My Cardboard Balcony

After Dinner by Belinda Roddie gray gray obtuse angle the way I hold my pen and the way you kiss me with your arms like clamps and your lips scaley from the bread you've just eaten round and round we tumble between the cushions grease spittle against my cheek the ricochet bounce momentum of your teeth

"Savage Garden? I remember them! Their songs were so marvelously sappy." We were rummaging through our boxes and towers of CDs before Dad started the garage sale. Rhonda had uncovered several of her Celine Dion disks, while I had found my Backstreet Boy ones. We giggled like schoolgirls again as we searched. "To think I occasionally still listen to all this," I laughed.

Lillies dancing across pads of green and brown. The fall mixing with the spring air. Chimney smoke trapped under a frothy sun. You exit your office building with your briefcase dripping with coffee. Your co-worker spilled his mug across your lap. You sit by the pond for a bit and let your cheeks grow red in the hybrid of heat and frost. You are alone, and you are happy.

by Belinda Roddie "I'll fucking kill you!" He's smashing his fist into tables, sending splinters into the air. He's searching for the girl with bushy eyebrows and short hair. He's looking for the "she-man." "I'll kill you!" She stands there quietly, calmly. One hand clasping the porcelain wrist. The girlfriend shakes but holds on tight. Her fingers stroke the leather jacket. "I'll - " He stops with a hole in his chest. He drops. Dust clears. All calm. An old cowboy lowers a hidden handgun. Skeletal shells hollow on the floor. He lets the smoke rile the tips of his wispy beard. There is quiet in the bar. Quiet down the street. Quiet for the girl holding her love against her shoulder. The girl who wants to be a man holds her back. The cowboy tips his hat and calls her, "Sir." A very polite smile. He lets them walk out quietly, somberly. Their footprints do not track the blood. The sirens begin ...

The oil dripping from the pipe was a bright, bright silver. Not golden brown nor pitch black like muddy tar on a warm asphalt road. We took a bottle of it and brewed it in the bellies of our truck, and the truck ran for months without needing a refill. Everyone wanted some of this miracle oil, but we didn't know how it had happened. A fluke in the system or some mishap of nature. But all the same, people wanted it. And they wanted it fast.

Some nights you have a lot to say when not much has happened, and some nights you have nothing to say when a lot has happened. Tonight happens to be the latter. Mostly it's been the usual stuff: Getting myself to write, looking for a good career, etc. I did have a wonderful New Year's celebration with my family and my girlfriend. My girlfriend and I, of course, are closer than ever. And now it's all about keeping to my craft and keeping my head up. Plain and simple. Unlike last week, everything has gone smoothly according to blogging schedule, so...no more missed OneWord entries at least for a while. Recommended Book: The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen Great story of a delightfully dysfunctional family . Not a light read. Recommended Poet: William Stobb I got two books of poetry by him as a Christmas gift from my girlfriend. Look for Absentia and Nervous Systems . Recommended Music: Frank Sinatra I listened to him a lot at my family cabin. Good old jazz stand...

Route 666 by Belinda Roddie The devil's on this train Headed east to San Diego He's been dreaming up tall tales Over a glass of Pinot Noir Half a dozen of his minions ride coach As he meets and greets in the diner Shaking hands and leaving scars on palms That a fortune teller will decipher With long crooked fingers The devil has a nice smile He rarely flashes the teeth For fear he'd bare his fangs in malice At the passengers who dine with him And he loves to talk of tempting That son of a bitch in the desert Though his wishes that tale Had a better ending The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since November 3rd, 2008.