Saturday, July 14, 2012

mobius strips and mobility dicks

margaritas last night! duva the diva and i were toasting and squealing and i was all, hey, how did we not actually hang out at gally, goddamn!? he's got himself a real piece, a doubloon if you ask me, and i plundered that pirate's treasure and am hanging on to it if he ever texts back.

i've been called areola so many times i've just resorted to introducing myself as beth, and that's not really any fun.

maybe i'll get lucky and this hunka hunka gorgeous looooove and i will have more than one smashing date, but i did tell him i bet he's a whole drawerful of vintage tees for morning-afters, so maybe it'll just be one long swoon.

it's fun, really a ton of tingles, and i've got a teeny bebe curled up next to me after being scolded for eating a sock and the wifi password, a phantom who can't even hear the opera but has his mask with his back to me because i'm not sufficiently loving, a whole mess of cats milling about and a real hankering for zeus.

he took another $500, and he hasn't said a word to me in weeks. how he can just take money and leave me i'm all flummoxed over; he never asked for money and i thought he'd reject the peace offering or take it along with me.

in other news: Legend of the Mountain Man is terrible and lasted a lot longer than it oughta. WHAT THE HELL KIND OF JOKE IS "yes, i disappeared because you ate too much garlic!"? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF JOKE IS THAT!? it's sure not a Deaf joke, and it sure ain't in the Annals of Funny. mark wood, my dear, at least i laugh at jade! at least raymond luczak is a joke! and, seriously, what is it with giving your actors the wrong signs to use? PSE is a sad, sad pidgin that puffs up on rice but never manages to explode. and what's with giving the baby berdy a jailhouse ducktail? AND WHY DID I KEEP WAKING UP AND THINKING: "WHAT THE FUCK, THE JOKE'S LONG OVER AND THE MOVIE'S STILL GOING!?" i swear, i fell asleep after the breakfast scene and kept waking up to marvel at how long you could keep beating a dead horse...or, in this case, a seriously hippie chewbacca!

Monday, July 9, 2012

NAD has a tendency to yank my chain.

so here's the latest trouble, and here's my latest complaint. sent directly to NAD. i'm gonna publish the e-mail i get from whomever--we'll see just how much they care about THIS situation, because they sure as hell didn't want to help me get GEICO to realize that they have to provide interpreters at each doctor's appointment, so i lost all GEICO funding for accident-related doctor's visits. the doctor i saw kept screaming at me and saying i was stupid after he fondled my leg...because i hadn't lipread him well enough to understand that he'd DEMANDED that i go to mount sinai and get my foot checked out, then he wrenched my ankle so badly i limped for a few days just because he felt like i was too stupid to respect or ask, "how much does it hurt?"

hopefully NAD isn't going to ignore this one or tell me they can't put me in touch with a lawyer; it's FUCKING frightening to be calling 911--i think i actually called upwards of seven times and was hung up on a shitload, but four was a conservative estimate i knew to be true--and being hung up on over and over and over again. i thought 911 had "stay-on-the-line-and-we-can-track-you-down" technology.

I called 911 when my roommate threatened to kill me on May 15th, 2012. I called at least 4 times and probably 7 times. I was hung up on each time I called. My brother called the NYPD to help me because my 911 calls were all failing, and the police declined to come. He called a second time about an hour, maybe an hour and a half, later. The police came one hour later and refused to come inside the apartment, then when they finally did, they refused to come to my bedroom door to let me know they were there to protect me. My brother had to call back to find out if they really were in my apartment. The two officers then refused to report my roommate for sexual assault (she had tried to rape me with a man; she's a lesbian). They kept laughing at and mocking me and had not brought an interpreter to my apartment EVEN THOUGH THEY KNEW I WAS DEAF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The DA's office has a Daisy Martinez, who has never agreed to help me report the NYPD for their misconduct because I had to flee the city, being homeless and terrified. I need to make it so that 911 never hangs up on someone whose roommate has a knife and is threatening to kill her after a failed rape attempt. I need to report my roommate to the NYPD. I need to sue the NYPD for not having an interpreter and not allowing me to file a sexual assault report. They almost LEFT ME IN MY APARTMENT WITH MY MURDEROUS ROOMMATE and I had to hold onto an officer's arm to get her to relent. How do I get help? I'm moving to SF. I only have a cell number to give you right now.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

to resin, for forgiveness. love, fay wray

maybe you'll never regret who you are right now
but you make me sing
there is never a moment more beautiful
than the one that's really me--
just like you are you and you beatific
and yours alone
mine are quite wide and blunderful
and QUITE MY *quiet* OWN.
you lie and kick and scream but shout
that i can't do the same--
the only man that does this, you know--no doubt
without redoubt and roundabout again!

you believe i'm lying
that i don't mean to live in san francisco
but what are you smokin'?
what are you tokin'?
you mean you really don't know?--
that all i do is love you, and give you right
and time and dole again...
and you're mainlining, steaming
steaming down the hurricane
(which, by the way, never leads to oz! that's a tornado!)
and this, by god, by GOD
is everything you need to know. [what poetry does!]

