Writober 10-10-2019-Pattern

I saw my sister this evening. Not because I wanted to. I’d gone to my aunt’s house to get some papers from her that she needed me to fax. My sister came out of the shadows as I was getting back into the car in the driveway. “Hey, brother,” she said holding a Happy Meal in one hand. She’s one of those weirdoes who calls her brother “brother.” I could see my aunt watching us from the porch, her dark silhouette hunched over the railing. I wonder if she placed a bet in her mind on how fast I would leave. 

Last time my sister snuck up on me like this, it was in broad daylight and I didn’t recognize her then, either. I had to tell my dad (not her father) that it was my sister and he made a face like woah. And my dad plays everything close to the vest. He plays shit in the skeleton, “brother.” She used to be attractive. She was a porn star, for fuck’s sake. But now she’s large and short and her lips still look botoxed and too large eyes stare out from under too thickly tattooed on eyebrows. 

She asks me what I’m doing there and I tell her I’m heading home to finish up some work. She asks about my girlfriend and my son and I tell her they are fine. She says her son is about to turn four. I wish I could save that poor boy from these people. My people. She tells me how they had moved away but how they were too far from family. And now, gosh darn diggly do, they’re moving back. She says, “You know, around where we grew up in Hollywood.” I did not really grow up with her in Hollywood. For a time, she lived on the very street we were talking on. That’s where she lived when my mom beat the shit out of her in front of the police that time she ran away from home. My mom has made a lot of mistakes, but I think that was the right thing to do. But I never lived in Hollywood, or with her on that street. 

My sister says, “Oh, well, but YOU know how it is. We have to do what we have to do. We do everything for “them.” For our children. She’s telling me this like a kid acting badly at playing a grownup. I open the door to my car and I want to get in and leave in the middle of one of her sentences. The Challenger would’ve gotten me out of there a lot faster, but I have to wait for the Edge’s seat to whir itself into memory position number one. 

She says she’s vegan, has been for many years, but she had fish yesterday. Oh, the things we do for them. Ha. Ha. Ha. She’s huge, and I know that sounds mean, I know it does, but she looks like a leftover, hastily put together person. She looks like she was assembled as a character designed for a movie, to put people off. Maybe it’s a character that isn’t quite a villain but isn’t up to any good. She doesn’t get shot, but maybe something hits her in the head and she goes to jail. I wonder if she sees the look on my face, the fear, the sadness, the regret. I couldn’t save her, she never listened, just cared about her hair being pretty, and boys, and blaming teachers on her mistakes, getting my mom to move her to yet another school, again away from responsibility.

It’s like I’m seeing my mother when she was young, unable to get out of her own fucking way again. When I was a kid, I thought it was funny because wow, these grownups are so dumb, but now there’s this little boy my sister has and I can’t help but see the path of anger and pain laid all out in front of him. I imagine him asking me why I don’t like his mother and grandmother and me telling him to ask me again in about twenty years. 

We’re connected by this strange sickly wet web across time and dumbfuck mothers. This pattern of pain. I hope I’m just being dramatic.

Writober 10-9-2019-Swing

Earlier, I thought I gonna write a whole rap song about swinging for the fences because of today’s word. Five hours after not being able to figure out why my computer takes like 10 minutes to boot into Windows, I just wanted to swing my brand new computer into the garage door. But I didn’t. I got some Windex and cleaned the glass side panel because I fingerprinted it to hell. Also, it’s really heavy and I’d need to rig something to the roof in the garage in order to “swing” this thing ANYwhere. Either way, it’s working now, aside from that 10 minutes to boot thing, and I hope I don’t need to restart it and do something quickly anytime soon. I guess I’ll try reinstalling Windows this weekend and resetting the bios to defaults. That’s gonna be a huge pain in the ass because I’m just wondering if this shit is just gonna happen again. Part of me is thinking that’s what I get for going with AMD and fancy tiny hard drives and water cooling. I shoulda stuck with my gerbil wheel and fire stick. Damn you, technology.

fuckin’ swing, what tha fack 

Writober 10-08-2019-Frail

It’s another late one. My new computer is apparently frail as it failed to boot after a restart today. I want to blame it on Microsoft because there was an update that installed, but who frickin’ knows. I couldn’t even get the thing to boot into the repair mode but later it looked like that was because of the way I had my monitors plugged into the video card. Today’s word just kinda hit me right in the gut for some reason because I feel frail as well, at work and at home. The boy has had a couple incidents at school the last couple days and is worried about falling into bad habits and it’s our job to stay positive and encourage him, but I really felt like ahshitIhopeit’snotherewegoagaintime. The word of the day is frail, but I feel fried.


Enchanted is cold to me
because winter has no teeth in Florida
it's the chapped lips early
splitting when the cafe con leche hits them
but around 10am
you're in the sun in a t shirt
the sky is clear blue
and at night you drive with the windows down
maybe you crank some In the Air Tonight
if you're old like me.

