bamboo lemur boys are mean to their girls

Bedrock

2011-08-19T22:09:00.001-04:00

At my friends birthday party a man was singing a song about the time in a person's life when one realizes they aren't going to be famous and change the world in some big way. He sang how it's a time of disappointment, maybe sadness.

In my own life I remember this moment and how it brought on disappointment and the feeling of shrinking into unimportance. But it's evolved into something different. Not that I don't still have my moments of wanting to create with word or picture, a life of influence in the world. But now I think about all who have passed before, tens of thousands of years worth of people. People most of which were and are completely forgotten.

So when I visualize my passing, what it means, will mean to others, etc, etc. I think this: That which is remembered is built on the back of that which is not. We the forgotten, cover this earth from one end to the next. We are the bedrock that holds the built up memories of the so very few. So it's OK to be the dust in a box whose grave stone no longer stands.

besides

2011-08-19T17:14:00.000-04:00

Restless with anxiety I'd rather not feel about stories I'd rather not think about. There is a storm outside that has not yet let loose. For the last hour and a half all we've gotten is a bit of lightening and a lot of vague thunder. But it's clouded up and gotten cooler. I'm waiting.

A dog keeps coming to me with wet, cloth toy in mouth asking me to throw it. The other dog sits and chews a treat and my cat cleans herself on the window sill, I assume listening to the thunder too.

I've often rattled around nervously like this, with an inner vexing that rubs till I'm raw. It's a feeling of something coming for me like a blurry monster from my childhood that I should be busy being an adult about, doing adult things in order to avoid. To forget it's constant presence, no matter how vague, always there. Everyone seems to be running from something.

Most everyone I know runs, can't sit still and alone without the TV or noise of some sort in the evening. Needing to do, people to see, something to create. It's a tiring business. For me it really brings up a feeling of how meaningless life is. Not in a, committing suicide, depression kind of way but more of a, oops, we have the wrong idea about what's important way. Anyways, I'm not the first to make a point of it.

Complaints

2011-08-17T19:23:00.001-04:00

You're rustling through the park like old dry leaves again. It's not even Fall but here you are in the wind, pushing along the sidewalk. And even though you sound like a lonely, scraping leaf, you will always remind me of early summer.

Regardless of the ragged hole I believed you tore into me after walking away, when you conveniently forgot to untie all those lovely little heart strings I tied to you. Or, tied to what I made up about you. I still see you with dog by your side watching, waiting impatiently as I soak up your image like a photo, to save for a near future in which you will be no more.

I was always terrified by my premonition of my loss of you. You were gold you see, I coveted the immense newness of my wealth, knowing I would lose it all when the market of your affections plummeted. I thought to jump from a window, leaving a note with my Secretary saying, "Send word to my stockbroker, I've jumped in spite."

You've hidden so much of yourself inside your ever thinking mind. Stretching wide, you fill yourself full of words that all eventually come together in a scheme that will always leave me feeling hungry for more of something you only gave sparingly.

Despite my complaints you will always hold such a massive if not horrific acreage in my life. Because of the few gems you gave, I made you an epic masterpiece. And I have written about you before as I have now and no story really describes the immensity as I know it, nor will the 10th, 20th or 33rd story I write after this.

Maybe when I die I will become a transparent glob of ectoplasm carrying stories told by emotion and image, if this is so I will try to play myself like a movie reel for the pleasure of those who would like to feel what my brief wealth was like. But I can't imagine any of the stories ever ending without the audio of old dry, rustling leaves.

lonelier than normal

2011-08-16T14:34:00.006-04:00

I touched myself like a lover, not in the way you may be thinking. I brushed my hand down my stomach, to my waist then hip. For a moment I thought I was somewhere else, someone else. I was being touched and surprised by my own hand. It's been so long since another person has reached for me with intentions thus and now I feel alone, knowing how lonely I am.

oily dark bears

2011-08-14T21:48:00.004-04:00

I drove the ragged car over the jagged and jutted tracks made by big burly trucks, cycles and what have yous. I crashed just before the far hill that I couldn't keep my eyes off of no matter what was right in front of me.

I wanted my tank car to spill it's oil all over the jagged and jutted tracks so I would need to creak open my battered door and walk in my flip flops through the beautiful brambles, milk weed and black and blue berries.

I could stumble upon a oily dark bear, startled by my human thrashing. I would stand there staring at my potential death and think, "I'm supposed to lie down and pretend I'm dead so that I may not die." I would wonder which is better, to die pretending to already be dead or to die standing in witness, this bear threatening in it's bear way with growls and whatever sounds it makes before it eats something or decides to walk away.

I could experience the end of either the encounter or my life. I would stand there waiting for a terrible pain, for nothing or for everything. Laid out on some life platter of decisions I would stand there feeling very alive and none of it would matter either way the bear chose to act. Out of hunger or disinterest, this thing, life, would inevitably stumble on with me as I am or as I am not. And maybe in a week or two someone would find my flip flops and wonder why someone would leave their shoes there.

a flutter in sleep

2011-07-27T09:39:00.005-04:00

The other night I was asleep and I felt a flutter and then something fairly large land on my chest. I immediately woke and pushed it off me. I sat up and said to my partner, "There's a bat in the house!"

I don't know how I assessed this situation to be bat related so quickly and while asleep but I guess I know my bats. It took a couple of minutes to confirm the fact and after a little while I was able to get the bat into a smaller room and then a smaller one still.

As I quickly closed the door of this last small room in order to contain him so I could open a second door and set it free, it fluttered around me and gently landed on my back and held on to my shirt for 30 seconds. It had such a gentle soft weight, I felt privileged to have this brief connection with this precious animal who's specie is in such jeopardy to a sickness that's wiping them out by the thousands.

I opened this second door to the night and off it fluttered to catch bugs. I'm so glad I had this experience.

If you would like to learn more about this problem concerning bats Google White Nose Syndrome.

2011-07-03T15:25:00.000-04:00

Absolutely no one reads my blog anymore. Can't say I blame them, I never write in it anymore. Maybe I should start again.
But for anyone who happens to stumble upon me go to my other blog at:Hudson Valley Dog Boarding Blog

Sock Fetish

2010-12-22T13:34:00.003-05:00

I love socks but they illicit angst. I just did my laundry and there is one sock without its mate, and like me, I prefer to be with my mate no matter how imperfect the fit is.

I will wonder about the missing sock till I do the next load that brings them back together. I concern myself with the separation often, visually referencing the drawer where the one sock sits..Waiting.. I understand the lacking it feels, alone in a crowd. It's almost Christmas and it's alone, in a drawer.

Fetish isn't the word for proper description of my attachment but like most Americans I use words incorrectly because I like the way they sound and because I've heard other people use them.

Glee and the Worried Few

2009-01-31T12:41:00.004-05:00

Feeling a little pistol whipped but liking the hot afterglow of the wound..one must look to the bright side of every senseless act and contusion, am I right? besides I like scars.

I'm actually quite well and feeling partial to a surge of glee forming somewhere behind my left eye but I like the drama so I say, "Start with your wound and work your way up to the glee." Always go from the ache of disembowelment right into that gathering swell of hot yellow happiness waiting right under the scab and stitch.

Oh but I feel the cynical stretch of that daddy hand reaching out to bitch slap the bright right out of my eyes. I'm like a low and dark thing that sits under the bed sucking on scary wandering thoughts, making my heart flutter, boiling me wide and far from sleep at night. I perch, stoney and grimaced like a gargoyle eating the fuss and tussle, drinking lingering night sweats.

And like the cyclical nature of a moon the color of a sun, I will rebirth, reboot, press my bruises just to make sure they hurt and roll my severed head across a dusty floor to the door that always opens to a happy, hot yellow glow of glee.

portraits of one's own making

2008-12-21T13:08:00.008-05:00

I make up memories that never happened about deep snow, a happy us, bounding dogs and joy, so much joy. The memory causes regret irritated to life by little dreams I quietly carried in the din of your ideas. You framed us big as a portrait with only your talent to paint it from.

There was no time for romance only business and the acquiring of more of what made your shabby kingdom. I pulled my slow heart through change and never really recovered from the speed and the wind of your rush. If you would have wooed me for a while, my hand would have loved to have been held in parks and under umbrellas.

But you have moved into new and vast frames with oil colors to paint new love, old lies to cover. Brush wide strokes, the mistake of our portrait. You look so fresh and innocent of a past you are responsible for.

But be the virgin queen in this new disguise and I'm sure you will seduce new bright ones. They are always good audiences for talented, shameless minds. And your silly posse of court held vaguely near, always nods yes and pats your ruffles clean of inconsistencies of character.

You really should rule a vast and powerful painting, a kingdom of the most fascinating self denial.

a balancing act including dance and manuscripts

2008-12-11T20:34:00.002-05:00

There was a smitten man on the crowded train, smitten with me. I would have been smitten back but I'm not inclined to the male variety. I was making eye contact with the girl six people over. The one with the straight brown gold hair, eyes perfectly green and brown. Distinctly, they were green, they were brown.

I am the courteous train passenger, melting and slinking into free spaces to avoid the jostling of ass and shoulder. I was busy, I watched the girl watch me watch her and I watched the man read and edit a manuscript while balancing his long frame lightly against a pole. The train lurched and he stepped on my foot. I was already whispering, "no worries" and shaking my head in forgiveness by the time he straightened himself and looked up to me to apologize.

His eyes widened by a fraction of a centimeter, lighting up then quickly snuffed, as to not come out of his cool. But I saw it, I was a Lego fit, at least for the rest of this ride. And from this time on he looked to me between sentences and corrections. He adjusted his position to be in front of me when I moved to sit down. I watched him watch me out of the corner of my eye as I watched the hazel eyed girl get off the train.

I kept my gaze pleasant and never quite on him as we left the train. I did that subtle dance of awareness and polite disinterest. He lingered a second or two, gentle and in step, balancing his role with mine. Then aware that the song ended he increased in speed and just before he took a flight of stairs to his next train, he looked back and smiled.

Vodka and watermelon

2008-12-06T12:43:00.005-05:00

There was a boy, drunk and asleep on the train yesterday as I was coming home. As people were getting off, seats became available and I sat in one across from the boy. I opened up my book and settled in for the rest of the trip.

But things changed. The boy's body decided it could no longer put up with the vodka soaked watermelon he'd been eating all day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw liquid puking movement. I think I knew before the boy, he was only half aware of his own existence except for his misery.

six people and I shot up and flew to the side of the train, like mice running from water in a sinking ship. I placed myself close to the door so I could shoot out at the next stop, the boy thought this was a good idea for him as well. He lurched out of his seat and stumbled right at me. I launched myself into the crowd that had mashed themselves into a corner as he leaned over and puked in the direction of the door. I looked at all of our disgusted faces then longingly to the other side of the train where passengers sat watching, looking at us, glad they were not over here.

At this point there were ten of us crammed into a small corner in fear of this one barfing boy, 10 adults mashed together like scared prey. All because of this one slightly stupid human being who made a mistake. I felt foolish for being so grossed out.

I had the sneaking suspicion that we were behaving like we hadn't ever been stupid and drunk in our lives, like we were a separate sect of humans who could not consider taking part in such an experiment of bad manners and uncouth behavior. I was immediately embarrassed and deeply affected by this boys struggle to recover.

I'm not going to tell you that I helped him, I didn't. But I changed my position and became his equal again. I cared and felt no judgment anymore. it felt so good to remember there was no barrier other than the one I had imagined. All of us poured out and switched cars at the next stop, he got out and sat for a while.

Something Else?

2008-11-26T09:02:00.007-05:00

A witch I knew in waking visited me in a dream. I was busy at the time she arrived, leaning over into the dirt picking up colorful, fat and fuzzy ribbons, the kind little girl's moms tied pigtails with when I was young.

I was caught up, talking to myself about the importance of being able to hold all of these ribbons at once, worried about dropping them, worried about what next.

I knew she was there in her soft and willowy way. She said nothing and watched patiently, judgeless. Her feet were clean in the dirt and her dress moved silently over them as she moved in rhythm to an evolution she was humming to.

