her green dress tripped
from her shoulders
and fell, left
nothing
else
on
my mind,
as well.
oh,
clumsy me!
she smiling
lied, gracefully
in twirl to my
arms, inside -
to hide, I supposed.
She felt quite exposed.
She seemed shy as
skin,
and showy
as clothes to step
out in.
Or
step out of -
since she stepped
out of hers. I had
to admit! Her
green dress
fit,
intolerably
well. Apart from
a slip in the shoulders,
or two. You could hardly
tell.
My family and I
came down from London
beset with children, and
it was supposed
to be a trip, but
my gone luggage
and ID checks have been
told by the hotel. I am
standing here in a police
station
writing
this with tears
to tell you: can you help?
I don't need much
just help
My email account was
hijacked
on top of everything else
all my friends and contacts
in the industry, getting this
message please
help
I'm done with plants
that need more than rain,
and sunlit air, that have
to be hacked. I'm done
with pets that need to
be fed in teeming streams
from crevice and crack
okay technically, those
are ants, not pets.
But I'm done with them.
They will have to fend.
I can't take another thing
to take care of
but you.
I want
to take care
of you,
but
let's not
begin if it
has to end.
And let's take
a risk just in case,
my friend,
you'll do!
And I
may do
as well.
We could
hardly do
better, could
we?
Let's tell.
She gave me the haymaker,
the money punch right
in the breadbasket, oof
and I crumbled at the knees
like Ozymandias. "Safeword!"
I croaked. She only laughed. Oh,
yeah.
That was something else. For
this, I just had
to stay down
You said you should listen
to me more telling you
everything that I want
to want you to hear,
but dear,
I don't know how to
take that
from you.
Do you mean
I should
talk?
If so
unclear
I can't make myself
fall apart on command
Can't produce a whole
huge reaction for you;
can't intuit when you
really want me to,
and
you
never ask me to.
That's true.
But I feel I should,
and I feel the lack. I
want
to be so in sympathy that
the moment you're in,
I can't understand.
I'd respond
anyway
just a touch,
so strong.
In hand.
but I can't
but I wish
I can.
Your response unexpected
opens up worlds I never
meant. My word
hangs fire on tongue,
suspense between two
levels,
two lines,
held by your eyes.
No clue there.
You may
mean one.
Or playfully,
both! Or neither,
for fuck's sake did
I imagine it? And if
so - what!
So,
I'll choose,
I know I will. It's only
a split-second in by now,
before I leap, a flying
wild stab with a blindfold,
but
not
blind.
If I aim the right line
it will be effortless, carefree
and infallible like a thing
preordained. It I aim
the wrong line, all
the meaning in
the world this
moment could
shut not tight
but close. So
I have to play it out
of left field. Play by irony,
which I never do.
Ironic.
I have to read the possible
levels, calibrate, cross-relate
and run probability analysis
HAHAHA cancel cancel
I just thought of a comeback
that works regardless
- diagonally!
Elapsed lag 1.9 seconds
no new world record,
almost to the grin pause -
okay, shoot!
Good job/okay job?
Appears to have hit!
- oh shit, now that's
a comeback.
Wow
What did that
mean?
Here at the Heart In
Hell Recovery Clinic,
we put so much focus
on hope,
recovery,
hard commitment,
and not getting addicted.
Super clear, though: this
is not a clinic
for those to recover from
addiction. Ever.
Not certified,
don't know
about it - not our
business, but while
you're here
at the Heart
In Hell Recovery
Clinic, we do our best
not to get addicted, and
you shouldn't either.
Not
while you're here. We don't
truck with that.
All we deal
with here is general recovery.
For any who feel like they have
a heart in hell, or know what that's
like,
and need to recover
from
that.
It can be a trial
a true ordeal,
or worse.
Like nobody who doesn't
know what it's like
could possibly
imagine, that's
our business.
We're the best.
We focus so hard
on hope and recovery.
It's a hard commitment,
but bring your heart in hell
here and we'll help. While
you're here, please
don't get addicted.
To anything really. Not
even to recovery. That's
probably impossible, but
like I said - not our business.
The famous lieutenant
of homicide retired
the day the ten murders
came in.
It was planned well before.
The retirement, I mean.
The murders
obviously were. You
could tell by the degree
of planning.
They begged him to stay
he said
not my job
So he went home
to find they pinned
it on him! Framed and
railroaded, arrested,
tried and convicted,
it was in all the papers.
Famous lieutenant
of homicide sent
up the river, and
soon enough, his
old chief paid
him a visit
on death row.
"Now"
he said,
"Will you help us break
this case or what?"
The famous lieutenant
of homicide frowned.
"I'm going to need," he began
"...to begin with, three things."
The chief hid his grin. This
asshole! With his "three things"
every damn time. "There's
three things that bother me"
or "We have to look at this
three ways," or this now.
Nodding solemnly, the chief:
"You shall have them...
...lieutenant."
Dear,
reader.
Who the hell
do I think
you are?
Do I think
you're better than me,
somehow? Is one of us
some kind of fucking asshole,
is that what somebody thinks? FUCK
YOU I don't even know you! Fuck
your assumptions! You don't know
me! Why
would I
assume
any single
dang thing about
you? Who the hell
do you think I am?
I don't!
It never so much
as crossed
my mind
holy shit
get the hell out
of my poem, if that's
how you are, or
- if not?
Welcome.
