For Rent, an encore presentation

Photo credit 3 trailers

Don’t much wanna go to heaven
wouldn’t know no one there, no way
as the kind that I holds near and dear
won’t be a gettin’ thru them pearly gates.

There’s a better chance you’ll find me
sittin’ round a fire ring somewheres
talkin’ loud and smoking Marlboro’s
next to a tub a ice cold beer.

Wearing an old King Diamond tee shirt
and a pair a too tight jeans
sittin’ on some ol’ boys lap, feelin’ frisky-
in the trailer park o my dreams…

Where on every space there’s a double wide
and the lot rents paid in full
and my sister’s- ex-fi-ance’s -brother-in-law
has done his last parole.

So when I exit life’s long lost highway
don’t you be a worrin’ ’bout where I’ve gone
’cause I’m sure there’ll be a For Rent sign
on a nice li’l trailer in the great beyond….


When Chelsea Ann Owen’s put out a call for Terrible Poetry inspired by my take on heaven, I knew I had to repost this piece. Terrible or not, I still believe this to be my definitive view of heaven.

More is always better.


Like old lovers who invariably cause each other nothing but repeated agony, yet continue to couple at near regular intervals, Sadie surrendered to the localized throbbing she knew to be the precursor of yet another cluster headache with diffidence, seeking sanctuary in her darkened bedroom before the pain, quickly taking the shape of a red hot pen, had time to drive itself deep into her eye socket, taking the sight in her right eye with it. 

Making a wide swaying motion with her arms, she groped blindly across the inky bedroom she had designed to her own specification and swathed in near perfect tones of strawberry and chartreuse- once upon a time- well before the crippling pain had become a recurrent bedfellow and the room darkening shades had become necessary, forever after cheating her out of any pleasure she may have once taken in the rooms most opulent color scheme. 

Swiveling gently around and lowering herself into a seated position on the edge of the bed when the side of the mattress came into contact with the front of her thighs, she slid open the drawer of the bamboo and brass bedside table she had imported from Madagascar at great cost, and withdrew several prescription bottles before locating the bottle into which she had etched a deep X in the cap, as a method of identifying it when her sense of sight chose to betray her, and shook three maybe four of the oblong capsules into her palm.

“More is always better.” Her skewered subconscious succeeded in seducing her into tipping the bottle yet again until she felt the lightest tap of just one more pill fall into her waiting palm. Slipping the dry capsules past her runaway choke mechanism, once a tricky business, had been easily overcome once she learned to pinch the end of her tongue with one hand while deftly guiding the pills down her throat with the other.

With that accomplished, there was nothing left to do but lie down in the dark and wait for the pain to subside. 

She would figure out a suitable excuse for missing the monthly Marketing meeting later. She surely couldn’t admit a headache kept her away. Heavens no. That was way too female an excuse. Not to mention it’s reeking of weakness.

Perhaps a last minute flight to… To.. Tooo…..

Closing her eyes, she fought to clear her head, but even the searing headache could not quiet the frenzied dialogue of the mythomane pathologique, otherwise translated as her inner pathological liar, as it fought with her pain addled brain for a permissible excuse.

To somewhere exotic. Warm and exotic. To hear the deathbed confession of an.. An.. An  ostracized relative. A very rich ostracized relative…

While not yet perfect, that one held promise she conceded wearily, as ultimately euchred, she allowed the narcotics to take over, and alas succumbed to sleep.

This piece was inspired by the twelve words in this weeks MLMM’s Wordle # 164 which were:

  1. Cheat
  2. Pen
  3. Shape
  4. Perfect
  5. Strawberry
  6. Euchred- utterly done in or at the end of one’s tether; exhausted.
  7. Lightest
  8. Wide
  9. Swivel
  10. Runaway
  11. Mythomane- a person with a strong or irresistible propensity for fantasizing, lying, or exaggerating.
  12. Cluster

And one of the three phrasal prompts offered this week on the OLWG #138 which was: like old lovers.

Oh, and my character is named loosely after our very own Sadje, as I was struggling with the indifference of writers block before I read and was able to comment elaborately on one of her posts today. Thanks again Sadje!

Why don’t you get a job?

You’d think that maybe if I had known he had no job, no car, and was sleeping on his buddy’s couch when I met him- at least one item in that overly unimpressive line up would have produced a red flag. But you’d be wrong. Because, I knew. 

By the time I figured out he had no intention of ever getting a job, that he was perfectly content drinking beer, doing drugs and hanging out with his buddies, I was so hopelessly in love, or ate up or whipped or whatever you wanna call it-

There was no wrong he could not right with a properly placed wave of his magic wand. No indiscretion for which the warmth of his tongue could not insure he would be forgiven.


