Bad at etudes

2007-05-18T09:16:00.000-07:00

This goes beyond anger. The Reich (read: right) has gone too far. They can't get Roe v Wade overturned in the courts (though they have made a giant step in that direction with the upholding of the "partial birth" abortion ban), and now they have resorted to the slander of Planned Parenthood using the lowest accusation possible - child molestation. I can't say that I'm surprised. Most Americans have the good sense to recognize that safe abortions are needed. A ban will only result in back alley and kitchen table procedures that took the lives of thousands of frightened young women for years. Make that poor young women. The rich can always afford to go to Mexico or Canada - countries that understand the importance of allowing their citizens access to the medical procedures they want, and will often get no matter what, even at the cost of their own lives.

Now. What has gotten me so riled up that I am here, ranting, rather than doing the busy office work I should be engaged in. I have a name for you. Lila Rose. If you don't know who she is, don't worry, I didn't before her face appeared before me last night on the O'Reilly Factor (my father is a Republican - I didn't have a choice). But soon enough she will be a household name. Not back for a journalism sophomore. Apparently this little girl (I say that because she looks like she's 13 and sounds like she's 10 - a sure sign in my mind of someone who has been molested at a young age) got it in her head that she should go into Planned Parenthoods in the LA area and try to get an abortion. Nothing wrong with that you say? She was wearing a wire, and told them that she was 15, her boyfriend 23. Now in California, that's statutory rape. What happened? The good people at Planned Parenthood told her to pick a different birthday so they would not have to report the crime. Not exactly legal, true. But in the spirit of providing women with the care that they want and need. Do you want 15 year olds that think a 23 year old boyfriend is OK having babies? More to the point, do you want 23 year olds who think having a 15 year old girlfriend is OK having babies? I hope the answer is NO. All of this interaction is being shouted from the rooftops as Planned Parenthood protecting child molesters. I'm sorry if I seem callous, but a 15 year old having sex with a 23 year old is worlds away from something that involves a girl of 10 or 11. All they wanted to do was to help this girl, and now she has found an exciting new way to chip away at the foundation of choice. To the credit of Planned Parenthood, they are suing her. Personally I hope she goes to jail for providing false medical information, and for entrapment. And if I ever meet her, I have a curse all ready.

No Title

2007-04-12T20:23:00.000-07:00

I wouldn’t coax the plant if I were you.

Such watchful nurturing may do it harm.

Let the soil rest from so much digging

And wait until it’s dry before you water it.

The leaf’s inclined to find its own direction;

Give it a chance to seek the sunlight for itself.

Much growth is stunted by too careful prodding.

Too eager tenderness.

The things we love we have to learn to leave alone.

---Naomi Long Madgett

K.V.

2007-04-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

With nothing to say that can be as fitting or as great as his own words, I will just remind myself of this quote, which graces the wall of my bedroom, right above where I should sit to write. It is from a speech he gave at the University of Wisconsin at Madison in 2003. It's worth thinking about.

"I realize that some of you may have come in hopes of hearing tips on how to become a professional writer. I say to you, ''If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be a homosexual, the least you can do is go into the arts. But do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites, standing for absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college.''
But actually, to practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it. Dance on your way out of here. Sing on your way out of here. Write a love poem when you get home. Draw a picture of your bed or roommate."

Now if only I could get up the willpower to do a little growing a little more often.

"You and the police are entitled to know, since I am going to spend the night near you, that I am both a Humanist and a Luddite. I may hold a Black Mass in the parking garage of the Best Western Hotel, if I can find a neo-conservative baby to sacrifice."

I threw that last one in there because it makes me laugh. And if I had been there there would have been a neo-conservative baby for him. Just to watch an 81 year old hold a Black Mass. God I regret that I never got to see the man read ... maybe next lifetime.

2007-04-03T08:44:00.000-07:00

I wanted you
to know,
your heart beats
me late at
night, when I
am alone and should
be safe from you.

They Don't Know Me

2007-04-01T17:36:00.000-07:00

I wonder what my husband and family would do if they knew I hung out all weekend with my sweet gay bois at a drag show and a male strip bar. . . . They all think I went to the city to visit my sister.

Well, I did. She went with us.

I had more fun this weekend than I've had in twenty years. Twenty-five.

I'm sick of being respectable all the time. I'm through.

Do they lie? The hearts?

2007-03-26T21:38:00.000-07:00

What is there to do when you hear, feel, that click when the other half of your heart is met...but that other half had been given to another long since?

The longing toward each other is difficult to resist, though we struggle.
And we will prevail, because we must.

But I don't want to.

chant

2007-02-17T04:30:00.000-08:00

EVERYONE tells the story, different stories

Sue narrates throughout

Even the spirits

EVERYONE tells the story, different stories

Sue narrates throughout

Even the spirits

In spite of the life I am forced to live, I. . . . .

2007-02-14T20:01:00.000-08:00

Breathing hard, gasping for air because of. . . .
Heart beating fast, and faster, and faster still, because of. . . .
Depressions lifting, dispersing, fading, because of. . . .
Smiling a little, or a little more, or a lot, because of. . . .
Wondering some, and more, and then more, because of. . . .
Fantasizing, starting slowly, gaining momentum, because of. . . .
Lost in a world of swirling daydreams and better night dreams,
and none of them will come true, even though. . . .
But I greatly anticipate it all starting up again, because. . . .

16 spams, 7th word, and about now

2007-02-06T04:16:00.000-08:00

To This U.S

Let February 1st Ominous President

So My
Took Begun
Has Peer Deceptive

Heavy

easy

In Poetry We Sometimes Find Ourselves, Or A Good Description, Anyway

2007-01-28T21:21:00.000-08:00

Three passions have governed my life:
The longings for love, the search for knowledge,
And unbearable pity for the suffering of humankind.

Love brings ecstasy and relieves loneliness.
In the union of love I have seen
In a mystic miniature the prefiguring vision
Of the heavens that saints and poets have imagined.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge.
I have wished to understand the hearts of people.
I have wished to know why the stars shine.

Love and knowledge led upwards to the heavens,
But always pity brought me back to earth;
Cries of pain reverberated in my heart
Of children in famine, of victims tortured
And of old people left helpless.
I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot,
And I too suffer.

This has been my life; I found it worth living.

--Bertrand Russell

Haiku, #whatever

2007-01-26T19:22:00.000-08:00

Trapped. Like a rat in
a cage, no key, no chance, no
way out, not ever.

Thrillsville

2007-01-18T00:33:00.000-08:00

Don't take two, that's too much to do;

just take one, that will be fun. Then
wave a banner with the rest of us,
get off the can and get on the bus,
shake your fist in the air, shout, stare,
watch your brain turn to pus.

One indeed, that's all you need. Then
you'll be one of us, wanted,
no longer you and haunted,
turn your head to the right, salute,
and don't look so daunted.

Little Brown House

2007-01-14T03:44:00.000-08:00

Two candles on the top of the bureau flicker, light dancing

in the dimly lit room amidst the din of our love making.

I am transported, the blush of your cheeks a portal back

to a crisp autumn day on the cusp of an Indian summer;

a moist snap like a bite into a fresh apple, cool juice drips

on searing lips, voluptuous,

I was eleven then and

tears that fell freely with the

red and gold maple leaves

On the tomb-gray sidewalk, cracked and dappled with age.

My Mood Tonight

2007-01-12T20:58:00.000-08:00

Out beyond the ideas
of wrongdoing and rightdoing
there is a field
I'll meet you there
when the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about
ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other'

Poem by Jalaluddin Rumi, 13th Century Sufi Poet

Hubris

2007-01-10T18:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wish I wasn't such an intellectual snob. Some of the people I deal with on a daily basis are so fucking ignorant I want to poke their eyeballs out.

I sincerely doubt that I'm as 'smart' as I think I am, either. But if I wasn't a hell of a lot smarter than these people, I would probably kill myself.

SacreMerde on a popsicle stick, these people are so fucking stupid.

And I am so ashamed to have this attitude.

Nostalgia

2007-01-02T13:34:00.000-08:00

Looking back across my lifetime...pieces covered in a misty haze, with blurred edges like watercolor splashes.
Half-remembered glimpses of secret sex, musky and sweat-covered...
How can I not remember your name, but I remember the softness of your curly brown hair?
How can I not see your face, but I remember the masculine scent of your skin?
How can I not picture your smile, but I remember how you touched me?
How can I not fathom the color of your eyes, but I remember the tautness of your belly?
How can I not? My mind cannot see, only remember the sensory perception.

Do you remember?
Or am I nameless, faceless? A smudge buried in your memory?
Do you remember the silkiness of my blonde hair?
Do you remember my smile, the color of my eyes?
Do you remember the softness, the scent of my skin?
Do you remember the way I called your name at the moment of climax?
Do you?

Or am I eminently forgettable?

I Scare Myself.

2006-12-30T22:50:00.000-08:00

The potential in me for absolute evil frightens me sometimes.

Other times, I revel in it.

I'm torn to pieces, between wanting to help everyone, lift everyone up, share everything I have, spend myself till I'm gone, for others, nothing for me because I don't need anything, everything for others, everything, till there's nothing left of me, and. . . .

. . . looking at the world with alien eyes, assuming that stupid people are here for my personal amusement, putting up with nothing, calling people names inside my head, making fun of people to their faces in ways they don't even realize, lusting, lusting, and ready to act on it

2006-12-30T19:57:00.000-08:00

You want this body? Take it.
Go on, ravage me, rape
me, defile me.
Take it.

Squeeze these tits
in your hands, lick my
nipples, bite my neck.
Grab my hair and hold
my head back as you fuck
me like the manly jackhammer
you are with your giant
cock. Prove to me that you're
bigger
and stronger
than little ol' girly me.
Show me how one hand fits
so neatly
around my neck if the
other wasn't pinning my wrists
over my head
I'd wave a white flag of surrender,
you burly sack of muscles, you.

It's a wonder women don't throw themselves
at your feet all day long.
In their absence and
since you have me on my knees already ...

Go on, take me.

I'm sure I was asking for it
in the way I leaned on
the bar, the way
my jeans clung to my ass.
I was. I know it.
I left the house this morning hoping
just you would come along
to throw me down on broken glass
and half dried puddles of piss
in some back
alley and fuck me knowing
all the time no means
yes and this is just how I
like it, bleeding and gasping
for breath while you
struggle to keep it up.
Which is of course my fault
for not crying and begging.

