May 02, 2010

May 2010, Vol. 9, Issue 5

Welcome back to the latest issue of Truckin'.

1. Uncle Louie by Paul McGuire
He used to be full of life and love and generosity, but no more. These days, he was capable of saying horrendous things that made you feel like you were three inches tall. He had the madness of an angry blind dog... More

2. State Line by AlCantHang
It has never once failed me when I yell "OY!" and look like I'm going to eat your next born. People generally shrink away even though I barely reach 5-foot-nothing. Not once in my life had it failed, that is, until the "old dude" took a fucking swing at my gourd... More

3. If You're Gonna Lose, Lose Big by Broseph
I was starring at their boobs and I got the idea of maybe trying some threesome action. It's a tough bridge to cross, and I had no idea where to start. I decided to just start making out with Gwen and hoped that would work... More

4. American Hero by Dawn Summers
The skies were just this shade of pitch black at nine in the morning. The rain was slamming against my windows. And the wind, oh the wind huffed and puffed and tried to blow my house down... More

5. Self by Drizz
With a "normal" middle-income life that most Americans live grinding out work for the man and making enough scratch to satisfy the needs and wants, there’s hardly time to take a step back and enjoy this existence... More

6. In Between Fighting Souls by Tenzin McGrupp
My quagmire of a life resembles
A wretched Fox sitcom,
A Shakespeare play,
A black and white Woody Allen film.
Except that Joey Buttafucco is the lead actor
And stands forty-five pounds overweight... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

This issue also marks the return of a couple of former contributors including the triumphant re-emergence of AlCantHang. Broseph eloquently weaves his story about a not-so-perfect night out. Dawn Summers shares a comedic tale about an unexpected flood in her Brooklyn apartment. Meanwhile, Drizz digs deeps and reflects upon the friendships in his life. My selection this month is a spinoff and an exploration into character from a previous Truckin' story. And I decided to change things up a bit and add an old poem that Tenzin McGrupp wrote almost a decade ago.

The scribes write at Truckin' for free, so please help spread the word about your favorite stories via Facebook, Twitter, smoke signals, whatever. We all appreciate your generosity.

If anyone is interested in being added to the mailing list or writing for a future issue, then please to contact us.

I can never thank the writers enough for sharing their blood and guts. That takes a lot of courage and a tremendous leap of faith. I'm eternally grateful because they constantly inspire me by keeping Truckin' alive.

Before I go, I want to thank all of you, the awesome readers for taking the time out to support the arts. Thanks for keeping the spirit alive.

Be good,

"Write something. Even if it's just a suicide note." - Gore Vidal

Uncle Louie

By Paul McGuire © 2010

Uncle Louie attempted to board a Greyhound bus in Denver with 2,200 hits of LSD. That's what the DEA said in their statement. How they came up with that number, no one will ever know. But the part about attempting to board a bus with LSD was true. That incident was the first time that Uncle Louie ever got pinched. He had soaked the pages of a seventeen bibles with liquid sunshine which was quickly confiscated.

Someone tipped off the feds. Uncle Louie suspected that it was his own mother, a devout Shaker, who condemned his lifestyle of drugs and carefree sex. I saw his mugshot from an article in the newspapers. Sinister profile. Angry eyes. Unshaven. Steel scowl.

Uncle Louie had connections and didn't spend too much time in jail. I don't know if he called in a favor or bribed the judge (everyone has skeletons in the closet they'd like to keep there). Somehow, Uncle Louie magically evaded incarceration and got off with a slap on the wrist. He perform several hundred hours of community service to repay his debt to society. Uncle Louie even taught a GED course in Denver to a bunch of reform school kids from the wrong side of the tracks. At heart, he was always an educator and trying to push his students towards achieving a higher consciousness. He liked to share knowledge. LSD was his way of sharing enlightenment.

