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Archive for the tag “history”

Green Grass

Green Grass png

Silence,

the green grass upon which

every dream of summer rests,

to wither,

lost for seasons,

burnt,

then cold,

unremembered,

until awakening in the

nightmares of another spring.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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Forty-Eight Beats Per Minute

pick me up

I woke up two hours before my alarm.  The TV was still on, but barely audible, and it wasn’t the thing that woke me.  There was a dream.  There is always a dream. 

I had three messages on my phone from three different people, still accustomed to my old hours.  I’m not up all night anymore.  I’m just as likely now to fall asleep watching a movie before I know I’m even sleepy, and be up before the sunrise, before my brain knows what time it really is.

The only thing that is the same in my very different life is the coffee.  Except now, that first cup, and the time it takes to consume it, is as sacred as the silence that surrounds me as I drink.  Now, the only sounds that keep company with me are the clock on the wall behind my head, my nearly silent breathing, and, if I’m truly still, the slow beating of my heart.         

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Wishes to Ashes

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History becomes remembrance when you leave the past behind. 

Even the bad that could never be turned into good, becomes its best version of sepia and gold nostalgia, while that which was truly good and green, and can never be recaptured, becomes a dagger in your faint-beating, grey-fringed heart.

Playful turns to wistful. 

Wishes to ashes. 

Until, long forgotten by next-of, next-of kin, in the collective mind of the cosmos, it is held as it was on the day of its formation, new in all minds, as it once was in one. 

Fresh as infancy, and with the hope of forever, eternal.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Good Intentions

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Life is a fucked up bitch,

playing give-and-take

with your good intentions. 

The problem with this is,

you were never one to take

Life at face value. 

The problem with this is,

you loved Life. 

You spent each day

dying for more from this Life,

and the moment you set in your secret heart

the plans for how you and Life

would spend your remaining years together,

you learned that

all your good intentions meant nothing. 

In Life’s eyes,

your dreams weren’t real.  

In Life’s eyes,

your dreams were yours alone. 

You aren’t special,

and you never were. 

Life saw you as a dalliance. 

And as you let this Life go,

and look the next,

all there is left to do is

curse the days of your youth,

and with one last dream,

and good intentions,  

dream you had been raised

not to care.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

On This Day

Americanflags

My dad gets a flag

on this day,

even if I’m not there

to plant it.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Apt Title

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There is a new book.

I haven’t read it yet, but I’m sure I’ll get around to it, eventually.  I get around to everything, eventually.  It’s a book about men, choosing to live their lives without the company of women.  Yes…straight men, dumbass.  I hear it’s a very good book, as are all the author’s other books.  I even have one of his books lying on my couch, still waiting to be finished, right where I left off reading it almost two years ago.  That was the last time I…

Anyway, I hear the book is about a growing number of men in the world who would rather do without the company of women, than risk the possibility of disappointment, hurt, or sadness that eventually comes with coupling.  For all the good a good woman can bring to a man, there is always the looming probability that with the good comes an even worse bad.  And so, after years of experiencing more bad than good, these men just say no to it all.

I understand completely.

Think of it this way.

When you’re a young man, after a fairly ordinary childhood and adolescence, and an even less remarkable bunch of teen years, you, with little to no experience in life, accept what you, at the time, believe is a most remarkable job.  In your mind, you think it’s the best job you will ever have.  You also believe that you need to sign onto this job just as quick as you can, because you are convinced by the smiling person who wants to hire you, that you will never find another job like this job, anywhere, ever again.  So you snap up that job, reminding yourself every day just how lucky you are to have it.  And while you don’t have much experience with other jobs in your young life, you believe this job will only get better through the years, because, more than any other job in the whole wide world, this job is a keeper.

So, over the course of several decades, with a few random highs mixed in with a seemingly endless stream of lows, you work hard at the job, mostly because, you remind yourself daily, that you committed yourself to the job, come hell or high water, to the end.  Never mind that no one told you going in that the job you thought was your job for life was a job scrubbing toilets and mopping bathroom floors sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, with no opportunity for promotions or raises, or even one day, retirement.  All of that must have been in the fine print somewhere at the bottom of the last page of the contract you signed all those years ago.