No misunderstanding
at all, at that point. Thank
you so well for reading
this.
It was
cathartic for you
somehow, maybe?
I don't want to put
words in your mouth,
but. Yeah.
"cathartic"
fits.
Fits?
Arguably so!
Someone here
on this earth - in
this time - taught me
how to be staunch. A
real unruly ass - smooth
like suave, with a bold
ass ideal to solve. And
I've no idea who it was!
Somebody
fucking
taught
me
who,
though, then?
Whoever it was,
better watch it. I learned
your lessons to the hilt
and maybe next time
we meet? Make
yourself known,
and we'll see.
We might see who
is the teacher, now
at
that
point
thanks
Look, I won't
apologize
for the
fact,
or whatever the fact
may become. I know
I don't know yet.
I'm ready not to know,
and I hope you can
understand, because
understandably - I don't!
This is my top speed,
though, and I make no
apologies. It's best if you
get to know my limitations
without me trying
to impress
otherwise.
I know
I'm still
coming
to grips
with what's
almost going on,
with what you're about
to say - I leave that entirely
open, look. I'm just being
honest. I can't
even guess.
I don't prejudge
but I have this sure sense
I can't quite
in the moment get
my head
around what
hasn't happened yet.
But I know I will.
I hope you will still
be standing here right
now to see it! Please
Trust me.
I will.
It's
my fault
to be out of sorts,
at odds
with all
these things
I know are beyond
me, not you. No fault
of yours. I can't
blame you
if you blame me,
but I wish you could see
how hard it is
in this moment.
As you look at me,
saying nothing yet, having
said not anything at all, yet
- oh
wait
"Hi!"
I love you so much sometimes,
I cry. If it's pain, it's not bad,
since I do know why.
I don't want
to live all of my life with
you gone. For the parts
you have made in me
while you're here
are enough
to live on.
For grief is joy.
The purest tribute
joy ever had. It's so
much we miss, so much
good not here - that makes
us so glad to scoff at bad.
There's nothing to fear.
400 years ago,
anyone who even tried
to do what you just
did
would
probably
have died. Worse
than that:
they'd never even try.
They'd live their whole lives
and die not knowing
what you take for doot-di-doo
granted is even within the possible.
For them - it isn't. SO
I think maybe you need
to check your relative
historical period privilege,
ASS.
heavy mountains
I know you well.
I know you will
sit there unsold,
unspelled, unwell,
or well. Just as
you are.
I came
out here to put
the stars behind
your heads
I came out here
because it does.
I came out 'cause
you called me blue,
and so I was
because of you.
I came out here
to lift you up,
because such heaviness
is tough
sometimes
to bear.
I came out here
because
you're
there.
That's songcraft
competent to the point of overkill
with musicianship machined so angry
it's cheery! But not happy
and no bad feelings, just
very hard feelings.
I dig it
Struggling to
adapt to civilian
life, a decorated ex-
clown finds love, revenge
and a sense of peace in the arms
of a reformed coulrophobe, that's
an anti-clown bigot like a racist,
except the jokes are allowed to
be funny. Struggling to adapt
to civilian life, a decorated
ex-squirrel
no,
squirrel
finds love, revenge
and a sense of peace in
a suddenly discovered cache
of nuts! - Some dumb squirrel's
nut-stash! Jackpot! Actually it was
its own stash,
forgot
about it.
Struggling to adapt
to civilian life, a decorated
ex-interior decorator never was
anything but a civilian so,
come on,
buddy. What's the deal?
Can't hang? Struggling
to adapt
can
be hard.
Civilian life
is no exception
- an environmental
niche with its own
challenges and
survival
pressures.
So have some fucking pity,
huh? Can you imagine being
an interior decorator and
having to live outside?
On the streets? Not
that this one does.
Got a shitty little
apartment, so
damn nice
inside,
though.
You would not believe.
She was proud
but poor. She
made
do
with hard work, like
most of her friends, plus
one or two jerks. And they
all belonged
to a fitness club,
in the poor part of
town with a cheap sign-up.
Well,
it sure wasn't much.
They had one weight
bench in a huge ass room
with a bunch of mostly
empty ass racks, where
in better
days -
weights could have
been.
It wasn't
they were stolen
it's just that's all they had,
as a fact. The stationary bike
room,
- okay. Those
had been stolen. But
most came back! Returned,
because they wouldn't
go, oh. Okay.
She could go.
She could not even
stop, oh no smack. So
she strove, pushed, burned
like most of her friends. Making
do
with dream equipment,
calisthenics and
flow - plus instinct,
guts, legs, arms
and rear ends!
All together, watching
out for each other, all
friends plus a couple
of jerks, all members
of the
so broke
fitness club, yo.
- Now the flagship
of a nationwide chain!
So,
"What's up?"
There you go!
Just shows perseverance
and pluck, plus a cheap business
model can make you
sweat
fuck
why not go sign up?
No,
they don't have much,
but just a couple few bucks
gets you in, and
so what, they don't have much?
It's enough to begin.
Get a fierce looking face,
just imagine the weight
that you chin
(If you are not 18 or above, STOP)
(I mean...keep going, read off, nasty)
(If you are not a woman, for instance
if you're 18 and up but gendersexually
identify as "girl" still, GROW UP)
(Kidding! I honor it, but for all still
reading - for all my overage "girls"
out there: WARNING!)
