Tag Archives: cigarettes

108 – NaPoWriMo #19

Dear Reader,

That’s not an error – I did write #18 already but have set it to private as it contains information that I am not at liberty to share. As recompense, this one’s not password protected.Thanks for your devoted readership, and I hope you enjoy this post.

-Mick

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Deleted

The fourth day, also on the road, was a little more challenging. By this point we’d divided into two vehicles (the lead and a uHaul) and while not driving I didn’t want to be rude. Thus this play is much shorter than initially intended and took an unexpected turn.

Deleted¬†was inspired by a brief interaction with a convenience store clerk named Belete, whose name I’d miss-read initially. The hard left at the end of the play is my own imagination and trying to wrap up and an unhealthy fascination with history and the paranormal. Hope you enjoy.

Clara Didn’t Make It – Potassium Did Her In

There’s a fairy-tale playing in my head – it seems true. It starts with a ringing phone in my first home after leaving my parent’s roof, across town. Dad calls, I answer even though I don’t want to talk to him. I rarely do – he rarely talks to me, but at me, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing, he’s to be heard.

“Mom’s in the hospital,” he says, “you should come.” It’s just a story, right, but it sits in the back of my mind, the hesitation – reason, and good parenting prevail. I say I’ll be there, call my brother – I pick him up and go to Sunrise Hospital, hopeful in the namesake.

The story is getting ahead of itself. Rewind.

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Double Door Entropy

At the boulevard paved in lost wages and broken kneecaps, God’s nightlight cuts through the darkness like a buffet hot plate melting butter for cheap lobster, because even Jesus fears retribution in this city. He turned the host into poker chips and wine into water so as not to get gouged at the casino gift shops, where one can get a taste of Tank Girl because a paltry pint costs three dollars.

Drinks are still free if you’re willing to play, so grandmas feed dollars into one-armed bandits that lost their six-shooters to the house decades ago and would-be high rollers lose this month’s rent as the roulette wheel falls on double-zero after betting black in their last ditch effort at a payout; they loiter ’til their tonic and gin comes crawling slowly on the waitress’ tray through the oblivious crowd, her vanity, varicose vainly hidden by stockings that can’t help but highlight the buttcheeks she’s toned in ten-hour shifts in high heels, which get pinched so frequently she’s stopped resigned sighing even – just focuses on the dollar chips she’ll not get for placating the thirsts of paupers.

Tourists tumble out double doors that swing; that part on their own in deference to drunkards simply being – Red Sea miracle in circuitry that’s rote now, doors that spin and spin endlessly like galaxies working toward blissful entropy 100 billion years in the making; and into the warm Vegas summer air, the heat still hanging from the triple digits that peaked at 5pm.

The ghosts of Ben Siegel and Elvis Presley shimmer into existence through the radiation rising off the pavement in this mirage they built out of extortion and entertainment lifestyles that cost them both of theirs, their souls trapped in this purgatory they stitched out the desert sands with gunshot microphones and lounge lizard espionage, where flip-flops replace heels after the fourth uncomfortable hour, where denizens wait impatiently outside nightclubs – preying for payments, praying for kept open bar tabs, where a PBR might as well be boullion – filled past capacity.

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Beauty Bar

While Pray for Japan plays Pauline, who is frying, undoes her lumberjack shirt, revealing her red bra as she revels, the only girl dancing.

Too many dicks on the dancefloor during a love-song,
The girls sitting it out on stools,
Or are off in a corner getting memorialized by a photographer with all the trimmings, a flash on his camera, two umbrella’d cans rebounding the light about.

At the bar, another photographer places his triachnid tripod on the top and photographs Melissa, the bartender, as she takes his order;
A collector, unabashed until he sees me staring:
His face turns red and he doesn’t make eye contact again, embarrassed at being made, unaware I’ve been doing in a different medium the same.

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Samantha

Hyperbole, the scars ripped and widening,
Silencing the pulse she hid behind a screen
Of sharp dulling whiskey and menthol cigarettes.

She tried to hide the smell but it still lingered on her breath,
Less impressed with herself but still harbored aspirations despite the fact that motivation had creased her and seen cessation.

She stayed up nights and cried,
Desperately wishing she had not survived but died,
Instead of living to make the world know the way she feels inside.

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