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Showing posts from September, 2010

The Bees

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the bees poem by Mick Tomlinson first it was the spiders. they repelled down like paratroopers one-by-one. they dangled over my coffee my computer, my sofa, my bed; legs all over my apartment spread open, waiting for contact. I went to war with them, and won. last night it was the bees. I imagine at first it was just one that flew in by accident, in through the open window near my bed. after a few moments of disoriented buzzing into walls and ceilings it finally calmed down and accepted it's new home. but what's a home without friends and family? that little fucker invited EVERYONE. leading up to the war between man vs. bees, man had been drinking beer and twisting metal in the driveway all evening; the bees remained sober and full of sting. 6 beers, 1 poem, and an 8 dollar bottle of wine later I took the highway to my bedroom, exited south. and that's when I first saw them. three of them at first, just resting on the wall near

All In A Days Work

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    I've come this close ---->     <---- to almost snubbing two people within the past month. Now before your beautiful mind jumps to it's own conclusions and prematurely labels me as a sociopath, allow me to explain. I am a garbage man, for those of you who didn't know. I drive through neighborhoods every day, in a big truck that has a mechanical arm attached to the side. When I pull up next to a garbage can I use my left hand to operate a joystick, which in turn operates the steel claw (arm) that extends out of the side of the truck and grasps the can. With a few simple hand motions I can raise the can high above the hopper (area that holds the trash) and dump the can's contents inside. Then I simply lower it back down to the sidewalk and proceed to next can. Viola! I'm a garbage man.     By now you're probably wondering what this has to do with me almost squashing two human lives. Be patient, turbo, I had to set the scene. Now that you understand my r

Alien Babies Wrought Against This World

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I remember everything became very small; tiny little pieces of a disorganized life fell from shelves and crashed onto the ceramic tiles below. The sound of fragile things shattering all across the floor woke my mother, who appeared in the entry way with her auburn colored robe wrapped tightly around her, her hands tucked somewhere inside of it. I could see her breasts pressing through, they matched her eyes. Her hair reminded me of snakes fucking, I wanted to run away.    "What is this all about?" she asked in a sleepy monotone voice. She took two steps into the room and her foot made contact with a shard of broken dream. "Goddamn it! What have you done now?" she shouted as she bent down to inspect her wounded sole. It was bleeding, we both knew it. The light from the pantry window shone through just enough to reveal the red around her toes, her life was spilling out onto the floor. I was nervous, I didn't want to move. I figured if I stood still long en

A Man Named Tom Collins (short story)

The Budweiser clock hanging just above the doorway leading into the kitchen read 4:18pm. The obnoxious sounds of the lottery machines could be heard over the equally obnoxious sounds coming from the ESPN channel on the big screen TV. Edgar sat at the far end of the bar spinning a beer coaster in circles. It was warped from hard use and cocktail condensation and it bowed in such a way that when spun it twirled just like a top. A minute ago he counted fourteen revolutions, it was his highest record yet.     "Goooooooooaaaaaaaal! Goooooooooaaaaaaaaal! Gooooooooooaaaaaaaal!" the announcer narrating the soccer match on TV bellowed. Manchester United had just scored on Liverpool. "Half the world has gone completely mad." Edgar thought to himself. And just then, as if his thoughts warranted special attention, the door to the dimly lit bar opened and a flood of outside light rushed in. It was as if he'd been drinking during an eclipse and suddenly the sun reappeared a