Friendless people assume, other people don't much like them. It makes one rather introspective, and excuse ridden. Like..."Excuse me, if I fail to acknowledge you, for you have failed to acknowledge me." Like that, but beyond that to...this. What if one could not be acknowledged, because, one could not be seen...in any ordinary sense, and those who can see you and converse with you, are, well...dead as a doornail, too...but just don't know it.
Loneliness loves company. So, a pretty girl comes to you. You wed, by a court recorder, or notary public or whatever and you can't collect a church full of friends, so...you beg a witness. She witnesses. She also drives bus, and used to be a deputy county sheriff, but did anyone bother to check if...during her tenure as a deputy, she got killed in a gun fight at a liquor store? No, of course not...because she'd forgotten the trauma and one 'assumes'. One assumes...so much.
Life goes on. In the course of time, children are born. Had they ever lived? Well, not before they were born...silly. In this case, not really ever...anyway, but as I said, 'life does go on'. You rescue a dog from a pound. You didn't have much choice of dog, but you love him. He's quiet and 'wierd' We always call him 'dead eye'. Eye ronic, under the circumstances.
Sooner or later, one collects a menagerie of 'friends; dogs, cats, chickens, rabbits, and a soul or two, who will speak to us at the local little town. Mainly, because...they can see us, and they're just as dead as we are...and who knew? None of us...that's for sure. Life sure is mysterious. It just goes round and round being that way.
The living can't see the dead, and the dead, can't figure, why...'people are so insular and private and wont even say, Hi! But...that's ok. Life goes on, in its own peculiar way. We're just a bunch of dead beats, most likely.
The funniest thing...when a dead person asks another dead person..."Have you ever seen a ghost?", and then goes on to elaborate, and embellish...just as if nothing had happened and nothing had changed, and...perhaps, nothing has. So, we live our ironic 'deaths', or lives out, on a couple acres of desert, a ways out of town. Quiet as a ghost around here, Internet sucks.
We got it pretty good. My one friend calls me 'Pistolero'. He's so much like me, but a lot younger. He can't figure out why, his stories wont sell, why people are so weird, and uncaring. I got a feeling, he's not gonna like, what I think is the reason. I write poetry and think on stuff, like this. I don't get comments back, when I put them on my blog or social media sites. Nothing, then...I've been assuming, for a long long time.
I found out, there's a little ghost town, out here...where we 'laughingly', think we live. In the little old town, there's this old hotel. It's called 'Pistolero's Hotel'. No shit. You can look it up. If you can ever see us, you're invited to Pistolero's place. I think, we'll get along just fine. Have a Happy Halloween, and many more.
Written by Bruce James Clyde(aka, Pistolero)2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Bootheel Old West Town, and movie ranch, Deming, New Mexico, photo credit, unknown
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