oh, and oh, oh, oh...the pain in my heart never, ever
leaves due to the woe
that i met the perfect father...true, and idiotic to prove, toe by line...
but he saw me and lit up, he knew i was true--
his eyes lined with naught but respect, though it was you--you, every time you
yelling, screaming that i shouldn't say this "dirty" thing or that
slapped my hands, hissing that he thought me a right dunce
that my shirt and smile might be propriety
measured and sifted twice--
and he'd never hand down my pants or up my twice.

yes, i mourn a father i met twice. he was so sweet and kind
i could have and do love him forever. this is not wild
but free.
this is the heart of infancy and the heart
of the twenty-six two-hundred-fat me
reaching to love. and that is never crazy: it is the heart
of infancy and twenty-six father-raped me:
it is the heart of immediate trust. of that you've lived.

think you not, think you that you live of venomade
from sugary lips? i love those very lips but male, yours...
hers, and i know full well whose drip into my veins weighs phenomenal.
each thing you've raped from me you've done once.

just to taste

and there is just: here is the hate.
she told me, drenched with water until it dried me in clumps--
attacked and the day i lost you:
i thought too hard about the difference, the reference
points of your arms and kisses and the deep, the deep wet orgasm
that swirls anemone and prickles stars
of the penises so dark and swirl that dank, black, they swirled
and, staring at young faces so intent on abuse--
i screamed
i lost
everything--when i came to i was dry and three blocks away.

your mother caressed me. she glowed, she squealed, she hovered--
you had been right: she really is psychotic--
but the smile, the eyes hypnotic, so i see, i see you, i see me and you in you and me--
she glowered when i stammered, your sister threatening:
"if you don't leave i'll call him and tell him never to see you again."

running, running, running.
since that day.

now i see...the latino way.
let me, now, the red...the bottle, the silk, the satin i wear
wear away, if we may
el toro! your family safeguarding, blocking the way.

and now you have that cherub
if i may.

POEM-TREE! SRS! ORLY! (only one face ORLY)


but that is long gone, and this: the story, yes: there was a young black boy

two years removed from mosi

thick and bespectacled, and breathing with his tongue between his fat lips
and drooling as fat as he packed on that continuous seat
now, see
maybe they tore it from his fingers
into the corner garbage can
thunked him upside the noggin sumpin' maggots
but now see
crisped bonfire or smooth sailin' across to the bum on the other side of the D
but something...
something will stir;
sir got, sir, he got LYRIC POETRY
so thumping a Bible his veins will leap
and maybe, i hope maybe against their snarls
(that i ignored, being White and forgetting
my own childhood) they will kiss him good night
pretending the book is just a thing, a thing
they cannot fear, that cannot keep him down in their broken mattresses
and smile, and beam benovelence on his ten-year-old head:
this pink-and-purple-striped book of obsolete obsolescence colonic
with white columns declaring THIS IS THE SEVENTIES

Tonight at Noon

A Poem by Adrian Henri


Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise 3p extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees

Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing fields
A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein

Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad daylight
In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the living
You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon
courtesy Rae Johnson

care of Lyric Poetry in the hands of a bored kid on

the train waiting to get to the beach.

love it like i did. it's a real peach,

and the rarest drunk of them all

is rather tipsy these last two weeks. very, very tip to the top of my turvy nose.

and the rash and one tick, removed:

but life is all a song, life isn't this:

it's living.

and so life a song among thronging thongs:

nemesis, name:

greek, goddess:

righteous vengeance.

rob voreck, stettle aside!

i ain't no quarrel with you

(unless you take their side against


i dare

say your daughter!)

thonk, the moon:

i have a shitton to thank marci for

marcia johns is actually awesome.

hah, no man if not for that woman.

not even learry parce.

pearcy larce.

peaky lice.

key lime pie-hatin'

larry pearce.

(really, nemesis is dottie reincarnated.)

w00tie f00ties we are iDentiTy h00dies

so, beth is done for.

nemesis resumes.

reincarnation, BABIES!

don't you panic.

by the light of the night it'll seem all right.

i'll get you one part anonimity!

nemesis is w0nderful to bEincarnate.

some of my last IMs as beth

i love you
david...ill be 100% honest with you...youre abusive
very, very abusive
NO ONE likes you
but me
5 mins ago
i choose to stay
and face the harshest words, and to cower when i need to stand strong
because i could lose you either way...but i keep thinking i can calm you down by groveling and freaking out and begging
4 mins ago
which is so drunk i dont care what i friend forgave me for telling him id kill myself this weekend
over you
so i can clean up my mess instead ofhaving to try
I AM SO IN LOVE WITH YOU and terribly drunk
i love you love you love you
2 mins ago
and all the abuse you hurl at me...i will try to deal with honestly
and im sorry i took a wrong turn...
im disgusted with myself because you dont have to be treated the way you treat me
and nobody has the right to tell me im wrong to stay
1 min ago
you never beat dont rape me anymore...
it was just the one skullfuck and the one anal rape...and i never EVER EVER EVER yelled at you for all your lies or STUPID infection-causing behaviors during sex
in may
so YES i deserve to be respected
just now
because i respect that you are NEVER going to be me

fractal factions, facetious fissions, fractured frailty

i really do have a lot to say about things that matter.

