A.G.E's Joint

Rain was speckling the windshield, turning streetlights into starbursts and oncoming headlights into energy fields he didn't understand. Didn't matter anyway. A flick of a lever started the wipers on their slow, rhythmic pace. Click Clack...Click Clack....  As Jeremy drove, the car bomb scene replayed itself in time with the noise.Click Clack...Click Clack... Chaos and destruction was what his life kept coming back to. Chaos he was used to. Destruction was going to be a new experience. Ole Harry here, back with you geezers  on WOFT.  You remember the Golden Age of Music of the late 1970's? Oh, wow. Don't I sound like your mother? The tone she would use talkin' about how Acid and 'Ludes would give you flashbacks? In honor of that sentiment, he is Jimmy Buffett with "We Are the People Are Parents Warned Us About..." The steel drums coming from the speakers seemed to turn off the noise in his head. The rain began to slack off. Roswell Road was desert

Jeremy became more alert in the cool night air. The Toyota hadn’t been towed yet. Breathing in, he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The glow from the Kroger sign warmed him.   He faked calling the taxi; he knew the bartender was going to take his keys.  And he need time to think on how exactly to bring the ascendant swine down to their appointment with the butcher. The image of the car bomb blinked silently in his mind.  Twisted metal shredding bodies.  "In Kandahar, a car bomb was detonated in front of a local police station…" . The words came out involuntarily.  Echolalia, he thought.  Common among the autistic and epileptic was what the article at the hospital had said.  Didn't someone say he was autistic at some point?  The doctors never could agree on what they thought of him.  And he didn't care. The reaction voiced what was inside. He wondered if Kandahar could be replaced with Sandy Springs, Dunwoody or Atlanta.  All the auth

Never again…. A phrase that makes a liar out of anyone who utters it. We say "never again" when our head and body aches after a long binge, yet pick up the bottle the very next day. We say "never again" when our belly is extended from gluttony, yet prepare double the food we need. We say "never again" when we see children starving, while we eat the meal. We say "never again" when we wake next naked next to a stranger, knowing the cold comfort in anonymous pairings. We say "never again" when we see the poor robbed of their few belongings, yet another generation of thieves are always there. We say "never again" when we see the enslaved free, but millions return to indenture. We say "never again" when we see the corpses of the latest massacre, yet the zealots and jealous  who wish domination will not be swayed.    Never again should we speak it. The words prove how utterly fl

"Paranoia is just another word for ignorance." Scotch spun in the glass as these words sprung from the page. Thompson was right, of course. He feared for of a lack of knowledge. The world is crazy. Can't explain why he spent three days in the nuthouse any other way. Shrugging his thin shoulders, he took an unfiltered cigarette out of his battered leather jacket.and placed it in his mouth. Couldn't smoke in the bar, so he just chewed the end like a cigar. The bitter juice jolted his nervous system and muted the drag from the shots.  They knew him well here at 3 Sheets . He had been coming here since before he could legally drink, because they never carded. Comfortably dark room and always the same seat overlooking the bridal shop. The Crack Kroger across the parking lot with it's comforting blue neon glow. Always the same drink, Cutty Sark on the rocks.A very ritualistic existence. Counselors, Lawyers, Cops...all those pigs were watching, asking questio

When I was a little, my mother would make Red Rice. It is a humble dish, adapted from the Gullah settlers during the depression.  It's combination of leftover meat and vegetables was designed to fill bellies with low cost.  But even to this day, I equate this dish with weekday dinner. It didn't matter what Mom's sobriety level was that night, she never would mess this recipe up.  And I would eat until my heart's content.  When I was in college, my own ability to make this dish earned me more than one couch to stay on. But now, I rarely get to eat it. My wife and kids hate onions and bell peppers. I need to take a vacation. So, I can eat it again.   Savannah Red Rice