~Voices~

To hear that voice, see that mouth move

Venom from a snake, a heart with a stake

Wishful thinking, blissful lilting

Nails, wires, ropes for a dope

The joy of silence, the end of trilling

From a tree or a cliff or a mountainside

From a bottle, a pillow, a knife

In the water, on a plane, off a deck

Poof no magic draggin’

Rounds or ovals, whites and pinks

Yellows and blues, oranges too

Sweet tasting goods can fix your car

Voices that soothe, voices that lull

Words that hurt, words that purge

Love and hate, Hate and love

Words written in blood, spoken in truth

The Outhouse Chronicles~

what nightmares are made of
what nightmares are made of

Once upon a time, in the very beginning, there was a house, my grandparents lived there, it had a covered patio/carport and next to it, almost connected was another structure, this structure was our first home in Texas. There was neither bathroom nor running water, for those needs we went next door to my grandmother’s house. There was a half wall and this was split up by curtains that acted as walls, this afforded my parents some modicum of privacy and gave us (my older brother and myself) our own room. My mother had a contentious relationship with her in laws; my grandparents and unmarried live in daughter, my aunt. So after a short while we moved to our third or fourth home, possibly fifth home, I was but a couple of years old if that. I have vague recollections, and I write off of these vague memories.

This new home was a wooden four room frame structure, a living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms, no indoor bathroom; we had an outhouse in a makeshift carport. Times were tough, my parents were a young married couple with two kids they had unplanned back to back, slowly the house would come about.

I have a rather vivid memory of a trip to the outhouse, that one trip would begin the new addition/expansion to our home, a bathroom, pantry, small hall and a third bedroom. But I am getting ahead of myself here, one night I had to go to the outhouse, a consequence of not emptying my bladder before bedtime or possibly consuming more liquids than I should have. I remember waking my dad up, he grabbing the flashlight and walking me outside. This nighttime outhouse trip always terrified me, this particular night it scared the pee right into me. I could see a slithering snake along the wall and recall my dad saying to me to back up slowly, as if. I was ready to bolt but at the same time scared shitless, or rather scared pissless. He picked me up and carried me back into the house, which meant the dreaded bucket. I remember I couldn’t perform, not a drop, it was well into the next day before I was able to relieve myself. It was also the last time I would use the outhouse after dark; my dad had to drive me over to my grandparents’ house every day to use their bathroom.

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