Trash Artist

I think one of the worst feelings in the world is to suffer alone. Yet, so many of us do — at their convenience.

I watched “Grace and Frankie” on Netflix tonight when I should be asleep. The story drove home the point that I am insignificant in this big blue world and that there are a lucky few who dare to chase their happily ever after at the expense of others. (Remind me one day to tell you about Mark.) They destroy innocent lives of good, decent people (enablers), the hop a jet to paradise, dropping a few choice photos on social media for their millions of followers hanging on every word.

Doesn’t seem fair or right, does it?

Those of us left behind stew in silence, going on about our day serving and helping, cooking and cleaning, chauffeuring and gigging, bowing and scraping, bending over for more. We save time late into twilight lying alone in our beds trying not to choke on our tears.

It never ever ever occurs to us to band together for support. Well, it occurs to me. But who the hell do I think I am?

Gut me, bleed me dry, then sell the cannibalized parts in the Temple of Jesus to the highest bidder. Not one trace. Not. One. Trace.

I want to scream, “What the hell do you want from me??”

I’ll have a Cheeseburger Deluxe and a pitcher of beer.

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beachside

elly-filho-1562
Elly Filho

the open mind, they fall in — the star chasers, the stars —

there is no music in this place, a small, quiet beachside town abandoned decades ago, these are Instamatic echoes of my childhood, strangers, friends of friends, my parents’ conquests… Stephen King rejects, I suppose

rain as I walk through them into this empty room, a pocket of complete understanding

his shadow stands over me, across the expanse of offices in this warehouse from hell, the same empty basement basketball court school auditorium I once found myself in after Britney Spears 5150’d

I can’t read him, he’s as empty as this room overlooking a graying beach outside these smudged picture windows

bin laden hitler miscavige madness

he’s coming closer

my mother’s old Toyota, the one that ran out of gas in 1983, starts immediately, taking me out of this dusty old town in the nick of time

I pass these tourists with their tinsel hats and greasy faces running for shelter, none the wiser

flee from the dark ones