Two fingers of Sweet Sour Mash 9.0

Two  fingers of Sweet Sour Mash

Two ice cubes in a short glass

Smokin small tokes from

My last chunk of hash

 

Punching up the playlist

Punching it up to WOW

In the mood to relive, retell

Some blasts from my checkered past

 

The here and now fades

A fog rolls in from my earliest edges

My feet begin their tap

My fingers begin to type

I shut my eyes remembering

Sleepy eyed LSD memories 

I hoped would awaken 

My mescaline infused soul

 

“Good times, bad times”

“I never know for sure”

Rockin Blues were the tunes

 shuffle your feet, juke joint funkin

Superslab shit kicking Cotton Eye Joe

Blasting loud and proud from my radio

 

Passing through the where

To nail down the when

I continue to write

Hoping my strolls down tired lanes

My moments of misspent youth

Will find my deepest darkest truths

Not the memories I usually carry

Pointing out just rose colored views

 

Two more fingers of that sweet sour mash.

Close my eyes and open my mind

My head can’t hold it all 

I need some relief, a respite of sorts

Or more of that tasty sativa green

 

Finally, the rushes begin to roll

Traveling finger to finger, nose to toe.

My hair stands on end, I raise my paws.

Butt dancin in my chair

The music washes over me

The music humbles me

As my past 

Comes back to life

Lying Truth Reborn

Lying Truth

Facts injected with conjecture and foregone conclusions,

 Cast Truth aside in pursuit of knee jerked solutions.

 Lost in a sea of deception,

 Specious goals are massaged by lying hands,

 Replacing Honesty with Truth’s ugly step sister,

 The Half Truth.

 

 The Midway Squawkers and Snake Oil Salesmen

 Insist and demand the Half Truth into our lives

 Hoping their deception lasts long enough

 For them to cash in their nickels and dimes.

 

 Assaulted long enough,

 We allow recent lies to become our New Truth.

 Delusion casts itself in stone

 Brain dead populations dance around it

 Happy as if they had brains.

 ___________________

I first wrote this as a Flash fiction 100 word composition quite awhile ago. I have now converted it into a poem with some minor changes. It is no longer 100 words, it is now 99 words.

I thought given the current political moods clashing and thrashing worse than ever, re-posting it here and now might just impart how I feel regarding the current crop of leaders and their lackeys.

___________________

So I had no problem locating an appropriate tune for this post. 

"Lyin Eyes" by the Eagles will do just fine.

______________________

The Image at top is an enhanced photo taken in Stalingrad during World War ll. 

It is titled " Barmalej " (Children dancing around Crocodile )

The Boardwalk

The truck slammed into the loading dock behind Thrasher's Fries with a bang.  "Here ya go fellas, Ocean City."   

Porko and Phil grinned.  They had really lucked out.  One ride from the DC Beltway all the way to OC was as good as it got.  All they had to do now was help the driver unload 40,000 pounds of potatoes.

Just over three hours later, Phil finally located the one hundred pound bag of Idaho's finest they had been looking for.  Of course it was the last one on the truck.  Phil muscled that last bag out to the pallet sitting on the dock.  Porko was busy trying to figure how many bags it took to total 40,000 pounds.

"Let's see.........10 bags is ...uh .... 1000 pounds..... 20 bags would....................."

"Jesus Porko, you are such a dumb ass.  400 bags, you bonehead.  And since you are lazy to boot, that would mean you carried maybe 50.  I carried the rest."

Porko sat on the last skid of potatoes and lit a cigarette.  He tipped his head back and blew a large plume into the air.  "Yeah, I'm a lazy bastard.  Good thing I brought you along."  He grinned at Phil.

The driver came through the dock doors with his pallet jack.  "Last one guys."  He jacked up the pallet and swung it around.  "Give me a few minutes and I'll be back with fries and some pop.  Thrasher's fries are the best there is you know.  You guys did a great job.  I'll make it back to B-more by dark."  He yanked hard on the pallet jack and disappeared through the doors.