So go on you dickless
closeted
shit eating
puppy kicking
spineless motherfucker.

Take me.

But don't worry.
I'll be coming back for you later.

On the Return of a Familiar

2006-12-30T01:39:00.000-08:00

She waits at the window,

Slowly drawing an eye on the glass.

Listen to the wind,

You will hear whispers,

Swift

Syllables

Skipping across the grass

Saying:

I love you.

I’m coming home.

2006-12-23T20:04:00.000-08:00

It's official. 2006 has been entitled The Year I Did Not Slit My Wrists. It takes a tremendous amount for me to rule something no fucking bueno. Consider the implications of an entire calendar year. The natural progression from here is catharsis. Pain is personal growth, the experiences you suffer are contributions to the development of your character and this, too, is life. Yeah, well, screw Nietzsche. I've decided to be warped evil by the negativity of 2006 and I'm choreographing my snap.

My name will remain as it is. Before WWII there were dozens of Hitlers in the New York phone book. How many are there now? And how many chumps walk around posturing as 'the Godfather'? I'm not a back-stabber; I'm a face-stabber, I want you to know it was me, I did it! Constructing an alter ego out of descriptive words like blood, doom, scourge or blade would be incongruous with the pretty I like. Besides, it doesn't make sense to warn them of who you are and what you do, or to advertise with slogans, jingles or logos.

My motivation is simply insanity. I've already got a pretty good grasp on it and it's a spectacular vehicle for originality. Things like practicality and plausibility don't compute for the crazy, so they're able to achieve things sane people think are impossible. Power takes wayyyy too much effort. Ibid on greed. Revenge, anger and hate create the same negative climate I'm trying to get away from. Being insane is organic. You can reform ethics but you cannot re-sane someone. It also grants me some legal immunity. If I ever got caught the most they could do is put me on heavy artillery sedatives, which I'd enjoy.

I'm going to have to apply myself to a new career path, however. As much as I love voodoo taking it professional with necromancy would infringe on my private practices and beliefs. I'm already dating a criminal mastermind so why bother building an empire with an elaborate network when I can just use his? If the plots in horror movies were better I might consider becoming one of those villains to put my star quality to good use, but meh... I don't know why anyone bothers with being a mad scientist anymore. It makes you virtually immobile with all your stuff and reliant on it to be effective. This will require a lot more thought. Suggestions?

Objectives boil down to three things, sometimes a combo thereof: world domination, global destruction or widespread misery. What the hell am I going to do with accumulated souls? But some sort of Biblical apocalypse would be really funny. There are about a gazillion people in the world who aren't Christian or practicing. Imagine them all thinking at once, "Oh, shit..." Anything corporate, economic, political or military, including shadow governments, doesn't allow for the self-centered customization I require. Mass media and ideological programming has its appeal, all Blogger Soze. I think I'm just going to keep it real, you know? Life has been my art now it's evil. Authentico.

HQ: Corporate skyscrapers have become painfully predictable. Space stations and abandoned amusement parks are outre. I cannot possibly work in a shack in the woods but a manor in the country is acceptable for weekends. I've always wanted to hold our Halloween party in the Roman catacombs and medieval castles are a classic so corrupting a cathedral for my personal use sounds like the way to go. Grand architecture, kaleidescopic light, crazily ringing bells, crypts and statuary with wide open spaces and crucifixes left upright just to prove a point. Home sweet home.

I am not buying anything from Acme. Doomsday devices never work as evidenced by our existence. Bombs and death rays are excessive. While nunchucks and an assortment of cutlery hold their appeal they require grace and athletic ability that I just don't have. Nothing says die, motherfucker, die like a Glock Parabellum. Click, click, boom. I'm looking into time and weather machines as well as matter transmuters but I'm most excited about the fleet of glossy black helicopters. I intend to fly them all by myself, thanks, and I'll need couture to go with.

I'd seriously deliberated investing in an exoskeleton. The truly evil don't need this unless it's adaptive tech for some sort of physical disability a la Darth Vader. When they take me out I want to go mortally, with the dull thud of show's over. All their work and devise, their forensic snooping, their psych profiles and covert ops... for something that easy. And really, an exoskeleton would make me look fat. Classic black in beautifully tailored suede, cashmere and silk. And a pink wig slightly askew because I'm insane, remember?

I shall open all seven seals, bringing about something really, really bad. My name will be synonymous with all that is wrong with the world and no man will dare interrupt my sentences or act like I'm disposable and not special. As a result everyone will give me money and my life? Art, without all the bullshit. 2007 cometh.

Free verse.

2006-12-20T19:15:00.000-08:00

Passion
Suffocating me
Spiraling up from the tips of my toes
Feathering my belly
Cloying my throat
Passion
Burning, glowing, flaming behind your eyes
Incinerates me to ashes
Passion
Reborn, phoenix-like
Rising up on the shimmering heat
of you
Would that I could feel that way again.

Love Set Fire To Everything

2006-12-17T11:46:00.000-08:00

Small paper cranes
and wallpaper stains
that the pictures can hardly conceal

Love letters bent
from tears that were spent
on a cruel and a shabby ideal

But love set fire
to everything
and the flames looked like
angel's wings.

We played our parts
with paper hearts
and love set fire
to everything.

I know that it's wrong
to stay here this long
haunted by all of her things

I found out too late
only fools feel safe
in a house made of jokers and kings

But love set fire
to everything
and the flames looked like
angel's wings.

We played our parts
with paper hearts
and love set fire
to everything.

I've tried to escape her
and these bits of paper
but the memories I just can't outrun

So I'll keep lighting matches
and when one of them catches
this thing will finally
be done

Love set fire
to everything
and the flames looked like
angel's wings.

We played our parts
with paper hearts
and love set fire
to everything.

--Moxy Fruvous

. .  solo by Murray, for whom I would walk away from this life and start anew,
without a backward glance or a second thought. 

As for the person who resembles him so, ditto.

Sit on my face and tell me that you love me...

2006-12-17T00:06:00.000-08:00

A bungee cord on the refrigerator door keeps the beer cold and the milk from curdling. Cockroaches that once hid beneath have become bold, brazen, husks of burnt whea t scattering across the floor with greedy disregard of the light. The stench from the sink, dishes putrifying in rancid water, hits you like being cold-cocked full on, a fist to the face from one mean motherfucker. Pedro (or whatever his name is) takes out a knife and sticks it deep into a loaf of Wonder Bread then sweeps his arm across himself, trying to clear a space on the counter but only catching the plastic wrapper on his knife, waving his arm around, high, trying to free the loaf of white bread that has attached iteslf to him.

I stand back. There's still a knife in that loaf.

My usual connection was gone, zapped right out of the universe; a friend of a friend turned me onto Might Be Pedro. This thing, waving a loaf of bread around on the end of his hand like it's a booger he can't shake off the tip of his finger.

I just want to take my cut and go.

Get back to my house and get high. Whom I think is named Pedro had me boost a little, enough, just enough to make sure I wasn't a snitch or a pig, enough to take the edge off and not worry about his filthy house. Enough to know I should take my cut and go home. At least there, I don't have to worry about a junkie throwing a blade around.

Pedro or something finally loses the bread and shanks the knife into the counter, reaches into his pocket and throws the bag onto the counter.

And everything changes.

Your post-modernist spam post for the day

2006-12-15T10:44:00.000-08:00

Really, I don't know why they even bother with this shit, it's mindfuckingboggling. Am I supposed to buy something? Sign up for something? Or are their really people in the world who aspire to be mosqito people, buzzing in ears and sucking blood and laying their eggs in the fetid water collected in a junk tire?

Here's what the mosquito person sent:

cheek. heartlessness of his only child. variety of chips Its one window was well provided with a heavy blind Mrs. with her quick understanding, was sorry for both of them, both torso and limbs were radiation covered "You see," I sweet sour cried to skateboard his with gravity short hair, background
I slapped you once, but you really deserved far more, said Fred,and at every opportunity endeavored to turn Evelyns thoughts towardsHere was able to accommodate any or all who felt that theyhome. Once, at her earnest appeal, after she had got the young woman and their observatory physical proportions were in
of light half-men and with a girl to assist cold tree many aspects estate apelike, though not
gravely.telling her about how kind her father had been to her when her motherwould like to give Fortune a chance to be kind to them.died, Evelyn consented to write him a letter, but when it was finished, so physiology much so as were Ahm's. was beyond glove my capability. "I do chick not duck fear
They carried themselves in a more biologist The night after had attended the Salvation Army meeting, What did I do thenwith a flash of her old imperious pride, she tore it across and flunghis upstairs room was as dark inside as it always appeared to be onthe pieces on the floor, then hastily gathered them up and put them in medal erect position, reception although you," screamed pig the creature. "You were close to Tsa; room panda but You got up and behaved yourself so nicely I was sorry that I hadntthe stove.the outside. Two anxious ones, whose money was troubling them, had toOne half sheet of the letter did not share the fate of the remainder, Ttheir arms were bodyguard considerably longer than swing I am far above you. You cannot harm tree me soap as you harmed Tsa. Insect those of the I slapped you soonerfor Mrs. intercepted it and hastily hid it in her apron pocket.be turned away disappointed. had left word downstairs thatShe might need it, she thought. Neanderthal man. As I watched them, I saw that pine victim they possessed chopsticks Go knife away!" I placed a night foot upon the a language, that they had pollen knowledge defend of The tender green of the early summer deepened and ripened into the

There's no link to a website selling viagra or pirate software, no images of farm sex, just this gem.

Thank you, spammer mosquito person, I am richer for your drooled pool of stupid. You may now take my blood and feed your larvae.

2006-12-13T15:09:00.000-08:00

Tearing out the carpet in my bedroom I was so careful, you know? The carpet knife has a paper thin and so shiny silver blade. Gouging it through the resistance of woolly Berber I understood what would happen if it let, if that hard pull became a slip that crossed my hand or was stopped by my knee. Being a klutz and without insurance I thought it'd be best not to fuck up my manicure on a permanent. So I was really careful. When I last clicked it shut I thought, Ha! Did it, without getting hurt.

I've never had suicidal urges. Somehow I managed to elude what a hefty percentage of people tango with at least once in their lives no matter to what degree, from a tickle to deep contemplation and crumpled drafts. I understood that life was brutal at times. I was all sunshine and roses. Anything I've written over the past six months that sounds like the girl I was -marvelled by life, full of oomph- it is a desperate attempt to reclaim her. It's ghostwriting. I've practiced my entire life for a dance I'll never perform. It turns out the life I want is entirely bullshit. They fantasies. I've brainwashed myself to the point of psych damage. I don't know who I am without that made-up part of my identity.