Exposing your tits to strange "males"
(so rudely-called) risks inviting a
misinterpretation.
Now bear with me. Here's the perverse
part. All the guys not-gay (which is okay
- plenty of guys aren't, it's normal) (also) I'm
aware of who've voiced any say in the matter
are PRO-THAT!
WHY?
One can only surmise non-gay "males"
just enjoy misinterpretation opportunities.
They love it. Well, not all misinterpretation
opportunities (#NotAllMisint-you get the
idea, I'm not typing all that shit out) (line
breaks alone - problemo) where the hell
was I?
Oh yeah. Hence the warning, because while
I bet most (#NotAlmost) all women reading
this can somehow tell not-gay guys (in
general) are prone to missing the tits
interpretation (too obvious to miss that
miss, miss! Not when it's in yo face), it
still seems hugely weird that such guys
love such misinterpretation opportunities.
Counterintuitive,
ain't it?
So yeah.
Hence the warning. "Don't risk your tits
without" a fuller appreciation of how much
that kind of guys tends to love a chance at
misinterpreting them, which - honestly,
what's to misinterpret? Boom!
Tits.
Go literal, guys. Sometimes a cigar, you
know.
It probably doesn't mean a very special
moment has occurred, fanning out in spokes
and forking paths of causality to move worlds
and change lives! DUH. She is probably NOT
trying to hint you should oi, pop an engagement
ring on the next, nearest exposed nipple you see!
PUH-leaze, that's a tawdry, tacky spin to put on
it, plus some otherwise
unromantic
shit
right
there, "bud"
"Sorry!"
(OK done. Thanks for reading, ladies. Sorry
to you too, but
you know
bad truth
is best to know, and you know how some
so-called not-gay "males" get about any body
parts they notice they don't have. Big Deal City:
Next ~4 billion exits: WARNING)
Afterthought: butts. The weird thing is, these
are a huge point of interest for het men! But
...we all have butts. Both sides of the offensively
posed binary model (totally unrealistic proportions
there, yo) have a butt on one side. The backside,
it's called. Why the big interest, so-called "het
males"? Compensating for something? Or is it
just
you can't
find your own
with both hands!! HAHAHAAAHA
OK, that's a cheap shot, real sorry, but
it was a wonder
Or as this Brit I know once put it, "It's
a fair cop"
Well, that's all
her call, then! Honor
it
I think she might have
meant something else
There was something wrong with
the way
she glowed.
It had all earth colors plus
two only I know.
I touched those colors
in sequence with my eye
she said
HEY
I bet you think you're a hell of a guy?
I said I try not to be shy
So
she took off her clothes.
She had more underneath
Cute outfits! I said
She said I'm glad you think so
as with deft pull, tuck, slap
she put one on me.
And I turned
in the mirror were
two
exact.
You become me,
one said. But
I couldn't be sure. I said
you got the wrong guy!
Oh, sure
she said.
Mr. touches girls unearthly
colors in sequence with
your eye!
I had to admit
that could be misread
Your comment
snake-bit me
inside the heart! Got in
through the aorta
and why
you got so
mean is beyond
my ken
Anyone
can see I love
criticism! My great
heart is full of sincere
on it!
That doesn't
mean
I'm mean,
but
you can be
mean.
I mean, you can.
People can. It's free! But
I mean come on, step back
detach and examine:
everything you said
about what I said was
right, even
if everything
you said about
me was weird.
That works.
I think you were
just in a bad mood,
and
- It makes me kind of happy!
In a way, maybe I did help?
I bring out bad mood,
draw it like a venom.
It sucks
After all. I'm here
to help, honey. Me
all stung for no reason,
making "big deals"- SORRY
not interested! I can see
my way clear
here
me
snake-bit
in the heart
sad and wise
in the face,
but
smiling on the inside
with vertical slits in
my heart's new eyes
and a forked flickering
ribbon-wisp of sibilance
testing my needlepoint fangs
how valuable your comment
was
The sexworthy six fanned
out through the club, seeking
some ones to buoy them, raise
that shit up.
Between them
they had only twelve
dance moves, but they
locked in each place, and
they
grooved,
and they grooved.
At the end of the night,
straight back in HQ, they
recounted the tales: how
it all fell through - see,
this one was fake, or
stuck up. Narcissist. Or
that false accused, or
ignored
such bliss
as each sexworthy
one,
two,
three,
through
six described. Oh, a nibble
or two - but no fish. Line
broke, hook slid, boat
sank, net failed. And
the sexworthy six
call it all OK'd.
No they didn't
get laid, but they
were
not
played.
If that's
not why
we went out,
we'd have stayed.
Wait.
I can't stomach my
heart no more
It's always
in my throat,
trying to work
my tongue, 'cause
my gut has a hunch
that I can't ignore,
which my dumb ass can't
know
is wrong,
'til it's done
Lois Lane should not have to
lift a damn finger around the
house.
Clark should just do
all the chores, vwoosh,
eye -blink! DONE. "Fair
division of labor" can't apply
when somebody's got super
speed, so strong so easy! I'm
not saying
that if superheroes
were real they should be enslaved
as domestic servants.
That would be problematic -
that's how supervillains are made!
And no heroes to fight them! But
everybody's house is
so clean
Bad trade,
yet in a love relationship,
two people at home? Pitch in,
Clark!
Come on.
I mean, he probably does
already.
