How'd you get so fonky?

as the plot thickens, it gives me the dickens reminiscing of charles

[markussorealheis]

GROWING ON ME

I can't feel my fingertips, but you can't either. You've been growing on me for damn near a decade. The stylish black toboggans everyone is sporting don't have anything on you, mane. You coddle my ears, unless I pin you down, holding your arms and legs together, You embrace my cheeks, but stay out of my eyes or I will smack you something fierce. They wouldn't hire me because we were in cahoots. Honestly though, I won't work for any suit of a man who's got a problem with us. When I turned 18, we both witnessed the birth of your little brother. He was a healthy brown boy. Sprouts on my chin quickly grew to my cheeks. Now at 45, you've been peppered grey. The passion we once had has shifted to messy indifference. Maybe it's time we parted ways.

[markussorealheis]

THAT CAT HAS CLASS

We always used to slink around, hugging the corners of the Cabrini-Green. Those red bricks weren't much to look at, but the whole bunch had a zest for life. Mrs. Johanas would always leave us a bowl, the standard chicken mix, every single day. That greedy asshole, Tom, quick to give me a jab when I tried to grab a bite. I was one of seven. None of us had ever met dad. Mom wanted us off the teat ASAP and she left too, one morning, after nabbing us a sparrow. As expected, I saw you soaking up the sun, perched on your white lace pillow in the window. You were young, but already had a house with carpet that you only used to manicure your nails. Casually cleaning your pristine white coat, you vibrated contently, stretching your head over your arm. I hope you choke on that fresh cut of salmon, you fortunate, yuppie scum.

[markussorealheis]

OUT OF DODGE

Darryl shot out the door at precisely 8:05 PM. Kelly, with a black eye, told him if he'd ever wanted to come back he'd better start acting like the prematurely grey, 35 year old benevolent father he claimed to be. He jabbed the key three times before it sank into the ignition of the rusted '87 Volvo. The snowstorm that kept interrupting CSI had already laid a thick blanket on the suburban Indiana streets. Cursing the Tom Petty CD that was scratched to hell, the light shifted green on First and Brown. A split second decision routed Darryl South, anywhere but here. The ice on I-65 grew as the mile markers ticked downward. "Last dance-ce-ce-ce-ce-ce-ce-ce." The CD ejects, and Darryl breathes a fog onto the disc when something on four legs leapt across the highway. Stomping down at 95 miles an hour, the breaks instantly lock. His hands at 10 and 2, Darryl's teeth gnash with the force of a vice. He skitters to a stop in the median, not a scratch on the old rust bucket. "Stop doing so much damn cocaine," Darryl pleads to his eyes in the rearview, retrieving a Pall Mall Red.

[markussorealheis]

The King of Pop

The rod iron gate clangs shut as he reaches toward the spigot. Humming a tune to himself, water guzzles into the rusted green can. Shears, gloves, and can in hand, he waltzes across the patio. Drops of sweat roll onto his pointed nose, and to think, it's just May. Stopping five feet short of the young bed, Mike takes a knee. He pulls his gloves on, first left then right. A smile emerges on his face as he grasps the handle of the watering can. Slowly rising, he suddenly turns a half circle. Mike begins to gently glide alongside the dirt, while at a 20 degree tilt, the water trickles out of the spout. The lilac and begonias are loving it, jumping with excitement, while the azaleas are unimpressed, but you can't please them all. After the dirt sweetly saturated, he casts the green bucket into the grass. Stretching down, he lifts the shears up to his waist. Chopping the air a twice quickly, to make sure they still work, he edges his head left and fixes his eyes on the juniper bushes. Audibly laughing, he hacks the each bush into a nice oval. The juniper sheds the last of it's split ends before Michael is satisfied. "Who's bad?" Michael murmurs to himself, reaching up to wipe the sweat with his dirty left glove.

[markussorealheis]

Good Morning

Good Morning 6:15 am -tone- Why did you even set this? Your eyes know they don’t need to open yet. You smash the button using only muscle memory. 6:45 am –tone- What happened to your ambition last night? Did someone rob you of it in your dreams? Peek out and pound your fist on the button. 7:15 am -tone- “This is it,” you think, laying your palm on the button. The coffee grinder wakes everyone else in the house up. Liquid gold brewing, you collapse once more. 7:45 am -tone- 30 more minutes won’t kill you. When did these blankets get so warm? You lovingly boop the button on its nose. 8:45 am -snoring- 9:00 am -coughing- Bolt upright throwing a dirty glance at that god forsaken button. Screeching out of the door, there’s no coffee cup in sight. How could you have forgotten the fifth and most important alarm?

[markussorealheis]

INSTRUCTIONS

I hopped on my Schwinn as soon as I woke up. Like clockwork, I rode three neighborhoods over. The gazebo at the public pool was ours that summer. More often than not, all toting water bottles of our parent’s liquor. They opted for a game of three-on-three, but you had different plans. Ushering he and I back to his house, you wanted to teach us a different game. Almost shaking, I sat in the corner with my feet crossed. You were sprawled across the bed with him sitting beside you. Both the instructor and the canvass, you showed him exactly where his fingers should go. My turn had come faster than I'd expected. You pulled my forearm and I fell on top of you. Flashing me that inviting grin, I had to politely decline in the smallest voice I own. Mounting my metal chariot, it was a bumpy ride home.

[markussorealheis]

Beats were banging so loud they would bust open your cochlea.
You should buy a bag because I’m not trying to smoke with ya.

[markussorealheis]

lop off your pinky, ring, pointer and thumb and tell you to stay mad.

[deliacorona-blog]