From 1973 through 1988, Uncle Louie concentrated on the manufacturing of LSD. He set up mobile labs in Oregon and Kansas for a couple of former chemical engineers. After his bust on St. Patrick's Day in 1988, Uncle Louie disappeared from the scene before he returned in the mid 1990s with a brand new business -- mobile meth labs. He was a consultant, engineer, and genius. His set up mobile labs for a hefty fee. His mobile units were scattered all over rural America. He even set up kitchen labs in cold water pads in Spanish Harlem to cricket-infested bungalows in West Hollywood.

Uncle Louie laundered his money through old money heiresses in the Hudson Valley.The wealthy widows in Saratoga were Uncle Louie's former bed partners during the free lovin' days in the 60s and the swinging 70s. They introduced him to international bankers (a.k.a. professional money lauderers) who squirreled away his money in various Caribbean banks and shell companies.

Uncle Louie originally cooked LSD to help broaden the consciousness of the human species. But things changed. The world changed drastically. The hippies lost and Uncle Louie embraced capitalism. He was also embracing the apocolypse. He constructed a massive Armageddon compound just north of Missoula, all of which was funded through his meth lab consulting company.

I don't think Uncle Louie ever snorted a single line of meth, but he had no qualms about taking money from addicts, even if they happened to be spending their entire disability checks from the VA. Uncle Louie never blinked. He didn't care anymore. He used to be full of life and love and generosity, but no more. These days, he was capable of saying horrendous things that made you feel like you were three inches tall. He had the madness of an angry blind dog. He used to give away his acid for free who transformed into a ruthless businessman with a martyr complex.

I knew Uncle Louie through his nephew, One-eyed Pete. At the time, One-eyed Pete was living with Colby, an old prep school chum of mine. They were both low level dealers. Wastoids. All of their profits were pissed away by lavish parties that they hosted in a loft in Chinatown. I never missed one of their ragers. The gallons of free-flowing booze and endless white lines attracted every coke slut south of Union Square. I offered up an exchange of sexual favors for an encyclopedia of drugs. Only one of them was interested, but she was a lesbian who had no problems whoring herself out for a few bumps and free drinks. She had a firm grasp on trickle down economics and was surprisingly well-versed in fellatio.

"As a principle, I hate men," the lebso preached. "However, I'll suck cock for coke any day."

We'd stay up for days on end in a paranoid stupor, often sipping warm beer from bottles leftover the night before and trying to convince prep school girls to ditch class so we could do vile things to them. We spent too many late nights tweaking out at an empty diner off Delancy, while eating a fresh batch of glazed donuts and sipping tepid coffee.

I met Uncle Louie for the first time in the Monet Water Lilies gallery at the Museum of Modern Art. He was sitting down and said only a few words before he asked me to sit with him while he meditated with his eyes open. After about ten minutes, I got up and left. He never noticed that I was gone.

Paul McGuire is the author of Lost Vegas.


By Drizz © 2010

A sense of entitlement. For some after a hard day on Wall Street or along the glass enclosed offices of a Fortune 500 company it’s having a three-car garage filled with names like Jaguar, Mercedes-Benz, and Bentley or a closet full of Zegna, Ralph Lauren, and Armani. Those are materialistic things that sedate the beast of needing more. Others are happy that the oft broken down 1998 Ford Probe didn’t leak too much oil and was able deposit them into the deep cubical mazes of lower middle management never to see the executive washroom because they refuse to play the office politics game and jerk-off the guy in the corner office after every half-wit Powerpoint presentation about fiscal responsibility.

A person’s sense of entitlement extends however beyond the toys lying in a bank account or taking up sixty inches of wall space to be shown in HD. Those without disabilities may feel entitled to be able to see clearly, use all limbs without pain or in most cases, hear a spoken word without having the origin of the sound repeat it. With a “normal” middle-income life that most Americans live grinding out work for the man and making enough scratch to satisfy the needs and wants, there’s hardly time to take a step back and enjoy this existence.