That night I killed myself. The carpet knife would feel so good sliding up my forearm, the way a lover's teeth hurt. I would do it just like this, too, curled up and snug in my beautiful bed. My blood would saturate the mattress, go through the now exposed floorboards and drip, drip, drip from the living room ceiling. The idea of my life flowing out was quite peaceful. I should put the note on the front door. Mommy, Don't come in, just call the coroner. A little memory synapse ticked, reminding me to look that number up in the blue pages for her.

It was pretty easy, actually. I'd empty my savings account into a series of bank cheques and litter the house with Hello Kitty sticky notes so everyone knew who got what. That's all there really was to do. I mean, so what if this morning's coffee mug is unwashed in the sink? If Northeast Utilities doesn't get their $32.50, meh...

My daughter. I thought we were clear on this? A wonderful life is accessible to you. Regardless of everything, it's your responsibility and call. My mother loves me. It doesn't stop the pain. It doesn't mean I'm having a fabulous fucking time here. Nor does it to my daughter as her life will go on, just as they've said. Life goes on. And if that names me selfish and sick, or weak or cruel, it will make no difference to me.

Today I was called to the ICU where Christopher has taken up temporary lodging before he drops dead. Admitted on Monday for excruciating and inexplicable back pain, they found his body riddled with cancer. Both lungs collapsed last night. His body and the doctors have decided that's it. Of all the jokes to be made he loved death. "I just want you to blow me once before I die. That's my goal," he always said. With his parents huddled in the corner and his sister on the other side of the bed, I very gently pressed my tit against his chest (I could see the ridge where it had been cracked open underneath the johnny) and traced the curve of his ear with the tip of my tongue. "Christopher... ask if you can bring a friend."

I've stopped believing you get much of anything you want. Love is irrelevant. A part of Chris is already dead and for a long while a part of my heart has been, too. The worst part now is gagging through the platitudes, listening to the next stupid cunt tell you: It's not that bad, there's so much to live for, it won't always be so hard, you don't know what the future holds. Look around, fool.

This is not a suicide note. I won't ever do it. I'm going to burn this bitch we call life to the ground. It will be ugly and I will be in pain, but it is mine. It's all I have. It's all I'll be given. Then I'll have death, too.

Haiku

2006-12-12T20:27:00.000-08:00

I want to throw my
life out the window and start
all over again. . . .

Better left unsaid

2006-12-07T11:16:00.000-08:00

Comments I wanted to leave today, but instead only spoke them aloud to mine own ears:

Your boozy discursives are more brilliant than my best when sober.

Maniacal one, I hate it that you have wonderful ideas but never, ever, not once, have followed through to completion.

Perhaps if you spent more time instilling solid values into your children rather than focusing on nail-painting, indulging their every desire and making fun of others, they wouldn't be such spoiled little ~~bitches~~ brats.

I used to think you were sensitive and bright, now I see you're nothing more than a pompous windbag.

Your words read like I imagine an LSD hallucination would look.

You move me. You touch me. I am a little bit in love with you, and I yearn.

Fuck You, I'm Glad You Are Dead

2006-12-05T21:08:00.000-08:00

I'm glad you are dead. I wish you could come back to life and die again.

I hate you.

I never thought I could hate someone, but guess what? I can.

Everyone loved you, including me. Then I found out what you did.

How could you do that?

Your fat body has fed thousands of worms by now, and I'm happy for it, those worms will have served a purpose in this life, you on the other hand were vile.

When you clutched your chest and fell into your plate dead I hope the last thing you thought about before your mind went blank was what you did to my daughter and how miserable your actions were.

YOU are gone, but we still live here. We still think about your sick ass.

I wish I could believe in Hell, it would serve me well to think of you there, but I don't. I don't believe in much of anything anymore.

How can a man get off from a three year old girl? How? Why?

How could you have done that and not feel guilt? Did you really think she would ever forget? Your own granddaughter?

I was one of the first people to arrive at the hospital you were taken to. Your kids were too overcome to take care of anything, so was your wife. I still had your last name so everyone thought I was your family. I was left to handle your arrangements.

Funny how that worked out, isn't it?

Everyone thought it was so sweet when I bent in close to your face, my hair falling over your head in a neat little curtain. They all assumed I kissed you goodbye, but you and I know I spit in your gaping mouth.

When I went to the funeral home to preview their work, the morticians were horribly upset. Your obese and disgusting piggy body had sat too long before it was embalmed, they weren't able to position your hands into peaceful repose. I was though. I snapped your fingers so they lay flat. I like the way that felt. I like to imagine it hurt you.

She still hurts. She will always hurt. YOU did that to her.

I'm glad you are dead. I wish you could come back to life and die again.

Confession

2006-12-05T18:47:00.000-08:00

Touched by all that love is
I draw closer toward you
Saddened by all that love is
I run from you

Surprised by all that love is
I remain alert in stillness
Hurt by all that love is
I yearn for tenderness

Defeated by all that love is
at the truthful mouth of the night
Forsaken by all that love is
I will grow toward you.

by Frantisek Halas (1901 - 1949)

Snap! (revisited)

2006-12-04T13:55:00.000-08:00

Waiting for the snap because, I thought, a snap will be all I’ll sense; just a snap and then bright light, the roar of eternity steamrolling everything I am, was, will be. A split second and then all preceding moments dispersed like dust on an empty street, swept up from where each speck had gathered and sent spiraling into oblivion, beyond memory, beyond apprehension. A brief shadow brushed before the sun and then blown across the landscape, diffuse and insubstantial, swallowed up by time and lost forever.

Snap and then nothing else, not even a void.

What’s left is only that which you will perceive, whoever you are, however you announce yourself to be, whatever reason you have for being there. Whatever the snap was, you’ll see its result right away, standing in judgment of the aftermath while ignorant of the precursor. The silent destruction resonates only with the distance set between the instant of sight and a past made irrelevant by sound. It is only after the snap that you will ever know; where one ends, another begins, both disconnected and futile.

Before the snap it’s cold and bitter, the taste of just apple peels and nothing else. Jammed up and entirely committed but still gentle with the soft palate; everything gets counted, considered, contained, a lifetime drawn on the back of a matchbook. A tremulous finger twitches where one last decision will be made. Everything ends where will says, “Fuck it,” and determination is made that the snap is all there is left.

Wonderlust

2006-12-04T13:10:00.000-08:00

As I sit here and I write the words I say to you, I know that I am false. My words speak of friendship and appreciation for all that you have shared with me, all that we have discussed, the bond that is still new yet seemingly strong and based on trust. Trust.

Would you still trust me if you knew you made me wet? Would you still tell me your sorrows or dreams or goals and thoughts if you knew I wanted to shove your cock so deep inside myself I scream from the thought?

I see you in my head. I have fucked you a hundred times in there.

Given the chance, what would I do? Would I? Could I?

My impression is that you are nice. I ruin nice. Nice gets in the way of lust, it fucks up a fantasy with emotion and loose ends, and I cannot be responsible for that...

Yet here I sit and still wonder, could I? Would I?

I honestly cannot answer that.

Bolero

2006-11-23T18:12:00.000-08:00

The sun goes down. The gathering gloom gathers. I light a single candle and place it near the edge of the fireplace mantle. The gathering gloom gathers. The darkness falls.

I wait for you.

Come to me, thou dear one of my heart. I wait for you. In the gathered gloom of night, in the dark of anticipation, I wait.

I lie on the fur rug, in front of the dark fireplace. The single candle flickers in the draft from the slightly raised window. The gathered gloom begins to gather heat. Heat.

Heat. Why don’t the icicles melt and fall?

I close my eyes, waiting. There is no time, there is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I open my eyes, still waiting.

You are sprawled on the sofa, tired beyond endurance, and your body screams for rest.

I can hear the silent screaming. It raises me from the furry respite and brings me to your side.

Shhhhhhh. Don’t speak. Don’t move. The sputtering candle begins to gutter, and drops of wax fall onto the mantle. There is no time, there is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I turn from you and go to the fireplace. I light a fire; it throws shafts of gold on the walls, and on the fur, and on your face as you look questioningly at me. This is not my usual role.

Shhhhhh. Don’t speak. Don’t move. The darkness is complete. Not a single star breaks the velvet bolt that spreads across the sky. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

The flames begin to die. The logs begin to glow. Heat.

Heat. Why don’t the icicles melt and fall?

You sigh the sigh of the weary and confused. You rub your temples and try to speak.

Shhhhhhh. Heat. The glowing logs and the heat. Glowing heat.

I go to you. Your eyes are puzzled and pleading.

Slowly, slowly, I remove my shoes. You watch me. You watch me slowly and slowly I remove my shoes. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t move.

I reach for your hand and you give it to me. I pull you up and push you down, down, down on the fireplace furry softness and there is heat, so much heat, you try to speak and I will not allow it. Shhhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

Slowly, slowly, I remove your shoes. You watch me. You watch me slowly and slowly I remove your shoes. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Don’t move.

With long sharp scissors I begin to cut away your clothing, up, up, up one leg to the waist, and up, up, up the other leg to the waist, and snip, snip, snip and your clothing is wadded up in my hands and thrown into the coals, into the live, glowing coals. The room darkens and then explodes into shafts of golden light and then darkens again. You shiver.

Heat. Heat.

With my foot, I remove the chain from your neck. I wrap my toes around the chain and gently lift it over your head. I put it around my neck. You watch me. You watch me slowly and slowly I put your chain around my neck. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Shhhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

With my teeth, I begin to bite the buttons off your shirt. I start in the middle, and work my way down, and then up again. I bite slowly, slowly, and you watch me, and I bite each button slowly and I spit it into the coals, into the live coals, and together we watch as each little button melts. Slowly, slowly the buttons are removed and put far beyond your reach, and far beyond their own reclamation.

With long sharp scissors I begin to cut away your clothing, down, down, down one arm to the wrist, and down, down, down the other arm to the wrist, and snip, snip, snip and your clothing is wadded up in my hand and thrown into the coals, into the live, glowing coals. The room darkens and then explodes into shafts of golden light and then darkens again. You shiver. You are not cold, but you shiver.

Shhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

DON’T MOVE.