Seems like a decent guy,
and probably
- I don't know this -
a bit of neat freak?
But we never see him
do clean house. Or...
...maybe that's just realism?
We would never catch him
at that, realistically. Vwoosh
-too
-fast
-done!
Anyway.
If I had a
super-powered
maid, I'd be like - hey baby
let's fight crime
She'd be like - hey baby
that costs extra
'95 was in many ways
my favorite year. I drove
Into the sunset for a week
and found California, and
I lived at one of my best
creative peaks awhile, I
was an artist. I had a job,
the Cowboys lost to the
Frisco Niners but rebounded
all through the year on a rocket
shot to their next big ring (in
'96 - terrible year otherwise)
and hoo boy the ladies. Well,
one of them any way - just
my lucky number! My heart
can't count higher than one.
Also, to put it delicately, so
many people who later turned
out to be assholes hadn't even
been born yet, or if they had,
their influence
was as-yet limited
by poor to nil language
skills, and a fuzzy wuzzy
grasp of reality, which sadly
it still is. Big '95! A year
for the books. Not
my favorite year, no.
As it stands, that would
be Big '23 (a practical
tactical obstacle - you
can't fucking do anything
in those other years), but
in many ways, yes. It had
high points.
When the red wine bottles
are broken out (the glass
tends green, oddly - my
glass tends clear 'til the
blood ruby nectar runs
in) and I see that vintage
on the label like a punch
in the mouth from an old
friend, I say - "1995! Good
year." And
people think I know my wines.
OK, I do, but I prefer to get
to know theirs. Nosey!
It makes sense you'd
say that. It all fits,
somehow - mind you,
I know you well, now!
This latest jut prong
sprung out kabong
without warning or
seeming reason might
put others in mind
of wan, pasty white
-coated sprinters with
butterfly nets
after you
- but to me?
It all slides in
snick-click fit! Legit
coherent
in a sense,
considering
the source, as
one does, as
one must
with you,
true,
I never could've
predicted THAT!
Yet that very
unpredictability
forms a jazz pattern
long since proven
unexpectable.
No,
it makes sense
somehow.
Context! Is
key, as some
say - and in
you they find
proof incarnate! A living
human being whose no doing
nor saying makes sense
without
the context! Of what?
No: who. You,
specifically.
It only makes sense
when I look twice, OH.
YOU.
Yeah.
Well, I might have known!
Ha, I don't need
to go thumping
stone walls, feeling
up mortared joins
in the dark, longing
for the secret catch
that springs, cracking
open a concealed door
to a mystery passage when
I've got a key like that!
Who needs doors?
Or ways of understanding
furthering, leading on and in?
The more I've known you, the more
I've known there is no understanding
but experience, with you. Sometimes
it can't be explained,
it just makes sense.
And you do.
"Nothing could induce
me to do that," she coolly
cooed.
"Nothing could induce
me to do that," she purred,
coolly like a cat whose
sharpness of paw proves
a stroke upon fur goes all
wrong-way despite such
seeming-soft, inviting
fluff and gloss.
"Nothing could seduce me
to do that," she rasped
in a harsh, grating
falsetto baritone
that rang like
hollow iron,
her eyes
flashing deadly-dully,
her expression blank and
stiff as an unidentified corpse.
Yet...
something...
...bewitching in her body
language told him yeah, you
know what? Go with the literal
level, here. Meant just
AS-IS,
never-
you
-mind
It got so damn cold
I had to go wild
just to warm up
from the fire inside
like a longlost child,
reunited with you
at a tender age,
But all ages are.
So true, but - false!
This kid's not yours!
The false-accused parents
go wild with rage
as pure as bliss,
just like ignorance
is...
That's how it goes
in this tender age:
We go wild, wild
from the cold, I know!
I know!
We go wild, wild
from the cold, so cold
I know!
I know
It's so cold - so cold!
Out there in this world,
it's like nobody cares.
They don't even dress warm.
Gone cold, cold, cold to the core,
core, core!
Chattering shivering, frozen
and pure. Well, what would it
take? To warm us up? Some big
fond kind hot slobbery kiss?
That's what it is, when rage
pure as bliss has a tender
age trembling wild like this:
We go wild, wild
from the cold, I know!
I know!
We go wild, wild
from the cold, so cold
I know!
I know
Wild, I know
from the cold
so cold
guitar solo
so cold,
so cold
(solo out)
An unorthodox cop left stranded in a crime
scene time loop finds unexpected romance
with the to-die-and-come-back-for girl
of her dreams. Who is doing this? The answer
will surprise and disgust someone you know.
Two teen hijinkers get in over their heads
when they decide to hijink a very commercial
airliner in this unconventional, uplifting and
grimly twisted amorality lesson. Directed by
the swan in the pond you see in the opening
credits montage.
In a surprise multiversal twist ending, we find
out nobody and everybody was what we thought
they were - making us all want to sit back down
and watch again from the beginning to see if it
even fits as a grizzled, lone wolf school teacher
hits it off with a reverse pedophile - a schoolchild
who preys on unsuspecting grownups for sick thrills!
Only one teacher can possibly teach this kid the only
lesson any kid with a habit like that needs to learn:
knock it off. But will they?
In this spontaneously classic children's tale,
a bear, a rowboat and the Pope are out in the
desert. The rowboat says to the Pope, holy
father, you're privy to the cosmic mysteries
of the universe. What causes gravity? The
Pope says mass.