Thanks to a group of friends that started as nothing more than online counterparts with a similar enjoyment for cards and gambling, that enlightenment happened to me. Started with this motley crew of doctors, lawyers, computer programmers, and spreadsheet jockeys giving me keys to the door to a new life, all I had to do walk through. The first step was the hardest, stuck in a mire of depression and self-loathing; there were several fight-or-flight moments to allow the suck to pull me nine feet underground leaving behind a wife, children, and everyone who gave a shit about the lanky half-deaf kid moping in a corner. A Vegas bender that would result in a free wheelchair ride with a blood alcohol content that nearly matched his age from the New York New York casino’s security staff up to a room with a wife who had left her husband’s soul for dead after a head injury stripped him of his remaining dignity and freedom several years ago.

Once a person has zero sense of entitlement, as I did lying faced down on that hotel bed with $600 in Imperial Palace checks in my pocket that somehow did not get poached by some meth-addled hooker thanks to the above mentioned friends, he/she can start to build their life anew. Learning to laugh again, learning to sit down behind a computer monitor to bang out a few words for others to read, learning to live. Each day now opens a new opportunity, and those details of gaining the ability to drive a car seizure less, to hear semi-normally, to love my spouse and receive the same amount back over the past four years, are better left for daily diary entries.

Drizz is a writer from Minnesota.

State Line

By AlCantHang © 2010

It was merely a trip across the state line barely stressful walking conditions if it wasn't for the driving rain. That was just something which came into play during my way home.

"You wanna go to another dive bar?" my newly found cousin asked me.

I came to find a this long lost cousin at a local bar near my old homestead in Pennsylvania. We hung out whenever she could get away from her drunken husband and I provided her a little amusement. This time she wanted to go see her friend run karaoke night at a bar across the state line in Delaware, which should be considered another country. Bars close at 1am, last call by at least 12:30pm, nothing resembling a decent bar scene and we were arriving with only 90 minutes of drinking time.

The bar was sitting in an old mall that in it's day was once actually pretty well done. Now it's mostly empty: a closed up Wendy's franchise, the old K-Mart stands vacant and the biggest store in the mall was a "ghetto" grocery. A Chinese buffet was located in between the bar and a Dominos Pizza. The rest of the mall was dead except for the dozen or so cars in front of the bar.

The bar served their drinks big and fast as long as you could catch the bartender when she wasn't singing karaoke. I was drinking with my cousin's god-daughter. Not nearly as creepy as it sounds -- she's not far from her 30th birthday but she is smaller than my cousin and very quiet. The three of us were having a grand ol' time until moments before last call when an older gentleman took a liking my cousin's god-daughter. At first it was funny watching the old man make a drunken pass. And she was game enough to just play him off. Just having a good time.

Then old drunk guy reached over and grabbed himself a handful of god-daughter. I jumped out of my seat and gave him the best "OY!" I had in my system. A dirty "I can do whatever I want" grab of a young woman did not stand with me.

I generally do not look like a person you want to fuck with. I can easily snap into I-will-fuck-you-up biker mode with the hair and girth. For the last 40 years, it has never once failed me when I yell "OY!" and look like I'm going to eat your next born. People generally shrink away even though I barely reach 5-foot-nothing. Not once in my life had it failed, that is, until the "old dude" took a fucking swing at my gourd.

And he connected with a respectable pop.

After my new friend popped me in the side of the head I most kindly introduced him to the floor without ever throwing a single punch back at the guy who could be my grandpa. He simply fell over. I'm not proud to say that the force on his head when it met the floor was slightly in excess of the gravitational pull of the Earth, but you will understand that my head was still ringing a little so my balance was a little off.

Hours afterward, my left ear still had a bit of ring to it and I was mildly impressed. In the end a nose was bloodied, a little dignity was lost, and the girl who's honor I defended was gone before grandpa hit the floor. I was left to walk the 2 miles back home and think about it.