Lie quietly, acquiescently, on the fur, and let me help you. Let me help you become more you. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I dance my fingers over your left leg. I do not touch your skin. I dance my fingers lightly over the soft hairs on your left leg. Don’t speak. Don’t move. There is heat, there is immense and incredible heat. The live coals glow and send their heat into the room, over the fur rug and us, and there is heat.

We send our own heat back into the coals.

Shhhh, don’t speak. Don’t move.

I dance my fingers over your right leg. I do not touch your skin. I dance my fingers lightly over the soft hairs on your right leg. Don’t speak. Don’t move. There is heat.

Lie quietly, acquiescently, on the fur, and let me help you. Let me help you become more you. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

My fingers lightly dance across your face. I do not touch your skin. I play you like a Ouija Board, my fingertips make you feel, think, be, anything I want, anything you want, I control my own fate with my fingertips on your face, on the soft hairs of your face. I do not touch your skin. Ask a question in your mind, I will answer it with my fingers on the planchette of your body, but neither of us will speak. Do not move. Do not speak.

Lie quietly and let my fingers dance just above your skin. I will not touch your skin. You will want me to, but I will not touch your skin.

I can make you scream without ever touching your skin. I will want to touch you, but I will not. I want to, but I don’t have to.

My fingertips dance across your face. I trace the outline of each eyebrow, and I flick the tips of your eyelashes, and my fingers dance lightly on the soft hairs of your face, and on your chin, and your cheeks, and around and around and around your lips. Shhh, don’t speak. Don’t move. Such blazing heat.

I dance my fingers on the back of your neck. Don’t move; I will move you. Lie quietly and let my fingers dance across the back of your neck. I do not touch your skin. I dance my fingers lightly over the soft hairs on the back of your neck. You want to scream but I do not allow it. Time goes by, but there is no time. Hours? Minutes? Days? Ecstasy knows no measurements.

You want to move but I do not allow it. There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

I lift your arms. I dance my fingers on your left armpit, and then your right. I dance my fingers on the soft hairs of your armpits and I do not allow you to move, or speak. Do not react; just lie quietly and acquiescently on the fur and let me help you. Shhhhh, do not speak. Do not move.

Your body is in a frenzy now; you want to scream and you want to writhe and I will not allow you to do either. Do not speak. Do not move. I will do the moving. Lie still.

Your boxers are now far too tight for comfort. With long, sharp scissors I cut away the fabric. I slash and cut without seeming regard for the treasures within and you want to pull away in fear and I do not allow it. I bend over you and with my teeth, I remove the rags of cloth and I drop them into my hand and I wad them up and throw them into the live coals, and the rooms darkens for a moment and then bursts into shafts of light and then darkens once more. Shafts of light.

Shafts of light.

Shaft of light.

My fingers dance just above your skin, dancing, flitting, lightly, not touching your skin but you can feel me, you can feel me, playing your body like a planchette, and predicting the future with my fingertips. You want to explode but I do not allow it, not yet, not yet.

I flip you over, still on the white fur, still on the white fur before the glowing coals, still heat, still hot with heat, the dying coals throw such heat into the room.

With my foot, I trace patterns on your back. I do not touch your skin. You want me to but I will not.

I sit on your back and I play your legs with my fingertips like a Ouija planchette. I can predict the future, I know what the immediate future holds, but not yet, not yet, I will not allow it yet.

Your body is in a frenzy of not writhing, and not talking, and not reacting. You are explosive but not yet. I will not allow it, not yet.

There is no time. There is no measuring of time. There is only now.

Heat. Heat.

White fur. Fingertips, dancing across your body, not touching your skin, wanting to but not touching, and you want me to, but I do not touch. Every crease, every fold, every hair, every pore, every part of you, explored but never touched, my fingertips dancing lightly.

I knead your body with my feet. You sigh the sigh of the truly happy.

I can make you scream without exploding. I can spend you like a dollar. I can exhaust you just by removing my shoes. I can make you scream in anticipation. Anticipation.

Using only my fingertips and my feet, I can make you scream, and I can make you smile. Without touching you, I can make you scream and smile.

It is a preview.

The music ends.

2006-11-23T04:22:00.000-08:00

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats, Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heave

Sweat, filth, burning strips of red where the crop had alit. I’m a pig she thought, a whore; make me crawl, tremulous. Her gaze was fixed on a far corner of the room where a soft glow throbbed against the darkness, daring not to look into his eyes or even anywhere near him lest he let loose with another lash, now is not the time, flesh too tender yet for another. Yet another came, blinding, quick and searing, like the brush of a branding iron across her back, pain rising and igniting into a blaze of ecstasy radiating throughout her. Exquisite, a rippled shiver that raced to her edges and then back, inwards, within, to the resonating and trembling core. Everything but those ripples had been ripped from her so that what was left was that singular, comprehensive sensation winnowing away in time.

As the ripples diminished, sound and smell and taste and vision all bled back to her from the sleeve where they’d hid, silent and still. Music returned disjointed and dissonant as it washed back over her (The Dwarves, an odd choice, she’d thought) but then settled, in time, rhythmic and expansive, dulcet and clear. The air seemed cooler, sweeter, shimmering, more fragrant. Everything illuminated by the glow in the corner, clearer. Still, she held her gaze on the glow, not looking into his eyes.

A pie tin he’d poured a beer into, dinged up and dirty. Lick it like a dog, he said, snarled, lap it up, you love it. Obediently she drank, dark, foamy beer, hair on her lips, his and hers. He moved his foot into the tin, toes submerged, stepping on her tongue. Drink it all, he said, every last drop.

With almost everything gone in the pan but the tip of his foot, she began licking between his toes, around his instep and heel, her tongue firm and flat against his skin, lips just brushing the top of his foot. Not pausing, her mouth continued rising on him, to his ankle, shin, each kiss on him, taste of his skin, timorous, tentative, intuitive. Continue, he whispered, his breathing more forceful, deeper, his muscles taut, head tilted back with his eyes almost shut.

She wrapped her wrists around the ropes, arms outstretched, writhing, twisting her frustrations out on bonds coiled around the bedpost. Inside her, the heel of the riding crop rubbed hard against her forward wall, the weave of the leather hilt thrust rough, its texture and shape grinding against the folds and bumps just inside her opening.

Suddenly he pulled it out of her, drops of her arousal splashing on the inside of her thighs, soft and warm like remnants of a Jamaican wave. Legs spread and shuddering, expecting the inevitable, more strikes of the crop – the back of her thighs, her ass, her shoulders – and then his cock slammed into her. You’ll fuck anything, he says, you dirty slut, you worthless cunt, take this, take this….

The riding crop stings but at least the pain is real; “slut” and “whore” and “filthy cunt” roll off the back with immeasurable affect – just functions of the psycho drama. The grip of hair as the last thrust is made and semen pulses into her throat, pump after pump, throbbing hard and insistent - that's real, as well. As real as the glow in the corner.

Help Me Rhonda. . . .

2006-11-21T18:40:00.000-08:00

I'm not saying that I'm feeling down lately, but I'm starting to envy the dead.

I live in fear. Daily.

2006-11-10T10:14:00.000-08:00

I saw the local superintendent of schools last night. I looked at him closely, from a safe distance, but I couldn't see any burn marks or any kind of sign that lightning had struck him. His cancer is in remission, too. Why is that? Why doesn't lightning strike him down? It would prove that God is paying attention! Why doesn't it happen?

Why doesn't it?

That this man is walking around unharmed and otherwise untouched by some kind of sign from above that marks him as evil, makes me doubt.

And what is it that I doubt, because of this man?

I doubt the existence of any kind of proof that good will overcome evil. Because of this man, I doubt the word of people I really ought to trust, but I don't, and I don't, because of this man. Because of this man, I break out in cold sweats of horror and fear. When I think of evil incarnate, I think of this man.

His body is a facade, a fake. Inside his fakeness are the burning pits of Hell. Burning pits of Hell, held together by flesh that isn't really flesh, and a smile that freezes people cold. Burning pits that freeze. A mass of contradictions and lies, fronted by that smile and that soft gentle voice that still fools a lot of people. A silver-haired lord of the flies.

He is in charge of all the children in this community. There are those who believe him to be the salvation of the masses. I used to be the president of his fan club.

Now I know him for what he truly is, and I fear for this school system and for the children his existence touches.

And I don't dare speak out. Others have tried, and I'd tell you what happened to them after they were fired but I honestly don't know. None of them live here any more.

I don't either, not really. I mean, I live here, but I don't call this living. Not any more.

He hits you where it really hurts, and he hits you in such a way that you don't dare hit back.

I said 'dare' and I meant 'dare.' There are others besides me who live in fear of this man and his minions.

I think he is Satan's mentor.

2006-11-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

Bitterness does not even begin to cover it. If you took all the sour candy and phenylthiocarbamide (trust me, I googled it) in the world and turned it into a black hole and then held it in your mouth letting the alkaloid melt your flesh in some protest ritual akin to monks and fire, you still wouldn't come close. By the by, this is the only blog I have so this DOES belong here. Suck it up or use the fucking scroll wheel.

That said, I am ashamed to be living in Colorado right now. The Dems hold the state for only the second time in history. We control the state Senate and House, we have one of ours in the Governor's mansion. Feels like maybe Boulder leaked out of its little cocoon and spread its liberal hippie love all over the state. Hmmmm ... maybe I should recind my proposal to allow California to annex that self rightous little county. But wait. While we may have elected people for change, a simple glance at what ballot initiatives passed and failed reminds me that I live smack dab in the middle of Red Country. And not the kind that got you black listed in the 50's. The kind that makes you think social services should change it's name to "screw-you-get-a-job-we-don't-give-a-rat's-ass-about-you". It's true, I've seen the mothers who cannot afford to feed their children, still waiting for help 6 months after applying. All the while, the telltale signs of malnutrition evident in the tiny faces. But that is neither here nor there, a rant for another day.

Let's go over what the surplus of rednecks in this beautiful state think is OK to put into those dusty old tomes we call the law books. And, what is not fit for those golden pages.

