Spitball Army

He walked the grocery store aisles, office badge hanging at his chest by a lanyard, drawing stares as if he were amply mammaried.

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His elderly cat moans from the center of the room. It’s Kitty Alzheimer’s, the Vet says. You just need to remind her where she is.

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The stuffy bus, stage door fatties, the hydraulic-ice-cream-cone-stage-entrance: life after American Idol wasn’t what he expected. – Written by @EdBankson.

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His fists pound the bully; he exacts revenge, astride the tough’s chest, channeling his aggressor in a radiant moment of re-spite.

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The cellist rocked; his partner’s hands rolled over the keyboard. They followed Beethoven with “Truckin’.” The audience: grateful. solow-auerbach_duo_blend_dead.html

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I teetered at the edge. My foothold crumbled. Flipping in midair, I tried flailing, helpless as the Venus de Milo. Then I awoke.

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I purchased your love letters. I blogged about you. Then, you died. Your niece googled your obituary. Now she knows your secrets.

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He loved life; she wanted him to change. That’s why they split. It’s tough to dance around the room with one foot out the door.

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I await my Unity Breakfast partners curbside, a scarce white face on MLK Day. I’m handed keys to an Escalade and asked to park it.

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If only I hadn’t been lost in Martin Eden. I glanced up as the tram door closed behind her silhouette; then the mists took her.

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