Fuck Delaware.

AlCantHang is a professional party animal originally from Pennsylvania.

If You're Gonna Lose, Lose Big

By Broseph © 2010

I don't know why I'm writing this down. I am an idiot, and the fact that I find this kind of stuff funny is probably why. Although, this makes me look terrible. Don't go telling everyone (the women), as the following is evidence of what a degenerate fuck up I am.

Gwen invited me to her going away deal; Facebook event, dinner at eight, bars after. She’s going back to Vermont, to start her law career. She came over after her bar exam on Wednesday but there was no fucking, just drinking. I figured I'd get my fill of those boobs in Dallas so I wasn't worried.

As Saturday approached, I considered blowing her off. The thought of having to meet her friends, drive, and hang-out seemed like it wasn't worth the money. Instead of handling it responsibly, as in calling or writing her, I did nothing about it all week. I probably would have been better off not going.

At five on Saturday, I wrote a lame Facebook letter saying I wouldn't make dinner at 8pm but I would find her, eventually. It was a real dick-move letter, not really saying anything.

I was an hour late on purpose. Sushi isn't my forte, in fact I hate sushi, and I wanted to avoid that pretentious fancy going away dinner shit. Instead, I went to a dive bar. I started drinking cheap whiskey and beer by myself while waiting for her dinner thing to end. I eventually shot her a text and she responded that they would wait for me at the restaurant.

Dallas has a lot of street preachers. I started smoking pot out of my cigarette bat as I walked. A preacher talked to me and I talked back. I've always said I would be one of those guys if I was a hard core Christian. Those guys are chaos. We went back and forth for an hour and half. I was enjoying it.

Three of them switched on and off, like they were tag-teaming me or something. They were showing off their knowledge of the Bible and I was showing off my knowledge of religious questions that have no answers. We both listened. My phone kept going off but I didn't look at the texts.

Eventually I'd had enough. I looked at my phone and the party people had been waiting for me at the restaurant. They waited outside too, trying to get a hold of me. I of course did not respond. They grew sick of waiting for me and went to a bar, the Doublewide, which I have no idea about, so I went back to the dive for more whiskey. Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

I started drinking at the counter and some chick pulled up next to me. I raised my glass and said “Here's to you.”

“What?” said her dude, who I didn't even notice.

“Here’s to you too,” I said and drank the rest.

He was an ass and I was an ass, and we just stared at each other. I thought I might hit him. I don't know what got into me. The glass slipped out of my hand and spilled on the bar, getting both of them wet from the ice. They were pissed so I tore out of there. Time to find Gwen.

I started asking people on the street, “Where the hell is the Doublewide?”

No one knew, or didn't tell me. I smoked more pot and was tempted to talk to the preachers again. Eventually two gay dudes told me how to get to the Doublewide and I finally made it. All told, I was about three hours late or something.

I told Gwen I was late due to talking to God’s army. She gave me shit for talking to the preachers, who she despised. She said I was the problem.

“If you didn’t talk to them, they’d go away.”

I disagreed; as long as we came to drink, those fucks would be there. I ordered beer and whiskey and chatted with her friends. They were all lawyer types. The girls were all pretty and I kept staring at them. Gwen would catch me sometimes.

Gwen talked forever; she never stopped. How can one person talk so much without stopping? She was not being nice. Gwen’s friends were hotter than her and I started laying game on one.

Gwen kept it up. First gave me shit about being late, then about my life. She started laying into me about how I wasn't reaching my full potential as a mail clerk, and that I was getting too old to be living near a college campus. I got pissed.

I argued at first, but then decided it wasn't worth it. I was losing. The preacher people had taken all the spirit out of my arguing and the practice hadn't helped me win. Plus, she’s a lawyer so it made it worse.

