International Writers Magazine: Bottle Fiction
to the Attic
M. Joseph Hunt
are two types of people in this world. Both have a story to tell
but only one is willing to tell it. The ones that put these words
on paper are low-life's, real slobs. They hang out with slackers,
addicts, and tell the whole world they sleep with queens
in castles from Malibu to Morocco. All the while their story is
written and revised in backs of buses, the middle seat on 727's,
and through the darkest avenues of the Sunshine state and all
points west of Crooklyn, USA a few stops away from the Bronx Zoo.
My story is just
like that. But no queens, no whores, no pretty prosaic views on English
lit and classical jazz. I don't do parties. I eat in bars and drink
in basements. It's not recommended. When you drink in basements,
you piss in the corner and pass out in a ball, cold and alone. It's
a world I call Shit Paradise.
My bus stopped down the street and I walked home, I was in Texas for
only nine days. I spend more time in the bathtub with the newest
issue of Playground News and a stiff drink than I did in that
state of BBQ and denim. Once, a culture of kings and Mexicans, now an
endless clay terrain run by oil men in pinstripe suits discussing war,
football, and war some more. I must go back. I barely knew it and
But I am back in California now, looking longingly at the ocean wondering
when my tide will come in to take me back out. I hate the beach. It
makes everything seem so goddamn far away, Watching the ships float
by, out through the Golden Gate, it's all a fucking tease. A state filled
with view lawns and sunset piers, mountaintops and motorcycle diaries.
It's all a big circus for the kiddies. Take a drink, it'll be over soon.
A guilty pleasure made for starlets and sinners.
Welcome to the basement. Drink up you lost Souls. The party is just
beginning and I hope you brought your broomsticks and your
pillbox. The party will last as long as you want it to. There is no
road map or breadcrumbs to lead you back. It's over whenever you
say it is. The bridge is that way. Please leave your wallets behind. Wait.
Smell that rose, it may be your last. Those are rats in the
corner, do not feed them. The basement is getting crowded now.
You aren't alone in Shit Paradise. Don't look so surprised. It's your
party. There is no string on the balloons because we didn't want
you doing anything crazy. We've got you on suicide watch you sad
sacks of shit.
No shoe laces or bed sheets. The clocks will stop soon. One waffle cone
and one cigarette. Are you capable of performing the necessary
functions required of those seated in the emergency exit row?
One by one, and smallest go first -- by order of sir name -- starting
Joseph Hunt May 2006
Insecurity: Fear and Fighting in CA
M Joseph Hunt
Stories in Dreamscapes
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