Out from the periphery she came into full view, I looked up to her and she said, "If you worry so much about holding all of this you won't have room for anything else."

from all and various directions

2008-11-25T19:50:00.007-05:00

At first, I carved my name into every tree you passed, on every bench you sat. Every street light blinked my favorite color, leaving you startled and alert for my madness, fearing such committed and unsettled acts could only lead to a harrowing encounter with a mad and wicked me.

You scan horizons for my shadow behind trees as my initials appear in every leaf you scatter. My memory sits tiny in the moss growing on the stone your house sits on and where the Cedars cling. You shake with the awareness of the audacity I have to keep myself ever present in the most unpleasant and indecipherable way.

You duck, hearing my fury wind rush you from all and various directions. I am the dust that sprinkled my corrosive image in your dreams that burned you awake. I am the ghost that breaks things and threatens to come close just before you touch the skin of a New Her.

But none of these wicked and immoral acts have I committed, but only for the sake of not knowing how. I awake from my sorted and true colors to see that this magic was for my own story and had little effect on you and yours. None of my fury holds to anything but my own neck, a wasted grip and with no consequence but for experience alone.

In the world of your kaleidescope, the only conclusion worth aiming for is one you haven't come to because the only moments your interest peaks in are created or corralled by you, the only person who is substantial and worth your respect, is you.

I have had the effect of the puddle you walk through. I stick to your boot for a while, dry to a dirt mark and fade.

Now nothing

2008-10-31T23:21:00.006-04:00

I wilt into the paint of a wall that rests somewhere against my back. In the pressure of your gaze, I am becoming a wallpaper print, loud and long. Peel me, then throw me to a wooden planked or tiled forgotten room, grind me to a rust, a dust. Then wander we will in slow forgotten drafts on dirty floors finding new corners to clutter.

I remember and forget the whys we came this direction. Scuttle and cluster, we're filling drafts with words irrelevant and sorrowful. Ghostly settling, still. All that seemed solid and cared for, invested to the tops of broken hearts, we filled with vexing toasts of angst.

Meaningless silence now empties the room and finally, nothing. Words in their senseless intent, could be no better as they are as nothing. And we fill this place, this space with our old and dead misdeeds and clearly it is preferred, temporarily to another kind of love that lives in the newness of olden dead. But what I mean to say is that this sweet room belongs to the words from then. And now, the now is new and belongs elsewhere in a blue and golden view.

Again, let's love this death, empty broken bodies of so much offered into nothing. All the profound and glorious importance gathered into the folly of irrelevance makes for the most ultimate joke to tell on each other. so let's us laugh as we have equalled out to even. Turn to the right, there is blue and golden view. We are just the same and better for it.

big underpants

2008-08-27T18:30:00.006-04:00

I don't wear them. There is so much material it's like wearing shorts under shorts. Why would I do that? And as I realize men do all the time I don't assume to understand that either.

The title of this blog was going to be, I don't wear them but I appreciate those who do.
I got stuck after I wrote it and I realized it's because it's not true. I don't appreciate the big underpant wearer. I don't think about them really and I wonder if I don't think about them because they tend to be people who one doesn't notice or if I'm just a underwear snob of some sorts.

So I put some thought to it and decided I just don't notice, mostly because those who wear them are usually considerably older than 50, younger than 10 or are moms. Not hot moms just good ole snuggly moms. And these folks are all in the category of people who's underwear I don't seek and find.

This bullshit theory I'm making up about who wears big underwear is not always true however. For example, the woman in the picture here (which was removed for some ridiculous reason since it was VERY tame, only showing a woman's underwear peeking out from her pants, PRUDES) is approximately 25 years of age. With no regard to her backside presentation she is sporting her big underpants as she landscapes and weeds. I was impressed and all I could think of as I passed her again was that I had to have a picture.

She's an anomaly really. This is no goofy looking girl. You can't see but she's kinda hot. Definitely not dateless. She's probably not a virgin. So I wonder, does she wear these underpants out on dates too? Or are they just for pulling weeds, absorbing sweat and so forth?
Do they ride up when she wears them? Or is there so much fabric that they're just too heavy to move from their original position?

What's the appeal? I'd like to know. Regardless, I bet they're warm in the winter and absorbent in the summer. And as I recall some people use them as cleaning rags when they're done wearing them. I watched a woman dust her furniture with Pledge and her underpants once.

Rummaging through the dead

2008-08-27T06:45:00.003-04:00

I'm sitting next to an etching of St. Marks Square in Venice. It's quite lovely, a view from the water looking into the square through the gondolas. I bought it and another for $30 from an apartment sale who's owners died. they had no children, just a gruff brother and a wacky neighbor who volunteered to give away and sell their things to the random strangers who answered the ad.

One by one people came, entering meekly, stopping to stand in the living room, visually absorbing the scene. At first look, it wasn't promising. Seventies decor in the front room, and the kitchen filled with odd dishes and ancient utensils.

When I came to the door it wasn't by way of the ad the neighbor had placed. I'd met a woman in the elevator who was heading to the apartment. She told me someone was giving everything away. She was furnishing her new apartment.

I rang the bell and the wacky neighbor answered looking as if I was the first person to ring it, ever. I fumbled for words, "Hi I just met a woman who said you were giving things away." Blank stare from the lady so I fumbled some more, "She said you put out an ad? That people were stopping by?" After a series of pointless questions I was finally approved and allowed in to wander through the stuff.

When I first came in I spotted the two etchings I eventually took home. I knew they were worth more than I was going to pay for them. I asked the overseer how much they were, "$20 each." "Will you give them both to me for $30?" Lady lets a flicker of defeat cross her face then, "Ok."

I walked around the front room feeling odd about rummaging though dead peoples things. It was clear they were elderly and had collected these things their whole lives. A prickly feeling crept over me. I felt rude pushing things aside to get to another, picking that up, pulling this out. It seemed wrong and weird.

I slipped to the back bedroom to get away from the overseer, who's voice seemed loud and out of place, increasing the feeling that we all should be ashamed of ourselves. In the back room there was a young man who was in earnest in his quest to find stuff. He was latino and gay, two of my favorite attributes in a man so I pushed into the room and hovered around him to make myself feel better.

The space was strange and dusty. It was at some point a work room, filled with homemade radios and other electrical hoo haas I knew nothing of. My new friend here was finding old photography equipment, light sensors, film rollers and cameras. All of this was a boon for him as he was a photographer. He told me he was here helping the wacky overseer find things of interest to put on Ebay for sale.

I stood watching mostly, still feeling strange about these old dead things left in this room since the 50s. Dirty and forgotten now being pulled out, opened and set aside. I positioned myself in the center and decided to pickup only the things that peeked my interest. I found a small framed picture of the dead couple with family and I had a desire to slip it into my bag unnoticed, to save it from the onslaught of strangers to come.

With a pile of ancient old pillows stowed for whatever reason, came out an old photo album and with it my friend tells me what he knows of the people. "Oh look at thissss, it is the woman's family album from when she is a child with her family. She and her husband were Jewish, Austrian refugees from World War II."

The pictures were so charming and sad considering the families eventual status in that part of the world. They looked like upper middle class gentiles fitting all the stereotypes of the ideal Hitler aryan family. Fat blond haired children, content and happy, fed too much, representing abundance at it's most successful. The father was dapper, not handsome but he carried himself as if he were irresistible.

Most of the photos were summers at the beach through the years. In recline in the sun with the wind lazily pushing at their hair. Somewhere in each frame, beach balls, picnic baskets and the water reflecting the warmth that made their skin brown . My favorite photo was of the mother laying on her stomach looking off with a soft squint in her eyes. Happy and motherly, she was as content and relaxed as I could ever wish to be.

In the middle of the album were two unopened letters dated in the 1950's. They were from a locksmith in Manhattan. From a locksmith? Could these be from a lover? Or are they just forgotten mail she used as a bookmark way back then as she absentmindedly paged through her memories? Then I wondered, has she not looked through the pictures since then? I fought the urge to open them, I fought the urge to slip them in my bag.

I could have stayed longer but I had duties to attend to. So I slipped out with my two etchings wondering how I'll carry them onto a crowded subway. Wondering if my weird feelings and sorrow for the dead people and their long forgotten things were worth considering. Do I really care that the things they loved or at least liked went out of their apartment to new homes? Besides we're giving the stuff a new life in new environments. New drawers to sit in, walls to hang on, floors to stand on.

I guess, considering the people's life experience it would have been nice to have known their story. Maybe the wacky neighbor and the gruff brother could have written a page or two, made copies and handed them to each of us as we came into the apartment. It would start: These things you take from here today were owned and loved by two people who lived and survived an extraordinary story, it went like this...

Where's my fix for the day?

2008-08-21T08:46:00.004-04:00

Ive created several distractions for myself. These distractions better help to prevent me from feeling relaxed and happy. Rather than calling them distractions lets call them, habits. Or can we be dramatic and call them...addictions?

Yes, that's what they are for me. And it's really not several, it's just one. Fear. Yes fear, it comes in all shapes and sizes, content doesn't really matter. It's that delicious fix of adrenaline I get when I sort for all that's wrong in the world and find it.

Here's how it works; Over repetitive years of shit sorting I've been able to develop an almost instant state of anxiety in myself right when I wake up. I then take this feeling to indicate that something is actually wrong rather than realizing it's just a stinky habit.

I then lay in bed pulling all the covers off of me as my temperature has risen because I'm anxiously alert and sorting for the reasons why. And believe me, I'm a very good investigator, I find what I'm looking for.

Examples follow:
"I owe so much money, I'm in debt. What bill is due? Oh shit, did I forget to pay something?! No. " A lull in the sorting then, "I've got to clean my ferrets cage and sweep the litter around it, I need to mop this floor, what am I some loser that doesn't care?" shortly after, "I need more clients, I need to make more money...why is it so slow these days? There's too much competition, I can't keep up, wonder if I never get anymore..."

I'm very affective at keeping my peace and happiness at bay. Just writing the last paragraph has risen my pulse and made me feel like a wee little good-for-nothing. And the ironic thing about this amusing past time is that it takes up all of your energy and confidence thus leaving you listless and a little paranoid. You should try it!

Kidding aside, I've determined to see this little addiction for the drama that it is, realize it's all just a silly bore and find something better to do in the morning..afternoon and night. Like being relaxed and happy.

5:56 AM

2008-08-08T07:19:00.003-04:00

With a loud crash a van drives into a building across the street. I crawl out of bed, look out window, assess situation for interest and drama value. Not much, so I don't run to get dressed.

Wander back to room, step over partially unpacked moving boxes looking for that hippy dress I use as a house frock. It's location, sandwiched between vintage pink vinyl purse containing bright pink dildo and partially unpacked box of shoes. Frock is wrinkled.

Slip into frock, shoes, grab phone as to dial 911 for the poor drunk fucker who drove into building. My mind is starting to wander, I call out in a loud and clear voice, "KEYS" in order to remind said brain what it's looking for.

I don't remember the walk down the stairs. Out on sidewalk, gypsy cab drivers have beat me to the scene and are strolling back to their cars chuckling. I have 911 operator on the phone, giving info, She asks, "Is anyone hurt?" I say, "I don't think so, the guy is sitting next to car looking like he feels stupid about running into a building, I mean, It's not like it ran out into the street in front of him.", 911 lady ignores my humor.

I stand, looking for a minute, not enough drama, my mind wanders back to the box of books a neighbor left to give away in the lobby of my building. Box of books wins my attention, I wander back to lobby and sit on floor reading. Early to work neighbors pass through lobby, see me sitting on floor, wonder what I'm doing. I put on my best, "Good Morning!" smile to convince them I'm not a transient who is camped out in the hall.

911 operator calls me back, "Hi, it's me the 911 operator, listen, the police are on the corner of 204 and Broadway and they don't see the van, can you tell me where it is again?", Me, "Well it's just south of them about 100 feet, next to the school, it's the green van on the sidewalk smashed into the building...."

I gather the ten books I've found from the box, which is good, they will refill what little space I created from getting rid of books when I moved. Go upstairs, make toast, lay in bed and read.

small lions

2008-05-26T17:43:00.000-04:00

This little cat sits in the window behind my computer screen and the old movie speaks from the tv downstairs. The cat watches the flying bees that are eating my house and the old movie sings a Christmas song even though it's May.

