I look for pennies on the parking lots and in stores. They are special cash treats, if you add them all up. A penny rested upon the plastic container of lottery tickets. I saw it as an extra $50 bucks if luck was involved, and bought the silly ticket. Ba Jeezus I'm a billionaire. What do you do next?  I sit. I tell no one but mom who doesn't believe me and I see the concern in her eyes. I Google how to manage millions. I go from there. But the main thing, I keep my mouth so shut, the angels would have to push the stone aside. It's easier to give without too many beggars up your butt.

I've been watching news announcers lately but not so much noticing the news. ZZ Top said it, "Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man!" That is totally true when it comes to menswear. Yeah, they might mix it up using the tissue pocket, but ladies, please!

There's no comparison! You women are wearing stilettos and slutwear! Jesus Christ you counter part your male co-worker (who is not wearing a wife beater), with spandex and too much leg. Bring those hems down! I don't want to see your cleavage no more than I want to see the weatherman's hairy chest. You don't have to spell it out! It's so obvious you have nothing left but to control your posture. You are exposed by your own choosing. Ladies, please! Put some classy clothes on. I can't even hear the news.

I was told to write a poem,

"Only nine lines long, is it to be",

That was the decree I received.

Sigh as I might, I have things to do,

"Kitchen the clean too, need I!"

Cry in vain I do,

For no one cares that dishes pile high!

With saddened heart, I finish my write,

Now to the dishes, they give me a fright!

Ken was a beautiful young man; the guy all the girls wanted and the guy all the other guys wanted to be. He was tan, lean, and always laughing. He was short, but chiseled. His blond hair, blue eyes, and confident swagger got any girl into the sack in no time. That shit came easy for Ken. What didn't come easy for Ken was life outside the bedroom or bathroom stall.

Ken never drank to excess, unlike me who only stopped when I could no longer lift my arms. Ken liked his cocaine, though, probably a little too much, but in those days too much was never enough. Ken's family had money. They owned a couple gas stations or something like that. He saw me playing my drums once, so went out that weekend and bought a huge set for himself. Ken took me flying with him once, and did a deliberate stall, so he would have to restart the engine with enough time to pull out of a free fall- fucking insane.

Ken blew his brains out two weeks later in his basement. I heard there was some gray matter on his drums.

The funeral service looked like the catwalk of some heroin chic modeling show, except with running mascara and tears. Some people wailed. Some people sniffled. Some looked like zombies in shock, and some had moments of all three.

I'm pretty sure I cried for Ken- all that misery festering beneath one of the the most perfect masks God had ever created. My buddies thought it was open season on distraught hotties. I recall I was sitting in a hard chair.

It’s not so fun on the other side of the cryptogram

When they’re trying to crack the keys to your mind

Cataloguing what’s inside into public knowledge

It was you who turned my mind into a riddle

Which we’re fighting to solve first

You who wish to kill its light

I who want to save it

It is like this, put simply:

I reach out with hopeful eye

Happiness winks, dissolving –

Only another hologram you projected

On the wall while I daydreamed

Happiness smiling and dancing away

But there’s still you, the riddle maker

Making riddles in my heart

However, I present to you your karma

As your riddles and mine combined

Are insolvable and inseparable like those cubes

The impossible ones with the dimensions all wrong

And right at the same time –

So congratulations.

You and me

Neither of us can solve me

I have better things to do on Wednesday nights than take turns, introducing myself, "Hi, my name is Holly, and I'm an alcoholic." How about, "Hi my name is Holly, and I have chlamydia" or "Hi my name is Holly and I'm an alien kleptomaniac." Many people in these meetings are emotionally blackmailed. Their probation officer is checking up. The family or judge must hear from their 'sponsor.' Their spouse will leave them. All seems to me to be a large pile of bullshit and an unhealthy form of control. Is it not all about perception where the line is drawn to label another an alcoholic? "Have you ever pissed someone off while you drank?" Replace the end of that sentence with "while you were sober." Oops, a 'check' yes. 

I have been accused of having the misfortunes of alcoholism by another ignorant, selfish, judgmental narcissistic human being with flaws of their own the size of Texas. Trying to even reason with this mindset will be called, (drum role), denial!

So that's it for me. Accused of being something I'm not, an alcoholic! I'll drink to that.

I’m floored, yet bored with

Zero return, zero reward

Dump him in a dumpster

Roll him in a sheet!

Fit him in the litter

Buckle him, chuckle

as you hang him

inside out

bones swaying to and fro.

Dump him in a dumpster

Roll him in a sheet!

Let him go, take his body

throw into manure

no lure, no allure, I’m sure

rant and rave

nothing to save

Dump him in a dumpster

Roll him in a sheet!

Puncture him, deflate ego

lay him in muck, duck

swat rot

Dump him in a dumpster

Roll him in a sheet!

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Sleepers

Wear their unfortunate masks of innocence

With sway and pride as Dorian Gray

Sleepers

Say they did not mean to

When internal injury makes you see the pictures of your life

Sleepers

Repeat words already spoken by a million, in millennia

Spreading judgement and fear and fear of judgement

Sleepers

Swap their friends and lovers, swiftly, casually

Because there’s always other people out there

Should you find one today

Shake him so he wakes

But if unresponsive let him sleep

The dreamers are out of our reach

Followers of Morpheus’ path

We have no choice, we let the sleepers go