monday song #51: woe woe (christmas cheer)

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the kids screamed that they weren’t tired.

he suppressed the flashing urge to drown them in the bathtub, and held on to more modern child-rearing principles.

a child at the end of a day of presents, new toys, and two dozen candy canes is little more than a wild animal. sleep will return the beasts to their normal rosy-cheeked selves. at least until they start the fight over watching morning cartoons and why can’t they kick a soccer ball in the kitchen.

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monday song #50: love song

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mr. luchesi starts from a shallow sleep.

the alarm clock says 3:34 am. that makes two-and-a-half hours sleep he’s managed since crawling into bed at 9:30, out of ideas, resenting his wife for making him put the kids to bed a third night in a row.

she sleeps soundly beside him. she must have arrived in bed sometime between 11:30 and 12:45, his longest successful streak of unconsciousness tonight.

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monday cover #1: neil young: don’t let it bring you down

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after his third beer, the old records came out. all the best are worn thin from late night listening sessions years ago, eleven college kids crammed in a small room, cigarette smoke, empty beer cans, loud conversations about politics, breakfast cereal, and music: pulling out “after the gold rush” to prove that neil young’s voice is more expressive than nilsson’s.

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monday song #49: crucifixion is easy

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sally mccarthy bathes her daughter in a shallow tub on the kitchen table. the baby fusses but stops short of crying.

as she sponges her tiny hands, sally marvels at the soft palms, just starting to prune. and her uncle carter’s voice speaks up in her memory.

“i don’t see what all the fuss is about. if i was jesus, i would have begged to be crucified.”

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monday song #47: still life

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staring at the floor. frozen.

scuffed wood once elegant, now dulled by years of water spraying from the kitchen sink.

it’s the eighth floor at liberty lane.

frozen. looking down. familiar.

elliott came from a family that spent their lives propping up the walls, keeping the ceiling in place. his father drinking and laughing and screaming and occasionally hitting.

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monday song #45: the 10 o’clock news

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charlotte woke up crying. her father sits at the end of the couch.

his voice is soft, his breath is sweet. the party is quieting down, but there are still adults talking downstairs.

charlotte is seven. she dreamt that the house was on fire.

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monday song #43: i’m in love with everyone

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cheever street, late afternoon. a muffled roar pulses from a garage near the end of the block. from outside the clamor is hard to recognize, but the roar demands attention.

more than one neighbor watches their clock for the agreed upon curfew of six pm to arrive, when they can call to complain. why they ever agreed to tolerate the racket is a mystery to each. he used to be such a nice boy.

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