This is the window I looked out of when I wrote about leaves and thunder and tongues and dirt. My thoughts want to write more about the leaves and the trees because the wind is blowing my attention to them. But I'd prefer to write about this cat who ducks as the bees rush up to her from the other side of the screen.

She is Shelly, a miniature cat from the pound in NYC. Hellion, mountain lion and biter. She is beautiful and horrible. Sometimes I think I would like to crush her skull, unhinge my jaw and shove her in. Eat her whole but the cracking of bones makes me shudder so I bite her only occasionally and imagine her as dinner.

Don't feel sorry, she bites too. She bites and she growls, mostly at me, mostly at everything.

She loves dogs. She loves Sirius, The Dog Who Raised Her, yes it's her title. Sirius still picks Shelly up by her head and tries to carry her around. It's funny, very funny to see a German Shepard carry a miniature cat around by her head.

Don't feel sorry, Shelly deserves to be carried by the head by her mom-dog.

When Sirius has tired from her mothering she lets go, Shelly walks the floors like a mountain lion with a wet, sticky head. She deserves it, she doesn't watch old movies with me. She wishes she can eat bees.

There is a bird in the trees near our window and it crashed into the screen, a challenge to the miniature feline. Shelly stood up on her hunches, front paws spread wide in a welcoming embrace to the challenger with wings, thwarted only by the screen.

she was magnificent, a true lion, she would eat goats if she could catch them.

i am a leaf

2008-05-26T17:41:00.000-04:00

I see thunder
trembling, we leaves pass eyeless looks
seeking spaces between thunder, breeze and expiring rainless seconds

swing to
swing fro
warm thunder, translucent ripples of vibrating buzz, hum, embrace
strike and disappear in sea-blue clouds
kiss, one drop
kiss, kiss, two

thunder to see, eyeless me
and tree to hold on to like a tongue on a face
a tongue i am, I hold to a tree and taste breeze, rain and dirt
I taste everything
and oddly, i see thunder
and it excites me

Monday is tomorrow you know..

2008-01-27T08:53:00.000-05:00

I turned the key to my clients apartment and slid her dog through and stepped in. The neighbor next door opened her door and with great vigor and shrill, yelled, "Take that other dog ooouut!" And slammed her door closed.

I yelled back, "Excuse me! Hello?!"

She opened her door again, phone in hand and without really looking at me yells that she is newly widowed, the dog howls in the morning, the dog is barking all the time and she's on the phone with the landlord right this second.

She was like an old shark, eyes rolled back in her head. Ranting less to give me this information and more to make sure her neighbors and the landlord on the phone knew how dire this situation was.

My attempts to respond went something like, "wait a min...excuse me..don't yell at..this isn't my dog...you're.....you're aware....that I'm the dog walk.....dog walker right?"

*

My client has two little dogs, one good, one bad. I used to walk both for the price of one because I sometimes fuck myself into arrangements I regret. But then the bad one became badder and decided she would prefer to relieve herself in the elevator, hallway or in my arms if I was holding her, on her way outside.

My client thought it would be fine for me to just clean up after the dog. No.
So I said, "Not unless you want to pay me more." She said, "Oh, no just go ahead and leave her in, she can use the wee wee pads." Which lay all over her apartment like lily pads.

But this bad dog isn't of which the angry widow speaks...
You see, my client prides herself in rescuing and fostering vicious little dogs one at a time and having me walk them with the one dog of hers I will walk.

The dog the old shark is referring to is Bruno. Bruno according to my client, has never been outside before and surely never on a leash so he would need "patience and coaxing" in his walks. What ended up happening for little Bruno, as I don't only walk this clients dog and rescues but other client dogs too is that Bruno got pulled along and adamantly refused to cooperate. So much so that the walks were more like drags.

This is irritating because a dragging dog gives a really bad impression to people walking by. It seems as if, to the average clueless observer, a dog's bad behavior is always a direct result of abuse and/or neglect by the evil person walking it and a happy, good doggy is because of something else.

The last day I walked Bruno started like this, "Hi Bruno, come're....Brunoo..no don't run away, come're.." Bruno running frantically around the apartment becoming more hysterical, me closing in on him in the bedroom where he decided me with a leash meant terrible death and proceeded to urinate on and bite me.

Through a series of notes, phone texts and calls I told my client I was through with dear Bruno and she told me she thought it would be ok for me to walk him still and proceeded to tell me how troubled and scared he was and....and I don't give a shit.

So for two weeks now Bruno has become more comfortable in his surroundings, with the wee wee lily pads and the other bad dog to stay in with and has taken to barking for long periods and howling when feeling a feeling he doesn't like, and this makes widows mad. This would make most neighbors mad. And I understand.

So instead of telling the widow to go fuck herself through the door she slammed in my face I left her a note saying I understood her situation but her business isn't my concern when she yells at me and that I don't want her to speak to me again unless she can control herself. I tried to slide it under her door but it wouldn't go through so I left it on the threshold hoping she would look down at some point in the next few days.
Must. have. last. word..

P.S. Client has left a note stating how much better Bruno is and would I please try walking him again on Monday...I wrote, Yes.

jack and jerk

2008-01-09T08:49:00.001-05:00

I passed a group of teenage boys the other day. I caught the middle part of their conversation, it went like this, "Do you ever jack off so much that.."

All involved were very intent on the subject. Eyes wide, baited breath. I'm guessing the answer to the question was, yes.

2007-11-10T14:26:00.000-05:00

blah blah blah

rigor mortis

2007-11-08T18:24:00.000-05:00

There is a puddle where my personality once existed. my feet are wet, pruned really..
I'm staring at an orange on my desk in this listless computer light, wondering..can I compare any part of me to this lovely orange? really...we have nothing in common. Not even in our common decline.

I am fucked like a rock who wants to run. Resistance has honed me into Stiff Girl, superhero of I Don't Want. The little therapist stands to the side and tells the class of superhero resisters "just let go of the rope of defense and fall" We look at each other and back to her. I say, "Only if death follows, sister."

I stand with my hands tightly fisted around a box of matches in a crowd of freezing people. The light is blue and fading, everything left in view is white with snow. The lumber is there, stacked, waiting. Gas is there to pull the flames higher. Feeble attempts are made to pry my hands apart. No effort, subtle, warm, harsh or aggressive wakes me from rigid desperation.

I have watched cities of dying people in the eyes of my sad, exhausted lover, fall to the ground and turn to dust. I have watched her watch me burn her constitutions, maim her elderly and turn from the weeping lonely pain of the desperate with gestapo ease.

I have never met someone like me that I liked. And I judged them. I guess being terribly defensive, morbidly competitive limits my skill of humility.

Apparently, I really need matches.
Obviously, I am the cities of dying people and constitutions. Weeping, lonely, desperate. Devour the evidence.

I'm nearer than you think

2007-10-21T21:08:00.001-04:00

Breath, huff. Yes this word, huff.

You are out in this darkness with me. The still looming trees, the shadows, a snapping twig. I watch you stand in the light, trying to not think about scary movies and bears.

I wait as you stop searching in the dark, peering for danger. Your panoramic hunt for the boogey slows, you head settles back to front, and then I huff.

Huff deep, hard and big, you stagger back and quiver, rattling fear. It shakes through every hole in your face.

And like the monster in the dark that I am, My chest fills, I grow another inch, longer teeth, a dirtier, amused evil.
Welcome to my back yard.

14 story fall

2007-09-11T23:17:00.000-04:00

She popped like a tick to flame. disgusting really. She was figuring out this was a dream the I/We made up in our belief we had actually separated from God/Us/I.

You see, we really do think we're here. But we never left There. We're dreaming and no matter how hard we follow the rules of how to get along in the cyclical nature of our "so called lives", we will never reach any enlightenment other than that that belongs to our dreams.

Dreams have skin like the inside of balloons. They stretch but they never let you go.

Take another hit and think about it.

The Big Dream

2007-09-08T16:35:00.000-04:00

They set about to wager,
will she bend or relax into the dark sky, calm and savor?

Can she find the end,
will she stumble into bliss,
or live for another forever in blight, bend, bend, continue to miss?

This dream, they play their part but it is her art
built to suit her size, her lists designed to keep her apart.

Not one but a trillion, dreams to make and waver. When will it end? Again another bet to wager.

resurrected sediment

2007-08-31T20:45:00.001-04:00

"Hold fast youth, I warn you. Still these hot words, vile with disregard. With slight of hand I will cease your soul in this illusion you call life."

Queen, goddess released the arm of Seana and with a deep slow bow, took hold of soft, vivid garments, turned and vanished into sky, dirt, sea, wherever angry magic goes. Her power left a smell of roses burnt by Seana's fear and exhilaration. And Seana said to herself, "Yes, this is what I want, I will be her."

Seana thought of her own legacy, everyone she honored with her sweet coy love told her she was made of dust from stars. She laid in clouds of undreamed tales and filled her own heart with the grit it took to kill a magic made of goddesses and queens..

And somewhere in sky, dirt or sea, magic took it's metaphorical sword in still and fierce hand.

sticky

2007-07-28T21:49:00.000-04:00

there's an exception to a rule i've yet to break. it's a footnote really. it says, "fumble through a bag of candy corn on a hot day and you'll wish you brought handy wipes"

out buying candy corn right. this. second.

what's happening?

2007-07-25T20:55:00.000-04:00

What's happening, stance? happenstance i happen to stance, my stance crooked, is happening.
happening can be a stance. I take this stance as I happen as my wife to have and to hold and happen to have whilst I place this stance all over you. Don't take that stance with me you happen..stance. Posture and stance, very important and just so happens to be my non-neanderthal, upright stance in life. what's your stance on abortion? Prone posture, legs up, vacuum starts, minus one baby happens. bad girl, happen will kick your stance. Perchance, have you a happenstance?

come watch sounds of rivers in clouds

2007-07-24T10:13:00.001-04:00

The water dripped off my hand, I held my fingers wide and really looked, really saw the rhythm pulsing under my discontent and ridiculous frenzy. This is my hand, to have and to hold with. I wanted so badly to touch her skin, to cool it. Feel the waxy softness in the water, under the desire and longing to be good again.

come to me and say, "this is all a ridiculous game and you will win, just let go..remember?"
you sit in that way and quietly ponder pains i have given you and with all your powerful will, you press on and again you say, "just let go..remember?"

yes I remember, only sometimes. I lay back in some car as you're driving on clouds and I look out the sunroof and pretend I'm falling, this is my letting go. I want to fall far enough to hit sound and press no further, stand and fall again until there is no need left.

And now, where is the water on my cool, pail hand? I want to dry slowly and care deeply without the clinging of adamant, ponderous impressions, demands and other frivolous itchy lace, waste.

In the water is a flow of time, the gurgling wet of my little world's history passes. Contemplate, my staring eyes trickle cool with shimmer, wandering muted color, spilling, mesmerized..