i'm just so hammered into a shell, like the plaster and tape that explode off each cannonball jim molds and inserts into the starchy casings.

i messed up.

i let myself down, and zeus, whom i love more than i love a life without raymond carver's sculpture, the zeus-and-hera dynamic.

good love.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

spelunking: takes of a plateau flunker

elena's got balls, and by that i don't mean hairy musky balls, i mean a fearless attitude. clearly she can get away with more than i can--she wields more influence over more Deaf people than i do, enough to get the respect she demands--but risks at least as much as i do by speaking up and speaking out. 

i wonder--if she doesn't have a verdict that proves that she's not just making allegations--has she been threatened with legal action? name is everything.


and i think zeus has left for real this time--but i know...and maybe i'll say, someday, but at the moment it's just fudging.

as elena's pointed out, i've dealt in self-destructive sexual compromises. i've allowed and sometimes felt i deserved abusive relationships to unfold, and not just romantic ones. i've detailed recovery with its roach-infested shirts that are actually large shards of dried blood i've munched appreciatively mornings after four or even seven dozen slashes have graced each arm.

i'm keeping this hand at my vest. small realizations have led to this, realizations like:

larry pearce with his forkfuls of spiced ramen and shining eyes, his admiration of my breasts, his thunderings that i should major in biology and then figure out the rest later, his pleas to take a bite of mango from his thumb and knife, his demands that i get my life started despite being raped and mocked...his insistence, time and again, that i wasn't incapable of normal or intellectual conversation--

--and he hates me. fucking hates me. some stupid fucking rumors thanks to louise about me spreading rumors that we'd fucked reaching him late, freezing him key lime--

--and cathy could pale at these revelations and read into them much more than there ever was, and think his impropriety should cost them some aspect of their marriage--

--and regardless of any immature or adult decision either of them makes upon, say, hearing about this post--

--it's those small favors, those obvious favors from men who saw and understood that i was worth a whole lot more than my plain face and tiny astigmatic lensed eyes--

--that grounded me in myself, those men who shoveled coals into my deep, secret yearning, its shy blue flames too thin and cool to fan themselves uproar--

ious, glorious--

--and gave rise to the resilient woman within. and he was the first.

to deny it is to kill myself.

(and gloria, gloria, gloria.)

p.s.: elena, take the deaf-world (shitstorm) by storm.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

hand-cranked ravioli of mascarpone-honeyed dreams

what if zeus reads this and thinks, "eh, she's way too blabby," or "oh, god, i don't even understand a third of what she says, her words are so goddamn gargantuan, and that's not even my word, i hain't understand that"?

a big problem has been my insistence on dumbing myself down in writing. a few times when we were out he'd shrug his hand out of mine and rail at me for thinking i'm so smart, for thinking i can catch him with his dumb on, for thinking he's awesome when clearly he's just a mexican, for trying to make him into some kind of reading, thinking upper-middle-class guy earning $60K or more a year in collared shirts. it stung, every last upbraid. he was my best friend, and i never choose a best friend who's even kind of an idiot.

maybe i looked at him funny, and i tried not to; i could feel my face pulling taut and would force it smooth, but i've heard all my life that my eyes are cold know-it-all algae smothering the life out of everything. so maybe i did that, or maybe he imagined it, or maybe my entire face went tee-hee, wow, that's really not what i expected of someone our age!

it's particularly bad right now. i'm scathingly indulgent when it comes to breaking my bones so i never show him who i really am, or he'll leave. if i use a word he deems much too undecipherable, what will he do? start a series of domino runs and watch them tumble Niagara in delirium?

are my dainty chains of vermeil words enough to break my fall? i've been my own demise ever since he gathered my hands in his and said, "i would be honored to be in your autobiography, real name and all"--

--i've always worried that once it's ready he'll tell me it'll ruin his life, that that promise is broken...

...but if i break what we have worrying, what's there gonna be to write?

love, abuse and raymond carver

so. i'm sticking with zeus. i've told a handful of people about what he's done, and i've been careful not to mention the shoving and smacking to most. and i've been told icily, "it doesn't have to be physical, emotional abuse is enough! you're not with him anymore, are you?"

but here's what's funny: almost everyone i know is in an abusive relationship, chronically abusive, or has just left one and doesn't even acknowledge the abuse. most of these people choose to remain in harmful relationships with friends, seeking approval from men and women who constantly berate, belittle and besmirch them. some aren't even blind to what's going on, merely stepping into a blind spot when they choose time and again to try again. i'm shocked at how many people have been beaten, nearly killed, raped--i mean, hell, a woman who constantly derides other women, even her own domestic violence clients, for not leaving their husbands or partners...has birthed three children after ripping up a $500 dissolution contract because $500 was too much to pay to leave a husband who had raped her in her sleep. if that's not messed up, neither is watching a man in his fifties plead for me to return to a friendship with his ex, who sent him to the hospital all busted up with a dislocated shoulder, and become cranky when i say that it'll never fucking happen.

