Hopelandic

The pitcher sat half empty. It's thoughts drawing on it's contents. My thoughts: tracing the perfect ring coyly, seducing truth, funding other more lascivious entertainments, or better yet, distractions.
The drought slinked back words coming out of thick air. Little bits of truth expounsed, the virtue in a bottle - a penance sealed with a body and blood - duality of both conscious thought and intentions.
I measure out my intentions on spoons, crinkle them slightly and pour them into a beverage. It's all amount, everything that is, to consumption, devouring the unspoken, the breaths, the pauses, unsettled instances. The broken conscious and colors define the way our acts move in beauteous interpretations the soft sense a misspoken word or unedited sentence can come to an abrupt end.


--George

Like a Mack Truck

I threw up at 2:30 am, or maybe later. The green slimy glow of a digital clock reminding me what the contents of my stomach must have looked like: a diego burrito, yeungling, some beautiful shots that echo a blank stare of forgetfulness, a sweet cup of coffee, bile.
God there was chocolate in that mole sauce. There's must have been. Can you even make mole sauce without chocolate.
The thrill of the vomit is that after a few minutes of menace you feel the comfort of a clean slate. The emptiness that resounds a feeling of something being finally over. Completion. I have finished something.
Maybe it's a tangent, but life gets faster and faster as you get older and older. Your peripherals just cloud up and seem to make you feel like a child staring out the window of a car at the tree line which barely moves, to the grass which is slightly quicker, and as you get closer to the car, the life accelerates.
Except when you puke.

--geo