the pecker quandary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.