~*~

"You know the kid working the peeling machine at Thrashers told me he and his buddy usually get $40 each to help unload.  We got $15.  What a rip off."

Sitting on the boardwalk at Ninth Street with his bare feet in the sand, Phil looked at Porko and shook his head.

"The man gave us a ride.  He paid us, fed us, and you complain?  You aren’t just lazy, you're an inconsiderate whiner to boot."

"But $15 each?  Slave wages.   The sooner I find a rich woman ........."

"Can it Porko.   You are so full of shit."

"Yeah well........at least I'm not still a cherry like you."

"Screwin your sister don't count."

Porko shoved Phil off the boardwalk onto the soft sand.

"You take that back.  It was her buddy I nailed.  You know that."

Phil was not smiling.   His virginity hung heavy on his mind.  Jeez, he was 17 and still seducing his hand.  Phil stopped thinking about it.  He was resigned to the notion of dying at age 80 un-laid and grumpy. 

"You fellows want some weed?"

Porko jumped.  "What the Hell man?  Don't sneak up on us like that."

Still on the sand and on his back, Phil strained to see over the edge of the boardwalk. A scruffy hippy wearing blue tinted granny glasses was standing behind Porko.  Phil hopped up on the boardwalk

"Uh, sure man, we’re always looking for weed.  How much and what kind?" .

"Hold it Phil.  We don't know this guy.  He could be a narc."

"Porko, shut up.  So what if he's a narc.  It's just weed."

The hippy grimaced.  “Man, if I was a narc, would I be selling weed?

Porko considered this.  “Uh, I guess not man.  Whatja got?”

“ Nickel bags of Commercial or Sinse.  Mersh is $10, $15 for the Sinse.”

Phil and Porko huddled.  Pockets were checked.  Mumbled words exchanged.

“Look fellas, I ain’t got all day.  You want some weed or not?”

Phil turned.  “ Two nickels of Sinse.”  He reached in his pocket.

“Jesus guy, not here.  Let’s take it over there.”  The hippy nodded towards a narrow alley separating a couple of souvenir shops.

~*~

“Where the Hell did you get $50?”  Porko studied Phil’s face.

“The truck driver gave it to me.”

“He gave you $50?  What the Hell man?  He gave me….”

Phil smiled.  “Yeah, he gave you $15.  Told me you weren’t worth even that much.  But who cares anyway?  We have weed, we’re baked and we can still eat tonight.  This trip to OC without the parents is working out just great.” 

Phil passed the joint to Porko and laid back on the sand.  A wave broke over his legs, creating a rush that slowly worked its way up his spine, ending in a full body shiver.  Who cared if school started in a couple of weeks?  Who cared what happened tomorrow?  Tonight he was free and stoned.  Life did not get any better than this.

Phil turned his head toward Porko. Porko was holding the joint and staring at it. He was not smoking it.

“Damn Porko, if you ain’t gonna smoke that doob, don’t Bogart it. Pass it back over to me asshole."

~*~_____________~*~

The Boardwalk – fictionalized memoir from 1969 - @ 800 words

A tale that is mostly true. Expect "Part 2" at some point. Those 6 days were full of seminal moments.

______________________________

Of course I can't forget some music to help set the tone - The Drifters',  "Under the Boardwalk"  will do just fine. Enjoy!

The Weight of Command

Crimson's Creative Challenge 160

Wed, Dec 1, 2021 - Photo Prompt

Respond with something creative - 

> it could be anything, but if its flash, keep it 150 words or less.

_____________________________

Alton peered over the distant field that after tomorrow would never be the same. Blood would be spilled there. Great machines of death would destroy each other, creating huge craters into which the blood and bodies of men would fall.

A tear ran down Alton’s cheek.

Yes, tomorrow would play out using the plans he had developed. He enjoyed the strategies and setting the pieces on the board in the tent behind enemy lines. But as he panned his binoculars over tomorrow’s killing ground, he became quite sad and despondent. He always did.

General Bishop dropped the binoculars, gritted his teeth, turned to his aide and pointed northwest of their position.

“Things look ready here lieutenant . Let’s head over to that hedgerow there.”