Enchanted is on a boat
the sunset rocking the water
to Kool and the Gang's Summertime
the breeze whispering away
the too strong smell of fish in the cooler
maybe there's a Corona and a lime
typical but alright
and oh
here comes darkness
the stars will put on a show.

Enchanted is my son
falling asleep on me
while we lie on the couch
his head on my chest
the smell of his hair
good and dirty from the day
the coarseness of it crunching against my kisses
he rises and falls
to rain sounds on his Echo
finds slumber so easily
oh wait that's the pill.

Enchanted is this
the words rolling
I dreaded this I don't know if it's any good
and I don't fucking care
as long as I don't dream tonight
and sleep finds me
puts me down gently
lets me fall asleep on her
kisses my hair
wraps her legs around me
puts on Hurt by Johnny Cash.


Today’s word suuuuuucks. Husky is either a dog, a brand of some kind, I forget if it’s pants or tools (just looked it up, it’s a tool brand at Home Depot), or you know, fat. Maybe I can say it like hoo sky? Or something that is too much of a husk or of husking? Corn husking? That may not be a thing. I think that’s shucking. Pretty sure Nebraska’s college football team is the corn huskers. Anyway, I’m really bombing here but it doesn’t matter because no one is reading this aside from poor Chris. I’m sorry, dude. This is the price you pay for having challenged me to write every day. Hey, at least it’s not super depressing again. 

Only thing I got here is people in Florida with huskies, I just don’t get that. Poor frickin’ animal is not made for the weather down here. I get it, I want a wolf as a pet, too. I enjoyed Game of Thrones just like you fools. But camman, get a goldfish. When the oceans rise, it can just swim out to sea. Wait, actually, I think it will die in the salt water. 

Get a barracuda, then.



I build with words
though the desire is somehow
less than how little
I want to fix the steps on the deck.
I've got tons
of reasons to avoid that job
What if the tetanus gets me?

There's plenty else to do
and I've taken to avoiding things
by going on walks
proclaiming it a healthy move
using the watch
so it counts the exercise in a green ring
though it says
20 minutes is not enough.
I hope I don't collapse
in the street
so I'm not fucking up the traffic
like the rest of these morons.

At home, my son draws.
Every time I see him
steal an idea from a cartoon
and remix a story
I am jealous of how easy
it is for him to put the shine
on a blank page.
This is a true god
I think.
He makes and moves on
forgoing perfection
for the next idea
while I dote, dawdle, and drool
on this poem
on a Saturday night
while Monday morning
and work
puts the cold weight
of its gun muzzle
against the back of my head.
I can almost hear Sleep
run screaming into traffic.

Maybe I need to buy
one of those weighted blankets.
They say they help you sleep better
but I think fuck do I really need
to feel more suffocated in my bed
where technical questions come in the dark
like atomic hail
lighting up my nervous system
making me sit up so
I count zeroes and ones in my head
binary sheep
and breathe in and out
my heart going.

My ears heat up as I write this
and I think I've built
a nice torture chamber for myself
this life around.


I was back at the kitchen table again, and it was freezing there. Not making this up because today’s word is freeze. It’s always cold there, where we do the boy’s homework and eat dinner. Yeah, I’m the guy who makes his kid do his homework on Friday night. I could’ve told the robot to raise the temperature for the AC. But the cat meowed and I thought it would be a good opportunity to go write outside. Summer is over for most of the country and I guess it’s snowing in some of Canada? But in Miami, it can still be hot. Yet it’s nice outside today. But the table on the deck is still flipped over on its top from when we did that for the hurricane. It’s less likely to fly away like this. And the tiles that make up its surface are still in the shed. The keys to the shed? Someone who lives in this house has lost them… And that’s all I can say about that in case she reads this. This is a true story.

So I’m on the couch in the reading nook, which is just what we call this space, even though the bookshelves are gone, back at my dad’s house from when I moved out. It’s cold here, too and I could tell the robot to raise the temperature and the cat wouldn’t meow because he’s already outside, but actually, this spot is comfy. This is a nice place to write and freeze. 

Writober – 10/3/2019 – Bait

I write at the kitchen table today
while the boy does his homework
and I decide
a poem
which is feeling
like a bad idea
6 lines in.

This is what I wish I could do well again
this is the dance I prefer
my kind of tune.
This is the kind of bed
I like to fuck in
or die trying
but man, I'm running
out of breath here.

And this kid
is doing a play by play
of his math homework
"My final answer is 132"
to no one who asked and
"Dada, my teacher taught
me how to do this
but you already know how
do you want me to show you?"


He's got his hair gelled to the side
and his Miami Heat jersey
matches his red and black glasses.
He points his finger gun at me
not in violence
but in invitation.

So no, but yes.

I've taken the bait
and abandoned poetry again.