We walked to the next bar. Ever since I quit smoking cigs I've had a tough time at bars. One saving grace is my one-hitter, and as we walked I lit up. Like an idiot, I accidentally dropped the one-hitter and it clanged loudly when it hit the street. All the lawyer types heard it and saw it. One was pissed, saying he could lose his license, and all kinds of other bullshit.

“Relax,” I told him. “Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Everyone, including Gwen, started laying into me for putting them at risk.

“What the fuck?” I said. “You wouldn't have even known about it if I hadn't dropped it! You’re making a big deal about nothing.”

I had gotten to the point where I didn't give a fuck, and I said some other sarcastic shit.

After we walked some more, some of Gwen’s friends went to her privately and then they were gone. They didn't feel safe being around me she said. I caused her friends to leave on her going away party.

The next bar was worse. I quietly drank more whiskey as the law people talked. I began to hate them. I was quite drunk at that point. It was loud and crowded and everyone screamed at each other in order to talk. I hate that. I left without saying anything. I went for a walk, smoked more pot, and talked to people on the street. I don't know what I was saying.

I met a girl and offered her weed, which she accepted. She was not that hot but wore a skirt, and I liked the way it made her ass look. She talked a lot too but I didn't care.

Eventually Gwen texted me saying that they were going home. It was her and her friend, the one I had been laying game on. I was walking and talking with the random chick when they found me on the street. Gwen was pissed I was with some other chick. She said the next day that I had invited her to come up stairs with us to smoke more herb. I don’t remember it, but I believe it.

They had to tell her to go away and I argued with them -- I think. Both of the girls gave me the silent treatment on the way up the elevator. I opened a beer which I later spilled. Boxes were everywhere. All of her lamps were packed away. The girls sat and talked in the dark. The fucking jib-jabber was never ending with these two.

I was bored and wanted to screw, but Gwen’s friend was talking to her and there was little sign it was stopping. I was starring at their boobs and I got the idea of maybe trying some threesome action. It's a tough bridge to cross, and I had no idea where to start. I decided to just start making out with Gwen and hoped that would work.

I guess I should say that I tried to make out with Gwen. She was like, “What the fuck are you doing!” I think I said, “Hey, there's enough for everybody.” But, she pushed me off. She said I stunk. I told her whiskey makes me say anything I want. I tried again: “Well you two can make out I guess and I'll just watch” I said.

How about that. I couldn't believe I was actually saying this type of shit. They both kinda started laughing. It was more like that surprised, disgusted laugh people give when they are shocked. I told them both I was drunk, which for some reason seemed like I was telling them something they didn't know. This ended their conversation.

I crashed on the couch, feeling like an idiot, and started to think that if I hadn't screwed up repeatedly, then I might have had a legit shot at a threesome. I imagined going to sushi, listening intently, being perfect, and then getting two vaginas as a reward. I hadn't thought of any of that before.

I pretty much blacked out at that point and think the other girl left. Gwen said she had to carry me to bed, well, more like drag me to bed. I don't remember anything. I was in my clothes still when I woke up and forgot where I was.

I discovered that I had yakked in my sleep, all over her bed. Seriously. It was brown and dry. It was on my clothes too. Gwen was still asleep when I decided to try and sneak out, but she woke up and was pissed. She said she would have to throw out her bed spread. I apologized as I pretended to get water to cover the fact I almost bolted.

I had forgotten about a lot of the stuff I did the night before, but she reminded me. I asked her if I could buy her breakfast as an apology move and she accepted. During breakfast I realized things would never be the same between us, which was evident in how she talked to me. It's amazing how the same woman who drank my cum at one point has now decided to be a pretentious “better than me” person.

She returned to the “you’re not living up to your potential” line and she took the “I know everything” position. Women have the amazing ability to judge you and back up their position. Plus, she was a lawyer which made it worse. I am such a screw up so I can't blame her.

Telling myself I had no reason defend who I am, I just ate my eggs. I kept imagining her bent over moaning and that helped me not yell or flip-out. Based on my actions I couldn't really talk.

