.A. (or Charlie on the MTA) written in 1949, and recorded and made famous by The Kingston Trio in 1959, (one of my favorites) while unrelated to my poem, is still fun for me. If you buy a ticket today for the (now MTBA) Boston subway (if you go, ride it), it is called a CharlieCard because of this song.

“But did he ever return?
No he never returned
And his fate is still unlearned (poor old Charlie)
He may ride forever
‘Neath the streets of Boston
He’s the man, who never returned”

(33 words, but not my entry)

Friday Fictioneers for July 8th, 2022

Our Friday Fictioneers Mistress Rochelle has spun up her own spinning version photo for us to spin a yarn that cottons to your imagination. But fair warning, some songs stick like wax in your ear.

Click on Rochelle’s picture to wheel on over to her blog for the finger pricking principles of our weekly 100-word (or fewer) stories.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Genre: Musical Fiction
Title: Why Women Kill
Word Count: 100

***

Stop talking in circles.

I’m not. I’m making a point. You interrupted me.

If you don’t know, just say so.

If you see something, say something.

What? That has nothing to  do with it.

Spinning Wheel got to go ‘round. Ride a painted pony.

If you don’t stop this shit, I want a divorce.

Drop all your troubles by the river side, on the straight and narrow highway.
Okay, what’s your question again?

Where do you want to go for dinner? What movie do you want to see?

Let the spinning wheel spin.

(Frustrated) Fuck you. I’m out of here.

***


Look both ways on traffic circles and two-way roundabouts.
Mind the gaps when you buy mushrooms at the farmers’ market.

Click on the loving couple for more stories about spinning or something.

***

A little retro music for those who may not know the song.

Monday’s Rune: Independence Day


On This July Day

Born a year after
the last big war,
for decades,
I said the pledge
with hand over heart and sang
patriotic songs.

I took cover under my desk,
was a Boy Scout of America
who could properly fold the flag
and post the colors at twelve.
I prayed every day. I trusted God.

I played at war and we
always won. We were
always right, better,
and stronger. Powerful,
but merciful.

I enlisted before
graduating from high school,
I saluted. I knew, followed,
and respected flag etiquette —
still do. I swore
to protect our Constitution.

I spent two careers in the service of
(willing to, but not wanting to,
die for) my country—my people.
I thought I taught my children well.

Now,
examining my conscience
I find I am a man of a different mind,
No longer as certain of our goodness,
of our unitedness, of our honest
democracy. I feel fooled and
deceived. I feel hated by my own.

It’s not the date, it is the old spirit
where I question my allegiance,
to what or whom?

It is still in me. I still care.
But nothing is the same.
Confidence is dead. For our
freedoms, I worry with dread.

I feel conflicted. Lost.
Our enemies are close.
How patriotic am I?
I should be. I want to be.

In truth, I feel this way
not because I no longer love
my country,
but because I still do.

Happy 4th, anyway.
Be careful out there.


Look both way as we try to understand.
But deeply mind the gaps.
Even the Nazis thought they were right.

According to THIS Gallup poll, it’s a thing.