The enormous, stinking, crap filled the room. Growing bigger, busting pipes, and soiling sheets, the table in front of me smelled like Patchouli was holding onto its last astrology chart.… more
Category Archives: Moans from the Condiment Fridge
ALL OF MY FEVER DREAMS ARE UPSIDE DOWN.
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonI trusted without knowing how to trust. I laughed without understanding why we laugh. It’s why later in life I could inflict pain without care. It’s why I hide behind a poker face whenever I walk into a room full of people.… more
Billy’s Room
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonI put myself underneath the covers and rested my head on the one speaker and let the vocals and instruments hold me, tell me that they loved me. I was seventeen when I found that radio in the garbage, and it took me back to when I discovered music in my Uncle Billy’s room.… more
SOFT ROCK DENIM
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonHenley says, “This Frank guy might hate me in the year 2025, but he sure as shit will have to listen to me for eternity. Smooth, my brothers, smooth like my Denim.”… more
GATEWAY TO NIRVANA
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonThe humor, the hatred of day jobs, the drinking, the gambling on life, the madness of the grind, giving away your soul for pennies on the dollar, I knew that world. I lived in that world.… more
Programmed to Suffer Delusions
Moans from the Condiment FridgeI grew up in a world where it didn’t matter what you did for a job: grave digger, grocery clerk, tire repair, it only mattered that you showed up. Jim Rice showed up.… more
TELEPHONE POLE FLIERS, ALL OF US
Moans from the Condiment FridgeMy hope is to wake up every day and write something, whether good or bad, just to simply string words together. Simple everyday ten-dollar words so I can communicate with everyday people like a nurse, butcher, electrician, a janitor, guitar player. I’m not of the intellectual crowd, nor do I come from it, nor do I intend to be a part of it.… more
Too Many Last Names
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonA series of last names I’ll click clack my way through on the way to thoughts of vengeance and acting cooler than I am, until I’m told to shut up, get on all fours, and kiss the black knee-high latex boot like the pervert I am (“Hubba hubba”).… more
This is What Killed Manuel “Cheyenne” Gutiérrez…
Moans from the Condiment Fridge by Frank ReardonSince the shit bomb went off earlier this year. Since the sickness came, killing well over 200,000 like a Gatling gun. Since the astronomical loss of jobs happened under a racist Nazi President who is actively blackmailing the country by holding back any chance of stimulus until after the election thus sending millions to bread… more
