Archive for the ‘Luke GRIMES’ Category


I’ll never forget finding it there on the barn floor. It wasn’t but a month old, so young that you couldn’t hear it scream unless you held it up close to your ear. I guess you could call it a scream. It took me a little while to figure out why it couldn’t move. How did it get up there? I guess they don’t always land on their feet when they are that small. That tiny. I didn’t get help right away, I just stared in its panicky little eyes and soaked it in my tears like I was doing it a favor. I wanted it to see me mourn, to know that someone cared I guess. I wanted to connect. I wanted to love it, but felt guilty because I couldn’t figure out how to make myself. I didnt understand why we couldn’t help, why he never even tried. Straight for the shovel. Just like that. The first one didn’t work, I could see a little piece of its brain and its screams became audible even from a few feet away. So did my weeping. He looked at me, expressionless, but I knew what he was thinking. I felt guilty again. The second one did the trick. No more screams. One scoop was all it took to make the hole. We went inside and made grilled cheese and I watched the Rocky movie that had Mr. T in it and cried ocassionaly until I fell asleep. 
I ran over an armadillo on accident last week. The girl I was with put her hands over her mouth and shrieked. I made a joke about armadillo heaven to calm her down and she giggled a little. I wish I liked her more. 


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“Go fuck yourself.” That can’t be it, can it? Last week I heard a story in the news where a guy died, choked on crab legs, at his own wedding reception. The irony, right? That felt a billion miles away until right now, now that I am standing here with “go fuck yourself” swimming around in my head, the one who put it there laying on a cold metal table with out any blood left.  Fuck you. Who in gods name dies like that anyway? Didn’t anybody tell you to look both ways? What are you, three? When should I go fuck myself, by the way? When I’m standing next to your sobbing mother shaking the hands of people who pretend to give a shit, and secretly wonder if they forgot to set there TiVo to record American idol, while they stare at a wax figure that slightly resembles the girl I promised to take care of forever inside a fucking box that cost more than my fucking car but not quite as much as that fucking ring that’s also going down with you into a hole in the fucking ground?  Or how about when I spend the rest of my life missing stupid little things like the way you always left a pile of clothes on the floor right next to the laundry basket or how you used way too much tongue in your kisses? Why couldn’t it have been “I love you” or even ”see ya later hun”?  Hell, even a simple “goodbye” would have made things easier to handle, I think. Oh, and also, where should I go fuck myself? It seems everywhere I go reminds me of you, and its kind of hard to fuck myself when I am thinking about how I’ve been forever robbed of the only good thing I had going. Anyway, goodbye Maggie, my love. Looks like youll have to forgive me for not being able to help you out with that last order. It seems I’m as fucked as I’m gonna get.


Posted in Bad Prose, Luke GRIMES | 2 Comments »



There they were, those stupid shoes.
First things as fog cleared open eyes.
White, Like giant bars of soap.
Then sound.
That deep dull ring. The roar of the restless.
Yellow bellies begging for blood.
Reality sets in. Thrashes in like deer in a department store.
There is no winning here.
Reflex lifting to hands, knees, feet.
Heart-beating head.
All wet and warm and red.
Chin up, and there she was.
Pillow lips and a child’s eyes. Sex like shattering glass.
She’s all you need to know.
Third time’s a charm. Three strikes, you’re out.
Thinking don’t. Think. Don’t Think.
A spasm. A frenzy of boiling breath, and black.
There they went. The sight, sound and all.
Those stupid shoes walking away.


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