and i've left all the abusive relationships i've been in far, far behind, every last one, except this one (disclaimer: i don't find it particularly abusive, and the elements i found truly disturbing are two years behind us). and i'm not blind to the fact that zeus relies on being able to quash my wants, needs and desires and force his rules upon me, and that the fact that they're ever-changing, sometimes from one day to the next, is an abuse tactic. it's one of the things i had to realize about quite a few of my fe/male partners and besties, one of the traits my therapists and psychologists and psychiatrists have warned me against: "leave any man who constantly changes the rules because it's designed to manipulate, confuse, torture and control you."

but geoff, one day, lecturing so passionately his face was red, glared at me such a stare that blared: "take heed, beth! you've got to learn: this is life, this is not therapy, therapy is only good for you to take a stand, not for lessons on romance! got it!?" that i got it: i've got to make allowances within a romance, within a marriage, within a life partnership for some form of abuse. because, as he and carver lay it out, therein lies the thrill. sometimes love isn't sweet, patient, understanding, and lain out in tender discussions rather than shouting matches or thrown dishes.

geoff was gesticulating, gyrating, spittle and laser-precision eyes. literally yelling: "therapy is all about coddling! therapy is fake! therapy is not real life! people do not have all-pure lives, they do not lead angelic and holy existences!" and i was thinking to myself, "geez, i kinda figured...marci's a little too peacenik for the real world! maybe a tiny bit of this and a whole lot of what she says, and that's a normal human being!" "your therapist tells you that nobody's supposed to hit, ever! be mean, ever! undercut you, ever! plot against you, ever! hurt you just to hurt you, ever! but if you take all those things away, you'll never have a relationship! you'll always be searching for someone who doesn't exist!"

List of Things to Listen To for Interpersonal Relationships: started.

the way my brothers and i fight with our significant others and friends is really quite mild. we just laugh, point things out, listen, and talk until a solution has been found...or can't be attained. we just don't flip out (unless i'm dealing with years of repressed silence. then i go all WTFARGHPISSY and "haha, so what's for dinner?"). the way zeus fights is very upsetting for me even though i understand it: usually he'll insult me, going for the jugular, make sarcastic remarks, twist my own words or their intensity right into my eyes, enjoy my pain, get angry when i freak out, then come back a day or four later sweet as molasses and ready to map out what was really said and why.

and that is certainly manipulation, because what he wants is to get his way after hurting me so i feel about as bad as he does. but is that really abnormal? is that really worth walking away from?

he doesn't hit me. he's never going to assault me. he apologizes, sometimes sincerely and sometimes knoewing that he's really hurt me and that it feels glorious to have me beg for the fight to stop. sometimes it's just annoying, but kind of fun, to have to play along.

i've hurt his feelings good and hard, so i figure i can pay the price, which is to have mine scrubbed on sandpaper and fantasize about beating him about the temples while he gloats, "oh, that wasn't the microfiber spa towel?" and cuts me a twinkle. ilene: "thoughts are thoughts; thoughts aren't actions. think any damn thing you please. hell, you don't think mean enough; you need it!" so i just think, and i decide that it's actually a lot more fun being with him than with most, and that he grows up in twitches and elbows.

and that shitstorm i'll always steel myself against and crawl through fearfully, because i know there's a great big lolly waiting for me, and a giggle, and the nicest sex i've ever had.

hera(lding) zeus: one small conquest makes a request i know i'm not hera. we've established that, and it doesn't bother me too often. sometimes i get tired of tending the hearth, but then i think: i don't have to squabble with the head of the household. and i like that. we fight, sure, and i try to find all my security blankets but realize: i've melted down all the knives into dainty chains and thrown everything else into the fire for embers and ashes. and i know that keeping you around--keeping my sanity too!--is hella awesomer than shredding an arm and being in ouchies for days.

but it sure would behoove us to be a little clearer on everything. you're frightening online, and i think you may be more exasperated and snippy than angry and threatening-to-leave-y...but i can't tell. your word choice is honestly, and OMFG you are going to kill me, a little "ghetto." i don't know how else to explain it; it's trashy, low-class, but not so much those as "ghetto," which is less about money and more about a culture i know you're a part of.

and i'm a total English Queen and Grammar Snob and just all-around middle-class, someone from a distastrously polite, well-informed, educated family. and i swear 700% more than my relatives put together, but i don't snap people's heads off unless it's to swear something awful after waiting six years for someone to take...the...fucking...hint! not only that, i've been lashed out at for being cunty online when i've been jokingly rude or a lot more neutral than my word choice or perceived word choice has been--

--and you've gotten upset abouit that a few times as well.

so, you know, my e-mails just turn into deep, dark caverns of fear, flashbacks and triggers. and POW it's PTSD awesome time!!!!! everything i think, want to and turns into "must cut self," "must hit self in head," "must die," "must kill self," and "must make it so i was never born so that the other thoughts don't infiltrate my zeus*barrier and ruin everything and make him leave and then have to hurt myself because he's already left and therefore hurt myself before he leaves so that i know how the pain feels and can just coast on that so that when he leaves i won't hurt any worse, because it's been so long i don't remember how to numb myself."