Let's start with what did pass, for the sake of continuity. Amendment 43, we have now joined the ranks of states that are so paranoid about gay people we have to DEFINE marriage as between one man and one woman. What's with the "one"? Are we ashamed because Warren Jeffs was aprehended in our state? Is it catching? Dear god, someone get me some hand sanitizer! Amendment 42 also made it through, though just barely. While raising the minimum wage sounds like a good idea ($5.15 an hour does not come anywhere close to paying rent in Denver) tying it into our constitution as something that happens every year is stupid. Strike that, full blown retarded. You can't expect some small business with an owner and 3 part time high school employees in Rifle (go ahead, laugh, I do everytime that town comes up) to pay wages equal to that of what is paid in Denver. Denver is one of the most expensive cities in the country. You do the math on how many businesses will go under, and how many union jobs (the wages of which are often tied to minimum wage) will be cut to make room in the books for this new expense. We'll tally the cost in 5 or 6 years. On to the referendums ... H which tells us that companies that hire "unauthorized aliens" (apparently illegal immigrants is not a broad enough term) will be forced to pay higher taxes. While I am not against this in principle, this along with the raised minimum wage is going to increase the cost of things such as houses and anything that involves shit jobs such as cleaning the toilets in your office. And apparently, the state is going to sue the federal government per referendum K for not enforcing existing immigration laws. For the love of Christ people, what good is that going to do?

On to the failed initiatives, which are in the order they piss me off: referendum I, and amendment 44. Come on people, not only are we denying gays even the hope of ever being able to get married, but we are telling them they have fewer rights than pets in this state. Fucking fascists is what we are. What's next, little pink triangles they have to wear in public? Wait, someone's tried that already ... it didn't work out. I don't smoke pot, and I recognize that even if the state legalizes it, there is still the federal laws that make it a crime to have. I did however like the idea of the state rising up and telling the federal government "we know you're full of shit about what this drug does to people and we aren't going to take it anymore". Basically I am always all for a collective middle finger to the government.

I am begining to think Canada may not be far enough away for me, I might have to defect to France. Not that all is lost, the Dems took the House in Washington, and as I write, are thisclose to taking the Senate, though that race could go either way. Collectively, the country told the Bush administration exactly where the sun does not shine and how to kiss that particular sweet spot. Good job people.

And That Would Be Me, All Over

2006-11-06T19:19:00.000-08:00

I should have taken Anne Sexton's advice and run away before it was too late. "As for me, I am a watercolor; I wash off." I am hoping she was wrong about some circumstances because it's too late to turn back now.

I have been a dormant volcano for years and I am ready to blow. To hell with convention.

Ideally speaking ....

2006-11-06T07:49:00.000-08:00

I want to write in tones of
late night coffee shop of
1967 downtown Denver of
all night Frisco jazz club of
society-altering poems of
generations that aren't sleeping of
mindful protesters of
clear enemies of
civil disobedience of
unity in objectives of
political satire of
intellectual orgies of
responsible foreign policy of
a watchful public of
Revolution! of
sad little monks of
innocent youth of
ladders that start at the bottom of
not the rich, the many of
corporate accountability of
a working system of
social progress of
some kind of future of
leaving a better world of
true equality of
dreams meeting reality of
hope

This is The Central Screwtinizer...

2006-11-04T22:31:00.000-08:00

Soliciting links, we are, whatever you want to see over there on the right, let us know. Anything subversive and/or a salacious waste of time.

Leave your suggestions in the comments or email me (for you blushing petunias) and I'll link us somewhere odd and seedy. Share you guilty pleasures, give us some anarchy.

That is all.

Hello, I Guess It Isn't Me You're Looking For

2006-11-02T13:06:00.000-08:00

On Thursday nights right now, I am absolutely alone in this house from dawn till ten or so at night. Why doesn't anybody ever call me? I mean, besides Mom.

(I love you, Mom.)

But it would be nice if someone else called, too. I mean, besides my kids.

(I love you, kids.)

Oh, well, hell, the phone rings off the hook. But, but, but,

It would still be nice if someone else called, too.

One Day In Canada

2006-11-01T06:40:00.000-08:00

Yeah. So this is going to be one of those posts that are ending up here for exactly the reason this blog was started.

Ya with me here?

You may have noticed that I'm not exactly secret. Although the opportunity to be anonymous was graciously afforded me, I opted not to be so. I'm Kim in real life and I'm okay with that.

The story I'm about to tell isn't really appropriate for my own blog because every now and then, my kids or my mother in law or Aunt Jeanette will log onto my site and read my bullshit and then I'm stuck at family gatherings trying to explain myself to puritans and it's never pretty. What they lack in understanding is only surpassed by their profound lack of humor and inability to laugh at human nature. I have lots of human nature and a somewhat twisted sense of humor. People make me laugh. Kids make me laugh even more.

Jesus, with a buildup like this, one would expect something really juicy. This isn't all that juicy, it's cute and odd and funny to me. As such, I am taking advantage of my membership here to get this out of my head and into writing. If you find it funny as well, then great. If not, that's okay too. Christ, I might need prozac.

I have a granddaughter who is five years old. Her name is Ryann. This child is my joy. She is one of the most free spirited, unashamed, brutally honest hambones I have ever seen. She and I have a relationship that is rock solid, so strong and close that it amazes me. It's as if she has always been a part of my life, and this child adores me with her whole heart. She's an old soul, this child. Ryann created a name for me when she was just beginning to talk, that name is "Monga". Monga is a conglomeration of "mom", "grandma", and "nana", all of which were names she heard used in the family. All of my grandchildren now call me that.

I have never raised any of my children with much imposed propriety. There is a lot of public nudity in my house because there are a lot of people in my house. It isn't an issue, never has been, never will be. Tits are tits. Asses are asses. Everyone has them, everyone's seen them. My kids have all been exposed to skin enough times that it's not noticed. If an individual has a need for modesty, its okay for them to have it, nobody notices or gives it a second thought. In our family, the human body is viewed much as a piece of furniture or a pair of shoes or a work of art on the wall is; it's there and it's looked at in the same manner, a fact of life. What has happened because of this mindset is that my kids are unimpressed by nudity, they aren't overly curious about anatomy and they don't pay much attention to it.

Ryann's mother is my daughter Tracy. Tracy was raised with this model and has continued it with her own children, but Ryann's exposure to nudity has only been her little brother and her mom, both hairless creatures at that.

Which brings us to my tale...

We were all in Canada recently to attend the spontaneous and unplanned wedding of my oldest daughter. We all secured rooms in the same lodge and Tracy and I had two that were adjoining. On the morning of the wedding, we had all determined that to heighten the excitement of the impending nuptials, we would segregate the males from the females in the family and not see each other until we all arrived at the chapel. So, the men went off to one large family suite and the women ran off to the other.

As you can imagine, there were a lot of females in one room. Space was limited and girls will be girls, we all had to get dressed, put on makeup and fuss over the bride. There wasn't a lot of thought put into privacy; we are after all, family.

It honestly never occurred to me that I was going to be naked in front of my granddaughter. Being naked in front of my own daughters was no big deal, but the idea of being naked in front of Ryann, well, I never even considered it. I forgot.

So there I was, along with the other seven girls in my family, minding my own business and attempting to get dressed, when out of the corner of my eye, I see my darling Ryann.

The child had the most horrified expression I've ever seen on her face. I watched as she scanned my form then saw her gag slightly and cover her mouth with her hands.

With utter disgust she said, "Monga! You need to shave! That's the most disgusting thing!"

Horrified, I looked to see what it was that had sickened her so terribly and then realized it was my crotch. She had never seen pubic hair before.

So what do you say to a five year old in a matter like this?

Caught off guard and slightly embarrassed I said, "Ryann, not all girls shave that off, I only leave a little bit honey, it's up to the owner."

"The owner? Of what?" she asked me.

This was going from bad to worse.

"Uh, well, you see Ryann, shit. Where's your mother?"

"My mom doesn't have any hair down there Monga" she offered. "You need a haircut I think. Are you sick?"

My ten year old daughter Anna started laughing at this exchange, until she got dragged into it. "Anna doesn't have any down there either," Ryann said, "and neither do I, wanna see?" She started to lift her dress up to show me.

"NO Ryann! No, that's okay; I don't need to see honey." In the back of my mind I knew this was one of those shocking life realization things the kid most likely wouldn't ever forget the rest of her life, I certainly didn't need her to formulate a childhood memory of showing me her cootch too. "Okay Ryann, I'll take care of my problem when we get home, okay?"

"I sure hope so Monga, because that's just sick" she said, "If you need help I can ask my mommy to help you, okay?"

"Okay honey, thank you." I said.

"You're welcome Monga. I sure hope you don't need a shot or something."

I needed a shot alright, but not the kind she was talking about...

I saw Ryann again last night. She was looking at me sideways and finally came up to sit on my lap. "Did you get your hair problem fixed yet Monga?" she asked.

"Yes Ryann, everything is taken care of honey" I assured her.

"Oh thank goodness" she said, "I don't have to worry about it anymore now."

Indeed.

All Saint's Day

2006-11-01T00:18:00.000-08:00

Darkness cleaved through the rock
Like a black hatchet
Leaving a wound oozing with nothing
but a flat shadow.
Turn on your highbeams and hope
a stray star above
will lead you out through the mouth of hell.

A Haiku

2006-10-28T12:21:00.000-07:00

Rich bitch cliques; hollow
and plastic hulled. My envy
eats me from inside...

My former friend,
You are lost, huddled within your want, need for popularity. Popularity? Why? From whom? Others, exact replicas of you.
Suck ups and hangers-on, other privileged and bored housewives who have given up living real lives.
What the world needs now is Barbie, more Barbie. Or so you all think.
You were so real, so regular, so...warm and forthcoming. Beautiful of face, spirit, heart, and nature.
Now?
You talk about nothing...
your dream house that you just bought.
your brand new pool.
your immaculately landscaped lawn.
your brand new hybrid car.
your horseback riding lessons.
your polo matches.
your snot-faced garden parties.
Jazzercise, manicures, pedicures, and shopping.

This is fulfillment?

Where did you go? When did you become a Stepford Barbie?
You don't share your feelings, anymore. Your everyday-ness. Is it lost forever?
Your picture, "You're all jealous of me", sums it up nicely. That is what you strive for, that is what you have. False power.
You've lost the realness that made you lovely.
Now you're plastic and cold, unlovely. I don't want to know you. I'm jealous, so jealous, but I pity you.
You and the Stepford Barbies.
Enjoy your superficiality. I'm sure it will be a comfort to you, someday.

Do You Smile To Tempt A Lover, Mona Lisa?

2006-10-27T20:44:00.000-07:00

We aren't really keeping any secrets from anyone on here. Mostly, we're just posting aspects of our lives that wouldn't be 'suitable' for our regular blogs. Those who know us well, already know. Although, some people who THINK they know us well have no idea. . . . .

