“BREAKING NEWS” seems to be the consistent thing to read nowadays. I stare at the screen with the words in all-caps and red ink and think, Does this truly get people to read? Another life gone from racism and brutality. I begin to cry, remembering a December night two years ago. I was riding the local light rail to Phoenix for a show. There were a handful of people on board. Two police officers were walking around, asking for our tickets. One didn’t obey. One told the cops to mind their own business or something like that. I guess, you can say the One did start it, but I won’t be back to that night for real confirmation. My memory only can recall the two cops on top of the One pinning her to the ground, noise of abuse, plastic stiffness from
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The labradoodle pup? The man who broke up with me? The One remains in the past. The pup, well, she’s here by my side, biting my knee, begging for a treat. The man, oh that man has his face in my online photo album titled, “Why Do I Bang Assholes?” I ponder at each masked face and attempt to figure out my love life’s pattern. Two Cancers, One Aquarius, Three Virgos, One Taurus, One Pisces. One with blonde hair, three with brown hair, four with black hair. That’s as far as I got. (Now, you’re probably assuming my number is eight!) Think what you want. It’s realistic fiction. And you must also be wondering: How are the One, the pup, and the man connected in this creative piece? Simple. They all made me cry the same cry. “BREAKING NEWS.” Writer wants to know if the readers are following along. Can you analyze my pattern? Will you give me a label, so I can pretend to know what I’m doing? Does the font need to be in red for you to become involved, interested? I sit with my smoke and stout (actually an IPA, but ya know, alliteration) like a stubborn, loyal American and pretend to be creative. Egos, germs, bleakness. Past, present, future. First, middle, last. Hakuna, Ma, Tata. Maybe, I’ll have a better chance at creativity in my
The labradoodle pup? The man who broke up with me? The One remains in the past. The pup, well, she’s here by my side, biting my knee, begging for a treat. The man, oh that man has his face in my online photo album titled, “Why Do I Bang Assholes?” I ponder at each masked face and attempt to figure out my love life’s pattern. Two Cancers, One Aquarius, Three Virgos, One Taurus, One Pisces. One with blonde hair, three with brown hair, four with black hair. That’s as far as I got. (Now, you’re probably assuming my number is eight!) Think what you want. It’s realistic fiction. And you must also be wondering: How are the One, the pup, and the man connected in this creative piece? Simple. They all made me cry the same cry. “BREAKING NEWS.” Writer wants to know if the readers are following along. Can you analyze my pattern? Will you give me a label, so I can pretend to know what I’m doing? Does the font need to be in red for you to become involved, interested? I sit with my smoke and stout (actually an IPA, but ya know, alliteration) like a stubborn, loyal American and pretend to be creative. Egos, germs, bleakness. Past, present, future. First, middle, last. Hakuna, Ma, Tata. Maybe, I’ll have a better chance at creativity in my