cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): March 2014
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014_03_01_archive.html
A Short Lecture on Comedic Timing. You see, comedy is like a curve in the road. If you see it coming, it raises no alarm. It fades into your rearview, but. The right curve at the right moment will send you speeding through the turn,. Too many curves too fast, and you're likely to crash. You must create the right curves. Of the right intensity. For the right drivers. Or the left, depending on local traffic law and road planning). And that is how the glorious sun-goddess of comedy is birthed.".
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): September 2014
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014_09_01_archive.html
The light and the darkness. The past defines the present like a fatigued storm metaphor. We are prisoners of consequence, in justifiable bondage. And every step that we stumble sends us further down the line. The light casts its shadow over our perpetual march. Chained together in a familiar way. But if we could just reach a hand out. To be drenched in golden light. The light and darkness. Its gaze is constant. Your greed, your anger, your weakness, your fear. Forever exposed to its burning rays.
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): July 2014
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014_07_01_archive.html
I can't find it these days. Where "it" is time, drive, wherewithal. Calling upon something inside of myself. That's taken an unexpected leave. Page after page of wasted notes. I've left it here. No one has defaced or stolen it! And this is a bad neighborhood, ask anyone) "I can confirm that". A cheap bike lock on some cheap prose "There you go again.". And I'm back here to oil the gears. So a bike metaphor is what the wheel lands on. After its cacophonous clicking. Rambling on, word-wanking. If i say you...
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): Free Write 7/30/14
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014/07/free-write-73014.html
I can't find it these days. Where "it" is time, drive, wherewithal. Calling upon something inside of myself. That's taken an unexpected leave. Page after page of wasted notes. I've left it here. No one has defaced or stolen it! And this is a bad neighborhood, ask anyone) "I can confirm that". A cheap bike lock on some cheap prose "There you go again.". And I'm back here to oil the gears. So a bike metaphor is what the wheel lands on. After its cacophonous clicking. Rambling on, word-wanking. If i say you...
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): February 2014
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014_02_01_archive.html
There's a lot of time to be spent. Clawing through the sand and dirt. The dust that muddies the definition. There are caves and caverns to be explored. With discoveries to bring back to the surface. But you can dig too deep. And come back cursed. A scroll of cryptic verse. You can't unsee what you saw. It would be nice to board up that passage. Keep out" in blood-red paint. Or in blood, if that's what it takes. Forget it. You know it now, you know what lives down there. So you dig deeper. I'd like to bel...
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): A Bad Sort of Mood
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2015/05/a-bad-sort-of-mood.html
A Bad Sort of Mood. I poured myself this glass of wine. But I don't really want to drink it. I'm sure it's great. I had plenty last night. My saliva tastes like rust must taste. Scraped off a fire escape. Like I scrape my knees on the alley below. I reach out to those I care about. But even that feels a bit false. They'll presume that I'm looking for something. And aren't they right? I stumble out onto the streets at night. I just stay here. And stare at this glass of wine. People who like Words:.
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): January 2014
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014_01_01_archive.html
Sent From My Smartphone. Tanning on a machine made for making. A person into currency. That his mind can spend on passions. But my balance is unknown. That have not been sketched correctly. And whose shapes do shape a cone. Through the tip of which it's draining. Bubbling, complaining, blaming all the others. For the fate it calls its own. It puddles on the pavement. Where gravity refuses to offer. But it doesn't have to. It could freeze or boil or flow. It just needs to find direction.
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): May 2013
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2013_05_01_archive.html
At long last, it's arrived! The fabric stretched over its wire frame. Not opaque, but just so. It will sit upon this tired metaphor and. Spruce it up.". You've heard me say it before. But those posts are archived deep behind some rusting Cellar Door. And what's a Vine anyway? No one tweets anymore. I'm wading back in. Is this supposed to feel like. Is it on straight? Am I doing this right? Did someone cut the mic? Silent for too long. But I won't get back there with rhyme schemes. For a fourth time.
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): Alonesty, At Last
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2015/02/alonesty-at-last.html
Alonesty, At Last. A frantic reflection chases its source. Dancing across the streaked glass. The off-brand window cleaner. The smell of bleach. He's dumping it on himself. Desperately trying to get clean. Keeping one eye on the mirror. How is his hair? How does his ass look? I'm watching the surveillance footage. Looping this for days. And he walks off the chemical burns. Looking to be answered. To feel like he has some control. So, a dangerous man then. A walking supervillain origin story. And I would ...
cuttingroombore.blogspot.com
Journal (Eric Brenham): Just the Weather
http://cuttingroombore.blogspot.com/2014/09/just-weather.html
The light and the darkness. The past defines the present like a fatigued storm metaphor. We are prisoners of consequence, in justifiable bondage. And every step that we stumble sends us further down the line. The light casts its shadow over our perpetual march. Chained together in a familiar way. But if we could just reach a hand out. To be drenched in golden light. The light and darkness. Its gaze is constant. Your greed, your anger, your weakness, your fear. Forever exposed to its burning rays.
