been a while

The day was long. Or maybe it was the afternoon that seemed longer, anyway. But he was home now. He was pale in sheepish monkhood. He sat down at his desk. Wallace opened the can of beer that sat beckoning, and releasing the pressure stimulating his ear by way of tiny vibrations that only a certain peoples are aware to the exact pitch, his universe became once again balanced. He finished the can in one or two, large gulps and a smile returned to his brow. It was just before dinnertime in the humid-heavy blanketed town. It was early June.

“Boy, I wish it would rain,” he thought.

“Me too, he heard the dog say.”

His eyebrows arched and he looked down and to the right. The room filled with the smell of puppy fart, and seeing the dog was asleep Wallace wondered if that was his conscience, and then if his conscience had evolved as he had grown old.

“SHIT! These beers sure are strong,” he thought. He reached down into the cooler that long fossilized his presence, indistinguishable and honest, and fished through the melting ice cubes raising the 12oz. can from the gaveyard abyss, liquefied now and previous solid form dripped heavy with gravity fell and splashed down raising the waters level, he wiped the remaining liquid on his cut off jean shorts, closed the lid and placed the can in the same spot as the previous. Systematic.

The dog rolled over and was now with its backside directed away from his sense. The rooms smell was dissipating its fart smell and the air grew cooler. Of in the distance a motorcycle accelerated its light red shifted until vanishing over the hill. A vacuum cleaner came to life in the apartment next to his and when it shut off he could hear the faint humming from the blonde girl who lived there. A pretty bird he thought. One who always lost her eggs. They had lived in adjacent apartments for a few months now but rarely saw one another except on the weekends though he could hear movement in her apartment on most days.

Wallace was alone.

He was always alone.

He didn’t mind being alone, in fact most days he preferred to be alone in his own thoughts this changed when he was drinking in a manner that some would label as heavy, or excessive—for example, seven or eight beers might pregame four or five shots of scotch to return again back to the beers and polish of the 12-pak, to return again to the scotch, sometimes bourbon.[1] Being alone and writing normally wouldn’t bother another soul in the world though being a social animal: Wallace, during these times, needed fresh air, and fresh looks. So, he sometimes would take to the streets.

Just then, the phone rang.

Riiiiing, R-I-N-G, r-i-n-g.

Ring.

“Hello.” Wallace answered.

Silence.

“Hello,” he greeted once more.

There was a knock at the door.

Wallace looked toward the door and then back down to the phone. He sat the phone on the ground and walked toward the door.

“It will rain,” a voice shuttered from the other end of the spectrum.

Click.

The receiver went dead.

Wallace switched on the porch light and opened the door. There was no one there. The night was crisp and still, something furry brushed against his calf. The dog was awake and wanting to go outside. They stepped down onto the porch and down the stairs.

Just then, the wind picked up and it started to rain.

6/14/15

It was hot.

It was early.

Outside, the wind blew waves of communication: the squeals of the neighboring kids, the smell of freshly cut grass, visible light, warming into the study. Our main character stood up and elongated his posture into the maximum distance his skeletal structure would admit. He was of elderly hue. He had long hair and a beard that was perfectly opaque in the exact same ways from a distance if he was still and, provide his clothing didn’t clash but camouflaged and concealed, old Hank might be mistaken for a battered and broken concrete pole, skinny and slightly askew warn with both weather and time.

A industrial finisher for years Hank

“Bluebird”

(charles bukowski)

ha had a thick accent

she smiled when he spoke

they kissed under the stars

he shipped off afar

under the twinkle of the night

and when moon is bright

looks up

and

know that

I look too

We are in the same

PoEM

(Nathan Haynos)

one more beer

ill take all of you

one more beer and

ill be drunk too

one more beer

one more beer

a typewriter on a laptop

(nathanj. haynos)

all of the following is an inchohearent uncheck stream of consiences typed as fast as allowed so please don’t be offended in anyrate this is just my brain (Read: I am on durgs)

he found his name.

the lonely letter said so

altogether different altogether: only

talking to people, the nicest of folk: when fucked up is increasingly difficult. I believe this in-part to be entirely due to the nature of my mothers side. That is, in other words, in its most severe syktosophrentic in nature. Something like 14% battery on the 14^th. What is the world. What is the nature of the world What is the relationship between interaction? What happens after?

[1] Do not discard the amphetamines and weeds that normally accompanied