The ventriloquist said please
read my lips as she spoke
from her butt and the doll
just twitched lifting full
glass of water to her doll
-like mouth, cut wooden
and deep, drained the whole
thing south but it sopped
and streamed from her
innards all wet. The
ventriloquist
said
that's
all you get.
I kind of wish more things died
when they bit you. Or stung you,
but - it's kind of the suckers that
bug me more than the suicidal
honey-loving hive-minded self
-defense artists.
Not people, either. I don't wish
people would die when they bit
you. That would be weird. It
would be even weirder if they
knew that would happen. I'd
feel so bad, too! What did I do
to deserve your hatred or wrath
so hard that you're dying to
bite me!? PLEASE DON'T!
I get no ego goose from meaning
so bad much to people that they'd
do
that.
I'd feel I'd have to go to the funeral.
Awkward.
What if they ask me to do the eulogy!
I'd have to get up there, wreathed in
dark garlands, a fat votive candle
gripped in each big hand and say
"Hey, I didn't even know the guy!
He bit me!" Mournful pause. "I think
I can speak for a lot of us here today
when I say Gwendopher touched us
all in some way. Is that really his
fucking name? It's he, right? He
bit like a she, but we'd already
clarified pronouns, so, when I
look out at a crowd of mourners
like this" - meaningful look -
"I feel safe saying Gwendo touched
us all. But he only bit me!"
Then, all choked up as if to one-up
all these lesser-touched beloveds and
bereaveds of the dear or oh, dear departed,
like getting bit is what makes us special
to each other, I'd step down and in grave
and stentorian stride, march right out
of the whole, somber room. Out
to the grave,
and start digging.
I barely knew the guy,
but this looks not deep enough
to me. How cringe-wince worthy
would that
be
Imagine
What is wrong with people? Why do they
ask the guy who knew the dead guy latest
and least to speak? Hoping to hit the first
-impressions jackpot from a dewy-eyed
naïve wonderdolt who everybody says
sees too much good in people? Sorry!
My first impression was pretty much teeth.
Don't want to hear my bold, unsauced,
unvarnished take on people? Ask
someone else to do the eulogies!
Or if you ask me and hate how
I get a bad job done right, well
and to-the-point?
Bite me.
I've always been organized -
highly, arbitrarily. For instance:
"A place for everything, and
everything in its place." Yes.
This calls to me, and I factor
in time. The moment. Case-
by-case, and catch-as-catch
can! I find what's in-hand
and make placement with
purpose: to create the most
aesthetically-pleasing mix
and area,
given only existing objects
(without changing their positions!)
and spatial relations.
That's
wherever
it goes.
It varies wildly in time,
in successive placements
and subtractions, in mindful
thoughtlessness - an effect that's
almost subtly,
almost ineffably
organized - efficiently!
Yet effortless. A sort of mobile
sculptural abstraction ethos
is seen overall, developing
in forced, pointed ways
through time - if only
we could take it all in.
Yet in any individual
snapshot of frozen
moment, still life
with everything,
depicted in surreal,
unchosen strokes - "automatic
organizing" - what we see
is not there.
Like a Buddhist,
we find attachment
to what we can't find
is the source of a suffering,
and reject it. Bravely, as
we might be! Reject it
not as dissatisfactory,
though it sure is, nor
as undesired, but simply
as not there.
Along with self, even being
itself! Life, the universe and
everything else - we find in
sublime acceptance a peace
that becalms our inner armada
of tub-boats, and gets them all
abob and adrift in one current.
We find in a continual seeking,
rummaging glance askance
that looks all,
sees not,
and says
perfect.
Perhaps that
was uh more
than you wanted
to ask, but
there's really no simpler
answer truly, to how my
kitchen
is
like this.
It simply
is
and so
becomes
so. It's not hard!
It just takes a certain
je ne sais panache. It takes
a step-back detach - get
personal bias out of frame!
It takes a wide-open third eye,
looking down expertly
upon the idea,
ideal,
and illusion
of organization,
finding a maximized
efficiency in dismissal.
Then
- and I want to be real
clear: only then -
can we somehow become one
with everything
in my kitchen.
You have to look.
Did you try
within you?
OK, okay -
maybe later
I got a hole in my head.
In fact, I've got seven!
My heart's got holes
I can't count, but it's
spreading only one
of those holes I think
goes to heaven. The
rest pump ichor and
gore that I leaven with
oxygen! Plus whatever
I eat! Stomach and lungs
make the soup complete
with all essential vitamins
and minerals you could
need,
so dig in
you little cutup.
I've been dying to bleed.
I think instead of asshole,
if it could casually catch
on, perhaps we could call
each other "buttstar"
in those moments. "WATCH
IT, BUTTSTAR!" It
has a certain crisp,
astringent
punch
to it
I think
And the asterisk
that twinkles nestled
between the rounded, cloven
globe of moonlight we all
gape at in stunned wonder
sometimes,
really is
muchlike a star
*
so,
you know, I think people
will catch on
I see
I still
have many days
- if nothing happens
untoward. I count
them in by twos,
by eye, in give
and give 'til take's
aboard. Who's counting,
anyway? Just one,
not I,
or
maybe no one
is.
Some spooky
thought, but that's
the biz. Already
bought and sold
in mind. Left lying
everywhere
to find, in everything
that ever was, or
never is.
