Can

Flag

Flowing in the breezy change is the flag of transistion, not really...no flag per se, but my eyes should show this banner of transistion.

The movement past cigarettes. The move beyond alcohol, except for one or two among a group. The departure of being an editor, moving into a new group, a new work position, leaving old, familiar ways behind. And her, the new addition in the middle of a my discombobulated life. That is now, this is me, the newness and strange and unfamiliar.

Dreaming bears the must disruption in that I can't sleep through the night without interruptions of expanding, swirling mind explorations. I wake up suddennly, needing rope for the tent, scared of missing Keith race the funny car, apprehensive that I didn't feed the cat that is long past.

I cough up blood in the mornings, a parting hell to my years of neglect for my breathes of life. Blood mixes with oxygen and paints permanence on white porcelain early every morning lately.

Hope hopscotches these painted signs of doom, more recognizeable than ever now in my leaps over and past them, as I breathe deep, as I reach further, and believe...know I can accomplish boundaries forbidden before.

Red

As I walk down windblasted downtown sidewalks, I see something red flash up, caught in the wildness of the breeze. A rose, a solitary flower, unends and petals shed as it rolls and floats toward me. I catch it; the wind dies for second as I look into the exploding folds of the petals for some kind of explanation of how this beautiful creation could withstand the gales and howls and sweeping wind to cut around unkind buildings and darkened streets, how it could bypass danger and depression and disregard in the faces of those passers that look only at themselves, and find me. This radiant, advertureous rose found me...I'll cherish it.

Squirt-Guns II

Wetumpka, Ala.--

Memo to all radio dispatch units:

Move all units into the main facility for maintenance inspections by midnight tonight. No units should be out, this is a mandatory inspection. River routes will resume at 6am.

Gerard Pitman,
Foreman
Alabama Water Division


Rome, GA--

"Are you prepared 4, over."
"4, prepared and waiting go, over."
"You may begin dumping 4, over."
"Roger, unloading, out."



Trailer Park, outside Rome, GA--

"What in the shit is that? Where in blue-ball-blazin' hell is that noise coming from?" Jimmy was frantic, standing up from the old couch with an ear cocked to the wall, then sitting down again to look wild-eyed at Brandi for confirmation. Brandi sat, bored, looking at the wall where the tv used to be.
"All I hear is you yapping Jimmy."
"You got wax buildup is what you got Brandi! You can't tell me you don't hear...a truck!"
Brandi suddenly sat up, quickly hiding the tray and pipe and baggie, and looked with panic at Jimmy.
"I do hear sumthin'! What the hell Jimmy, what the hell is it?"
Jimmy was wide open now, circling the trailer from end to end and peeking out of the windows, and he looked scared. He WAS scared.
"I...I don't know what it is Brandi. Ain't cops, we'd see lights. Ain't no car from the hood. Sounds like a dang-ol' dumptruck heading down to the crick."
The heavily loaded dumptruck's lights flashed across the trailer and turned left, hastily making its way toward the river in a cacophony of downshifting gears and diesel-engine groans.
Brandi looked at Jimmy. Jimmy slid on his jeans and grabbed his best skinning knife.
"Call the cops if ain't back in an hour Brandi..."

To be continued...