Now I know what you’re thinking.  What kind of a job does this to someone?  And what kind of loyalty to such a shitty job could anyone possibly have in a world where there must be better jobs than this?   And if you weren’t thinking that, because you’re a smart reader,  because you were paying attention, and you remember the introduction to what you started reading about 500 or so words ago, you know that this little allegory was not about a job, but about a relationship.  A relationship that conditioned you for all your future jobs… I mean relationships… wherein you would repeat the same patterns and habits you learned the first time around.

Lather, relation, repeat.

Until one day, you tell yourself that it would be better to go without than to repeat the same mistakes and sorrows, again and again, until death you depart this life.

And so you quit trying, because quitting is less painful than losing.

What?  You thought this post would have a happy ending?  And I thought you were paying attention.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

To Walk Down a Dead-End Street

dead end

As an introvert with comically low

self-esteem,

I have made some truly awful

choices in my life.

But writing isn’t one of them. 

It’s true that a life of

settling for less along the path of least resistance

has given me

a point of view most successful creative folk never see,

and I can write from that view

as easily as breathe. 

But there is still

something missing,

and I don’t mean something missing from my

smalltime life. 

I mean something missing from my

genetic code

that enables others to whisper a resolute “fuck it”,

and move onto the

places where few go,

and fewer survive. 

I have always been,

for less than better,

and often far worse than that,

one who only moves forward with

a wall at his back,

and this time is no different. 

But it is

forward I must go,

because the only right direction to walk

down a dead-end street

is out.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Reading America

Reading America PNG

I have, often wrongly, been called a poet.  I would argue that point right now, but doing so would defeat the purpose of the next 800 or so carefully spellchecked words.  So instead, I’ll say,

“Poetry is not my friend.”

At best, poetry is that crazy uncle who showed you which liquor store would sell to a minor without a fake ID, then introduced you to the college girl who worked the register, and even made sure you left with her number and a twelve-pack.  At worst, poetry is that same crazy uncle who introduced you to the college girl who worked the register and, it turns out, has a boyfriend with two cauliflower ears, an even more twisted nose, and the willingness and ability to kill you before you can even put your pants back on. 

Once again,

“Poetry is not my friend.”

I’ve got more words, so follow me.

While it is harder and harder to call America a country of readers anymore, America does read.  It reads news and fake news with equal ease, it reads movie reviews, and from time to time, it even reads a book.  The New York Times, that thing with all the book reviews on Sunday, is written for Americans to read.  And the New York Times is written on a 7th grade reading level.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that because, for the most part, America’s conversational grade level is in the neighborhood of Cash me Ousside Girl, which is also fine, because America kinda had to read to even find her. 

But here’s the thing.  Remember what I said about how America does read?  Well, there is one thing that America reads better than every other form of the written word.  The one thing that is the most powerful platform of thought conveyance there is.  A literary form so strong, it even got a morally bankrupt, hairspray-wearing, tiny-handed, Alec Baldwin impersonating, billionaire elected President of the Reading United States of America.

America reads Tweets.

Long Tweets, max of 140 characters (not including uploads), short Tweets, soft Tweets, hard Tweets, quiet Tweets, loud Tweets, stupid Tweets, and even… God knows how crazy THIS will sound… smart Tweets.  Tweets are America’s shit ticket to literacy, as literacy is measured anymore.  And America eats this shit up like it’s a dollar dessert at McDonalds.  It is the new literary paradigm, and no amount of MFAs working at McDonalds can stop it.  It is the mint on the pillow of the hotel so good, the first family would rather live there than the home reading America theoretically voted it into.  Tweets are sweet, and don’t even give you the cavities no longer covered in your soon to be lost, affordable dental care. 

Mmmmm, Tweets.

So now, let’s go back to the beginning and review.

I have, often wrongly, been called a poet.  I also know that poetry is not my friend.  It can get you drunk.  It can get you dead.  You know that, while America is really not a country of readers anymore, America does still read.  If you read above a 7th grade reading level, this post introduced you to Cash me Ousside Girl, who probably Tweets, and it taught you that the same Tweets that you can read from her are the Tweets that got a morally bankrupt, hairspray-wearing, tiny-handed, Alec Baldwin impersonating, billionaire elected President of the Reading United States of America.