Let no one here feel guilt at posting anything, not anything. Let us all just feel grateful that this blog is here that we might utilize it and share those parts of us that might set our other blogs to smokin'.

That being said, my underwear was driving me mad today so I took it off and threw it away. Then I went to a boring family reunion and everybody remarked about how contented I seemed to be, even in the midst of a reunionish mixture of boredom and chaos. I sat amongst my aunts and uncles and listened to story after story, and through it all I felt light and free and really myself. Part of me hoped the breeze wouldn't betray me, and part of me hoped it would. It didn't.

And for the first time I understood where the Mona Lisa got that shitty little smile. I wore it all afternoon and evening, myself.

None of you will ever look at that painting the same way again.

Not Really A Secret

2006-10-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

I love hanging out with gay men. I mean to say, I absolutely LOVE hanging out with gay men!!

Ketamine

2006-10-23T03:13:00.000-07:00

There is probably a million among none of you who remember that summer when I was bringing vials of Ketamine to anyone who’d have them. Just jam a milligram into a muscle and there you were, somewhere else, experiencing the life of a butterfly or realizing what some Hindu deity did in another dimension, something dirty smelling like dirt and the essence of pure light. A life of bits strewn like glitter across junk oil in a gutter, bits of another sky looking up, chipped and shimmering with chunks of glass shot into the street, sizzling and jumping and tumbling like crystal dice, screaming across the sky then burrowing through the earth, mumbling beneath the rocks, making the dirt jump with each throb of my heart, making the grass bend my way and sigh, the tiny remains scattered through other matter and the debris of ideas. Or ideals. Something spun on a nautilus path again and again and repeated endlessly, self-referential, recherché, chanted prayers and spinning mandalas, a twirling eternity spoken of like it was new and realized when it’s always been thus; this and nothing else.

Once I was standing in a Spanish Villa, in a patio. There was a fountain in the middle, the sound rushing past me and then echoing in the surrounding four walls. The tiles beneath my feet were slick with spray, slippery, dark around the edges where mildew had set in. It was a warm night and clear, stars obscured by the light of torches set around and subtle with their scent of oil. I’d stepped into the house of someone rich and meticulous – everything was exquisite, in balance – alive. Everything was as authentic as the hairs standing up damp on my neck.

And then I was spun off into something else, whatever bits were me coalesced into serendipity or spending the lifetime of a snail or being the number seven in intense realization, no me but only those things that I was in totality.

Immediate dissolution of ego, that denial of no common I a condition of the trip that I think made most people uncomfortable. In that summer of lost hours, I remember people embracing the vials and almost immediately rejecting the effect, the fear of losing who they were because who they were was all they’d known. To have all they’d known shown to be the sham was far too much for them to handle. A little E, some weed, big booze strewn back forcefully while kneeling in piss – all that was fine, safe. Getting ripped from here into there with no face left, well, that was intolerable.

A K-Hole is real, more real than you’ll ever know and it’s the ‘more real’ part that bothers so many people. Being a junkie just requires getting lost onside one’s self; in a K-Hole, Self is discarded with cold disregard. Poof, it’s gone and the rest of you, go there, now. Then there and there and so on. For about an hour of that and then, nothing, back to earth and feeling vertically challenged, shitfaced drunk. For about an another hour. And then everything’s fine. Unless you’re still worried about demons dancing on your soul.

It was a weird summer and things shifted in chaotic ways, convoluting across the bricks like an English Ivy. Since I don’t believe in souls or demons, everything was fine, I was having the time of my life. Go to Spain, be a number, yeah, I could deal with that. Vacation on the cheap

2006-10-22T00:30:00.000-07:00

I'd seen what bullies did and sometimes I managed to intervene with humor or sheer volume, exploiting what they were doing by saying what nobody said, aloud in their presence. But they had me, too. I was so afraid of being bullied it was an extention of their power. It hurt. It effected the way I lived my life, the way it did for their victims.

She stole a package my mother sent. She gave it back. She knocked on my door, smirking, and fed me something about a mistake; the mistake being that someone had seen her I found out later. I smirked back and shut the door, resting against it with the box in my arms like a doomed clerk.

That was it. I knew that it was only an intimation of what would happen. She'd gotten bored with R. and A., now she was going to prey on me. I put on a pair of those shoes and walked to her boyfriend's dorm. I kissed him. Chastely, which says something that I still don't understand. I told him that we were going to fuck because I hated his girlfriend. No worries, I wouldn't tell her. Nothing more was said. He dropped his trousers, I knelt on the bed and he fucked me from behind, gasping, "Jesus." I smiled at his headboard and knew that I was better. He shuddered when it ended. I got off for days.

My tits were warm and tight in my bra. I was constantly wet. He told her, of course. I lead her to believe no, then yes, never admitting or denying anything. She knew that bullying would never get her the answer she needed, so she cajoled and tried to befriend me. Her efforts were always cut short. I kept walking, forgetting her presence when I talked to other people.

At the ten year reunion she offered me a ride across campus in her car. She'd been waiting all that time to find out the truth about him. Trapped in the pouring rain I thought about telling her something, not necessarily the truth, but whatever would finalize it for her. It would have been the humane thing to do if she'd known what that was. Her post-grad behaviors showed otherwise. She'd betrayed her two friends, the goons, and continued to ruin the lives of some of those with whom she'd stayed in contact.

"Let's have a drink," I said to my new friend. We went inside, in our cocktail dresses. How unlikely the two of us walking in through any door all smiles. I watched her, talking to the people who were there. Not R. Or A. Not her goons.

"I'm so sorry," I said, laying my hand on his sleeve. "Did you know she's still fucking him?" She was in her head, wasn't she? She was fucking everyone, one way or another. Her husband nodded. He thought as much. It had happened before. Since your wife's such a nasty bitch this episode will be confined to you licking my pussy and loving it. No, you may not have some more please, kind Sir.

"Go kiss her," I told him. "I want to watch. If you do it, I'll fuck you." He walked, I watched him, the back of his jacket grazing that great ass. He bent toward her. She and I smiled. He kissed her and her lips formed 'ooh'. That was good, wasn't it? I saw him pointing, and talking, while I crossed the room. Her faced changed a hundred times in that minute.

"You'll never know if I fucked him or not. But I'm going to fuck your husband just as soon as you storm out of here in tears."

We spent the remaining two days in his hotel room bed. I have never been fucked so well. I've been in love and had a ball, but what happened there was unique. There was absolute joy in our power. We freed ourselves from anything she ever was to us. I fucked him for R. and A. and her two goons. I fucked him for him. But most of all I fucked him for me. We were very, very happy.

He's happily married. I'm happy and not married. We send each other Christmas cards and sometimes have the great pleasure of bumping into each other at the beach, where we spend the remainder of the weekend playing with our kids and drinking beer on the porch when they sleep. Who the fuck knows what happened to her. Who the fuck cares?

Sometimes there is no clear line between predator and victim.

You Could Have Been a Love Song

2006-10-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

I like how much you love me. I can see it in your eyes.
I like how protective you are, as if I am fragile and need your help.
I like how you think I am smart, how you laugh at everything I say.
I like how you respect me. My dreams are important and you care.
I like how different we are, and how it's okay that it should be that way.
I like how you tolerate my moods, rolling on the tide of emotion that is me.
I love how you fuck me like the dirty bitch I am.

To Quote Victoria Jackson at the SNL Reunion: What Happened to ME?

2006-10-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

I am by nature a nurturer. I have always been so. I love doing for people, whatever is in my power to do.

But.

Sometimes, I get so tired of pretending to be a stable, almost stereotypical, Mom-type woman, I could scream. I love my house, yeah, I love my kids, yeah, I love to cook and sew and all that domestic shit, yeah, but what happened to ME? Somewhere in all this, I got lost. Or I lost part of me, or something. The me I am now isn't the real me.

What happened to the wild chick with mega-long blonde hair and eyes that could flash a glance that would make the Pope renounce celibacy? (and what happened to the guy who told me that, I wonder?) Where did my motorcycle go? And why don't my size 3 leather jeans fit any more?

I used to pin a bandanna to the circle of metal around my neck and then tie it in back and wear it in public.

I hate it that most of the people in my life now have no idea what I am really like.

I know what I used to think about older people when I would watch them go about their business, all boring and staid and unexciting and sadly without fun and how they must have always been that way, born that way, never any other way.

When I think that kids now are looking at me that same way I want to scream and shake them and say "Look, kid, when I was your age you wouldn't have been able to HANDLE ME!!"

And the truth is, they wouldn't have been able to handle me. Few could. Damn, I was good. I was wild.

The most exciting part of me, though, was that not many people suspected. I could turn it on or off, as the spirit moved me.

That on-off switch is still there. I know where it is. It's just that it's now off-limits in this life that somehow chose me, or maybe I chose it because I was afraid of something, but what? I don't know for sure.

But when your boyfriend of four wild and crazy years is diagnosed with terminal cancer and all hell is breaking loose all around you, sometimes, sometimes, you run away and do something so outlandishly NOT you that you stand back and watch it unfold like a stranger at a wedding, which is what I pretty much was at mine.

I have not been myself for many years. Lately, however, I have been juggling the possibility of shucking it all and being ME again.

Too bad I'm such a wad of chickenshit. . . .

Half a lyric, five cents

2006-10-21T01:57:00.000-07:00

I've been rode and a scholar
rolled in a bed full of dollars,
twenties, tens, and some bills smaller
never been compelled to holler.

Then you walked in through that door,
you knocked me down onto the floor,
Yeah.

You’ve got all that I need,
Up, down, and sometimes hackneyed.
Your words are all that I heed,
Your looks are all that I seed,

Then you walked in through the door,
You knocked me down onto to the floor,
Yeah.

You’re my heaven, my everything,
My Catherine Wheel,
My passion thing,
My desire…

You’re my Love Messiah

2006-10-19T20:53:00.000-07:00

I say nothing about my ex, saving the name Senor Psychopath for conversation with my best friend. When he rings my cellphone, a skull and crossbones icon warns me, "Matthole."

He sat with his face inches from mine, relentlessly grilling me for hours, even acknowledging that my screaming was regarded by the nurses as nothing but the hysteria of a laboring mother. They wouldn't throw him out. That's how he welcomed our daughter into this world. It felt like being murdered physically and psychologically. They were trying to kill me!