Set thee oh hand of mine,
into cool wet and sometimes brine,
bringing forth, stilling and forever dying,
for now everything and nothing is,
but time

not to mention

2007-07-05T21:09:00.000-04:00

it's raining and she's listening
clicking the mouse and finding songs she can sing to me

hoist your cute ass over here and lets me
get a sniff of your sweet sweat

i love your tattoos and how your hair grows down the center
like an arrow
towards your soft mouth

i'm thinking of you
me below
your eyes and my pink toenails
flashing down at me

com'ere, lets me smell your sweet sweat,
feel your intention
not to mention
your thrust

i'll trust
i'll throw away the hardened,orderly mental conventions
to the unending bending of my body and mind
IT,
IT being 'the ability to', really is your invention

metal thin

2007-06-13T09:40:00.000-04:00

spill blindly
low mist, unto me
hands in dirt, callous filled, soft crease wrist to arm

petal soft eyes and tremor held, quietly still
tell me soft cool breeze
i am good enough

fell fall falling still
down to knees
words on my shoulder
spot light to peer, eyes to ponder

cradling last death
nailing a frame, discord
held to a wall with metal thin wire
crooked, hatched and shell-less
it wadles away unbalanced, ridiculous

caustic banter
create a fine and throttling experience
choaking to resist the most beautiful things

my picture, i'm so proud

blunder me tilting

2007-06-11T22:28:00.000-04:00

head to dip
slyly
low, yes lower like that
that's the response to pull from your bag-o-tricks
dear actor, come play this role on my Broadway

wet heady city day
rain in the sky thick
holding it's release
restraint
resistance
the re-words

a spill slipped from her intention
a pulling rebuff and the fall started it's decent
and my head slid to tilt
heavy in sighs and the spiral of an inevitable conclusion

any passerby knew
a clown would cry
hoist my story up, up to here
yes there, that's good

make my own divine devils and creatures of love
cast my net, my spell
my hand in your direction
ghost, i made you

belief constant, is useless
commit to castles and little black salamanders with white spots
it still doesn't mean what it means, until i blink

feel this wind and raise high
bright flow wet breeze
cars shriek and huff on
next to me, the killing pills of over swallowed people shudder by
my shoes step over and through a simple story

regardless and because
you play your part
my story, my cast
thank you for giving your hats to hold
illusions to behold
plans and resistant two-fold..
gold

all i see now my wand to whip around me
a moat to float
swim with monsters and this is fun
essential customers only

cut to the quick and step hard so i hear
turn it up or shut it
closed and damp
again with the wet heady city day

i like tag i like dodge ball
but i don't play
a witch a forest with pearls
a stick of gum with stripes and bits of horseplay
just find it, through there, yes there
it's here

The Powerful Still

2007-04-29T11:48:00.000-04:00

sound, the silence you make
fury, wind braids through wicked trees
reach and scratch skin red, skin torn
delicious need

dreadful beautiful power
climbing, crescendo, crash
still yet stunning the buffering wind slaps my face
assaults skin red, skin raw
visual slow
trance

my heart pulled into the rip
reaching to tear the tongue
suck my breath
pulse sears through veins
tourniquet, skin red, skin coursing blue
earth shakingly still

your brown eye
and that one too
I am on your raping wind
all of this, and love in the powerful still
of your eyes
skin red, skin new
clean ripe, I am of a vicious heightened view

gods wait on corners

2007-04-24T08:54:00.001-04:00

I stand on this corner stringing words together
remembering how they can sound, written and read
reading Audre Lorde

The thick thump of heavy death repeated itself around the corner,
peeking i am perfectly planted to own witness and credit for a grand endeavor,
a striving force completing the wilt and fray of a fire extinguished.

he kicked her stomach, boot to spine till the air came in, eyes glaze and out no more.
still, soft and dead she laid in her own sort of cocktail made of her insides out

when you folded your long narrow body, eight arms and multi purpose intent into a pose of crouch,
in between sirens and the shrieks you could hear the sound of her blood dripping out of her, off her clothes and into the beautiful puddle on the rocky pavement below,
like art she was creating again, regardless of death here she laid, despite herself,
feeding us this hideous, inspiring blood art.

all movement slowed into deep motion, intent,
carrying a purpose to empty,
the blood was the only event, the only importance to consider,
with it i spilled out of myself and into her and the dread, horror and tragedy made a clicking sound of perfection.

nestled close filling her with me, this was my perfect example to give to the history being created that perfect isn't fair and fair is irrelevant.

the pecker quandary

2007-04-15T10:38:00.001-04:00

Why do we call cocks, peckers? Is it because they peck at holes like wood birds? It's an undignified concept, for both the cock and the person it's pecking.

And while I'm waxing philosophical, why do we call them cocks? Again the pecking issue? Pecky pocky fuckers? Who has pecking sex? Gimme a shout out.

Dicks and head. Heads, because they are little heads? I've never seen a big head that reminded me of the little head or vise versa. I would be sad for the owner of such a strange looking big head. Head, because men sometimes think with the little head?

And dick, well dick is a good one.

make like dick,
be slick,
not quick.

yes, dick is a fit,
hey, don't get lit,
it's just a sound that rhymes with clit,
sort of..

tremble, small hands, eyes to flutter

2007-04-05T23:01:00.000-04:00

Again she is reaching some sort of peak in the story the words of this song are singing. I am aware her voice is drowning me, I cough to make sure. We the audience are witness to a 'situation' and it isn't what we came for. I pull at the cloth of the arms of my chair, bracing against the vibrations her voice send bouncing off the wood, the metal of the theater. I am rubbed, and becoming raw.

Her little hand holding the microphone, shaking to and fro, it's metal mouth open, eating her voice, spilling it out loudly into my head and her eyes are gone. Flutter, my eye lids practice applause while I unravel to this discomfort, hers and mine. She can't really mean to be this lost little girl amidst the padded seats of the curtained, echo filled theater. Everyone, just like me sees this, knows but doesn't.

Silence and applause.

I look away frightened, frightened that I may cry if I see her alone up there in front of all of us again and if I don't return my gaze to her I may never feel Real for real, again.

I'm thinking of her story in my mind, making pictures of her as a kid. Big business came and pretended to be her daddy and they used her till she had pumped out enough movies and honed herself into one of the most professional actor/singers in the country. And with all of her accomplishments by her lonely side, she built her own little story she told only to herself, it goes like this, "I can't find center." Hands on her center, you could point there, "that's center". She never found it.

So off balance and wildly amazing, she's moving around the stage again. She's singing and her eyes focus and release and the trembling, yes that trembling, subtly climbs out of her mouth and into her arms again.

The audacity defies social protocol and she checks into her own self induced ecstasy and agony. It chokes me. We sit out here scared and uncomfortable, madly invested in every word and note that comes because it's not her talent she's sharing, it's her little trembling soft hands that hold the mike that holds the sound of her guts.

I finally break, tears run, face red with release. She is a ghost in a borrowed body and nobody notices me weep because they are all worried about crying themselves.

Her body jerks along with the tremble in her small hands and her enormous voice tears at our well constructed impressions of ourselves and she is done and we roar, we clap and she says, "Thank you thank you.." She's recovered her well organized, professional entertainer voice and just before she exits stage left, just before she passes behind the curtain, I see her flutter, whispering, "small and alone".

But what I really saw was her pointing and saying, "That's center" and I find it, despite myself.

yawning in the face of your starving courage

2007-03-20T02:18:00.000-04:00

whisper to your girl
the one who fucks you, strapped in
forget that you like holes too
just do a line of sober with a clean chaser.

worry your scars red
rubbing the past pain back into them
then cover with your Brownie Buttons of self appointed courage.

lecturing with prickly righteousness
hunting another calamity to become victim to
i smell another badge called Survivor on the way

and i will bend some more and be your bitch
my peripheral vision is catching all your posturing
go ahead
i'll be your wrong

fight the wait, the weight
starving to a stick..figure.
bone, pale your most prominent features

i'm a little bored.

force feed yourself a pez and get on with it.

frustration of sorts, designed to pass in disappointment

2007-02-15T19:16:00.000-05:00

you, new. looks very likely to be a reconstituted, over painted version of old. my bad.

the subtle oversight, the passive response, aggressive result. examples to remind me of how little of a step i stand on at the front of the very long path to your front door.

painting your declaration with black paint on green poster board, you would only give the minimum and i would make up the rest. and now as i have made us into friends you are still painting the same old tired plan, sorry ass bendy paper and chipping paint. a bore with no effort, which leaves you with the lowly grade of D-isappointment.

and i'm sitting in a flimsy lawn chair in summer shorts being buffeted and accosted by your frigid nor'easter holding no real belief that i'm the victim to your monster. i play stupid on tv for as long as it pays the bills. but let's be honest we all know i knew.

anna nicole smith

2007-02-09T08:48:00.000-05:00

she is dead on a floor she doesn't own and it's the last upper or downer she'll take and i saw the video of the coroner wheeling her body out of the van, covered in a crushed velvet body bag. it suited her.

i am so sad and me thinks somebody's laughing but she was a stunning goddess, fat and thin. she may or may not have been as stupid as a bag of rocks, she was my marilyn monroe.

i can meditate on her beauty and see god. i can feel her breath as she sleeps in her last stupor, and can hear it forced in and out of her during cpr and i can hear it leave, no more and done. she is now a stone, dead and her body will be cut open to find the uppers, downers or murders the scandal makers are praying for.

they will cut the beauty up and i will not receive one piece, not one morsel of skin and there will be no more pictures of her to take but the one i want most. her on a slab made into meat and beautifully dead. if only for my ability to lay peace to this notion of her silly sweetness being no more.

hortense and the baby

2007-02-07T10:23:00.001-05:00

Hortense asked the baby, 'why for the toy?' this twisty knob to make a music and to dance lightly with much falling and a coo reminiscent of little doves and weak baby kittens.

horsely Hortense whispered her perplexity and realized babies aren't of the same fears she bricked herself in and the whispers she sent into the current of baby's ear were giggled at. Hortense, shifted and clamored, hoisting her big bad Sad onto the cart and took it to market hoping someone would take it from her

white girl

2007-02-02T23:19:00.001-05:00

I finally got back into my neighborhood from a red eye flight from Phoenix and a two hour train ride from JFK. I stumbled into the corner store and asked for a black coffee. My favorite guy behind the counter responds, "Black, like you?" and I said, "Yes please."
He stops pouring, turns to me smiling, giving me the opportunity to replay what he just asked so i may truly relish in it's hilariosity. I almost fell over in a spaz of hysterics.

After giving him the response he expected he resumed pouring.

I suppose if you don't know me this may not seem funny. I am a member of the whitest of Caucasian Caucasians. All of my people were from frigid lands, people who were either vikings or conquered by vikings. And this my friend is why my favorite arabic guy behind the counter is a funny muthafuka.

blade

2007-01-22T09:18:00.001-05:00

a tile floor, your feet don't fall they press, heel tip, nothing in between.
calculated, the sneaking of hidden hushed desires
creep through the empty house
searching for the shoulder to tap and say,
i changed my mind

deliver the caliber within you
this steel, cold cutting, grey
dulled by the rouge bands of years
you have collected like scars

an ounce of effort in a box
held just an arms length too far
i decide despite your confusion
boots on, walking away intent on wishing you a sharper blade

cut through your quiet limitation
silent house in the still meadow by the glassy pond
find the quake

Kali, Tiger

2007-01-09T19:52:00.000-05:00

I went to a zoo in Leon, Mexico. The zoos are less concerned with the safety of the visitors than US zoos. This means you can get Really Close to the animals.

I was standing in front of the tigers. The female was pacing. She could hear the men coming round to the cages, buckets full of chicken, pig and other meats.

I was taking pictures and videos of her, my hands down close, inches to her face as she passed the corner. She was breathing growls and spreading her mouth into a pant and snarl fest.

Her power, like heat put me into a trance of submission. Weak with her, she sucked at me with her noise, her calls to her prey.

She walked towards me, lunged. Her mouth, her stripes and fur hands reaching for my face. The cage shook, my mouth opened, she saw me, into me and deeper than just this me. I begged for her teeth around my neck, the break and tear.

She reached through, ripped my insides, killed me and ate my soul, becoming my goddess. Deep blood to paint a picture of my death upon the dirt of her cage. But we are in the jungle and I am her Sambar deer. Kali is free and I am as wild as she.

I was reborn in her hell and strength. Alive I stood again, saying my stupid, "Whoa..." and I will never forget how she ate and I relish my death to her hunger.

Kali loved me the moment she looked and I loved the cracking of my bones and my taste is still on her breath.

A link to a great story of an ending

2006-12-26T08:20:00.000-05:00

Steel Peaks

Thrush

2006-12-25T14:38:00.000-05:00

I love the word Thrush. It's an unpleasant 'thing' you can catch from going down on someone who has a wicked yeast infection. But the word is fun in my mouth, but not in an antibiotic needing way.

Thrush. Say it. She rushed through the thrush and the thrush rushed through her.

Thrushing through the throngs of thickening brush she crushed the little brush of thrush and finally it hushed, etc.

Thrush, thrush thrush.
say it, pussyface.

P.S. Thrush is also a bird but that's not as fun. Ignore.

Oh
Merry christmas

A continuation of:

2006-12-14T09:38:00.000-05:00

My spine cannot withstand the pressure of sovereignty

Amada was shaken by the grip and words Pilar spoke and even though she denied any truth to them every time she relived the sound of Pilar's voice and breath in her face, she saw herself nodding some distant agreement.