I want you to lose
your hands in my hair
and find them again
on my breasts,
beware
no record of this
transaction occurs,
so in any confusion
of his or hers, you
and I'll have to work
it out and through. It's
a trust fall, and a respect
catch, boo. And it's spooky,
too. As boos can be. If that
works for you, I'll be fine
by thee.
I had a dream
I had a flying balcony
that could attach to the side
of any building
with sufficient flat
surface area, and open
french doors to the interior
(which worked regardless
of wall thickness - the doors
opened outward).
It was of taupe stone with a concrete
floor and a wrought iron grill and railing,
kind of straight and featureless
like a big block motel.
The thing is, in the dream
I didn't fly the thing. I was just
hanging out with some people and
I'd brought my balcony along. Everybody
knew about the balcony. No one was like "Can
you take me for a ride on the balcony?"
It would've been weird if they
had been! We were all so
totally ho-hum about
the flying
balcony.
I imagine it's
relief and dread in one
more or less exhilarating line.
Running up a tightrope strung
from sea level to some imagined
starry peak! Peeked at and glimpsed
by looming blue distance lifelong, taken
half-seriously. Now, gaining elevation
in sure-footed sprint as the ground
gathers dizziness beneath you - well,
further on it might. You're not quite
treetops just yet! Just got started, but
you've been running so many miles
your feet have grown wings. You're
sure to find how far and high
this goes. No longer
imagining
things.
Her eyes skinned me
in one up
and down
swoop, and
she stuck a grin in the
corner of her mouth
with her tongue.
I wasn't sure,
but she sure was,
and that made me feel
pretty nice. What I didn't
know
was that she was
a space alien, a paranormal
underwater thing, a vampire,
a supernatural monster - an
angel. The reason I did not
know this - among other
reasons, such as in my
experience, I don't tend
to pick up on stuff like
that - was that she
was none of those
things. What the who
was she?
I thought
I might be
about to find
out.
But
you never
really know
'til you know, do
you
Why do we get so proud?
When our kids grow so
big, so fast. Grow up, learn
to walk, talk, think, grow
bigger than us, outgrow
us.
We watch them coming
all the way bigger, stronger.
Harder, faster, more - why
do we get so proud
when they start
smacking us around, throwing
us into walls, revenge for snacks
withheld and groundings. Elder
abuse, already! It's nothing to be
proud of, but we grin and laugh -
since
we see something they don't. Their
own kids
are coming up
right behind
them.
She looked at me funny
once. Do you act black?
she asked.
I looked at her funny
twice. Act black? That
sounds a little racist, I
thought. I didn't accuse
it, though - why would I?
I'd never caught her out
racist.
Do you know me?
I asked. Yes! she laughed.
Well, you tell me! Do I
act black? Was I just acting
black?
No,
she shook her head. Eyes on
further word search mode.
I just thought,
she said,
Maybe you act
black sometimes -
when I'm not around?
Yeah I don't know, I mused.
Maybe I do and I just don't
know? But I don't think
so. I thought. Hard. Then
again - I wouldn't though,
would I?
How about - check me on it
if you see any, I summed up. Hey
wait.
Keen look. Why'd you ask?
Keen look back. Keen looks
all around! I dunno, she said.
Hey, I said - was it racist? Is that
it? Wanted to make sure I wasn't
betraying the master race on the
sly?
That's
racist, she
scowled.
I knew it!
I crowed! I didn't really
know it, but you know - sudden
hunch retroactive? I knew it.
No! She glared. I was just, you
know. Making sure you weren't.
Racist.
We glowered warily in keen
intersecting glance. Disgusted. "Typical
white fragility," we said
simultaneously. Then
we had a staring contest, but
we both blinked.
You are mobile sculpture,
but you hang together way better
than those wire and cutout shape
arrangements they used to call that.
You are marrow-deep armature
of truth, you are blood hot love
and sleek warm rose milk creamy
skin in blush of youth, in beauty's
wise experience - such shape and
swell and form within! Without
no clothes.
Or with
no clothes, which
is a nice touch either
way. And you move,
and you move me oh,
so much.
If statues could be
so beautiful as this, so
moving as this, we'd have
to take them down from
their pedestals, and
put clothes on them.
One time I walked into a building
mid-construction, and found stacks
of two-inch-tall-by-four-inch-wide
boards.
They were really long, and I was a child
at the time so I hit one of them with my
clenched fist about as solid and hard as
I was able, because I wasn't walking, but
running. I was chasing someone, or being
chased, but man - that wham right on the
stacked and packed ends of those boards!
It really put paid to whatever I was doing
just then, and my whole hand was so tight
and clenched, hot and throbbing that I couldn't
unmake a fist.
I had to just keep it like that for the time being.
I showed the kid I'd been playing with. They
touched it gingerly. Looked at me like "it's
your hand." I was like I KNOW! Hurts like a
damn bandit caught red-handed in an ill-advised
burglary of the pain store! Got what I came for,
but damn if I know WHY.
It hurt for days.
My fingers were not into unbending, or bending
again once unbent. I remember being in school
with this weird hand, thinking about the unbuilt
building (par-built, really) and how fun it all could
have been in there, if I didn't swing my arms with
such unfeigned enthusiasm, or had perhaps developed
more situational body awareness vis-a-vis surrounding
objects, or even - who knows?
Improved hand-eye coordination? Could have helped?
