a sweet ordinary dog

once upon a time i thought i was a story teller but i've fallen off that wagon at the crossroads a couple times now.  at least. worker b. get up, get a job, do the job, come home, eat. raise a family between nine to fives. i had energy once, some sort of vague enthusiasm for the intricacies of the work but it was not supposed to be my life. this is how i feel but it's not how i live. i live the work. it sucks me dry every day, so that i just want to collapse on the bed, release the water in my ankles, get rid of gravity for a while. upright is uptight, . smoke a li'l sum sum, hanging in the hammock, monkey branched. remember the weekend. you and i dance  and sex and sleep . outside the waves   kept the clocks wound round a profound anarchy bounded and collared and tied to the bed post at half past a live band's shell. so story telling. that's for front porches, white wicker rocking chairs, slat backed cane seated rockers, front porch stair s . only the rich have the leisure, hasn't it always been that way? compared to china, i am rich. so. stop whining.either tell the story or don't. part of my writer;s block is due to me feeling like a thief. taking someone else's experience and running with it. always thru a filter of me me me. isn't there enough of that in the cacophony of the internets? what exactly do i add to the commentary. and then i think, well, who gives a fuck. i hear this story and i want to get inside the woman's circumstance, the tragic flaw that got her convicted, perhaps turn the story  into a purely fictional account where she kills the motherfucker and gets off entirely on this ridiculous stand your ground law. only in florida. let me repeat. only in florida, where detritus runs god's waiting room for your gramma and gramps and hericlitus opens the church doors every day, twice on sundays. they kkknow this girl, she been down at the laundrymat with her daughter yellin on the phone at him again. trying to get him to see right , trying to get him to do the right thing, like he said he would . he always promising , always saying i'm sorry, i'm sorry but it gets old . specially when he hits me. it comes on so sudden, like a jaguar it's so quick , from out of the dark, his beautiful hands the ones he holds me with he holds me like he, he say he love me, so yeah i believe him when he says he's sorry , his strong fingers so gentle on my skin how can they be this fist that knocks me back into the wall, sets my head ringing. his kids are yelling daddy don't, dont, n i see them pulling on his legs so i get my knee up in there and when he's doubled over i run to the garage where i know i got a gun to get this sonofbitch outta my house! i take the gun iback iin there and point at the ceiling , without a word i  shoot. then i aim it at him and say git! and he gits. he he, he gits indeed, draggin the boys behind him. shoulda killed him. then they wouldn't have that domestic battery on me from when i tried to make it with him again. fucking hands . those hands, mmmmm girl. cain't believe the jury convicted me. ain't that standing my ground? law say i gotta run? that man'll come after me. with those hands. i ain't no murderer, but  this is MY house. he need to keep his goddam hands offa it. she shakes her head after.  the sentence. but it's not bowed . she's looking at the judge, thinking of  appeal. bail. he's out there, too. with those hands. she doesn't know how lost she can be.