Amada Tarrago Casas Castanos Domenech Barreiro Loaeza has her lineage spelled out behind her like a rainbow tail for everyone to pluck at. She is the daughter of Manuel Tarrago the Spanish diplomat to the Corzine kingdom north of the mountains of Sonay. He was known for his abilities to lay peace at the feet of the warring factions in Corzine, his words always soothed the hearts of warriors. In the twenty years of service, he never walked away from a potential battle without having quelled whatever rage was upon them. That is until the day he set foot in Spain, retired with family in tow, Amada only seven years of age.

Sansar of Corzine, a warrior of great proportions, dismayed by the almost constant peace his homeland had known since his youth decided to slay the cause, Manuel Tarrago. Knowing Manuel was embarking on his journey home, Sansar started out before him to Madrid. Sansar knew the kill would be more profound and powerful of a trophy in the homeland of the enemy.

He laid in wait at the curve in the path to the Tarrago estate. And with luck, as the family arrived, Manuel was in the rear. Sansar let the child and woman pass and as Manuel sang the last verse of the rhyme Amada always asked for, Sansar pressed his saber into the quick of Manuel's heart and felt the pulse through the saber's metal cease and the brightness in Manuel's eyes drifted out of his body and floated amidst his wife and child, disappearing into the heart of Amada.

But Sansar never looked back long enough to see the essence enter the child who wailed over her father's body. And this was a deep and stupid mistake, as all true warriors always wait and watch for the traveling essence's entrance into another and slay the budding, more powerful enemy.

Amada crumbled into the pool of blood of her beloved father and raged to the gods and saints who heard nothing because they didn't exist. She wished and begged to have one more day with him. She was already looking into the past and seeing her mistakes and missed oppurtunities to be with him. Within seconds she was teaching herself how to kill herself with blame.

Just that morning he had set her on his knee and cooed, "Look out into the mist, this is where the joys of your life exist. Bring forth your inner fire to collect all that you desire and think of me as you find the key to your soul's love, not captivity. Little precious, buzzing bee, oh do be free, and dance with prosperity, the kind that contains, happy, love and only a splash melancholy."

Amada was not one to listen to her father's deep and passionate words, she twisted and turned in his lap and pulled his mustache out of frustration. Pushing away, she ran into the field where her dog leapt high like a deer as he hunted the furry animals that scurried there.

Amada's actions, even though, made by a sweet, impatient child stayed with her forever. She believed if she had listened and held him close as he spoke to her, time would have changed, a different path would have been taken and her father would still be alive. This became a marker in which she pierced her soul, a scar she would covet and mourn all her life.

blocked and dusty

2006-12-12T08:26:00.000-05:00

Celestial standings in waiting lines of star dust
gritty with irritation, a little heart-felt swinger flew
into the rings of a saturn like sky
hitting some invisible ozone
bursting like fireworks
he gave us something to oooh and ahh for

Jostle me from my writer's block
give me reason to not jump this planet
and find me some different air to breath
I am a wandering piece of energy
changing degrees and patterns
fluctuations bursting through seams

A word sits, bright on my desk
like a little star it shimmers
I reach for it and place it here with the rest
and it wiggles into another meaning
wiping my sentences confused

The little image making time in this cluster of words that chafe to scatter
is you and I covered in the dust of a star we rolled in
intent on a different kind of satisfaction
our fronts our fingers
our backs our hair
we rolled there sweaty and wet
we laughed because we didn't need air

Scuff my boots on the rocks of planets that light up like crackling logs
in a universe telescopes haven't yet created
I will always be here, there
grey dust boots and hands in pockets
searching for those wiggling words that jumped and hid.

Escape, chapter two

2006-12-08T06:58:00.000-05:00

I slid out from my safe haven, reluctant to go back to my table. I was actually thinking of a way I could get to the exit, out on the street and in a cab to anywhere but here. But I walked the path through the other diners wondering why in times like this we project that everyone else is free, happy and having the best time of their lives.

I tried to make eye contact with Tonya, give a 'let's go' signal. She looked up while talking to Sam as I approached. I pumped my eye brows up and down and jutted my chin towards the door, "let's get the fuck out." I thought she was getting it but I realized her gaze towards me was vague and she was lost in her conversation.

The act of reentering a scene of a crime knowing you are about to commit the murder before it happens is excruciating. I pictured Sam and Dave with concern and dismay in their clucks and hugs as they open the door to a distraught Tonya tomorrow. She would be crying and looking smaller than normal, they would sit and wonder why I would break from her like I did, what could have occurred in my thinking since nothing seemed wrong. They would guess an affair, then come to the conclusion it's just some troubled writers need to be alone and brooding, that it's our nature in order to create. More consoling, choosing sides, (Tonya's), making the spare bed so she could stay close to friends who loved her, etc.

I didn't much care at the moment. What I needed more than anything was to get the hell out of here and away from the glances of the woman who just toppled my life. Without realizing I picked up my fork and made an aggressive jabbing motion at her that luckily no one caught but her. Her eyes widened and she looked as if she were staring at a rabid squirrel.

I'm loosing my shit and I need to get up from this table. Dry mouthed, I lurched towards my glass of water knocking it over. Simultaneously everyone scooted their chairs back and lifted their arms like they were on a roller-coaster ride, all exclaiming, "ooohh!" I flushed and stammered an apology, collecting all the available napkins, uselessly dabbing and rerouting the water away from laps. The server came with a towel and I grabbed up my coat, scarf and hat, "So sorry, listen I'm not well, I mean I don't feel well. I'm gonna end this, or rather say good night and go away, home and leave here...yeah, I'm just gonna head on home, away, to the apartment. Tonya I'll see you later. No no, stay. I had a great time." Quick pats and shoulder squeezes, quizzical looks and then I was free.

Escape

2006-12-07T08:46:00.000-05:00

I made my way through the crowded hallway to the back of the restaurant. The kitchen sat open and the cooks and wait staff eyed my briefly as I put my head in my hands and took a deep breath, oblivious that I was standing in their path to the dining room. After a moment of complete self absorption, I wedged myself into a corner to make way.

She was here, some woman I'd forgotten I'd met, months ago. She sat with Tonya, Sam, Dave and I. She and her lover had walked in, saw Sam, an old friend and sat down with us. She ordered a vodka tonic and her lover and mine spoke across the table of insignificant where's and whats. She and I sat, remote, wary, looking at each other.

Tonya and I had moved in together a month earlier. Our connection was easy and pleasant, I thought why not? She was practically living with me anyway. And as these decisions are like dominos I also started to consider going back to the ad agency for something stable to tide me over till I got back to writing and finishing my novel, which would probably result in another slew of bad reviews, barely making enough to live. And why not get that closet in the hallway cleaned out so when Tonya's family came for Christmas we could open it without being frightened books, umbrellas and games would fall onto our guest's heads.

Yes, this was the sound of my mind settling and I didn't notice since this action only creates a very subtle hum, like the machines my grandfather was attached to just before he died.

I stood wedged into the corner near the kitchen in the panic one feels knowing one has committed a grave, unconscious error. This isn't a revelation that this forgotten woman who sat across from me, trying to remember where we met, is the newly realized love of my life. What she was was the reminder of a freedom I almost gave up for a subtle feeling of a dim happiness.

A light turned on, illuminating my sleep walking of the last six months, and with this comes the waking. I know now, when I walk back into the dining room I will see Tonya and our friends, I will remember our hall closet, I will think of my old boss at the ad agency and I will never again see any of them as I saw them a half an hour before. And this was the beginning of my plan to escape.

what I was really doing

2006-12-06T23:34:00.001-05:00

I was picking a stalk of bok choy in the grocery. A mindless action that ripped open a praise, a revelation, that adjusted my point of view just enough to see the whole picture.

What I thought I was doing was selecting food to fit in my basket while consciously keeping my irritation at a minimum at being constantly bumped and gently pushed out of the way of the hordes of people on the train, on the sidewalk and in the store.

But this rip in my grumpy occurred and the booming game show voice said, "Well, well! You are the next lucky motherfucker to get a glimpse at how fucking happy you really are! Look around you and see where you are and feel your realness outside of that voice in your head..and you will know a moment better than any joy your inner banter can create because this..this is real."

I stood there, continuing to keep my head down as to not scare the hordes with my ecstatic revelation. Just me and the Bok Choy, havin' a moment.

the freedom in the root of violation

2006-12-05T21:17:00.001-05:00

My hand hit the ground as I prevented my body from landing heavy. A pain shot through and I could feel the stones under my palm pierce the skin. They seemed to belong and I welcomed their violation.

As I watched and felt myself on the ground, I thought about the roots of the tree in my grandmother's yard and wondered if the stones were pained by roots intrusion into their space in the dirt, under the tree, deep in the earth.

Everything has it's turn of violation and I hope at some level we, violated, can find the little opening where we take that breath of awareness, of the vitality of being ruined, and say, in truth, it was worth it.

god renamed

2006-12-04T18:04:00.000-05:00

There was a whisper in my ear, as I turned, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of your ethereal mass as it escaped through the portal back to where you really belong. I've made you a cautionary tale to be told to little children before they learn romance.

But I speak through layers of sheer, emotional color that I laid upon your ghostly presence and my voice is muffled even to me. I am sorry little wolf, forgive me what I made you and unmade you.

There is an indian dentist who fixed my tooth, he said to me, "there is no god but the one you make and I can see in your mouth that you have spoken a name and it has become your god. But what I question is, is the person attached to the name worthy?"

He chipped a piece of your name away and peered. Stoically he huffs, "You must find your reasons to bind this lass to the story you have made of her." And on he poked and drilled.

So now, I look for my truth so I may release myself from the tragedy I see you through. It is a waste to make you less and more than what you are because who you are is perfect enough.

strum

2006-12-02T15:26:00.000-05:00

There is a song written with me in it's chords. It started in a park in the mind of a musician. She carried it home to her guitar. Hands to wood, it slipped onto the strings to be strummed.

There's a neighborhood in Brooklyn, I remember from summer. And this song sits here or near, in winter, in the hands and mind of a musician.

I wonder, does this make me eternal? Do the chord's vibrations enter the universe, to be heard by something somewhere far? And will the strum say, 'it was for a forgettable lass somewhere in a place and a time long dead, but for this distant sound she is dust'?

There is something appealing about being forgotten, but for this one song. Maybe it's the only marker worth having.

shout out, bitch

2006-11-29T21:02:00.000-05:00

A woman walked her dog next to me and mine. She said her dog had attitude and he made demands upon her. When he did he always ended each sentence with bitch.

Yo get me some food, bitch. Take my ass out, bitch. You best play with me, bitch.

I laughed when she told me. When I did she seemed to think we had a cool, chick bond. She seemed freed from some social expectation she held over herself when she discovered I wasn't offended by her humor.

She started making up silly sentences that her dog would say to her so she could end them with bitch. She began to frenzy like a horse rearing back, she would buck her head each time she said bitch.

I realized I became some sort of key to freedom for her and she decided to take full advantage. I continued to laugh at her dog sentences as I was fascinated as to how wacky she would get as the minutes ticked by. But alas, I was unable to take her to a full ecstasy of the freedom of social boundaries as we had reached her door too soon.

But by the time we had got there she was in full swing of 'white girl pretending to have black girl groove', struttin her stiff, narrow ass with every shout of bitch.

Good times.

My spine cannot withstand the pressure of sovereignty

2006-11-26T22:46:00.000-05:00

I was ambushed and slayed by a horse thief named Ode, who sold me to the slave owner, Naheeb in Tehran. Naheeb's response to my capture and delivery to his door was a silent laughter that ended hoohahoo as his lungs ran out of air.

Pleased he was indeed, as I am one of those people who exist without my whole and can be parted in pieces and sold for more. Naheeb, I am sold to but not in complete. Ode has decided he will keep the key to my soul and when and if Naheeb sells all of my bits, he will come back and take 10 percent of the profit and share the life from my soul with Naheeb.
This is a dirty trick often played on slave owners but alas there is no one to complain to when dirty deals in souls and bodies are concerned.

Naheeb digs his thumbs in the soft of my shoulders, "Damnable bitch, tell me this, what part of you is ground softest to grist? What part is precious and beloved? That which is not frayed like this expression on your face, ugly and betrayed?"