Writober 10-02-2019 – Mindless

I got to this late today, so I’m typing in bed, which is physically awkward. I got my legs raised up and the bottom of the laptop is against my legs. Screen is tilted down toward me and I can see the letters pop up on the screen at this weird angle. But this is the only way the keys feel good to bang on.  My girlfriend glances over every so often, away from 90 Day Fiance on her own laptop. I’m throwing that show in because the word for today is “mindless”. It’s weird writing with an audience over there. And the laptop can’t breathe right like this. I feel it getting warm through the covers. Is it covers even if it’s one actual cover? I feel it getting warm through the cover. That doesn’t sound right because then I feel like someone might ask about a laptop cover. I don’t know what’s going on over on her laptop with the show but someone is moving around a lot. I hope one of these brain challenged couples is beating each other to death. 

SPEAKING OF BEATING EACH OTHER TO DEATH! One of my cousins got stabbed by his girlfriend. And apparently it’s the second time she does it. TO HIM. Not like she stabbed someone else. He put himself in a position to get stabbed by the same chick twice. He also got kicked by a horse once and it fucked up his kidney or liver or something. One of the organs where if you lose it, you’re basically diabetic. I told his brother, “Man, he can’t be killed by bitches or horses.” He’s kind of a fuck up, but at this point, the previous statement about him is true. But if a bitch on a horse comes for that mindless motherfucker, he might be out of luck.


I was going to do inktober, which involved drawing, and less effort. But, my friend challenged me to write something every day in October. I thought, oh I can do both, but seeing as how it’s already 9:30pm, I guess that won’t be happening. I haven’t written in a long time. Mostly because I’m worried it will suck, but also because I don’t know what to write about. I used to be ok with writing about the drab shit of the every day, but I had the ability to find a shine somewhere. A line, a lilt, something. Now, most days suck. And I hate people who just complain all the time, so why would I add to the abundant morose noise in the world? 

Even now, I’m looking at that last paragraph and I’m like oh man what a fucking drag. Part of me is thinking, hey, this is progress, this is getting the words out. Starting a habit. Like walking every day. A different part of me is just like oh these are just worthless words that you’re putting down one after the other. You’re telling, not showing. And the voices are both right, probably. This comes out of nowhere, but I swear this next thing is what I’ve just remembered about shitty Tuesday, October 1st.  

I called my dad today on the way home from work, as I do a couple times a week. He’s old. Gotta enjoy his voice while he’s still here. He calls me “el despertador” usually, the waker upper. He naps in the middle of the day now, slowing down. But today he called me “el relojero”, the watchmaker. Maybe he meant to call me an alarm clock? He was trying to be funny. I assume this because he chuckled at what he said. Conversation went the same as usual. I relayed my location on the drive, he asked if that was close to the expressway, because that means speed, and speed is home faster. I don’t know how, but he was complaining about being generous with people who never returned the favor. I get it. You don’t want to be generous expecting something back, but I mean, at some point, jeez, a stick of gum or a coffee wouldn’t hurt. I hate owing people things. I don’t trust folks, I guess. And I don’t want to look like a chump. I’m in a shit place right now, as far as dealing with people goes. Just keeping my head down and chugging along. Playing the lotteries a couple times a week. Just in case. And I check the numbers at work. Because that’s the story I want. I want to go in, find out I won and start calling for lawyers and accountants while I work. I would even give them 30 days. 

Work sucks right now. My good friend left. And he left the state. It ain’t like we can hang out. And my other friend is leaving at the end of this week. I’m all alone and in charge and it’s scary. I tell myself I’ll figure it out and I do believe that, but I know there will be failures. And those thoughts keep me awake at night. When I’m trying to sleep and I wake up feeling like I just saved my own life by taking a huge breath that was almost not taken, I don’t know if I’m having just raging anxiety or if the heart attack will take me at night. And those thoughts roll on and on down this mountain of fear, growing into a bigger and bigger black ball of freak the fuck out until at some point, I fall asleep from exhaustion. No idea how much sleep I get on these nights except that it’s not enough. I drag the next day. I’ll drag tomorrow if I don’t just pass out from being tired tonight. 

But, my son. He’s what I hold on to. He’s doing so well now. He’s so funny. I love that he tries to be funny FOR ME. He makes jokes for me to see if I laugh. It fills me up, my love for that kid rushes out like voltage from the dense core of some great galactic engine. Even now, thinking about it. How unlike everything else in my life it is, it’s a surprise every time. I never knew something like this could exist. I always laughed my dad off when he said I could never love him as much as he loves me.

My son kisses my forehead as I tuck him in. I don’t even ask him to. Like maybe he sees me and he knows I need it. He gives love so generously. Even when I’m mad at him for something. Couple weeks ago when I was pissed at him, he told me he knows I’ve lost control because I love him so much, because I want him to do well. He told me my love for him is my weakness and my strength. I don’t know what fucking afternoon special he’s watching to get this from, but he laid that shit on me. He’s NINE. 

The drive . The race to the expressway. Speed. Home. Home is where my son is.