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fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Heyoka

heyoka

“I’ve been holding up the world too long.”

Those were my words to her, when I finally had the words to say.  I had been in hiding from her, and from the world, for days; short texts becoming longer, until I could not look at them anymore.

“Thanks for having the guts to be honest,” she answered.

There is a difference between being honest, and telling the truth.  One involves not lying.  The other, speaking when it hurts; sometimes to the ruin of those you love, and eventually, yourself. 

I once wrongly believed that my cup had no bottom, meaning I could take into myself all the burdens of those I chose to bear the burdens of.  Sadly, turns out this is bullshit, and you never know when your cup is going to overflow, until it does. 

My cup has a bottom now.  I found it in the place where ego learns the difference between honesty and the truth.  In the same place where you learn that you can’t help anyone if you’re helpless, and the first person you have to be honest with is you.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Life Gets In

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Life gets in.

It is not always beautiful, but it knows that.  It cannot be hurt by your words, but it does not stop you from speaking.  It will not be surprised by your actions, right or wrong, and it will encourage you to be stupid, or gloriously brilliant.

It is rarely fair.  It does not ask for your permission.  It goes where it is not invited, and it does not tell you why.

It blows you back, like wind off the sea in winter.  It burns you, like the desert sun on bare skin.  It falls from the sky, like rain. 

It grows under the hedges you plant to keep it out.  It bursts forth, one day like weeds, the next, like wildflowers.  It shows you its colors, and it does not judge your choices of them. 

Only the choices you do not make, after life gets in.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

You Can’t Say Bad Things about the Good Things

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Some people keep a journal.  I keep notes.  No, literally, I keep things I’ve written… short things, sometimes super short things… on my phone, in the notes app.  Things like the title of this post,

“You can’t say bad things about the good things.”

Well, you could.  But that would make you a real dick. 

At least that’s what I tell the voices in my head, when I’m mocking them.  The voices can be, and often are, real dicks.  Which is why, as I said in my previous post, I mock them.  Because, while these voices deserve to be heard, when they’re done, they deserve to be put in their place.  Most often, that place is in a roaring dumpster fire of mockery and ridicule.

But sometimes, the voices find their way into the notes.

About a third or so of the poems I’ve written for publication began in the notes.  Like I’ve told many people on multiple occasions, I write my poetry NOT on paper with a pencil or a pen, but from beginning to end on my laptop.  I have no idea why.  I just remember the first… okay, probably not the first, but the most memorable… time it happened.  A flash of really shitty emotions, and the worst burst of lying voices I ever heard, and the moment those 15 seconds of hell had passed, I opened my laptop, and wrote.

 

“Brains on the bathroom floor,

gloating

Consciousness above me,

Floating.

Despair at life,

Unlived.

Responsibility,

Relieved.

Bucket made of bone,

a sieve.

Whispers of all doubt,

believed.”

 

In the time it took me to say, “fuck you” to the lying voices, a poem was born in the place of sorrow.  And from then on, at the very moment the voices, good or bad, speak, a note gets made.  And yeah, maybe an angel gets his wings.  I’m really not completely clear on that.  But the point is, whether bad things or good, for this reason, I make a note of it.

It’s these notes, including that almost ten-year-old poem, which became a book.  Notes that are about to become a second.  And so, whether or not the beginning of these notes began as a bad thing, they turned into a very good thing.  And that was the point of all this history.  To remember the good, and make notes.  Lots of them.  Because you can’t say bad things about the good things.

Well, you could.  But that would make you a real dick.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Serialized Cyber Screed

overthinking-it

This is a make or break proposition for me.

You see, I lack the “boldness gene” so commonly found in other people.  Not really sure why.  You’d think some equivalent could have been programmed into me at an early enough age so that, by now, no one would be able to tell the difference, least of all me.

So here I sit, facing a keyboard, words just spilling out of me like raw sewage during a flood run-off, while I hear voices in my head, both creative and destructive.  The creative ones assure me that whatever it is I slap on the page will be something worth reading.  The destructive ones assure me that no one will give a pair of shits about it.

And I know which voices usually win.