I fall to the sand and dig with my hands, "A piece, soft indeed, with love to bleed. It is my heart, the stone beating in the center of me. Please take as you like. It has become my plight since she left me in that place for Ode to delight, to steal me and take flight."

Naheeb took my heart to Malaga. His plan in Spain was to sell it to the light skinned store owner Santi. But Santi, astute in crimes of the heart and the taste of it's flesh saw the discoloration, perforation, deterioration and demurred, pocketing his money with a knowing smile upon his face.

Stone mad, rough Naheeb was. Chastising the beating muscle all the way back to Tehran where he found me waiting for my thrashing which I received quicker than normal. "You slut, you daughter of a whore, you have lied to me no more! You have said your heart beat strong with the blood of a love you so ache and long. That it would quicken and thicken the closer I came to this woman in Spain who you pine for, but I acted in vain! You said, 'Go to Spain ask for Santi of Malaga, he will not disdain. He will see the warmth beating and let no opportunity slip, fleeting.' You lied, yes you lied good. You bitch, you are worthless like wood."

A beating I got and the beating felt right and after his rage I begged another chance. "Sell me again, please try if you will and pardon me still. I told not a lie, a mistake I have made. This love I have had is more middle in Spain. My heart will respond in this region, it is the season, my love will be there, and near the bruja who stares to the stars so clear. Go to Segovia, a lass named Pilar, she lives in tree branches close to the stars. The people will show you, guide you, she's not far. A bruja, majestic, strange, true and bizarre."

And out he went, towing my heart in a bag tied with twine thinking this beating rock may take to the hills if he became complacent. Into Segovia he finally arrived. It took many months, there were problems and people to pay off on the way. He was thinner and quieter by the time he set foot.

He went to the magistrate and begged an audience. Both men sat in stuffed chairs with mutual judgment and suspicion. Naheeb changed expressions and kindly patted the man's hand, "Kind sir I must ask, there is a strange woman, she has put me to task, to find her jewel she lost on her way, she sits in the trees to see stars bright as day. Can you guide me to her, this bruja I do seek? I am weary and bone tired, not a cent in my pocket. I will pay you thrice at the end of the week."

The magistrate rolls his hat and pats his pocket in indignation. What a question to ask such a man of his position. This arabic phenomenon with such absurd speculations of brujas in trees in a town like his.

but as he scoffed and cleared his throat he knew just who Naheeb spoke of, he made sure to draw a map instead of taking him to the orchard where the witch fed on small animals as she stared and ranted at the sky.

Naheeb kicked up dust as he walked the road to The Tree of Pilar. He wondered why the magistrate wrote it in capital letters as if a mad woman deserved them. The orchard came into view as he rounded the hill. Citrus and otherwise, these trees Naheeb had never seen and to the end of the road stood the most majestic and bizarre and within it's branches sat and ugly beautiful bruja named Pilar.

"Woman, I speak to you, there is a heart in this bag to atone. It is fine and right with love to spend and I have been told you will buy it, behold! It beats of a blood filled with broken love of a slave I do own, she is half yours if you take this piece, a token, a jewel, a bone."

Not prepared for the movements of a 1000 year old bruja, Naheeb was startled by the woman turned snake who slithered off her branch and onto his shoulder to see what fool would offer the stone of a heart of lost soul he'd enslaved. She eyed his intentions and saw the lies and greed. She realized his slave had brought this fool to her coven of trees so she may lay him out and eviscerate his existence, smiting his life. In doing so this slave would forever lose her heart as the bruja would surely devour it for dessert. A sacrifice only the truly brokenhearted would commit.

And for a moment Pilar remembered her life as a mortal so many years before. She saw what this love could have been like and the slave who lived it, became a part of her. And with the evil of her prey she grew strong and deadly around the neck of Naheed and took his life for her own and fed upon the grizzled heart in his chest and relished his squeaks of distress. She uncoiled and like the sands of time she blew to Madrid to a building filled with the smell of the love in the stone heart of the slave and there she found it's intended.

Amada, a woman so slight yet huge with a beauty above many. She sat in a fear hid well by her courage as she had seen death stare her to the soul before. This witch she trembled silently in front of was of the kind she had never known before. In awe, she felt a strange privilege to be accosted by such an majestic entity.

Pilar reached out and took Amada's throat neatly in hand and whispered this missive, "Behold beloved of a dead and broken heart. It is here with me, in this bag, a muscle from which you chose to part. In fact it has always been from the start, here with YOU as you have a part in it's discovery, in it's private hell, so dark. But alas my beauty! This heart does start as it nears you, it still loves you, a decision again, so dark so dark."

Pilar grew from the strength of Amada's defiance that pulsed through the veins in her soft, lovely neck, "I would cast a spell upon the heart and heal it whole if I knew that the slave's goal, wanted freedom from you, you warrior, little wolf, proud soul. Even now, still at night you creep slowly to the window and wonder what light does she have left to shine and where will she be in fortnight? Filled with a spite not even you know why, you wish her a blight. And unbeknownst to you she feels it with fright and loves you despite."

Pilar bent down low with eyes of a snake and kissed the lips of Amada and told her the reason for her loathing of the one who loves her, "No more rhymes because desperate is the fear of your experience of nothingness." Coming closer, Pilar whispered, "She vexed you raw with the good and bad of emotions you can never have. And in the lacking you feel, your fear turned on the delicate love of a hard to reach possibility and killed it. She is a reminder of that which you will not let yourself be." And as Amada grasped at the hands that refused to let her breath, Pilar relinquished her power over her and slithered out into the night to Tehran.

And as I lay waiting endlessly for nothing but Naheeb and his beatings to remind me I am alive, the bruja of The Trees of Pilar can upon my bits and pieced me together again. She grabbed me up with a witches force and threw me across the room, landing me with a thud. "Stupid mortal, love as you may but do not let this moment of oppurtunity wander stray. You must find this Ode, and take back your soul. Truly, look at this odd love you grasp and hold, for it's broken and old. Oh it is sweet and fine, but DO NOT to cling or try to malign, fierce fight is only for the divine. Do not go astray in depths of decay, one day there will be and you will see that it is possible to live with no one, but thee."

And as the years pass, and I have my soul at last, I sometimes sit in The Tree of Pilar, me at her knee, I never go far. She graces me with her presence you see, because there is no strife in the loyalty of the dead, free of life.

Little Human

2006-11-25T17:15:00.000-05:00

Paula (Powla) sits in my lap shaking her arms, legs splayed out staring at the picture in my hand. She grabs my fingers in order to make my hand move the picture. The movement excites her mind, stimulates some distant connection she once had to her frontal lobe. She is a delayed child. She has a damaged brain with such an amazing ability to be in the moment, every second. She is my teacher.

I sit staring and kissing her sweet face for hours. She is beautiful and recognizes me. She reaches out to me, grabs and pulls herself up onto me for the 23rd time in two wonderful days. I can't get enough of her. Her only desire is my lap and this picture. My only desire is to hold her tightly, kiss her cheek a million times and hold her picture just as she likes.

Now I've left, she is in Philly, I am in NY. All I want to imagine is her face, eye lashes and creamy brown eyes. She smells like a little human and I want her cheek right here. I want to maul her and squeeze her.

I am blessed to have had her in my lap and will be blessed when it happens again.

one sided phone call to 'the pound of flesh' collector

2006-11-22T10:48:00.000-05:00

What do you want me to say?
....I HAVE asked for it back, she won't give it!

..How shall I hand you this thing you want when it's not in my hand to give?

..Yes I know but there is nothing to do. She is lost to another land. I'm not traveling oceans to retrieve it.

..But why do you want it? It's useless rot.

It has no color left! I'm telling you, it's not worth your effort. Look I'll give you the other one. It's a fine piece of fleshy, pulsing goo. It will please you...

..Now wait a fucking minute! I'm NOT trying to trick you into anything
...NO, this isn't a game. I'm just not walking across oceans of time to retrieve the dead weight of a thing that no longer exists because you think it's something you want.

Well fine then...I can't seem to convince..
..well then, I don't know what else to say
...fine, goodbye.

yearning for spring

2006-11-19T11:07:00.000-05:00

A sense of timing
eyes in low hue
there is an ice forming
a flower once grew

into my highlands
and down into low
the cats they lay spying,
my love as she grows

towards the hills
the orchards do cling
I remember the pictures
A town aged
a land forever yearning for spring

to my heart you lie facing
a tower that fell
covered your head
and mouth full with hell

and this you say changed you
and with this you now face
and this that you want
there is no trace

It is a sin
a sin to behold
the lack, the beginning
it never unfolds

you may cast as you like
there is no end
till you turn and face
the clinging within.

a sky, dark and gloaming
a hunger that calls
your flight to a land that lies yearning for spring,
forever in fall

This is my power to believe in

2006-11-17T00:50:00.000-05:00

When did you leave me? It happened as I woke. The dawn flickered in my eyes and you were gone. I left the keys in the tin tray on the table with the change. The change we emptied from our pockets last night. After the wet streets, filled with our laughter, our pants wet almost to the knees from jumping into puddles. Into the wet grass we slipped and fell and laid and kissed.

This is a story that never happened. This random, ephemeral she...unless. Unless I see her out of the corner of my eye, dawn flickering, just to the side of nowhere.

It doesn't really matter, where she is, where I am. This is what time follows, these little thoughts, real and not. They are beautiful, all of them. And time humors me with it's gentle tick.

In the end do our connections add to my value? Am I better for knowing you? Will you even look to the stone marking my grave as years pass? There is nothing left of any of this and now it's smarter to believe only in mountains as they mark their own graves for ever. Or as forever as we'll know.

You may read a gloom in me, you may like to feel a pity. 'Sorry you're sad and trapped and wicked'. But you just don't know what strength pushes the power, the quake that draws me, that explodes and blows through my mind and words. You just don't know.

I am a dark mutha who sees so much joy in this wicked, violently beautiful world. I am the black, the grey, the vibrant too. There is too much joy even in the dark to fade. Never, I will never be what you think even when you know what that is.

Dirty Socks

2006-11-12T21:22:00.000-05:00

There is a wedding shop across the street. There is a man and woman, wooden, standing in the window looking blankly out, displaying their marriage gear. Sullen and dead as mannequins are I can't help but feel they represent a large population of the living.

Why do we stand in front of someone who tells us we are bound? I panic at the hopes and dreams of those who see 'forever' in their bouquets, tux and tails.

He stands, staring at his reflection in his shoes as she clutches her flowers. They fight back the tears of expectations of what this moment means and will eventually splinter into.

Two kids, the TV running, dirty socks and resentment brings out the bags you pack that take you back to that part of you you forgot to take with you.

a frail pull, a fragile glow

2006-11-08T23:30:00.000-05:00

Sister says she wants to read me.
Sister says she wants to know.
Sister wants to believe me,
and I must make it so.

I cannot give her a piece of me.
This would be a death you see.
A given token of blood and gore.
I am not a tool to dig with,
to find hidden metaphor.

Collapse upon me broken sea,
Wash and deliver the mystery,
Bring it warm and still aglow,
to the hands of my sister,
a gift to sow.

Reap me now before the tide draws back
Twisted fins and souls bare in lack
Begging time,
begging a release from woe
Into the moons fading, forever glorious glow.

Today, Tuesday, vote. Please vote.

2006-11-07T10:27:00.000-05:00

Go read my dad.

a rot begins

2006-11-04T18:52:00.000-05:00

I'm searching for a silence I can sit in. But I behave like a wild, cornered animal when the opportunity comes. It flings my body aside and stares me into a terror I can not face. I am not that brave.

I have too much inside that I don't want to hear. I fear all the little truths that attempt to address me just as I sleep, just as I wake. They may contain the recipe of my death.

In response to my denial of my Self my mind has decided I will die a slow rotting death of the flesh. It is it's way of calling attention to my lack of inner fortitude. I have depended on this outside and I am being presented with the possibility of it's waste.

It conjures that one day I may lay in an immovable, stricken body, alive as I ever could be. Looking out into a world I could never be a part of again. Burning alive. With no ability to live. And this is the only true terror I have.