and OMFG would i LOVE to sink that ship. not turn it into a submarine with/out a periscope.

the funny part is that this afternoon, as i was stirring together the cherries, orzo, red wine vinegar, olive oil, feta, basil, fried rosemary and shallots for when t&r get back tomorrow, it hit me that you might not have meant "i'm going to fucking leave you if you don't fucking stop freaking the fuck out, and i am not even gonna fucking look back, you goddamn cunt, so you better fucking die if you want to stop loving me," but "you've told me that you push me away and that when you freak out you get worried that i'm going to leave and start using the freak-out to push me away, goddamn, so just quit it, goddamn!"

because, yeah, i have told you exactly that. so my heart went all lemmingsuicideleap and my logic went all BLORTsuicidePLUGUPTHEHOLESflashbacksFLASHBACKSPTSD and my breathing and pulse were all balumph-a-LUMP-a-THUMP-a-dizzying-WHUMPx1000. and i was all I MUST LEAVE BEFORE I DO SOMETHING LIKE CUT MYSELF AND OMFG FLASHBACKS OMFG IGNORE THE FLASHBACKS IGNORE WHAT I USED TO DO and don't cut or try to die because OMFG ZEUS would leave so MAKE HIM GO NOW so if i cut he won't find out and YELL at me.

so this time i wanted to really stop freaking out and harassing you...because OMFG my freak-outs serve no purpose...and i ended up sick for 30 hours, barfing and spraying and barfing and spraying and cramping and headaching.

i think it's a whole lot better than cutting or hitting myself or looking for pills or trying to drown drunk and bloody in a bathtub or looking for sex on craigslist with someone who might kill me or at the very least be someone who wants to beat the shit out of me just so i can remember that i freaked out on you and punished myself perfectly.

but you really aren't the same person online as you are face-to-face. i can't see your crinkly eyes. i can't look into them and know that i'm safe, that you won't hit me or tell me how worthless i am or threaten me or tell me that i'm lying about the abuse...that you won't tell me that you prefer me dead or look at me like i need to be raped and shown just what heartache is.

it's not that i forget that those are your eyes, always, even when they tell me you'd love to give me a good wallop in the head and beat me senseless. they always tell me that that's just a temporary pissy fantasy, and that you're gonna get over it relatively soon. and i've been there to see the change. and then get mayonnaise stuck into my face as i gag and squirm away and you giggle before stuffing your face with avocado, egg, cheese, bacon and bread, and lick the mayo from your lips.

i moved in with clif when i was 19 before i knew what was good for me. i'm moved by you, and usually you're good for me.

and if we're gonna give rise to some mini-resin, i have to circumvent the freak-outs, but when you KS me and get belligerent with rules you've just changed, it's not easy to see the truth. especially since, goddamn it, i told you: it's SK. for "stop keying." which i've been using since i was a tween, and which signifies that a typed telephone conversation is over, and when i'm sure i'm going to have to scratch up my arms or do something to feel a little pain, or plan a real doozy of razor blade mutilation, you ask why i'm so SUBBERNED, and i'm yours again, but i can't explain:

your spelling cheers me up eternally. it's like little constellations done in gold crayon.

lugging the juggalo

i always think about eric, the best poet and friend i had in cincinnati; he was the sweetest, most cherubic being, despite his wild streak and ICP obsession. he's plain, many would argue homely, and his fingers were next to mine every day in Poetry. they freaked me out, just little sausages with weird nails reminiscent of two people i shall not name, sausages of vomit.

only his weren't vomitous, and he had the most wonderful blond ringlets and honest heart, and the funniest, most well-executed poems of any of the guys in that particular class (and second-best of any of the guys in any of my classes)...and the least reserve when it came to critiquing my poetry. he was good, he knew it, and he knew i was good, and wanted better.

i used to tell him i loved him. it upset him a little, i knew, and that was the plan. i knew no one had said it, and that possibly no one would, but he deserved it. someone like me--i know what's real, and what i want to be real, and what's not even worth its funny money. little by little i heard about his life, and he was the sweetest kid--screwed over because he was just too damn sweet.

so finally he told me that it had grown on him, seeing my three little words written all over everything, that he felt warm&fuzzy&different, comfortable, a little new.

he may not be the cutest guy evar, but he really was cute--he'd slide notes under my door whenever he came over despite knowing that my door was unlocked for him, sometimes a flurry, and stand giggling, waiting for me to collect the snowfall. comic books, camping, a little sister whose parents melted down at her wiccan teen obession....

and this is what i love about zeus. he's got a funny-looking head and his nose is a real honker now, taking up more of his face than i'm used to and more than i would deem attractive, but that is really what makes him cute, what makes me wonder every time i look at his face, seeing how he looks like Ernie with those ears, and how satisfying it all is because i know that any minute now i'll squeal and collapse against him when he says something funny.