As they made their way back to the jeep, Alton stumbled into a rickety wooden sign that read “Verson”.  He wondered if Verson would survive tomorrow.

_________________________

150 words

More Shock and Awe Value

Vlad the Impaler watched his son doodling on parchment and felt a twinge of worry and regret. He hoped his son would keep the family tradition and stand tall against those who would destroy the kingdom. Current indications created little confidence that Tad could carry the Dracul torch.

Tad looked up at his father and pointed to his parchment.

“Impaling enemies willy nilly like you do is sloppy and makes the kingdom look like a ghetto. My espalier system on an iron framework is neater and has more shock and awe value per linear foot.”

Vlad smiled and stopped worrying.

_____________________________________

12/3/2021 - Prediction Flash Challenge - 100 words

Words for the coming week: current, espalier, regret

Entries by midnight Thursday 9th December,  new words posted Friday 10th 

                Espalier – Trained tree to grow next to a wall – usually a fruit tree.

God's Goat - CR99

Mary was not happy. Forty parasangs over two days on the back of an ass was the last straw. She glared at Joe as he placed fresh hay in a manger for the kid. A small goat watched and immediately hopped in the manger and pooped.

“Mary, the little asshole shit in Jesus’ bed.”

Busy unpacking the donkey, Mary did not hear Joe.

“What Joe? “

Louder now, “The goat shit in the manger.………  If the big guy gets wind of this I wouldn’t want to be in that goat’s hooves.” 

The goat looked up at Mary and bleated. 

______________________________

 Carrot Ranch Flash Challenge – 99 Words - Dec., 2nd, 2021

   Prompt - a story about the little white goat found in the Nativity Scene

My First Trip

My First Trip - MMMC #184


It was a beautiful spring Sunday in 1969. I was in my junior year at Charlotte Hall Military Academy. Newt said he would have some LSD for us to try. He promised to be back early Sunday AM. We would have the whole day to trip.

Other than morning mess and church formation, cadets pretty much had Sundays to themselves. Sundays at Charlotte Hall were some of my fondest memories of high school.

A popular activity for the cadets still on campus was to take a blanket from their footlocker and spread them at the fringes of the pucker brush behind the New Barracks. Someone would throw up a window and turn their stereo up to wow. Good times. Other than some tight ass Officer of the Day pulling a recon and sneaking up on us from behind to break our balls, we could get away with almost anything.

Stuck on campus on a Sunday lent itself to all manner of rule breaking. We smoked cigarettes. We blasphemed. We smoked pot. We blasphemed some more. We drank what alcohol was available and blasphemed a lot. We huffed Carbona, a spot remover we bought at the campus PX.

Today four of us would experience LSD for the first time.

After collecting payment, Newt handed each of us a hit of Strawberry Fields. They were small little red pills. He called them “microdots”. I remember a heated discussion over the size of them. Snake claimed his cousin had Orange Sunshine for cheaper and the pills were much bigger.

Newt said nothing except, “Drop the pills boys. You’ll be fine in forty-five.”

It was all very ritualistic. Each of us lifted the pills like glasses ready to toast. Newt spewed some hippie mumbo jumbo and we each swallowed our pills.

Newt was wrong. I was fine in 30 minutes. I remember lying on my back and studying the various cumulous constructions being erected in the brilliantly blue sky over me when I suddenly burst out laughing. I did not stop laughing until I ran out of tears. When I did manage to collect myself, through my spent tears I noticed everything around me was distorted dramatically or moving in very mysterious ways or both. I had gotten off and it was glorious. There was nothing finer in the whole of Existence than LSD. Of that I was sure.

That day I watched ants with my head inches off the ground. I scrutinized the crusty, rusty metal dinosaurs from wars long past that were scattered around campus. I was stung by a wasp when I held it near my ear to listen. Damn ear swelled up and hurt for a week. There were other adventures that day and none of them were anything but wonderful.

I had a grand time and vowed when I was lying awake in bed two hours after Taps that night; there was no doubt in my mind that I would drop LSD again.

I stopped counting 185 trips later.

________________________________