Day 88 – She

I saw her eyes
but she could not speak-
a miracle
wasting time

they welled with things
I couldn’t understand,
maybe now,
but not back then

I needed her to sing,
needed her to validate
my guitar,
needed her to be
what I was missing
in a song

but she was silent,
holding back

and I knew soon
she would be gone


Year 2: Day 103 – Breakfast Faith

I’m never sure if there’s any cereal left in the box
but I get out a bowl and pour it anyway-
there’s enough doubt in this world
without ruining breakfast.
If I’m out, I’m out,
and I know how to get more.

The same is true for many things;
it takes faith to ride elevators
and faith to drive
and faith to raise children
and faith to write.

I’m never sure if there are any words left in my fingers
but I sit at the keyboard and pour them anyway-
there’s enough doubt in this world
without keeping silent.
If I’m out, I’m out,
and I know how to get more.

52 Flashes of Fiction: Week 17 – Silent Protest

I read somewhere recently that this local singer said some bad stuff about women and now all the feminist groups in town are boycotting anywhere he sings. They refuse to patronize any establishment that supports him by letting him perform. I think this is what they call a silent protest, where you let your money speak for you. Supposedly the businesses will get the idea that they want their customers back and will boot the offending performer, but I think this is a lot of boloney.

Of anything, I would like to think that protesting would be the last arena where political correctness would be concerned. It’s like when you don’t want to start a fight with someone but you’re just snarky enough to drop the hint that you’re upset and wait for them to come apologize. Does that ever work?

I don’t particularly care who thinks I’m supporting them when I buy a cup of coffee. Hopefully it’s the person who made the coffee, but y’know, the coffee could turn out to be terrible as soon as I walk away from the register and the person would still think I liked it if I didn’t complain.

Nobody likes to complain about their coffee though because it shoots us full of “first-world problem” pains while we do it. And whose fault is it really that you don’t like the coffee? We could pin that sucker all the way back to the cow who fertilized the beans in Cuba. And besides, maybe WE’RE the weird ones who can’t tell good coffee when we’ve paid for it. Maybe we’re getting a cold or something and it’s actually just our mistake.

So we just don’t buy that coffee anymore. We don’t go back to that awful coffee shop and heh, we showed them with our dollars what we like and don’t like. We snatched our dollars right out of the mouths of the children of whoever is responsible for such bad coffee.

I mean, if you believe that it’s all just a matter of supply and demand, if you think it’s a voiceless economy that dictates what goes on, what fails and prospers, if you think that money does all the talking, then I guess it makes sense that you just pick up your stack of monopoly papers and go home.

But I think it’s a lot of boloney.