it's tough knowing that you've made a lot of wrong turns because of something that really was beyond your control; it's humbling, empowering and rejuvenating to realize that a two-year backslide gets more than its measure when you spring forward. even with a bobblehead you know you'd have walked away from because you'd never be seen in public with that back when you were All Progressed.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

hatshepsut by shepaestus

yes, engendered, transgendered--by way of graffiti and sculptured--and encrypted. such preserves are a sweet marmalade of sacred underwear. i'm the product of, shall we remember, a mormon so goth he pierced his scrotum and wore a black leather trenchcoat. and what my mother nearly vomited at: a MasterLock in his first real boyfriend, my first love...a mormon with a liquor carpinet in his armoire, meth in his blood and hatred deep in his self. the time i saw him after we lost our virginities awkwardly--his long slender digits unrolling his treasured black condom, his smile flashing bashful, "actually i'm a virgin" and me relieved "me too!" and his long, long, curiously unpainful penis lightsabering deep until "OH" and wide terrified blue pools "i lost it" and slithering back out soft and me actually joules upon jolts of merriment that at least it'd always be a marshmallow to tender a gorgeous toast--he was shockingly strong as he roared and threw me high at the wall, and him being 6'2" meant that i had seven feet to fall in bewildered terror and heartbreak....

and he doesn't get it, or care, or understand why yelling only makes me slam against that blue-white wall while being slapped and fondled and raped and shoved and told i'm disgusting because of my belly and only worth raping...or that doing it online only makes me remember his disgusted face as he elbowed or smacked me away, not the faces he had last time...and i can only stop the PTSD once it's started because when he yells i'm in all that and my heart's just gone and my breathing turns into hyperventilation, and i have to monitor my panic attack until i can't feel my heart anymore. then i can start coming down, but heaven forbid i'm haunted by his angry face...because then i come down, spike, come down, spike, come down, spike a little less...sometimes over a few days.

nothing else gets to me like that anymore.

encryption is all i can deal in here, zeus being the one man i'd never want to mock here, despite his complete lack of interest in snooping. i like that about him; we're both curious about things in each other's life, but have no use for sniffing around. what we share is what we are. the one thing i'll smirk about his head. he looks like a cancer-ridden alien, and i ought to know because larry had brain cancer and this is just as bad. and i know everyone from MSSD and gally would swear up and down and all around the word for 80 days if they could see zeus scowling and hissing and whining at me about all the things i tell him he's lucky not to experience that OH MY MY OH HELL YES you hain't met mean ol' beth!...

cuz, hey, one-hole pricky is still one-hole pricky. tellin' me that you desperately want to fuck me again and fix our first time, that you still dream about it, that you're willing to leave your girlfriend if you can't cheat on her...for a weekend, anyway, and then marry her...and then that i'm psycho, too depressed to deal with life without more intensive therapy, that i'm not healthy enough for a boyfriend because i've told you: i am thoroughly disgusted with you and thankful that i prefer being single and childfree to such shittiness...and you had better thank your lucky stars that i don't FB your girlfriend and copy and paste your pathetic lardass just so stupid and thoughtless that your bloated self just ended up exposed enough for anyone who cares.

and zeus, haha, he goes, "you made fun of me for this, and for that," and i counter with the truth, which is, "i mentioned them after you'd left me because those are two things you better bet your ass would've ended up on everybody's wagging tongue and snickered about for years, and would totally circulate if my autobio ever gets published." and he just doesn't get it, but you guys know how i love watching guys' eyes alarm and their shoulders shrink. mmm, that's one long cool drink for me, watching guys who cheat or belittle their girls become less.

so all i'll say is that his hair is too beautiful for me to handle this weird flat-backed egghead bobbing alongside mine. the man--i never knew. me, it's obvious with almost any haircut, it's my shame...him, oh, his lustrous curls are what made me fall for him. we'd been kissing awhile and i wasn't too into him, and he was desperate--to make me--and i was all, why would i, a guy looks like yuh? and i'd pat his knee and say instead, "oh, you're just too're no don't want to go to college..." and salivate over the idea of springing, "you're ugly, seriously, and it makes me feel sick to actually be kissing you when we're not hanging out, but you're so good at it i'm learning to handle it," only i'd realize that i felt protective of him, happy to be with him sexually, actually proud of who he was...and absolutely wretched instead of gleeful.

his hair! one day he just hadn't slicked it back and i literally fell in love with him just a little, and knew it was a sure thing, the soft ringlets in my hands the way breasts must feel to their lovers, just melting me into every crevice of his...and he was all, "huh!? but the curls make me undeniably mexican," and that was a staggering blow.

i've never been able to deal with him the way i can and do other men. it's kind of silly, it's really very stupid, but part of the reason my PTSD is so easily triggered when he says something scornful or in direct conflict with what he's said because when we were together back in '10 he'd yowl and shove and hiss and mock, "i'm nothing but a mexican," which has hurt my heart more than just about anything i've seen.

it's like little grey beating himself in the head and growling, "i'm stupid," because he can't read a lick, after two years of hitting and kicking, biting and scratching, after four weeks of not wanting to get close to him or tutor him because i've seen him bite everyone else, and seeing that really he is a seven-year-old boy who needs someone to put his hands away.

