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fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Archive for the tag “prose”

Ray Bradbury, Albert Camus, and Me

shadow lines

I seriously just had the most amazing experience.

Reading.

First time I can ever remember a story becoming alive to me from the printed page.  Full of colors, and smells, and stars. 

Then, it merged into another story I had read, elsewhere.  Full of heat, and death, and regret. 

And the two stories became what I felt I’ve been living since I don’t know when.

That’s as deep as I’ve been in a while.

And I swear I have smoked no peyote.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Misssion

mission

Did you make it through another day? 

If you’re reading this, you did.  Maybe I didn’t.  That’s not the point.  The point is you did.  All I was supposed to do was make it far enough to hand this off to you, and I did. 

My mission, accomplished.  Now, what’s your mission? 

What are you handing off to the next someone?  What will they hand off to the next?  Not my mission, not my monkeys.  I always wanted to say that.  My mission wasn’t to manage yours, it was to finish mine, and I did.  I know that because here you are, with my mission in your hands, making it your own. 

Did you make it through another day? 

If you wrote this, you did.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Adjusting 

Shitheap 

“Life is beauty, under a shitheap of hope.”

#BuddhaBukowski 

I believe in life. And I am not deaf, dumb, or blind. Though I have tried to be all three, sometimes all at once. Yet the beauty, it turns out, is most often found buried beneath the ugliest things. Cloaked. Straining to be seen. Unrecognized. As we turn away, convinced it cannot be there.  

But life, and hope, are eternal. And so is the beauty, covered by a shitheap. Waiting. 

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday 

The Urgent Necessity of Words

type blood

I have grown to hate the urgent necessity of words…
poetic in their expression, as though they cannot be, any longer, spoken in something longer than short bursts of weak prose…

I have grown to hate the uselessness of words…
volumes of thought, stripped bare of all muscle and sinew, till all that’s left to show for it is the bleached bones of time…

I have grown to hate the feeble sounds of words…
their drone as repetitive as an infant’s vocabulary of need, never more expressive than I will, I want, I always I…

I have grown to hate the self-awareness of words…
knowledge without understanding, always one step behind, late for every good thing, yet right on time for eulogy…

I have grown to hate the hopefulness of words…
bright future in the shroud of history, always rising from within, like morning sun in the eyes of an all-night drunk…

I have grown to hate the efficacy of words…
healing souls that otherwise would die, mine being the first, as in physician heal thyself before you malpractice upon others…

I have grown to hate the eternality of words…
from the time before there was time, to the time when time is again no more, and how they have found me at my most lost…

I have grown to hate the urgent necessity of words…
complete in their ability, to hurt and to make whole, to damage and to comfort, and to seal their work with forever scars…

And my understanding of their purpose.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

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