Tuesday, April 28, 2009



Huh? Huh.

pelting against my sternum, venom
concern for suppressed feelings
Emotions? Emotive
the plan was not supposed to

huh. the mental collapse led
Destruction? Destructive

potential lost at the whim of whiskey

I am the passion play anarchist
the capitalist’s communist preacher
Teacher? Teaching
I am a mass of pure mistake

it’s cold in my heart’s prison cell
I’m too old to try again – after this
Beyond? Gone
there is no other to her

no complimentary gift consolation
prize. a message to cupid –
Thank you? No thanks

I don’t understand what she’s
deciding,
who she’s letting go

Her lover?
Her friend

Her both.
Her self.

- gypsy george.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)



A Laptop Maiden

An Internet café? No. Just a café. Mostly writers. ‘Script’ writers. The prose people are somewhere east of here, far east. Some students. But, mostly scripts.

The story? Product. Well, how to sell. How to be ‘it.’ How to be the one, who is ‘different.’ Depth? Maybe. But, mostly image. Well, image and a name. Well, at least, a name. Some students feel déjà vu.

A coffee, please? Large. No cream, no sugar. Black. Plain. Simple. A quarter profile emerges from behind the glow of a laptop. A PC, not a Mac. A lady hard at work. Frustrated. Intent on perfection. A flapping eye blink, a shift of her open-toed shoes, a stretch, some lip gloss, a turn over her left shoulder, staring, staring, wondering where her next thought will emerge.

She picks up her cell phone waiting, waiting, waiting. No one’s there. Pouting. Fixes her hair. She closes the laptop in latitude frustration, and opens a book. A book of “ZEN.” She talks to a stranger---another female---about her shirt (she has one just like it at home). She hunches back over her book, “ZEN,” taking on the position of prayer. Well, folding her hands on the table. She jots down a few notes---she’s left handed, by the way---holds, seductively strokes her pencil, and continues to read, intently read. The stroking has ceased as she has lifted her pencil near her forehead, then, another note. She drops the pencil, still focused on the written word, the prose, the book.

Her laptop remains closed.

- gypsy george.