Every woman I've been in a relationship with has taken that turn for the worst. It’s like when you’re on the road, leaving a great city. It sucks; leaving. I’m watching the scenery change, knowing I probably won’t see that part of the world again.

Eventually, women decide I'm a fuck up, or perhaps discover it, and I can sense the shift. It's everything, in their eyes, their voice; they just don't like me anymore.

After breakfast Gwen and I parted ways. My car was still there, but I had gotten a ticket. I don't know if I'll see her again, I doubt it. I am a screw up.

Broseph is a prophet from Tampa, Florida.

American Hero

By Dawn Summers © 2010

On Saturday, all manner of hell just about broke loose in Brooklyn, NY. The skies were just this shade of pitch black at nine in the morning. The rain was slamming against my windows. And the wind, oh the wind huffed and puffed and tried to blow my house down.

I called my mother and informed her that I believed 2010 had physically manifested into precipitation and was trying to get me.

She said I was crazy and told me to nap.


I stood at my balcony door and watched the water splashing against the paint. Puddles were forming.

Mmmhmm. Nap.

I put in a movie. I would tell you about it, but I am apparently, now locked in a movie review battle royale on Film Chaw with Julius Goat, so I need the ammunition reserve. (Incidentally, you guys read that correctly, there is a man, somewhere (Canada, I think) with two personalities, who thinks he can outblog DAWN SUMMERS!!)

Anyway, I’m watching this movie, and when it ends, I put in another movie (now, I’m just trying to get into his head) and peek outside again. The puddles had merged into pools. My cooler was floating from one end of the balcony to the other. My planters were naught but dirt and water — mostly water.

I called my mother again!

"The balcony is flooded!"


"Yes! 2010 is coming! Like that Terminator guy who turned all liquid silver and poured himself into the house!"

"Did you nap?"
Damn you, woman! I. Will. NOT. NAP.

I'm almost finished with the movie, when I see something move out of the corner of my eye.


It’s creeping toward me and my lunch! I roll off the couch and stand up. A pool had formed in the dining room, though the area directly in front of the balcony door was completely dry! The windows were closed and the ledge was also dry. The water was literally materializing out of thin air and HEADING MY WAY!

I picked up my comforter, called the front desk and grabbed some shoes.

"Luis, this is Dawn! In apartment 12! Two thousand and ten is trying to kill me. It has broken in from the balcony and is pooling in the dining room."

"What? There’s water in your dining room"

"Yes, water, 2010, tomato/potato, send HELP!"

Our little handyman, Duncan, rang my bell about five minutes later rolling one of those yellow buckets that janitors use in public elementary schools. He also had an industrial size grey string mop.

"Where’s the –" he started to ask before staring down at the flood of rainwater creeping toward my front door.


He rubbed his head.

"I think I’ll go get the water machine from the basement."

He aboutfaced and left me with the mop and the flood.

I stared my nemesis down.

"You stay there! I will SO MOP YOU!"

I gripped the handle. You know, to show I meant BUSINESS!

It inched forward.

"Ahh!" I jumped on my couch.

"Fuck you!"

I called my mom to update her on my deteriorating situation.

"You said, NAP! And now I am walking on my furniture!! ON MY FURNITURE!"

She apologized profusely for ignoring me earlier.

"Call the super."

"I did."

"Put down some old comforters to soak up the water."

"No, the guy is bringing a machine to suck it up."

She was silent.

"So why are you standing on the couch?"

"Cause the water called my mop bluff."

Sheesh. It’s like this woman has never heard of a Mexican standoff…between a black girl and um…water.

Duncan came back.

"I gotta go."

He asked me where the outlet was, I pointed to the pronged holes in my wall.

"Yeah, this wind is killing the east side of the building. The woman in apt. 17 – her whole place is flooded."

"Where’s it coming from? The windows and doors are dry."

He trudged through the pooling water and looked out.

