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fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

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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

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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

Election Day

i-voted

 

November 8, 2016.  A date that will… a date that…

A date.

At the time of my writing this, it is the night before.  More accurately, the overnight before the morning of.  And as overnights before mornings of have a way of doing, I am left with my thoughts.  And the silence to think them.

And to write.

Thought number one…

In the mid-twentieth century, there was a man, a one-time German minister named Martin Niemöller, who became widely known for a quote that was an acknowledgement of the apathy of German citizens under the Third Reich, and Adolf Hitler.  This is the quote…

“First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.”

What Niemöller succinctly told the Post World War II world, at every opportunity, was that he, and all German citizens of the 1930’s and 1940’s, were culpable for the actions of those in power… power that was, at first, voted into existence by those very same citizens.  And while most of those citizens did not… could not… know at the time that they were turning over the reins of their government to what would be forever known throughout history as Nazi Germany, turn it over they did.  Again and again, with every act of cowardice that showed itself merely in their perpetual indecision.

Until, as Niemöller said, “…there was no one left to speak for me.”

Multiple millions of people, inside and outside of Germany, were tortured, starved, and murdered as the result of something as simple as saying, “Nah, I’m safe.”

Until they were next.

Thought number two…

In the early twenty-first century, who are the Socialists?  Who are the Trade Unionists?  Who are the Jews?  Not literal Socialists, Trade Unionists, or Jews.  But their figurative, metaphorical descendants.  Because every great country in the world has them.  Unpopular for many reasons with those who might have been here longer and reaped the benefits of that not-so-subtle favoritism based on nothing more than tenure, and beating the biological roulette wheel of unearned opportunity.

What if, one day, we who are still here are required to endure the words of a modern-day Martin Niemöller?  And what complicity will he, or she, be calling us to account for?

Because today is election day.  And for our choices, we all will be held to account.  So, will we who are still alive be culpable for in a second mass citizen apathy?  Shown culpable for our allowance of the following…

“First, they came for the Liberals, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Liberal.

Then, they came for the Working Poor, and I did not speak out, because I was not the Working Poor.

Then they came for the Brown, and I did not speak out, because I was not Brown.

Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.”

Thought number three…

I am a writer.  That means that, if I’m doing it right, I take concepts that people talk about every day, and turn them into words that cause people to think, and then live accordingly.

Today is Election Day.  That day, every four years, when it is the right, the privilege, the duty, of every citizen, to act on what they know, and then vote accordingly.

History has been kind to all who, anonymously, stood with those who’s tragic ends came at the hands of unjust rulers.  History will again be kind to those who, anonymously, by secret ballot, stand with those who’s tragic end is in their hands to prevent.  To act on what they know, and then vote accordingly.

And see to it that one Martin Niemöller was enough.

Now vote.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

A Death on Skunk Street

deathonskunkstreet-page-001(1) FIFTEEN PCT

IT’S HERE!

A Death on Skunk Street, the only FIRST BOOK I will ever write, has arrived!  After ten years, and more starts and stops than a writer should have to count, A Death on Skunk Street can now be ordered direct from billfriday.com through my publisher, Hostile 17 Print.  On June 6, the book is also expected to be available through Amazon, and Barnes & Noble, and in ebook form.

Subtitled, “…a life in poems”, the book is both a remembrance, and a look forward, at what Bernard Malamud (“The Natural”) called, “The life we learn with… and the life we live after that”.

Skunk Street is a work of visions, written by a blue-collar college drop-out with the eloquence of an angry Psalmist.  Parts neon and noir, full moon and sunsets, and the words that come from feelings too often unexpressed.  From loneliness in a sea of humanity to, comfort in the company of self.  There’s blood, and brains, printed on every page.

-from Amazon.com

How to purchase a SIGNED COPY of A Death on Skunk Street…

US residents can purchase a signed/dedicated copy direct from the publisher for $15.00 USD by clicking THIS LINK…

https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=MTU8ZEX3S7RAG

International residents can also purchase a signed/dedicated copy direct from the publisher for $20.00 USD by clicking THIS LINK…

https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=ASGQ8U2BN6PUU

Or buy via Amazon

https://www.amazon.com/Death-Skunk-Street-life-poems/dp/0692701591/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1467623329&sr=8-1&keywords=a+death+on+skunk+street

All prices include shipping and handling.

Updates about appearances, in-person events, and other offers from Hostile 17 Print can be gotten right here at billfriday.com, as well as my Facebook page, William S. Friday.

The Road About Life

"The Road About Life" c Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

“The Road About Life” c Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

 

Nothing new

Just the usual mental misery

A fog brought on by working

like I imagine most people work

Long hours

Possibly a second job

or a third

Mine is on the road

driving

Not strenuous

just monotonous

After the first year

every road looked the same

And every conversation about life

Likewise

What the one monotony taught me about the other

The road

about life

Is that they both have an end

One expected

The other not so much

And that you should not forget that about both

Because the one seems to end too late

and the other

far too soon

But really

they both arrive right on time

Plan your trip accordingly

 

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

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