i can't unsee all those twisted faces and snarls. i can't unfeel the shoves and backhanded slaps. for some reason they've become a part of me...and either it's sick or it's empathic to the extreme. i used to want to take clint's pain away. zeus, i think, can unfold and redistribute the wisdom of the original cruel origami of his childhood heartbreaks.

which is the only reason he speaks to me, resonates within me. his eyes are pure fury when he thinks i've just called him stupid by explaining something he hadn't known, so lurid with "i will fucking remember this for life" that i smile and he thinks further mires but i'm smiling because i can't wait for him to swipe that claw at me in seventeen years: "thought i'd forget!?" no, you're way too smart for me to dodge your lightning bolt so i won't even try to duck your thunder.

and all i want, all i really want, is to be on top as zeus kisses me like this:

Passenger (Deftones)

Here I lay
Still unbreathless
Just like always
Still I want some more
Mirrors sideways
Who cares what's behind
Just like always
Still your passenger
Chrome buttons, buckles and leather surfaces
These and other lucky witnesses
Now to calm me
This time won't you please
Drive faster
Roll the windows down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees anything
I'm your passenger
I'm your passenger
Drop these down and
Put them on me
Nice cool seats
There to cushion your knees
Now to calm me
Take me around again
Just don't pull over
This time would you please drive faster
Roll the windows down
This cool night air is curious
Let the whole world look in
Who cares who sees what tonight
Roll these misty windows down
To catch my breath
And then go and go and go just drive me
Home and back again
Here I lay just like always
Don't let me go
Take me to the edge

he's the only stick i'll shift into my mouth.

churning, burning all the time...

zeus's terrifying. i don't understand where he's coming from sometimes, and i think he's keeping more secrets than he was, and i don't want him to know how bewildered and crushed i feel...because i know him, and i know that i'll only be exploited or mocked if i mention it...but it's all real, and so was the abuse, and as soon as we started kissing he stopped being supportive of me as a survivor or respectful of me as a i have to pin all my cards to my bra, under my armor, try not to let the triggers wake up the actual flashbacks...i trained them to go into my body, deeper and deeper, and now sometimes i don't look around and see a black hole along with the tactile memories of being raped.

i just have it all over me, inside and out, and last night there were all these rules i didn't know about, because two nights ago we segued from a pretty frightening argument into camaraderie, fantastic but superficial banter, and i always wonder how i can love someone who seems not to have dreams anymore, who seems not to care that he's an absolute genius...but i remember who he was face-to-face, and i know that there are years to come, and new dreams to acquire...and.

he was all, "i fucking love you, bitch," and i knew it was designed to be casual, but give me what i wanted, and let me know that he was really present and teasing...and then last night he just yelled at me, yelled, yelled...because i was breaking rules that he insisted had been established two nights ago, when they hadn't, and he was just being rude anyway, and i'm never rude...and i just don't know who i am anymore. i can never share with him because he tells me i'm too weak to kill myself and then i find myself all prepped just to show him that i am so not, that if dad could do it, so can i, but if i do...where will i be but dead?

and i've just been throwing up, throwing up, throwing up.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

sweetie fry coming up:

i wrote this when rob voreck was a nice guy, before he gave carl my contact information and told me i was lying after carl flipped the fuck out on me. see, carl was about to marry tuesday, and he wanted to apologize for treating me like i wasn't pretty enough to be girlfriend material...and by september of 2009 i'd heard that too many times to feel flattered in the least.

i'd heard from ridor all that year--1996 through 1997 until memorial day weekend--that carl would whine that nothing he said got me in bed. well, he was never directly flirtatious, just really nice and then cruel when he told me i was ugly and had to pick up the bag of food and carry it to the car, and all that kind of annoying shit i found odd but a big part of my life.

right? so carl went SPASTIC when i mentioned the two things he did that i felt was completely inappropriate. i said that the rest of it was whatever, thanks for the heartfelt apology and it was long overdue, but asking me to have sex at someone's wake was slightly more amusing than the two other things. there was this black man named rod and when i successfully fought him off and lured him into the hallway of my apartment building, he got so pissed at me for slapping and shoving him away from me and snarled, "carl told me you would be easy! he said you'd fuck anyone! WHAT THE FUCK, YOU BITCH!?" see, carl had told me he wanted to apologize, and i let him drive me to his place a second time, only he dropped me off in the street and cackled, "have fun! good luck with that, beth! he wants to take you on a go ahead, be nice to the guy!" and it was some FUGLY-ass 40-year-old (maybe a little younger but HEY i was 19) bald Black guy with maybe one first-grade Choose Your Own Adventure between his ears.

and carl was all (about the other thing, the worse thing, since i managed to fight rod off; clearly, if he'd succeeded in raping me, i might not be here to tell this story! old ugly men do not leave young raped girls happy to be alive) I DID NOT DO THAT OMFG and i was all I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY THAT I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE SO I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT WE ALL COLLECTIVELY DESERVE AN APOLOGY AND AHEM I AM ASKING FOR US ALL AND FOR TUESDAY.

and he was all OMFG GET AWAY FROM ME FOREVER and i was all uh, whatever, aren't you the prick here?

and then rob was no longer a pal. but i took what i needed, and i churned out some erfo butter.

