terri ann bird

and twisting all the letters to form words. And putting the words together into sentences, paragraphs, pages, until they become part of what you are- different from everyone else… We (You) write your own experiences and perceptions…. and everything is connected to everything else. It hurts, what we do. It hurts to write words from your soul pulp-  -Terri Ann Bird

Me Against the World - by Charles Bukowski

                                                 

when I was a kid

one of the questions asked was,

would you rather eat a bucket of shit

or drink a bucket of piss?

I thought that was easy.

“that’s easy,” I said, “I’ll take the 

piss.”

“maybe we’ll make you do both" 

they told me.

I was the new kid in the

neighborhood.

"oh yeah” I said.

“yeah!” they said.

there were 4 of them.

“yeah” I said, “you and whose

army?”“we won’t need no army” the

biggest one said.

I slammed my fist into his

stomach.

then all 5 of us were down on

the ground fighting.

they got in each other’s way

but there were still too many

of them.

I broke free and started

running

“sissy! sissy!” they yelled.

“going home to mama?”

I kept running.

they were right.

I ran all the way to my house,

up the driveway and onto the

porch and into the

house

where my father was beating

up my mother.

she was screaming.

things were broken on the floor.

I charged my father and started swinging.

I reached up but he was too tall.

all I could hit were his

legs.

then there was a flash of red and

purple and green

and I was on the floor.

“you little prick!” my father said.

“you say out of this!" 

"don’t hit my boy!” my mother

screamed.

but I felt good because my father

was no longer hitting my

mother.

to make sure, I got up and charged

him again, swinging.

there was another flash of colors

and I was on the floor

again.

when I got up again

my father was sitting in one chair

and my mother was sitting in 

another chair

and they both just sat there

looking at me.

I walked down the hall and into 

my bedroom and sat on the 

bed.

I listened to make sure there

weren’t any more sounds of

beating and screaming

out there.

there weren’t.

then I didn’t know what to

do.

it wasn’t any good outside

and it wasn’t any good

inside.

so I just sat there.

then I saw a spider making a web

across a window.

I found a match, walked over,

lit it and burned the spider to

death.

then I felt better.

much better.

-Charles Bukowski