And you learned that America reads Tweets.  Oh, and that no one cares about those kids in the paper hats with $100,000 worth of student loan debt behind the counter at McDonalds who have advanced college degrees in, well… poetry.

One last thing before the shocking conclusion.

Poetry should be everyone’s friend.

Have you read any Tweets today?  I hope so, and if you haven’t, there’s still time.  I hope so because, if you did, you might have actually read… poetry.

Long poetry, max of 140 characters (not including uploads), short poetry, soft poetry, hard poetry, quiet poetry, loud poetry, stupid poetry, and even… God knows how crazy THIS will sound… smart poetry.  Poems are America’s shit ticket to literacy, as literacy is measured anymore.  And America eats this shit up like it’s a dollar dessert at McDonalds.  It is the new literary paradigm, and no amount of MFAs working at McDonalds can stop it.  It is the mint on the pillow of the hotel so good, the first family would rather live there than the home reading America theoretically voted it into.  Poems are sweet, and don’t even give you the cavities no longer covered in your soon to be lost, affordable dental care. 

Mmmmm, poems.

Poems are reading America’s new literary paradigm, all over again.  And all because, while nobody was looking, reading America was being given an unconscious mind made ready for a brilliance that can be captured in 140 characters or less.  So now,

“Poetry is everyone’s friend.”

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

I Raised a Generation

road png

This is my end.  

I raised a generation,

and now look back upon it. 

I raised a generation,

and the next in line to come;

beautiful,

and free from my spotted past. 

And in seeing,

think only that it is to this generation,

and the next,

that I am tied forever. 

One decision,

made so long ago,

that its beginning seems eternal. 

By one decision,

I am now grounded to this earth,

to this very spot on which I stand,

for the rest of my obligation of days. 

I will go nowhere. 

I will not find pleasure,

as a reward for years spent in hopeless,

loving duty,

but in dedication to my craft,

and to my legacy,

this generation,

and the next in line to come. 

This is my end. 

I raised a generation,

and if I am lucky,

one day,

I will know my place,

beneath this ground on which I stand.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

The Accidental Prophet

the-prophet-chuck

“A wish is not a goal, and hope is not a plan.”

I have a friend, a very close friend, who says that whenever I speak of the future, I already know what’s going to happen.  One year.  Five years.  Ten.  Every step and every stage, all mapped out, in my head and then, into words.  Thoughtful.  Methodical.  Concise.

Except I swear that, every time it happens, I have no conscious idea that what I’ve just said is, in fact, a plan.

So unbelieving am I that, after my friend who hears recites my future future back to me, I am left scrunch-faced, my head shaking, saying, “What are you talking about?  That wasn’t a plan, that was just wishful thinking.”  And yet, in the two years of our friendship, apparently, I’ve never been wrong. 

And it pisses me off every time.

It would seem that I hate being right.

If I were to put it in terms that I could understand, I would call myself, “The Accidental Prophet”. 

Over the last year alone, I called my shot about creating a job out of two other jobs so that I would have all the time in the world to sit undisturbed and, on company time, with the boss’ blessing, write another book.  That happened.  Before that, I called my shot about taking ten years of chicken-scratched poems, and publishing a first book.  That happened, too.  Somewhere in between the first book and the job, I said something about creating a publishing company and, yeah… yeah… whatever.

Now, says my friend, I’ve been saying things again.  Future kind of things.  The kind that, if you were to ask me, I wouldn’t call anything more than a few nice ideas.  A wish here, a hope there.  Just spitballing into the wind.  And if I didn’t have the big-eared friend with the over-developed sense interpreting irony in all its forms, I might dismiss these, too. 

Except now, I can’t.  Because I know better than to argue with a plan, even when I don’t know it’s a plan until comes true.

And all I can say right now is, if it’s true, 2017 is going to be a hell of a year.  And if none of it comes true, well like I said, I hate being right, so I’ll be the first to tell you I was wrong. But if by accident I was right, I’ll be writing another one of these next year. 

Complete with the “I told you so” from my friend who hears.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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