To this day I do not know if what we shared was love, or obsession or something far too dangerous for either of us to ever comprehend, I only know- that the years we spent together changed the course of my life forever.

Sometimes he still comes to me in my dreams. I’ll find him sleeping on my couch. Shirtless. Hands folded prayer style tucked between his knees. The angelic face of the eternal boy I now know he was destined to remain all the days of his life-

And all I wanna do is tell him, “I’m sorry. For trying to force you to grow up. For trying to make something out of you, you were never destined to be. For all the time I wasted harping on you to ‘get a fuckin’ job’.”

I know now, none of that would have made any difference. I could not have loved you any more.

In loving memory of

David A. Gardon

February 10, 1966 – January 17, 2004


Why don’t you get a job was written by Bryan (Dexter) Holland and performed by the band, The Offspring, which he co-founded with a buddy of his, Gregory Kreisel in 1984. The band started off as four guys, none of whom even played the guitar at the time, just hanging out, drinking beer in Greg’s mother’s garage. 

Why don’t you get a job

My friend’s got a girlfriend
Man he hates that bitch
He tells me every day
He says “man I really gotta lose my chick
In the worst kind of way”

She sits on her ass
He works his hands to the bone
To give her money every payday
But she wants more dinero just to stay at home
Well my friend
You gotta say

I won’t pay, I won’t pay ya, no way
Why don’t you get a job
Say no way, say no way, no way
Why don’t you get a job

I guess all his money, well it isn’t enough
To keep her bill collectors at bay
I guess all his money, well it isn’t enough
‘Cause that girl’s got expensive taste

I won’t pay, I won’t pay ya, no way
Why don’t you get a job
Say no way, say no way, no way
Why don’t you get a job

Well I guess it ain’t easy doing nothing at all
But hey man free rides just don’t come along
Every day

Let me tell you about my other friend now
My friend’s got a boyfriend, man she hates that dick
She tells me every day
He wants more dinero just to stay at home
Well my friend
You gotta say

I won’t pay, I won’t pay ya, no way
Why don’t you get a job
Say no way, say no way, no way

This is my response to Jim’s Song Lyric Sunday call for songs by or containing the names, (or word in the case of my choice), Tom, Dick, or Harry.


The Parade


Brigham turned right into the first alley he came upon. As he ran, he could see a dense crowd of people gathered in the street ahead of him. Perhaps the parade was already underway and he could be lost in their number. It was a chance he had to take. 

After that, he had to make his way all down the parade to the West Pier, but that would be the easy part. No one would notice a man in a latex mask. Not once he joined the throngs of costumed party-goers reveling together in the celebration of Gay Pride.

Not in San Francisco. He heard himself praying aloud to a god he swore he did not believe in, as he wove himself into the fabric of the scantily clad crowd, asking to be forgiven for every derogatory statement he may have ever uttered or thought he may have had.

The urgency of his plight rendering him quite oblivious, he realized only after he had pleaded aloud, “Get me through this one and I swear I’ll go straight!” that he was surrounded by a contingent of unabashedly virile, leather clad men- any number of whom stood ripe for a challenge.

This scenario written in 50 word increments is brought to you courtesy of 50 Word Thursdays literary prompt: “… after that, he had to make his way all down the parade to the West Pier” – Brighton Rock, Graham Greene.

A Saturday Night

It’s 3AM and I’m stumblin’ home from a Saturday night on the town. A night spent drinkin’, dancin’, couplin’ if’n you’re lucky. After all that’s what Saturdays are for ain’t it? A bit of the unbridled? A chance to slough off the chains of a work a day life, maybe even engage in a little unadulterated sinnin’ before headin’ out to church come Sunday mornin’?

It’s just me and these streetlights, but there’s a little hitch in my giddyup tonight. A little hitch that weren’t there, say a week ago, when I knew I was goin’ home to an empty house. 

Cause tonight I got me a little woman waitin’ for me. One that ain’t worried about how late it is, or how much I drunk. One that won’t complain about the smell a cheap perfume, or that smudge a lipstick on my collar. One that’ll stand right there in the middle of the kitchen floor and watch me drink straight outta the milk carton, or eat a cold leg a chicken while leanin’ over the kitchen sink.

And best of all, one I know is gare-on-teed to provide a man with as much unadulterated sinnin’ as he feels he might need to get ‘em in the pew come Sunday mornin’. 

Said so right on the box.

This little bit of nastiness took it’s inspiration from the three phrasal prompts offered on the OLWG #137 prompt this week. The phrases were:

  1. In the middle of the kitchen floor
  2. that’s what Saturdays are for
  3. just me and these streetlights