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

Empty Beer Bottle Arm Tattoo

Annoying ‘girl’ voice.
A Cardinal’s fan.

Every floor pattern succumbs to the drunken loudness of an underground garage in Hollywood.

Crackling laugh at 9:44 pm.

Someone found me to be entering the scene, where I don’t belong.
The rally, the cry, the need, a creed, where we find the tunnel, is where we discover encouragement, lust, pity.

That high-pitched frame needs to come down to human planes, or some other casual, whimsical plea towards understanding mediocrity.

Some girls return from the Ides of Boredom only to find that boredom never left the place that they abandoned earlier, a dirty earlier, an okay earlier, a piercing fragment of a really, filthy evening, an upside down possibility of anywhere and everywhere. The shaky ground of not-knowing, uncovered, is how long a romance really should last.

And, remember that a tattoo lasts forever.

- gypsy george.

Life Is Unemployed

Life Is Unemployed

Black
is the feeling, the stretching
inside the social coup,

that thing,

which finds a way to destroy
very well-natured beings.

My

seeing-eye-dog-presence-of-mind,
the gazelle that wishes to lash me
down into misery

has left to suffer

like moths
in a firefly haze of executions
in August.

the search words on Yahoo!
don’t seem to work this evening…

justice
slid underneath a bathroom door
to find that

life is unemployed.

- gypsy george.

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

A Puzzled Princess

So. You can’t decide where to place your winter, white coat? The seat you chose was uncomfortable and numb. So. You stare at all the people, all the drunks and unemployed men, wondering who’s the one to buy you drinks tonight. So. The rise, the sit down, the question, the lust. It’s all about finding the game, which will let you win every time. So. You like the CD Juke Box, the Boss, “Dancing in the Dark.” It’s fitting. You kinda’ look like a, somewhat, ‘young’ version of Courtney Cox, minus the 80’s clothes. So. You found a resting place for your coat, but not yourself. Too much variety of the worse kind. It’s like an election year---vote for the one you hate the least, or, at least, vote against the one you hate, which ever may suffice the mood. The sound of clanging, cheap booze bottles. A hat would, however, help you appear less ‘puzzled.’ So?

- gypsy george.

Last Exit in Missouri

Last exit in Missouri
no more time to know

the last exit,

where the sun begins
where the evening goes.

She’s frightened like an angel
flying with new wings

yet,
she knows the steps to heaven.

One by one,
she will dream.

- gypsy george.

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

Skyward Lace

Godfather Enbestman torched a Camel Light underneath a fire escape off the corner of Lawrence and Broadway. He was contemplating the rust on the edges of the ladder. “Too many winters, not enough safety,” he thought. A white swirl emerged from the rooftop. The streetlights made it appear as aged lace. Godfather knew better; well, felt decent. One more drag. Time for another.

Echoes of the Green Mill waltzed throughout the neighborhood’s chambers. Al Capone’s ghost ricocheted from underneath a liquor store’s banister. A Vietnamese man, drenched in chicken grease, locked his storefront and headed for his 1992 Honda Civic. Another trace of skyward lace.

“Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.” A few blue sparks and a screech followed by, “Lawrence. This is Lawrence. Doors open on the right. Argyle is next.” Soon, some more rumbling fading to the north.

A shout. Wait. Shouting.

Some people tripped by Mr. Enbestman’s path. He nodded. They acknowledged him, and headed to the adjacent ATM. A powerful wind bursts onto the scene introducing himself as winter’s prophet. Godfather did not mind this. Wind’s introduction was short and, more importantly, humbled by the building’s whimsy. Besides, Godfather’s thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere not at the building’s edge.

No. He whispered a mouthful of meaningless words only to discover that non-sequiturs, in fact, can have meaning. At least, in the proper context. The cusp of youth tipped toward nowhere. Well, somewhere, if one was staring at the gutter. A puffy eyelid emerged from a shadow. She does not love him anymore. A remnant of skyward lace fell upon Godfather Enbestman like a shroud of Proust.

- gypsy george.