An Unfinishable Burden Of My Cryptic Matter


Riddled With Childhood Memories Of Perversely Over-Fried Bologna (Ya-Huck!) In An Obsidian Black Cast Iron Skillet In Dire Contrast To Artisanal Charcuterie Procured When Household Money Was Flush To Feed The Tribe … Leaving A Young Inquisitive Mind-Of-Mick To Be Shaped By The Dichotomy Of Cold Cuts Of The Have’s Versus The Have Nots. So, What Could Be Worse – Possibly, The Worst – Much Wurst Than Not Having Brats For Breakfast?

This Dandy Confession, For Example: Fifty-Three Is The Current Number Of Unfinished Drafts Shmafts Loitering In Various States Of Neglect, Decay And What-The-Frangipane Am I Supposed To Do With This Collective Of Unpublishable Shit Masquerading As Legible Fodder? That I’ve Saved On WordPress – Dubya Pee – And My iPhone For Passive Reading In My Posthumous Ultimate Finality.

“Not Counting the 92 Million Interruptions Crowding My Cerebral Cortex / Cranial Vortex – One Of Those Brainy Matter’ngs I Didn’t Bother To Research Before Writing This Joint Because You Know What I Mean Even When My Ignorance Proves Contrary To Common Sense – At Any Given Nano Moment-o.”

Perhaps, A Half-Dozen Of These Darling Nuggets Will Ever Be Published On Kuched; The Rest Destined To Eternal Digital Damnation In Cyber Hades Where They Belong. I Write Heaps Of Rotting Carnage Everyday: Word Roadkill Not Meant For Intellectual Consumption. Very Little Is Shared, Much Less Posted. Because I’m Unapologetically Selfish Despite My Incurable Addiction To Humanity, The Planet We Inhabit, And Pledge Not To Fuck It Up And Leave It In A Shittier State Than I Found It Way Back When I Exited The Womb Like The World Owed Me A Big Favor It Couldn’t Possibly Repay. That’s Sort Of How I Got Here.

Once Upon A Time, The Number Of Schmaft’s Was Over 300. Then I Launched This Unnecessary Blog. And, Now, This Wreck Is Almost 2 – Or Is It – 3 Years Old?


So Far Off The Goodie Trail To The Bottom Of A Cracked Mason Jar Sprouting Alfalfa Threads That I Can’t Finish Anything I Start …

Obliviously, Starting Isn’t The Problem.

“I Am – Unfixable To The Precipice Of Utterly Useless – At The Moment.”

I Don’t Know What To Do But Stop – Walk Away – Plunge My Hands Deep In My Pockets And Take Another Sabbatical This Autumn Like My Summer Escape A Bunch Of Weeks Back, Which Did Nothing But Create Further Apathy And The Impetus To Write This Dung Heap.

Quitting Has A Nice Ring To It … I’ve Never Really Quit Anything In My Life Except For Good Behavior And That Didn’t Work Out Well Enough For Me And The Others, So Maybe That’s The Docket I Need Punched.


About Good Things

Life In The Time Of Love – Temptation – Desire.

“Fighting Hunger … Kittens With White Mittens … Espresso.”

The Absolution Of Being A Recovering Asshole – The Color Aqua – Bumble Bees Without Stripes (Google It).

Future Regrets (I’m Planning To Avoid, But Will Aspire To Achieve Despite A History Of Fulfilling Prophesies Best Left Ignored) – Curated Nonsense – My Devotion To Cryptic Nothingness.


From Piling Up – In Between My Pretty Ears – Ignoring The Remnants Of Fears Crippling The Promise Of Pure Thought With Diversions Of Reality Best Left Undone To Wither And Stink Up Some Other Poor Bastard’s Bad Karma.

I Can’t Finish What’s On My Plate – I Realize I Need A Smaller Plate – Perhaps, A Tiny Saucer Is My Fate, Or None At All.

“My Mind Is A Gluttonous (Not Glutinous) Hoarder Of Ideas, Thoughts, Muses … Perpetually Repentant With Jesus Hovering Over My Shoulder Of Conscience And In My Heart … God, He Knows I’m Better Than This, This, This … Whatever This Is Or Isn’t. Tsk, Tsk, Tsk. Tskn’t. Christ, I’ve Got It So Good.”

That’s How I Do Me – Whether I Write About It Or Not – Shame-To-Lame-To-Blame Excuses: Where You Hiding, Burning Fuses?

Soon, Baby, Soon – You Can Call Me Baby, Not A Poet … I’ve Never Been – One Day, Maybe, She Will … When I Know It Was Real And Not A Lonely Sad Figment Of My Romantic Derailment – Another Time, Cha Cha – This One Ain’t Mine To Keep. Tsk Not. I’m Hitting Publish.

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7 thoughts on “An Unfinishable Burden Of My Cryptic Matter

  1. Erica/Erika

    Michael, As you well know, supposedly it is a good thing to write every day and most of it will not see the light of day. Interesting point on the “finishing.” A lot of wisdom in your words, “smaller plate.” For me, I often never feel I am at the good enough stage in my writing and I can edit forever. When I listen to other bloggers, I immediately think, ‘don’t be so hard on yourself,’ ‘there is no right or wrong.’ It is your blog. Do, write, spill forth words any way you would like. Somewhere in there the word “fun” is already there or will appear. Happy Thanksgiving, Michael.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Michael A. Kuch

      Belated Happy Thanksgiving, Erica. If I’ve learned anything from blogging, the once daily practice of scribbling with minor editing and tidying up – then pressing publish – is liberating. Set your words free. In whatever order. They deserve a better fate than to be held captive, to be seen only by its creator.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Jim Borden

    we seem to have the opposite problems of each other; your brain is overrun with ideas; I have none. You wait until you have something worthy of being posted; I’ll post whatever feeble attempt I make at stringing words together…


  3. theholodoc

    I think you had better keep on writing (dumping) as your brain might explode and fill the universe with your trash! By the way, haven’t you heard; One man’s trash is another’s treasure.
    Dr. Bob

    Liked by 1 person

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