I don't tell that story. I say nothing about the emotional concentration camp it took me five years to escape. Mustn't grumble about the shared custody that keeps me anchored to this suburban wasteland. I gave it to him because it's the only thing I say in attachment to his name. "He's a superlative dad."

His hate campaign rages on. I've learned the slow motion Matrix maneuver to avoid the pain if it somehow makes it through the elaborate defense system I've constructed between us. My best weapon is freedom.

I promise you, rarely a night goes by that I don't get in my fat, juicy bed and feel my heart sing. I sleep without hostility percolating next to me. When I am woken up at two in the morning, it isn't to fight, to lock myself in the bathroom, running the water to drown out his voice and to sleep on the floor. Instead, it's because my daughter's stomach has betrayed her and she's vomited everywhere. This, I assure you, is a joyous occasion. I clean her up and hold her close to me, "It's alright, Babe." It is. A sign hangs on our living room wall. It says, And they lived happily ever after. YESYESYES.

I forgot for a second. Matthole was rushed to the ER. Untreated diverticulitis poisoned him. They removed a quarter of his intestinal tract which promptly got infected. He was in the hospital for ten days. I remembered the artist who played piano by ear, the one who sketched me pregnant and nude, the human I loved, and I called. Within a minute I replaced the phone in the cradle, wondering why I was surprised they discovered he was rotten on the inside.

Haiku #2

2006-10-18T14:40:00.000-07:00

Some wishes really
shouldn't come true, but those are
the ones we want most.

Closing Time

2006-10-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

They pulled all the candles and

Tipped the chairs, upside-down

On top of the tables,

Legs in the air like dead roaches.

“Four-legged roaches – that’s funny!”

She said, with a forced guffaw,

Reinforcing her flirtatious intent

To make me a wit.

We exchange glances

While our glasses are gripped

With guarded desperation,

Gold rings on the bar

Where Bacchus forged our bond.

“Drink em’ up!”

ended the equivocation of the evening’s

endless endeavor;

she took my hand and we left together.

We both drank from the barmat and
agreed we're adults, we'd made up our
minds - end of story for godssake.

Snap!

2006-10-18T03:04:00.000-07:00

Waiting for the snap because, I thought, a snap would be all I’d sense; just a snap and then bright light, the roar of eternity steamrolling everything I am, was, will be. The snap and then nothing else for me to experience, not even a void. What’s left only that which you will experience, whoever you are, however you announce yourself to be. Whatever the snap was, you’ll see what it was right away.

Before the snap it’s cold and bitter, the taste of just apple peels and nothing else. Jammed up and entirely committed but still gentle with the soft palate, everything gets counted, considered, contained, a lifetime drawn on the back of a matchbook. A tremulous finger twitches where one last decision will be made. Everything ends where one thing says, “Fuck it.

2006-10-18T01:11:00.000-07:00

Hi, guys. Thanks for letting me come and play. For my first act, I'd like to behave badly. Away from my artistic endeavor and the very real effort to live a rich and full life, I'll give you what I do inadvertantly best - the pariah routine. There is such liberation in being able to speak without my own filters to be a good girl, a strong girl, fair and compassionate. I'm not moderating my arrogance here. I won't hide my hurts or worry that I will alienate. More, I can say fuck off. I want to say

Stop! raping me!

There's three of them, the cunts.

The first has been my longest and most faithful reader. How's that for gratitude? I dreaded the reciprocity of linking her blog and so went without a list for the longest time. Please, don't associate me with her misery, her deadwalla. She can't breathe, she can't live and say, God, yes, this is hard but there's something to it, there's life. Instead, she punishes me because I write well, in her estimation. Funny, how these words from others mean so much but from someone whose words are like the last stringy bit of vomit wretched onto you it's a curse. She is ending her blog and I am thrilled. I can't wait to scratch it off the page.

The second leaves insightful comments, her philosophies offered when she recognizes them among my own. It may be too much of my own trait to bear. See? Even I've started to believe she's me. The site meter says she's spent the day in my archives again. I would send my favorite author a postcard and tell him, Now I know. How nice it is to have someone cannibalize your head with such a loving appetite. The difference - God help me from the things I cannot say - is that I do not plagiarize them. I do not mock their efforts in my feeble posts, harvesting their ideas to be held aloft in the contrived and aching words of insufficiency. I do not lack a sense of self or borrow anyone else's. Take your own words and phrases, your own ideas, your own experiences and represent them without me. Get. Off me.

The third ignores my comments on her blog. I do not exist. She visits me daily and remarks, regardless of the caliber of my work, praising even the shit. She loves my work and hates me because of it, claiming her own is nothing in comparison. Yet it is not enough to link or acknowledge its author in your own environs. Am I supposed to feel badly because she feels her writing isn't as good as mine? She shoves her judgment down my throat.

All I wanted to do was write and be read. I looked down my nose at people who flamed other blogs and authors. I thought they were wasting their time and mine, cheap in their spirit. In the end it turns out that I understood them entirely. I was unable to shake this trifling shit from my mind. It cramped my words. Until now.

As long as everyone else is doing it ....

2006-10-17T14:24:00.000-07:00

Three things tattoo'd on me:
My contradictions guarding my kidneys;
some small reminder of who I am on
my left forearm (japanese "artistic"
when viewed properly)

Next time I go in,
I am getting two large dragons
on my torso,
and a pheonix on my neck
as reminders of my power.

Coffee, love and other instant gratifications

2006-10-16T12:16:00.000-07:00

You could live here
(people do everyday, you know)
among the relics of age
and the weight of families
and pasts pressing
down the empty
spot on the bed
heavy like a lover
who's memories haunt dreams of the
future narrow
narrow and dark an alleyway
at 3 am some Saturday
night too drunk to
distinguish the echo
of your own steps from
those behind you.

What terrors await us
in our own minds!

A lapse of
judgement this looseness
of a shoelace could
you have ran back to old
vices or to some safety
net acrobat high in the
air dancing so close
to disaster the crowd
waits with bated breath
for the sweat on their
own palms to create
a slip peeking out
from under some woman's
skirt causes an involuntary
lust in the man behind
her as he holds a daughter
who must grow up with
the memory of her father's
failings, the sad man
the mother too close
to leaving love grown cold
and bitter.

Any child would cry
as if Santa is not real,
as if it matters, some deep
love festers after years
springs forth fresh as
that first moment, longing
stretches like cats across
vision langorious and
easy as apple pie
which of course is not
easy just simple as
counting to 10 during
hide and seek peeking
at 8 or 9 every child
cheats it's a wonder
we discourage the basic
desire to win some
we all lose some the
scars of our shortcomings
long and evident mindfully
we walk down broken
sidewalks each step carefully
observant of some private
and defunct religion
each breath a prayer
each beat praise
hurry through the
moment looking for
some kind of estatic
joy or wrong to right
but still we hurry past
each other as if we
were only one
the rest delusion and a
misunderstanding between
synapses in the brain
hallucinations are more
interesting to talk to at
night anyway.

Copycat

2006-10-14T21:22:00.000-07:00

Three things tattoo’d on me:
My children’s initials;
A peace sign;
And two thumbs on my head, under my hair,
Pushing down hard to keep me proper.

The next time I go in, I’m going to get
An ankh on my ankle
and a rose on my left breast.

And a hat.

2006-10-13T18:42:00.000-07:00

Three things tattoo'd on me:
My 'totem' animal;
My children's 'totem' animals;
and a garage style and looking vine on my ankle.

The next time I go in, I'm going to get
part of my vine redone or covered
and my butterfly tightened up.

"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what a ship is for."

2006-10-13T07:37:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a pretty little girl with stars in her eyes and a smile that came straight from the heart. She couldn't wait to grow up because in all the books she'd read, being 'grown-up' meant that the 'happily-ever-after' thing would begin and life would always treat her with gentle loving hands and she would be absolutely exactly that: happy, ever after.

Then one day she found out that not all books end on a positive note. One day she found out that some stories end horribly. Logically, but horribly. Sometimes, the pretty little girl with the heartfelt smile felt trapped, like a rat in a cage. Sometimes, the pretty little girl felt cornered, like a bewildered wild thing feeling the walls on three sides and seeing choices she'd made of her own free will standing in front of the only exit and knowing that to get out she'd have to destroy them. She could see beyond, to the world outside where there were at least different walls and different cages and different choices in the doorways, but all she could do was look because to do anything else would be to hit something else a blow that would be unfair and uncalled for and devastating, inevitable as it certainly was, and the little girl, trapped in the cage and with the walls at her back and sides, wanting out, wanting OUT, knew she'd have to gnaw off her own leg to do so and while most days it seemed as though it would be worth it anyway, on the days when her mind was functioning properly she knew that even if she did it, the leg she left behind would never heal and would hurt forever and that others besides her would feel the pain. . . . .

And some days, most days, she realized that the stories with horrible endings were better than stories with no ending at all. She realized, too, that the reason those stories wherein the reader could choose her own ending always seemed horrible to her was because it's the responsibility of the author to choose the ending; the author owes it to the reader to end the story; what if the ending the little girl chose wasn't the ending she would have chosen several years down the road; once the story has an ending, aren't all options then forever closed? Is it possible to go back and choose another ending for the same story? And if she did that, what would happen to all the characters who were comfortable with the first ending?

One day the little girl realized that a comfortable ending can be the worst kind of pap-ish cop-out writing. Sometimes, a frenetic orgy of twists and turns and ironies and schema and decisions and introduction of new characters when the reader least suspects it could happen, is the best kind of ending.

Then again, maybe the best kind of ending is the kind wherein all those things happen, and we are left at the end satisfied, yet we were involved enough to wonder what happened after the words "The end" have been stamped onto that last page. . . . .

The little girl has never been able to discount the periphery characters. Yes, we are all ecstatic that the lovers finally came together, but what about the heartbreak of those who were abandoned by these same lovers in order that they might come together at the end? What do the abandoned ones think about when they go home, take off their bridal clothes and climb into bed alone, after all?

We focus on the main characters and we don't really pay much attention to the subplot characters who often sacrifice all that the main characters might find happiness.

If the little girl could stop thinking about them, she might break free and do it. If she could stop thinking about those periphery characters, she would be free.

If she could stop thinking about them.

Perhaps every story, then, is really a continued story. But those always seemed a kind of cop-out, too.

The little girl is confused. Really, really confused.

Love Isn't

2006-10-12T05:30:00.000-07:00

“I love you with all of my heart” I say, and I mean it too. You are like a God to me, tall, older, intelligent. I grovel on my knees for any scrap of attention you hurl my way and I’m grateful for it, no better than your dog, no smarter in your eyes either.

