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Breaking Silences

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Breaking Silences, cc&d v173.5 front cover, 2007

This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
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cc&d v171

Anthology

Brandon Kinkade

    I wish I was a roadie for Jim Morrison and The Doors, taught to bear a whale in my stomach, become a irresponsible drunken clown through late night drowns of Beam, candy amphetamines, and cologne soaked hash smoke. Become his cinematic Warhol porno star, poking holes through the ends of Styrofoam cups staring at the fat bottom girls as they cross. Instead, I’m silently stuck to act my dreams through masturbation in the comfort of my box.

    The world I spin in is a pen striped, grease stained homeless man’s box. I’m a fishing tank who waits patiently in Crown Hill cemetery for the ghosts to cross the lavender, echoing graves into the uncharted industrial smoke. Open your eyes and receive the think piece monologue entitled “The End.” As the temporary Florida migration of fossils leave through the back door, I sit open handed in the shallow side of the bar sipping the role as the sad clown.

    It’s hard to court foreign models when you make a living as a rodeo clown. This is the last chapter of the book, “Twain’s anti-climatic let down in the end.” I rose up one morning to find two pigs with badges pushing orchestral tunes of the doorbell. The paper said they found weird Henry, head blowned, under the bridge in his boxers.
    His left hand curled a domestic, empty filled hard pack of Lucky Stripe smokes, while his thin railed neck bore the burden of carrying Jesus’ Catholic cross.

    As a child, we fantasied of Hollywood war and chased each other courageously across the neighborhood’s open Midwestern yards and through the high saluting garage doors. As a teen, I became a crazy glue wall lizard. An unholy son whose only hobby was smoking. As an adult, I poured tears like a faucet when they buried The King in his southern eternal box. Few years later, the myth whom said “We’re larger than Jesus.” fell upon his crucified clown only to leave me alone and uncharted with an L.A. woman to tie up the tangled blue loose ends.

    A domino effect. We all tumble like lumber trees end over end chocking for sanctuary and breath over the dark cloud of Valhalla’s smoke. I wish I was a make believe friend who lived a luxurious life inside your Nike shoebox. Then you can pour me your secrets, tell me stories, and spend everlasting time clowning around like two children book lovers who met at chance when their paths finally crossed.
    In your dreams, you will no longer hear the haunting slam of the old oak cellar door.

    What if George Bush was a tacky salesman who sold soap on a rope door to door? Then would you still pick up a machine gun and run to Iraq with the dancing clowns? Did I ever mention to you about the man who once tried to cross The Ohio River? His legs tired out and the catfish bed became his end. As I sleep restlessly inside my yellow heart shaped box, I feel the warm of the virgin Mary caressing me through the devil’s thick smoke.

    In my box, I play the avent garde actor opposite the sad clown.
    In the end, I sit still and pray to find truth amongst the Catholic cross. Hopefully, the doors to our lives will be revealed through the thick smoke.



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