I can lay safe and comfortable in warm soothing baths and in a second the thought of immobility and sickness creep into my mind, creating a body made to be my souls cell and I gasp and stiffen. holding my hands to my face, wiping, wiping the thought away. I sweat, even in water.

I am avoiding the inner truths and now they have come to trick or treat me, to fuck me until I listen as a child would to the Self truth, one in which I fear I will die.

But this is my cowardice baying at it's own superstitious moon. It's not a question of if, it is definite, I will die. But as with everything, within my death is my rebirth.

I am intent on this suicide but I would rather have the sword of an executioner on my neck.

I am a lazy killer.

A coward of sorts. Hari-Kari this ultimate silence is, brutal.

And I'm avoiding the cut, to which my inner response will be another sickness dining on my body tonight. I am a great horror show. I invite you to watch the story that plays on my minds screen.

searching database

2006-11-02T08:29:00.000-05:00

Words escape. they have flown my mental coop, on to bigger and better brains.
I'm left with images that won't graduate into sentences, verbs, not even sounds.
All that I've mustered is this cardboard version of a post. A set of words made in cut out, pasted and carried to your eyes, absent of movement. For now, my dollar store gift till a colorful thought arrives.

misbirthed, a quandary in time

2006-10-28T15:24:00.000-04:00

A setting sun on the clouds of a day similar to today. I've reached my past and climbed the present and at these heights the only focus is on the wind, the rain. Washing the dirt of misinterpretation, misconception.

The abortion of time. A clot of flesh birthed and deathed too soon. The soldiers of the wound run to find the reasons why It wasn't right. It, being those depths of love that carry your voice to my soul.

I am weary and even I buy their reason, believing the stories of my own mistake. I am caught in the slow forgetting and the prison of never letting go.

Absorbing the visual

2006-10-27T10:50:00.000-04:00

A clear and concise tale can be cut and layered by emotional descriptives, mirroring a familiar scent of memory back to the reader. Texture to color, deflect intent. Opening veins of thought, tapping heart strings to play the processes of the mind. Rewarding the churn with slow and complex visuals. Giving the story a pull, a drag, the mind follows, playing catch up, eating and enjoying the complexities of the read.

I reside in the dust of Darfur, in the land of Sudan

2006-10-24T09:39:00.000-04:00

I am far from myself, so close to empty. But I have my own hand to hold and for now this is what I crave to own. I will not move from this place, this place in the sand. I will not walk away with another stranger, candy given, pain to come.

I have seen pictures of bodies, dead on the fields of Sudan. So still, so done, rotting in the sun. The breeze shifts a cuff, pushes the sand onto the nail of a hand that once caressed someone it loved. The rot and decay quietly consume every memory, every kiss.

I lie there with them, inviting the decomposition of my existence. The great leveler of egos, petty concerns and trivial worries. The peace maker between warring hearts, broken and deferred dreams. Dead on a field, in a land not my own. I would become the dust of Sudan.

Neptune's bidding

2006-10-23T22:17:00.000-04:00

This is just jest and play. There is no trip to Spain on a train or a plane. No Egyptian dogs or robots to reboot.

It's all a dream, weighted and thrown to the sea. The dream and she. They live on the sandy bottom with the crabs and eels. She's Neptune's jelly fish.

She's stung my ragged edges until she's reached indifference. But it's a hateful indifference. A difference indifference.

Through the currents she looks to land, gloating in her ability to breath water, to swim away smug and pleased knowing I am land locked. But I wade, I'm a wader in her sea, her spineless body and heart sting to paralysis my stupid stupid soul.

Us, on a bus in Madrid

2006-10-23T07:32:00.000-04:00

I, we and you are a different us than yours. And really, your us probably doesn't include me. It is another us, on a bus in Madrid.

I have a ticket to us. It carries me to Spain by way of plane. Two cats and an unskilled communicator. Visiting a robot and a dog with an Egyptian name.

I will arrive and kiss her metally mouth and search for the on switch to her heart and push the friend button again. There's software to download, forgiveness and an open mind to soften her hard, drive.

help me

2006-10-20T10:19:00.000-04:00

3/4 root-canal. Tomorrow. I am not happy. I don't do well with Novocain, it doesn't work for me. The last time I had work done at the dentist (12 years ago) the doctor finally said, "I can't give you anymore, it's effects won't increase at this point." This was after seven shots.

The thought of the needle going into my mouth makes me squirm out of my seat. I just looked at myself after writing that and I'm halfway off the couch, ass hanging over, my ex's laptop precariously dangling between my knees as I dodge the needle and the doctor that's not really here.

Dad will you please come with me and hold my hand and tell me what an ass I'm being? Need my daddy.

I know, I know, it's so not cool to need your daddy when you're 37. But I never said I was cool.

soft serve

2006-10-17T21:04:00.000-04:00

There is this wacky guy who lives in the building of one of the dogs I walk. He gets into the elevator with me and my dog and screams, "HI INDIE!" Indie sits close to me looking at him with half interest half discomfort.

I'm looking at the guy trying to not let my lip curl into a snarl. He's not a bad guy just fucking clueless and overly happy in that fake loud pushy way.

Loud Happy Guy yells, "ARE YOU GOING FOR YOUR WALK IN THE RAIN INDIE?!"

Indie: Why yes, I am accompanying my dog-walker here for an hour long stroll where we will also stop by Nellie's place and pick her up too. Hopefully I'll have a nice firm shit so it's not too much trouble for Robin to pick up as she does get pissed when my shit comes out like soft serve. A few pisses on choice trees and hydrants and I should be home in time to grab one of my owners shoes, jump onto the couch and have a chew or two before she comes home. Thanks for asking.

Loud happy guy always thinks if the dog looks at him he has to say, "OH SORRY INDIE, I DON'T HAVE ANY TREATS ON ME RIGHT NOW!"

He then looks at me and by now I am snarling at him because I know what he's going to say "ISN'T IT FUNNY HE ALWAYS WANTS A TREAT?!"

And for the 76th time I say, "Actually just because the dog's attention may be on you doesn't mean you need to anthropomorphize his behavior into behavior you yourself exhibit, the need for a treat, your treat being the crumbs of attention you get from being such a kiss ass loud happy guy."

Ok so I don't ever say this.

I just spread my tight lips into an imitation of a smile, staring dead eyed beyond his head biding my time till the doors open.

cell phone rapists

2006-10-17T10:05:00.000-04:00

Got my last Verizon cell phone bill, the one where they say payment due immediately since you've cancelled with them. Over the summer I had one bill at $400 and another at $900+. Sucked, had to change carriers.

I wrote Good Riddance on the front of the bill with an exclaimation point. Felt good.

Blank

2006-10-16T08:06:00.000-04:00

Sorry no writing. Story-less.

The all important decisions of a Saturday morning

2006-10-14T08:38:00.000-04:00

I shall have tea, with toast and peanut butter and raspberry jam. No I shall make bacon and toast and an egg to sully my toast in.

But then again I could pour a bowl of cereal with a lovely banana cut in.

Although I would rather go downstairs to my favorite bodega to my Arab brothers and ask for a coffee, light, one sugar and have them make me an egg, ham and cheese on a roll.

While there I will probably be drawn to the doughnut section and alas, there is so much to choose..But then again, there's Dunkin Donuts right up the way and the girls there melt the sugar in a sip of hot coffee before they add the ice into my iced coffee so there's no grit at the bottom.

But alas, I do have bagels and cream cheese in the fridge..

Just watching the Merry-go-Round

2006-10-13T08:53:00.000-04:00

And again, smokin truth from my dad about that imbecile in the white house

Gill the web designer

2006-10-12T22:11:00.000-04:00

Today I was walking to work. This guy stops me and says, "Excuse me Miss, have you heard the announcement that His Holiness will be blessing us with his presence here in Harlem today?"

My head is shaking, "No" as I'm trying to figure out if he's talking about Louis Farrakhan, the Dalia Lama or some high falootin Baptist preacher.

He leans over and says, "Girl, I'm jus fuckin wit choo." I slapped his arm and we walked bumping shoulders, laughing for a block.

And this is what makes me LOVE this city.

Savages

2006-10-10T19:38:00.000-04:00

So for the umpteenth time I enter my apartment and my cat Cliff bulldozes his big head into my leg in a pre-rape frenzy to be fed immediately. He screeches and shoves me into the wall, "Oh, you wanna set yer shit down? Fuck you feed me. You wanna take a pee, fuck you feed me."

"Wait, fucker!", I use my foot to push him across the floor hoping it's with enough momentum to bowling ball him into my other nagging cat Iris.

To avoid any further build up of resentment that may lead to me killing them, I force myself to take care of what I want to do first. Real selfish shit like, take my shoes off. Put my bags down and get a drink of water. As I'm doing this he's weaving between my legs, screeching and I'm taking phantom swings at his head, cursing his mother.

Finally I pull the food out of the fridge, phantom kicking and punching at him to keep him out from under my feet. I drop his food bowl with a clang and he huffs the mush into his fat head, crashing his teeth into the metal bowl.

And now they lay so cutesy and lovey on the bed. Purring and cleaning like that's who they really are and I'm sitting here seething, plotting their demise.

The offenders.

I'm so hot

2006-10-10T19:25:00.000-04:00

Today I was hit on by a ten year old.

He looked me up and down and said, "Whad up mami?"

Inwardly I said, "Nutin much little papi. Yo baby, I AM old enough to be yo mami."

Outwardly I smiled in that laughing way, he blushed and darted away. Very cute.

Spanked and liking it

2006-10-09T10:07:00.000-04:00

I've been reviewed and judged by Ask And You Shall Receive, a.k.a. iwillfuckingtearyouapart.blogspot.com.
She spanked me for whining and for my blood smeared background. These things I can change, the one little prop she gave was that she thought I wrote well..yes! So all in all, I'm pleased.

leaning into the sharpest point today

2006-10-07T20:35:00.000-04:00

My friend and I are feeling the contortions of ours hearts as they break and mend. We've been writing to each other a lot.

She quoted a Buddhist saying which I embrace, "Lean into the sharpest point." Meaning feel the pain, all of it without pushing it away. If we do this it will remove the fear and let us progress through it.

Another quote she has thought hard on in her process is from Vernon Howard, "Anger or bitterness toward those who have hurt you will block your path to higher ground. You can have anger toward people or you can have freedom from people, but you can't have both."

She mentioned the anger takes a little longer to get through, as evidenced in this, her words I quote, with permission of course: "When I was praying each day that my robot ex would flip her SUV over the side of the old Kingston bridge suffer a C3 fracture, sustaining paralysis Christopher Reeve- style and awake each morning at 3am to a nurses aid changing her diaper... well this quote helped me through that time."

The rage, it's exhilarating to read. I don't have it to this extent but it is so refreshing to hear the dark of another to help bring back some of the light. She's awesome.

an open hand and heart

2006-10-07T20:22:00.000-04:00

The Amish girls that were killed..

A conservative evangelical pastor went to Pennsylvania from Washington DC right after he heard about the killings. He didn't go to the Amish but to the family of the killer because he knew their hell would be forgotten or ignored. I really liked that he'd done this. I respected him for it.

After, he visited an Amish family and watched a mother clean the body of her daughter for her wake and burial. He said the mother touched her body with such love. The grandfather stood by and told the children in the room not to judge the man who killed the girls. To not think evil of him because of what he did.

This is love.

And if I didn't fuck girls, love NYC, curse and think like a sailor I would want to be Amish. But quite frankly, even all of that aside, I'm not sure I could consistently hold such love and forgiveness in me. I am so moved by them.

the workings of the universe coming to pat my heart

2006-10-06T10:01:00.000-04:00

My friend sent me this:

"Only one thing made him happy
and now that it was gone
everything
made him happy."- Leonard Cohen

How perfectly it fits into the space that was just emptied by the one thing I loved.

My hands sticky, fumbling with the last bite attached to the pit

2006-10-05T08:34:00.000-04:00

My friend said laugh hard three times today and make one really good memory. I didn't laugh hard three times. Maybe once, it wasn't a good day. But I did make a memory.

There was this nectarine. Given to me by a doorman who feeds me fairly regular, kisses me often and tells me secrets about the people in the building. This nectarine looked like any other. But a luscious gift it was, containing such a flavor I almost wept. Every bite a blessing.