But this time, and possibly because of the 11 cups of coffee I’ve had since I woke up today, or maybe because I always feel an overcompensating hopefulness after my fourth and last 14 hour shift of the week, that for right this minute… and this minute only… I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

Blog.

I know, if you’re reading this, you probably write one.  I have one, but don’t.  Not in the truest meaning of that made-up word.  Blog.  Weblog.  Serialized Cyber Screed.  Not to denigrate the medium or anything but, as humans, we mock what we don’t understand, right?  We know it’s wrong, but we do it anyway.  Hell, I’m mocking myself, right now.  But as a writer… as an author… maybe the only thing that keeps me from falling into the quicksand of isolation is the mockery of introspection.  Wherein I bang on the keys like I’m having a conversation with myself, and a few friends read it. 

Knee-deep in their own quicksand.

So I’m gonna try this again.  Blog.  Weblog.  Just a conversation with myself, every so often, where the voices in my head battle it out for Cyber Screed Supremacy.  And I have the right to mock them, for your enjoyment.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

New Year’s Fucking Eve

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We who remain

Must remember,

for those of

us who

do not. 

 

Surrender

ourselves to

the past,

and 

forget not. 

 

Find hope in the

retelling,

pain welling

in our hearts,

and eyes. 

 

Let what we lost

go, what we found

show, in

remembrance

of the good.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

WANTED: Couch

couch

WANTED: Couch.  With attached living area.  Kitchen and bathroom also a must.  Will sign one-year lease.  Rent-free preferred.  Location not an issue, but would desire within continental US.  Am available for immediate occupancy.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Netherworld

netherworld

Days of the week,

or weekend,

the same. 

Shadows in the place of light,

morning and night. 

No noon.

 

Late I wake,

in the waning sun,

not set. 

With afternoon’s first cup,

must wake up. 

Too soon.

 

Adapting to this life,

upside-down. 

Into halogen and pixel,

I shrink,

lacking melanin,

blink. 

Cold moon.

 

Upon words,

a ladder to climb. 

Voices above cry out, 

join our Netherworld escape,

prison break. 

Lifeless womb.

 

Through endless dreams,

or not,

unsure. 

A solitary life of doubt,

must get out. 

In hope assume.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Nine Years

9

The last thing I wanted to do

was write the same book,

all over again,

only just a little bit better. 

In the nine years since I,

unintentionally,

began my first book,

one page here,

another page there,

I’d hoped I would change,

maybe,

God always willing,

for the better.

 

Change!

 

Nine years’ worth of words,

compressed into just over a hundred pages. 

Some I didn’t even want to read again,

except for the insistence of an editor

who would scowl if I said no. 

 

Change!

 

Nine years’ worth of shredded hearts,

and tears that were not cried. 

Of alcohol related indecision,

and bad decisions made in haste. 

 

Change,

dammit!

 

Nine years’ worth of growing up

at an age when most just grow old. 

And now,

going on my tenth year since the beginning,

with a second book just months away

from crawling its way down

the publishing birth canal,

I am at a place

where all I see in my words

is the same words,

arranged differently. 

 

Change,

dammit,

change!

 

Nine years’ worth of hope,

recycled,

reprinted,

regurgitated upon page after page,

still looking like they always did. 

They are all I know, 

And they are mine.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Defragging

defrag

Pretty words that writers use

to describe what it is they do. 

Emote. 

Ruminate. 

Bleed. 

I prefer words that find

their form in function. 

Every time I sit,

or stand,

to write,

I always go on much too long,

with words steeped

in antiquation. 

When,

in all reality,

the words bitch in my direction

to be sorted and chopped,

then laid sparse on the page. 

Someone once called what I do in words,

defragging. 

Like a computer,

in desperate need

to sort out its shit,

discard what slows

and corrupts,

and make itself right again. 

I will never hear a better way

to explain me

than they used to explain me

to myself.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Christmas Twenty-Sixteen

broke-santa

I just paid my bills online.

My budget looks like crap.

I haven’t any money left.

I think I need a nap.

It’s almost time to go to work,

and start this all again.

An endless cycle I just circle,

back to where I’ve been.

There is no future hope for me,

I think my life is done.

Until I pay off all my bills,

and am too old for fun.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

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