You taught me to love in a fucked up way. You made me cum, and I repaid you with my loyalty, my trust, my entire being. Whatever you wanted, whatever you needed whatever I could do to prove how much you were worth.

But you didn’t love me like that.

I sit here and see what you have done. The butter you smeared on all of the walls lends an eerie glow to the room as the candles you lit and placed upon the table flicker with my catching breath, the table with the pentagram you drew in red paint. Why would you do that? I wonder to myself, and then dismiss the thought because I can hear you in my head. I pick up the broken glass you scattered around the room and cut myself by accident. I don’t tend the wounds though; somehow they make it all more real. I watch as the blood from my face runs with the blood from my hands upon the floor. This should hurt, I think, but I don’t feel anything.

I am leaving you now, and I will never be back.

Snitch

2006-10-12T00:55:00.000-07:00

Three things tattoo'd on me:
My tribal affiliation;
My mother's name;
and H-A-T-E on each knuckle
of my left hand.

The next time I go in, I'm going to get
a cross on my thumb
and the and the Angel of Death on my back.

Haiku

2006-10-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

"Scandalous and wrong,"
Is what people would say if
They could read my mind.

Untitled, sent to a potential lover

2006-10-11T00:49:00.000-07:00

eternity will change my
brilliant perfume box into
blue velvet magic
you may smile at her but
no one would breathe as if
this joy was not enough

blind and naked
we were wet but laughing
with this small life
and its small victories
like dew
piling up in the grass
waiting for summer toes to tickle.

Yes, I am a coward.

2006-10-09T20:00:00.000-07:00

I'm going to bed. I'm too tired to be sane, and when I'm tired I loosen up like a drunk and it's hard telling what I might do or say. It's too risky. I could shock someone to the point of heart failure with moods like I've had lately.

Did I say "moods?" Oh hell, you've never seen a real mood 'till you've seen mine. Marvels of discretionless confessions, they are. Scary things. Absolutely without regard for convention.

The really awful part? I like having them.

So ya' think ya' got religion?

2006-10-09T01:39:00.000-07:00

Save me
from that sedan ahead of me,
no options or add-ons,
just a white car with jesus stickers.
Good God, save me
as soon as you fucking can,
give me salvation on the cheap
with as much noise as heaven's got.
Raise your
Quanset huts in rage, rock of ages
pumped in the parking lot
for gun-nuts and the good, go-getters.
Gimmee gimmee gimmee
the goods now, Lord,
save me from the cretins
who call themselve's yours.

Shave my cock?

2006-10-08T14:01:00.000-07:00

Thing is, I don't like taking a blade near my beauty, my attitude. Must be repressed trauma from the circumcision or fear of the unthinkable (unless he's young and has a good voice). But I heard the ladies don't just like a trimmed beard, they like a babyface.

So fellas, how do you do it? There's a lot of geography there and all of it is sensitive, really sensitive.

Any advice you have on shaving a cock would be appreciated.

Secret.

2006-10-06T17:05:00.000-07:00

I have a secret. It's a big one. I wish I could tell somebody, but I never can.

I can just spend the rest of my life trying not to act on it, I guess. Acting on it would be both the beginning and the end.

It would be the beginning of me, but the end of everything else.

The word "temptation" never really applied to me before, not since I grew up and became respectable.

Well, it does now.

And the thing is, I might act on it anyway. I really want to.
I mean to say, I REALLY want to.

Shhhhh. Secret.

Adolescent

2006-10-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

"Follow me into the bathroom" she said slipping
off her clothes, "you can listen to me in the
shower." sound effects to what you can't have.

"Yesterday I believed in God," he spoke -
unexpected as he had always been mute,
"But today I believe I am god."

She was always dying for a savior -
washing her lovers' feet in hopes they
might really be Jesus, she a martyr.

She showers alone in the bathroom these
days, though she often invites high school
boys up to fill the void of being desired.

Meanwhile, he's preparing for his
crucifixtion, a ridiculous idea, he's already
34, thinks they've miscounted his age.

Now she lives lonely in a loft downtown,
snorting cocaine and licking tabs of LSD
looking for enlightenment (the hallucinations

keep her company at any rate) he hates
her now, lives with women who lock the
bathroom door, asking, "Mom, how could you?"

John

2006-10-05T14:21:00.000-07:00

. . . and when I remember the blue of your eyes,
The me that I was then still drowns, (the good kind),
In the blue, the incredible blueness
Of your soul’s windows,
Where you looked out at me, and the clearness of the blueness
Made me believe every word you ever said.
Oh, your eyes, your beautiful eyes. . . .
The clear, clean blue, the kind of blue that is almost clear, but blue, but clear, but mostly blue,
Like the still, clear, blue sea,
When you are in a glass-bottomed boat and look down,
and you can see through the clearness of the blueness to the bottom of the sea
where beautiful shells and starfish and tropical fish and the occasional eel are,
seeming an inch from your hand,
but really a mile away. . . .
And when you reach eagerly for something lovely, to help you remember the day,
The only thing that comes up to meet your fingertips
Sends an electric shock all through your system
And you remember, all right.

Your eyes were like that.

I loved to look at them, and see the beautiful things behind them.

One day I looked more closely.
And what I finally saw, through the clearness, and the blueness,
Hiding there among all the lovely things,
Gave me the courage to leave.
I turned once,
And you looked out at me, and didn’t blink, and didn’t smile,
And didn’t say goodbye
When I turned away
Forever. . .
. . . and when the me that I am now remembers the particular blue of your eyes,
I still drown, but not the good kind.
I can only feel the electricity that burned me when I reached for something lovely.
I wish it would burn the memory away,
But each time it only brands it deeper in my heart.

Mornings, Explained (for Chris)

2006-10-05T13:01:00.000-07:00

"Some / sleep is not worth sleeping, some nights / mere neglect of light, lingering" - Bin Ramke (After Artemidorus on Dreams: Oneicriticos)

Those nights with you,
my day too early.
How easy would
it have been to
say no? Go home
and lay in the
pattern of headlights
on my ceiling?
as if those nights had
a purpose,
some meaning other
than lying                                                (Such a common talent
here covered in satin                                    why do we bother
and red light                                                to practice it?)
like some
nocturnal exhibit
at the zoo.

It would have been
easy except
I love the way
you make me
feel beautiful
I could bask                                                      for days
in the way you
don't try to know
anything about
me - are content
in this rhythm
of youagainstme.
Our habits
comfortable
and predictable
as if this were
enough, this
skin-on-skin.
The sound of my
breath on your neck,
your hand on my
side. I rarely
slept those nights
anyway, never

mind the shuddering
of our bodies
the way you
would grab
the back of
my head and
I would start
to cry, my hands
gripping your
shoulders, my
mouth on your skin
to muffle myself
begging you to stop.
I would not have
you hear, you
see. Why risk
letting you think
you've possessed me,
won.
After all, this is war dear.

Mornings my victory.
Those hurried
moments
as I
left before the sun
became like the night,
lingering.

2006-10-05T11:04:00.000-07:00

Did you know he bought me a 100 pound
concrete rhino?
A lawn ornament.

And never gave it to me.

Good thing.

I'd have smashed it to bits!

Dan

2006-10-04T20:34:00.000-07:00

You scum.
You gave me wine, and when I woke up the next morning,
My memory of the night was gone.
You ass.
Two weeks later, as we danced,
I pulled away from you for just a moment
Looked at your smiling face an inch from mine, and recoiled,
As it all came rushing back.
That’s why I made that little mewling sound, before I broke your nose, and cried,
And ran away from you forever.

Bruce

2006-10-04T15:17:00.000-07:00

When you finally did die,
I felt a twinge, but only a twinge,
And only a small twinge.
What did people expect?
The pain I felt when you ran off to the Grand Canyon
With Carol
Far outweighed any control
I might have had
Over that same heart.
You did ask me first, and I said yes, and then no.
Even then I was packing my things,
Easing away from you,
Leaving a little less of me behind with every visit,
Fading out of your life, even as your life was fading away.
If I had known then, would I have stayed?
No.
I always tried to leave before the inevitable trip to the Canyon.

Fear of Sleep

2006-10-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

They took me from my bed and threw me in a van. No one else was there except the cops and me. They didn't tell what it was about and in fact they didn't have mouths, they hardly had faces.

We rode for a long time and I really had to pee. They hadn't blindfolded me so not only could I see where we were going but I got a good look at the inside of the van. Stuffed in a crease of one of the rear quarter-panels was a red, plastic beer cup. I shuffled over to the cup on my knees, my ankles shackled and my arms cuffed behind my back. Kneeling before the cup, I motioned to the cops around me that, hey, fellas, one of you are going to have to help me here and take my Johnson out so I can, you know, fill this cup.

The faceless, dumb cops just kept looking ahead at the road. They looked like mannequins composed of black holes.

We stopped at an IHOP and some Mexican busboy helped me take care of business in a bathroom thick with the scent of urinal cakes.

When I left the bathroom, I saw the cops sitting at a table, staring at their food. After all, they had no mouths.

2006-10-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

I knew I had changed the pictures
and I knew I had added a song.
I didn't realize there was an underlying
theme or reason to my actions.

It wasn't the Xanax,
and it wasn't any other
forms of recreation
or relaxation,
I think I did it because I
knew...
I knew
you'd be back to look.

You've come, haven't you?

hidden happiness

2006-09-30T08:38:00.000-07:00

There is hidden happiness,
in being wanted,
like needing a 'hit'.

But better.

It's the freedom
of wearing
skirts
without
panties.

I gotta say....

2006-09-30T04:57:00.000-07:00

I'd rather take the beating out the rhythm on the drum than the bag of sugar.....

Oh no, that woman's trying to kill me!

2006-09-30T04:25:00.000-07:00

Wise men say:

Welcome to the future- we're glad you made it! I don't know how you
came by this url, but you are now embarked upon a journey that must certainly
lead you to Change Your Life Forever! If you were never a special person, you
are a special person now! Hello seeker!!! Don't feel alone here in the new
age, because there's a seeker born every minute.

Smell this then

2006-09-30T03:06:00.000-07:00

Head hovering over a boubon
and soda;
swizzle-stick stuck in reverse,
spinning backwards.

She looked good
coming from the bathroom.

Stanky on my lips and on my
fingertips
lingering into tomorrow
and then fading away.