"Jorge, the nectarine you gave me, I've never tasted one so delicious I was so happy to have it, thank you."

"I know you baby. I know you to give thanks for de froot. You know, before I was alive I say, 'God, make me in de center of de froot!" and he did. I know you mami, you and I are de same. We see we need to give to the froot, to God."

Indeed

Dragon

2006-10-04T02:51:00.000-04:00

Irreverence is essential. That which offends is home to me at 2:44am. I'm on the verge of owning my Ugly.

I spend time pretending to not see my mean lurking in corners. There's sick denial of my Ugly that has it consuming the pretty just to get noticed. So let me say, yes I meant it at the time. I am your dragon. And I'll be it again.

There are times when I would like to knock babies and their cutesy mommys out of the way and fuck girls under 18, 'cause they had it coming to them.

I do judge your slovenly ass as you sit so pleased with yourself on the train. And when you bump into me I sometimes think of how liberating it would feel to sucker punch you so hard in the back of your head that you fall and break your face.

I would like to collect lovers, one for each mood and shade of Ugly and pretty I own. And like the Marilyn Manson lyrics go, "I'm not in love, but Im gonna fuck you till somebody better comes along." Better yet, I AM in love but I'm gonna fuck you till somebody better comes along.

I covet attention from others. I'm piggish about it and play smooth, pretend to be delighted and surprised. I judge my body for aging, it's failure to remain unrealistically, exactly the way I fucking want it. I judge yours for repelling me, making me loath you, for attracting me, making me want you.

You are too white and gentrified. You are too ghetto and rude. You are a fucking bore and when I pass you I see how much better I am and how clueless you are to it. I would put my hand on your head and push off into another direction if I weren't repulsed by the touch.

I want. And I don't want to give back unless it makes me look good. I am a vacuum and I will suck you dry and leave you stupefied. Stupefied 'cause you thought I was 'so nice'. I will be discontented with what you give and leave you no peace till I get more.

Sometimes I love movies depicting the pain and death of the innocence of others. Horror flicks that creep me out by turning me on with blood and death and terror.

I love Marilyn Manson. He's my Ugly and my pretty's hero. He says all the things I'm thinking about you and the world. He stands up for and in his Dark and kicks your balls with it.

And yet, I'm worn by Ugly. I want so much to pretend and not own it. My mom's like this. "Let's pretend it didn't happen and everything will be fine." I'm sticky on one side with this stupid denial. Fuck off and out of me already.

The worst part is my regret and shame about my actions. These actions and thoughts have lead me to realize I would have been better off owning my selfishness as it happened. But I turned from the fire and let it burn unchecked till there was nothing left but fucking regret and an Ugly so big it deserved to be capitalized.

My Ugly lights up like a beacon to the damned. I will drown you if you seek refuge.

Marilyn Manson-User Friendly

I should have taken his picture

2006-10-03T09:32:00.000-04:00

There is a bodega on the corner of my building. It's run by an Arabic family. They are so lovely. I think they're all brothers or cousins, whatever, they are lovely.

The most beautiful of the lot was working this morining. He made me coffee, light, one sugar. He said I could speak Arabic. If I can speak English I could speak Arabic. He said something about how America is the place where everyone comes and because of that English speakers can learn other languages with the help of all the other people...something, something.

It didn't make sense and I didn't care. He's so lovely and his energy is so open and friendly. He could have been speaking Arabic to me and it would have had the same effect.

I miss them already

2006-10-01T08:01:00.000-04:00

Yesterday's de-blogging orgy rocked. Will write more after tea.

Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!

2006-09-30T08:45:00.000-04:00

A post to the damnable White House monkey and all his bastard soul sellers. Belledame fetches her axe

By The Clock. GCS, NYC baby

2006-09-30T08:28:00.000-04:00

The sun is coming through my dirty window in a pretty, smudged sort of way and the cats are silent, finally. They are fed and have become two balls of sleeping animal making sure to leave more hair on my sheets.

Belledame222, Kristin, Antiprincess and I are getting together to de-blogger bond. Touch hands, hug, create togetherness and become wealthier for knowing one another.

bear country

2006-09-29T08:14:00.000-04:00

There's someone I like....
She's an assistant director in Canada. We talk on the phone, Immediate Message, send each other videos (not that kind, dirty dirty minds) and she has a web cam, so's I's can see her cute face when's we talk.

Let me put that in past tense. We used to do all of that but since she started filming on a remote island near the Northwestern Territory we haven't been able to communicate on anything that requires a signal. She will occasionally find a spot where a miracle ray of signal happens to pass by her bear infested island and she can get on her laptop and write a line or two or text me on her phone.

I write to her too. Little emails, IMs and the very rare 35 cent phone text, knowing she's not going to get them for a month if ever. Our messages have become brief sad fits of 'I miss you, wish I could hear your voice, this sucks'. And we're feeling like temporarily star crossed lovers. Very dramatic, yeah so?

And last night, goddamn it, last night I'm fucking about on the computer, IMing with a friend and my phone rings. It says Unknown and I immediately think of this ridiculous client I have who often engages me in long conversations about how hilarious her dog/child is and the thought of listening to her and being polite was out of the question.

Why didn't I think maybe it was Unknown 'cause it was from a fucking pay phone in back woods, remote island, hunting lodge Canada..why? Why didn't I?

I ain't got zip

2006-09-28T19:58:00.000-04:00

My powers of story telling have vanished. If you should see them scuttling down darkened street corners apprehend and I shall reward.

A gift for myself. To mend

2006-09-27T09:16:00.000-04:00

There is a reoccurring twitch that's setting up in my spine. An indication of an emotional breakthrough about to erupt. Whether it makes a scene or not is the question. It feels like drama and the stage is set so stand the fuck clear.

If I could only claim crazy occasionally then I could act a fool and get away with it. I could crack like the sad and discontented egg I am and fry. But most of all what I need to claim is the gift of how to give and stop caring so much about how to get. I am a selfish only-child at Christmas. I still have that picture of me surrounded by my loot. Hair brushed straight and white, hands folded like a little princess.

I wanted you. I wanted. And I can't have so fuck you.

Mean girl inside, useless strategy considering my soul is sooo soft. I am so soft, you'll never know. I am a contradiction. Able to shock the best of you who know me. Once she said, "Why are you so nice?" Then later she said, "Since you were so mean, I've done my best to detach."

I do not know how to make peace with the Want and the Give. I can't seem to drive that clear flat plain on cruise control. With all the enlightenment flickering around me like fireflies I fold my hands over my eyes, mouth and ears like a multi-armed Hindu goddess of ignorance. No officer I didn't see the signs..

I swear to god I'm gonna break and leave a wet smear on the subway platform. And people will walk by and say, "What the fuck? Did someone wretch?" But it will just be bits of me, not dinner. Bits of useless rage and childish self pity and the deep heart break of dreams deferred. As she sits in her forget. In her multi-colored bandana forgetting. Forgetting me.

Yesterday a great, fat wall of flesh stepped in front of me as I stepped off the train. Closing off my escape route, he did. I was on a mission, racing to get into my apartment. The slovenly beast lumbered to and fro too fat for me to move around. Too selfish, gloating to not enjoy his blockage of my freedom.

I squeaked between him and the wall and as I passed in a rage I raised my hand to the sky and shook it. Like a fucking 'jazz hand' move from an age 7-10 dance class and I knew then that I was on the fray.

leaf power

2006-09-26T10:06:00.000-04:00

She asked, 'What happens to a dream deferred?'

Does it dissipate into useless energy that recycles into what's closest? Like that tree over there? Does it become leaf energy and is that leaf stronger than the rest for getting the lost dream, the dream on hold?

Or when dreams defer is it a slow letting? Like a hole in a balloon. Seeping out of me, spilling onto the seat I sit, The woman I bump, the door I push. Like dirty hands I spread germs of loss?

Whatever the way, at first they always have the stench of disappointment. If we're lucky they filter through and become clean, clear relief.

Too White and Nerdy

2006-09-25T17:42:00.000-04:00

A link to a link of a video that was a link from a friend of the link I'm linking you to.
Fetch Me My Axe

My Pop Rocks

2006-09-25T09:43:00.000-04:00

Go see my Dad. If you've been following this topic you'll enjoy this post.

My dad is fucking hilarious with the best dry, political wit ever. You have got to go wander through his posts.

Where are you?

2006-09-24T18:35:00.000-04:00

Belledame222 and I hung out in the east village. We were supposed to hang out downtown, well I thought we were. We had decided to meet at The Strand bookstore.

At 11 I was there, at 11:15 Belle called said she was walking towards it, be there in a sec.
Five minutes passed.
I call, leave a message, "Hey, I think we're at different Strands. Call me."
Two minutes, Belle calls, "What Strand are you at?"
Me, "On Fulton, you?"
"12th and Broadway."
Me, "For fucks sake."

I get on the 2 train, get off at 14th, promptly walk in the wrong direction for five minutes. Call Belle, tell her I'm an asshat and will be there in 15 instead of 10.

Finally, we are together.

Belle and I are the picture of opposites. She is short with long, wild, shocking red hair. I am tall with boring straight, very short, brown/grey hair.

Belle is so cerebral and crazy smart that I have to listen with rapt attention to understand where she's going with stuff. She is a lesson in quieting the mind and listening carefully. She comes from a different angle of a subject than me. I have to walk around the object and get the full view.

Of the topics we discussed, we concluded that coven witches need to not have control issues with their students of the craft. We decided this at the Ukrainian diner on 2nd.

We ambled down 2nd, into a too expensive Indian store, then a weird open lot behind an apartment building that was an old cemetery with vaults hung in the walls surrounding. A woman stood here in the open with her two standard poodles insisting we sign her guest book so the organization that maintained this open lot/cemetery could get more funding with a show of all its enthralled visitors.

At Houston, Belle suggested a movie. We saw Sherrybaby. Popcorn, Junior Mints and Coke.

There is discussion of a future meet up with Kristin and Antiprincess. I like.

It was a good Sunday afternoon.

re-fart

2006-09-24T08:00:00.000-04:00

It was Game Night, Cake Night last night, which is exactly what it sounds like. I arrived at M and S's apartment where Scrabble had already started. I enter the game two turns behind and start eating chocolate chip cookies with milk. (Cookies are an acceptable form of cake-ish food for Game Night, Cake night.)

The board is difficult as the words are all clustered to the bottom and there has been a struggle to come up with good words. My first word is made with just a P making POO, POOP. Nice.

We continue with DAILY, COMA and REHEM (re-hem is mine), which is questionable because it needs a hyphen but clothes can be re-hemmed and we're desperate for words so it squeezes by.

S and I look to the northern reaches of our board which is still uncharted territory with unlimited resources to be exploited. M and J start to sing Boy George's Karma Chameleon song with the words on the board. Coma, Coma, Daily Sex Rehem....Poop and Rehem...Poop and Reheeee'eemmm.

S is struggling with his shitty letters so he argues that technically re-fart is a word, just like re-hem. But it's not cause you can't re-fart. He gives his argument's example; Farting Contest. Contestant number two comes to the microphone, he tries to fart and is distracted by a screaming child in the stands and asks to try again. The judge says, "Contestant number two will re-fart."

Fair enough, it works in this example but it doesn't matter to M, J and I. One can not re-fart. One can re-hem as there is still a hem to redo but you cannot collect the already farted fart and re-fart. S is reluctant but concedes.

By this point I've eaten three cookies, a piece of organic cake with a glass of milk, most of the bowl of popcorn and a beer that N who just came in has brought.

Eventually we conquer some the of the unused northern board and in the end I win the game even after coming in late. I gloat about this now as I have very little formal schooling and my friends are all graduates of impressive universities and all are educators themselves.

We eat and drink more, laugh and joke. We move on to another game in the living room but I won't go into it's details as I didn't win, so what's the point?

Saturday Morning

2006-09-23T08:54:00.000-04:00

Phone Call:
Ring tone, Cassie's Me & U,

It's J.

Me: In my best obnoxious British accent, 'cause J.'s English, "Hellooo Daaaaling!"

J: "Eggy Breky?" Translation, (Hey, want to go get breakfast with R and I?)

Me: "Yaaa"

J: "Bye"