The city was hot. But not like last week. Humid, sticky, murderous.
Bart walked the streets.
The warm stench of urine wafted up from the grates over the subway.
Trudy was working.
She was always working.
Usually, Bart enjoyed taking a stroll around the city. His mind would fire with interesting thoughts like fireflies in the woods at night.
Today he went to the local Schlockbusters looking for a movie.
It was hot in the store.
No air conditioning. No good movies either.
He went to a local Great Buy. Nothing good there either unless you had four grand and change to spend on a flat screen TV.
Nothing in the music dept. no new CDs or music videos.
Then he went next door to the bookstore. All the new books looked the same. They looked like a scam. Like something unreal. The famous faces on the covers were all ugly and self-important.
He made his way over to the classics section hoping for inspiration.
Bart flipped through a book by Ernie Humdinger on writing.
Even when old Ernie tried to sound humble in his letters to other writers… He still came off as a pompous jerk.
Perhaps he should have written a book entitled “How to take yourself too seriously.”
Or better yet…’How to be your own worst critic’…kablam!
Bart walked past the homeless guy with the face of a crocodile outside of the drugstore. He would stay there every day and sing to himself. Not a great job, but seemed like he had tenure at least.
The world just was not creative anymore.
There were no great writers, musicians, filmmakers or intelligent life forms in all of Hollywood.
Every day a stupid new reality show was being perpetrated on the public. The latest had a bunch of rich kids on a cattle ranch.
It was a rip off of another rip off of an old idea that was re-heated and re-cast.
Bart felt like he was inhaling sand and chewing on sawdust. To make things worse…everywhere he looked it seemed like new strange little birds were crawling in the dirt or in the bushes or flying over his head just a little too close for comfort.
An uneasy day.
Even the letters he strung together on his computer didn’t seem to
fit. He tried to write a poem:
That’s What Happens
They come to me
at the strangest times
these images
of alligators playing croquet
a psychedelic Buddha
pink and white undies
underneath that blue and green tartan skirt
they come like lightning bolts
and dripping water
images of
leopard headed monkeys
with emerald eyes and tails
that never end
in the shower
or on the john
they crawl through my windows
with slimy tentacles
slippery and silent
pigeons explode inside my brain
horses and hippos
bathe in pools of
rainbow-glo blood
I guess that’s what happens
when love
goes away.
He immediately crumpled it up and threw it out the window.
Fuck this Goddamn building he thought…no goddamn AC! The anger seared through him… another poem was making its way into his brain…he grabbed a pencil and a piece of scrap paper.
Not An Artist
really bad poetry
keeps pouring out of me
like peacock blood
unicorn vomit
and mermaid gas
really bad poetry
like a mountain
of fool’s gold
is easy to mine
but useless to all.
really bad poetry
flows from this pen
ruining perfectly good
loose-leaf paper
words with
no order
or rhythm
or depth
dance away from my
fingers
and glare back at me
with righteous indignation
bad
bad
bad
bad!!!
with no purpose at all
just to fool a fool
who is
not an artist.
Again, Bart crumpled up the paper and threw it out the window.
He stood up and looked at his reflection in the metal lamp pole on the desk.
Distorted.
He grabbed for another piece of scrap paper.
Roxy’s Cat
You’re asleep
I just know it
while your cat
patters about on a
black velvet carpet
of night
you’re asleep
I just know it
while my heart screams
your name
I listen to my air conditioner
it tells me to stay calm
be a cool cat…
while time washes me down the drain
my face
my smell
my laugh
my love
you’re asleep
I just know it
that water dripping
in my bathroom
told me so.
Once again, Bart crumpled up the poem and threw it out the window.
He walked over to the refrigerator.
Opened it.
Looked in.
Closed it.
Stood there.
Took his pencil and wrote a note on the pad attached to the door with a magnet.
Then he went into the bedroom.
Packed a bag and never came back.
Banner Image: Pixabay.com
literally stories 
Here I am again at one of the loneliest white boxes surrounded by a field of blue, utterly amazed by Mr. K’s continuing demonstrations of hard knock verse and flowing verse. Men named Bart have hard lives. Fresh starts and AC is the only way
LikeLike
yes, we feel very lucky that Mr K is is so very prolific and willing to keep on sending. He also has an artist page on the site with his own sketches.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wasn’t there a gallery of images at one time?
LikeLike
There was indeed but the site is growing so very quickly and we needed to cut back on some of the content. As the author pages carry images of our wonderful writers the gallery had to be culled. Sorry Adam does have an artist page with some of his sketches and drawings on however.
LikeLike
Excellent, and seamless, blend of prose and poetry.
LikeLike
Bart should have been reading Literally Stories, Fiction On The Web, Potluck, Nugget Tales and all of the other fine purveyors of literature and poetry.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It takes a poet to hear words coming from a dripping faucet. I found this story unique and fascinating!
LikeLike
honored by such kind and thoughtful comments-A
LikeLike
Hi Adam,
So many strings to your bow…And everyone of them so interesting!!
All the very best my friend.
Hugh
LikeLike