It couldn't have hurt. Not any worse, anyway. What if
somebody had yelled "Think fast!" as I ran in, and a ball
was flashing towards my head? And both hands flew up
just in time - perfect catch! As I flew by the stacked boards,
not even realizing my close call. And - who threw the ball?
There was no one there. It was my guardian angel, maybe.
But then I left the building and went home, and there was no
one, anywhere.
The earth
had been deserted, or everyone
snatched up - eaten by angels? I was
the only one left - or maybe in that moment, everyone
had been shunted aside, plunged into their own personal
parallel planet of endless solitude, doomed
to wander alone and eke out
an aching, sad lonely
existence 'til
death?
All told,
I'll take it how it actually happened.
It doesn't make much of
a story,
but it's
a painful piece
of a pretty good life. Still.
I keep thinking about that ball,
and would I have caught it? How
different everything would be
I think women
wear clothes sometimes
because
clothes look great.
But
clothes
are a narcissist,
so they're angry
and vain as hell
about how good
nudity looks. And
how people treasure
and enspecial precious
nudity, fetishizing it,
sexualizing it - wanting
to keep it all for exceptional
types. Real special occasion
stuff. Strut it buff!
Strip it off! A stunner of a reveal!
Wow to the whoa to the awe,
yeah. Clothes can't stand being
shown
up like that.
Clothes can't stand the
comparison. They're like
"Look, I look great - way better than
nothing!"
(Clothes want to flatter you, lie
to you) "And
if you don't
agree to wear
us,"
(clothes),
"We're going to be very
unflattering on you."
Make you look
bad. Or if you
keep it up - pull
the dreaded discard!
Leave you stark ass
naked when you least
expect!
HA!
Humiliated
and shown up for the
showoff you are - so much
for "modesty" you streaking
egomaniac! Now who's the
"narcissist?"
Clothes.
Women
have had to deal
with and balance
this toxic relationship
with clothes
their entire
lives,
yet
most
pull it off beautifully,
now and then.
I thought I'd get back
into working out, because
I like the energy, the feeling
of power or at least
strength
comparative strength,
but I forgot about how
enthusiastic I get
throwing myself back
into something. And
the next day, experiencing
muscle pains outside my
body, like several feet to
the left,
for example (it's not predictable),
and how if I keep at it, and I
manage to rotate the dislocated,
disembodied muscle pain to
in front of me, after a week
or two,
it starts to
manifest unwanted
telekinesis symptoms.
Not good. Not useful,
like holding your hand
out and a pen flies to your
easy grasp, no. More like
a vengeful but really weak
poltergeist. Undoing simple
things you just did, or
knocking a piece of paper
off the deck. Like that. And
every time it happens, I'm like
"How did I forget about this?
No more.
No more working out,
it's not worth
it
"
The girl gets down on the internet.
She clicks
links
shares
reads
all of it.
Or some of it anyway -
some of it sucks.
She's keen to assess
and equipped to judge.
She comments, reacts,
likes, follows and shit.
She's easy as hell,
carefree legit.
She pulls out a device
and tip tap! She's on.
She flips up the lid on
her lap, and charge strong.
She's pretty much
commanding the flow
world wide in a wild web
swathe cut by her surf's wake
through an endless tide of
some real bull shit.
Some times, but
some good stuff,
too. Her size
A lot of people are Chinese.
It's normal. I am sick sometimes
of the demonizing you get, people!
Talking about China sometimes like
you don't scarf down Chinese food
every damn chance, and have two
to three pet dishes - your go-to's
in any unfamiliar rice and bits
shop. Acknowledge - albeit,
okay unconsciously - as
landmark culinary bulwarks
on the scheme of the global
tongue and stomach. Yet talkin'
'bout China this, China that,
oh the China problem. Yeah
well
didja ever stop to consider
maybe people who make
people problems are the
real problem? How 'bout
we demonize that and them
instead? See what that solves
There are few
notable film performances
in film history. True, there
was that one guy or gal (you
decide) in that one where
all that shit happened, with
the themes. But mostly we
get actors haplessly botching
bad lines, unraveling in front
of increasingly CGI backgrounds.
Literature is no different. No matter
how I cast those movies mentally,
performances are wooden, and strike
symphonies of false notes from subpar
materials. Art has had nothing of note
since modernism, which itself was a
fever dream fiesta of so called master
pieces looking at least half like crap
all the time. Prior to modernism: a
lot of artificially lit sunsets and
boring studies. Nature pictures
and posed myth - clearly an
excuse to pander to the public's
thirst for snob-approved nudity.
I wonder what those snobs would
think of today's porn! I find it
listless. Uninspired, penetrated
and shot through with unreal
touches, concocted and derived.
Only now and then do we see
a real, winning performance
that moves us.
No, I don't prefer redheads.
Although I have had a thing
for redheads, but I don't
prefer them. This one redhead,
ooooooo mam. She was...oh,
she was soft. Tall and soft,
and soooo pale, with a mess
of freckles. Her voice was
soft, and I bet her body was
soft too, but you know.
She just looked so soft.
In fact she just kind of poured
everywhere, like water. She
poured through your eyes,
looking at her. She'd say
"hi!" and you'd be like
"Oh, HI!" and she'd be
pouring into you for a while.
Later she'd pour out, you'd kind
of say goodbyes, all cheery -
she'd pour off. Pour away
all soft.