"Your whole balcony is flood! Did you see that? That’s where it’s coming from!"

He turned the wet vac on and it began to buzz.

I put my movie back on. Luckily, it was a French flick with subtitles cause I couldn’t hear anything. And then my apartment whirred silent.

The power blew.

I reset the breaker thingie and everything came back to life.

I finished my movie and ten minutes later, pow: out again.

I turned off the TV, all the lights and fixed the thingie again. Thirty minutes later it blew one more time. The handyman emptied the wet vac again, but water was still coming.

I had to drain the water from the balcony or we would both die! (Shut up. You tell your stories your way, I’ll tell my stories my way!)

I dug my rubber rainboots out of the closet and grabbed the plunger from the bathroom.

I was going out there. I pushed the balcony door. It didn’t budge. I jimmied the handle, still nothing.

"Duncan, I can’t get it open."

He shuffled over; water rippled around his ankles.

He pushed the door. Nothing.

"It's the wind, man!"

He leaned his whole body against the glass and it eked open for a moment before slamming shut again.

So…if I go out there, I won’t be able to get back?

Who signs up for a suicide mission wearing pajamas, boots and holding a two dollar plunger?

How is this my life??!

"We should prop open the door with something heavy."

"No, then everything will get wet. Look, I’m going out... you save yourself if anything goes wrong. I will be okay. And if my mother calls, you tell her I said "I told you so!""

We pushed against the door until it opened wide enough for me to fit through, I stumbled out into the eye of the storm. The door slammed behind me and the wind laughed cruelly.

I waded over to where the drain should have been, but it was covered with debris. I started to kick the leaves away and immediately regretted not having laced my boots.

Water seeped in.

Well, at least I’m not wearing socks.

I started to plunge the drain. The rain and wind shoved me against the wall.

The water height remain unchanged.

I grabbed a broom and tried to push the water over the side.

This was a BAD idea. Each time I pushed the water to the edge, the wind spit it back at me. My pajama pants were drenched.

I went back to plunging the drain.

After about five minutes, I heard a gurgle! A circle began to form and as it gathered momentum the water began to recede!

A-ha, 2010! Suck on that!

I was actually able to open the balcony door quite easily – no doubt thanks to my newly acquired plunging muscles.

I stepped back across the threshold into my apartment.


I had saved myself, Duncan, my building.

In effect, I had saved the world.

Dawn Summers is a writer from Brooklyn, NY

In Between Fighting Souls

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2010

Doomsday is near as soon as the politicians go honest.
Bad thoughts are more dangerous than
Wards, dungeons, and prisons.
While most of you sleep,
I lie awake and yawn.
My thoughts about the subtle flecks
Of emerald green in her sea blue eyes
Casually drifted away towards clarity.

My quagmire of a life resembles
A wretched Fox sitcom,
A Shakespeare play,
A black and white Woody Allen film.
Except that Joey Buttafucco is the lead actor
And stands forty-five pounds overweight.

My unspoken silence is a sullen, dangerous,
Listless lunacy that used to turn women on,
Those who where attracted to the
Orgasmic gentleness of crafty madness.
Cunning souls can be as scintillating as a slice of
Junior's cheesecake when digested with a
Side plate of untamed confusion.

Respect the scorns of time and
Rebuke the erroneous laws of nature, then
Perhaps my quiet dismay will disappear to
A titillating place where no traveler returns.
I mock the lost ones,
Cowards of them all.
Clueless ampersands as they stand on a crowded
Subway platform in between two genuine haughty artisans.

I've sweat heavily in my weary life,
Reflections of my ghostly inaction set against a
Riveted backdrop of flames and plumes of smoke.
Without a tongue, I speak with a bedeviled spirit
Ignoring the weakness that I could cure with a
Drop of arsenic,
Indeed, a foul murder just mere moments
Away from ambitious persons who dare to be more than
Blips on the radar screen.

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer originally from New York City.