Pour girl. Do you know
what happened to her? Me
either.
The more I think about it,
I get suspicious. It could be
she was some kind
of space alien
or monster
or some thing. People
are never that soft. We don't
pour everywhere. She
was no typical redhead - if you
know what I mean! Is there, really,
a "typical redhead"?
She wasn't.
She did
have a bright
red head, though.
Definitely a redhead.
Couldn't miss it.
A thing for a redhead, yes. For
a while, there.
I wouldn't call it
a preference, though.
Not quite the right word.
Call it a thing. Perfect.
Can't decide between
two things? Wait - see
if you can find a flat,
round,
object with a human head
depicted on one side, and
a bird
on the other.
In the USA
we have tons
of these, called
"quarters" because
it was once thought
the "tails" side was George
Washington's BUTT - i.e.
hindquarters.
When it was realized it
was his head, it was shortened
to "quarters." At that point,
we stopped calling it
the "heads" side,
making the bird-side
"tails"
Naturally. (Which makes no real sense, stick with
me though.)
Anyway
we use these things
to make any decision involving
people vs. birds. It's a toss-up! If
it lands with a person showing,
go people. "Heads" it is. If you see
BIRD
- go birds.
The system's perfect
almost. Like letting the universe
steer
for you
with its bum
The advice you get
is the only advice you
should take. Don't get
in a pigfight. The pig wins.
Don't bet on a bad bet. Bet
on a good one instead! Don't
count your money - SIDDOWN!
Know when it's right or wrong to
do or don't.
Then you'll know how, 'cause you'll
know what. Or why.
Then you'll be the one giving advice.
They'll just have to take it or leave it.
Which, they'll probably be able
to tell.
The thousand forces settle in
to make you fit. If so, they win!
- if you misfit, they win as well!
'Til you fit out.
That must be hell,
or else they're false.
Redouble it. The nail stuck out
shall be pound flat.
Unless it sticks.
Then celebrate
this object we
could not
make pat.
The boom
boom
boom
grew louder felt closer
so fast before they'd noticed
or placed it, they saw
- from various angles
all around the room -
a shadow of frozen
light walked forth
in unhurried pace
at alarming rate
towards them, from
the blank institutional
yellow-painted concrete
wall - from
seemingly
a thousand,
ninehundred,
sixhundred,
threehundred
yards it closed
within wall distance
- they stood transfixed
as a horrible human voice
with a reverb effect from the
1960s boomed out "It would be
a mistake to use those
weapons!"
and
walking right through the wall,
without stopping it stood. It/he
(exaggerated male voice) looked
like a bad special effect scratched
directly into the film by a needle,
only turned up to soft blinding. "Who
the
what
are you?"
gasped the hard, pretty
evil boss, speaking without
a sneer for the first time in years.
"I am a bad special effect."
"I am the light by darkness blest!"
"I am the bad that does its best
by doing it wrong in every mess."
"I am Just Awfulperson!" it boomed.
"You look upon that which should not be!"
Its voice altered color each utterance.
Panic attack - synesthesia comes free.
"I am dread and wonder together in one!"
"And that means awe!" "And I'm full of it!"
"It would be a mistake
to hurt innocents!"
- here it jerked its head at two,
bound and gagged - "And
I'm giving these fools the
benefit!"
They seemed gleeful, yet
not quite calm at this.
The innocents, I mean
- that's if they were.
The ten armed thugs
stood stock, shocked
still. Well,
they would,
wouldn't you?
This thing had
skill.
It continued to be.
It continued to boom
in its deep, shrill voice
without evidence. It
wasn't showing up
on the cameras at
all. It was used
to that, by now.
Made sense.
"I'm Just Awfulperson!"
"And I am Just!"
"For I treat the bad
worse than they deserve!"
"That's not just!" yelped
the boss. "You're a hypocrite!"
"It's Just Awful, then." It grinned
absurd - just awful to see. "Shall
I keep my word?"
Everyone looked confused at that.
"My whole presence here is a lie!"
It twisted the knife. "It would be a
mistake in fact
to know I exist,
or believe
I don't!"
"What if
I use
reverse-psychology?"
"What if
I really
want
you to use
your weapons?"
The floor made a noise of dropped guns.
The goons seemed confused. Did they
want to do that?
The innocents
seemed less innocent, then
as the thing in the room turned grey
and black
Investigators later were mystified.
An assortment of guns, two chairs
untied, and thirteen shadows of
frozen light looked back
from a yellow
institutional wall
of fact,
surprised
People who caper
in traipsing prance
as they pass me by
like I had a chance
as I watch them go
in their jaunty way
while I stand fast
statue-still all day -
I would like to know
where the hell they get
off. Scott-free on their wide
and wending ways, wherever
they wish. As above it all,
I
look
down
in fixed stare
from my pedestal.
digital, manual, liminal,
stimulus, once to response
and next too continuous.
Test, pass and fail, and
succeed in predictive
result - or just make
it the premise's fault
With thanks to Melissa
THAT is exactly like a poem
I'd write. Only subtle wit where
I barge dim, bold - and more cultured,
in a natural way. More urbane where
I'm clueless, wandering cosmopolitan.
Different ways, styles, no doubt ends
but kindred sensed in lack of means
to fix what's perfectly described,
however hard or easily we lie.
Why lie at all? When you're
down, entirely alone, plus
prone, everyone knows
you're lying. Might
as well own.