Sprung: Release Hermetic

Poem for Rob

The molting bird in distress
how wretchedly she sings.
Beak clacking at brass bars        (peeling in laces)
futile so soft beat her wings.
A songbird cannot peck orange rind
from how bitter the snow-white pith--
its fixed rolling eyeballs never
quite find its impending death.
Look, the door fixed solidly
yet all the air for her breath.

Stick your finger betwixt gold bars 
shrunk celestial. How delicately
she takes up that perch half afright, sunk
in your contour, her head from beneath
her wing. You swear 

she smiles.

For more titles, see the album.
Program them into your phone.
When we are all our most silent
we hesitate to exist alone
without music. Dance into step.

Friday, June 8, 2012

down with love (and all its hearts)

i think it's one of the smartest movies to come out of hollywood in ages. it's not just snarky, it's REAL; the lack of publicity is what kept it too subdued to subvery or BY GOLLY covertly overtly outburst our corset of curves.

this is why i'm seating him and dancing, and just all around lavish. it's not that i love the taste of halvah; it was just made of pistachios and deliciously creamy and honeyed against mary's dairy's belgian chocolate. that was ice cream heaven, my only precious until stand came along.

with its little prat. spencer, you're probably a lot nicer courtesy of that extra t. brian floyd thinks all women want to fuck him and it was terrifying to start hyperventilating around him because the flashbacks would hammer me whenever i felt a little defensive of who i was.

makeup roulette. i hardly wear it anymore...and the boy delights in everything.

he delights in my age. and i laugh because 29 was not my dream guy age at 29. so i know how he feels: WTF AN OLD!? I LIKE AN OLD!? but the boy is devious and i'm just honeying him along because i have goals that have nothing to do with him being in love with me forever.

even through all the panic and renewed goals my outlook on love remains luciferous (the poem has me playing with lucien on 1st&1st and upon its quail egg and crashing fries through steak tartare so it's brain floss for days). it's odd how much i really need someone else and have my suitcases packed, but keep kissing him goodbye along the steam engine:

covered with soot.

(but i think we might still work out the tricycle issue...because he sure as hell ain't leavin'. i think it might be the smartest compromise i could ever make with a penis. SPEAKING OF PENISES, which pair of tweezers does john mayer masturbate with? hopefully he goes needlenose. when a TWINK comports himself with 60,000 times more dignity and NEWTON defined all of earth and got an ACTUAL injury...please, just DROWN yourself in that cup, and take kanye with you. two boys, one peanut butter icicle and--just...

...scat, will you? gerrowwer here.)

Thursday, June 7, 2012

john mayer, the slow clap

syphilis in his two-cunt cup.


after freely spraying all his jazzin' jizz, juicin' up his beefcake interviews, YOU CRYIN' YOU CRYIN' FOR ME TO COME HOME, and i know at least one woman's still wondering whether it was rape


he spent hours kissin' and swearin' and holdin' and sweet, sweet eyes, and ooh, baby-in' and you know we're meant to be, THINK OF THE SEX sayin' we gotta be, always.

i heard a fellow croon.

the homeless at home

Between the Trains and the Streets: False Friends

The clown in the shredded newspaper suit lunges at me.
His rubber lips have blown out with incomprehensible pleas
And today he smells like nothing but pleasantries. The rain
Has not compelled him to cover up with black garbage bags.
Though this time I do not reach into my pocket but tighten
My knuckles around my purse strap with surprise and hurry,
I take the time to marvel: his strips are so uniform, rustling
With layer upon layer, a hula skirt swallowing a senior citizen
With pained eyes that just can't go mad, the effort bulging...
And today, he isn't smoothing a garbage bag over his knees
A cup rattling in his other dark fist. He must use scissors
To feather himself into this gray dark bird. That he is alive
Satisfies me. It had been two years, and my tight grip does
Nothing to betray my deep affection. My fingers do not loose
To help him buy booze. I have been surprised and cannot slow
Because I'm on my way to the luciferous sidewalk and its life.
I exclaim later, "That clown! The newspaper scarecrow!...
He's alive! He hasn't starved, met a grisly or freezing death!
I'd been worried sick." "Oh, that all? Indian or Thai?"

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

the stone (of merry, merry traverse city)

maraschinos never did delight me; it's bloody orzo with fresh cherries and feta (parsley, fried rosemary and spinach toast those pine nuts right into the mix) i splashed with a little tipsiness, that red wine vinegar of pucker.

i suspect i got out just in time, and that had i left any earlier i wouldn't have been this, so i color my peurile royale, NYC, the flocked purple of No. 9, formally Love Potion No. 9. sure hope it's still flourishing under clif's care.

it's really rather interesting how like brooklyn it is here, and how easily i can slice into fantasies. i suspect that going my way instead of letting people tell me to pretend that being assaulted and having my character assassinated in order to keep any abuse a Total Pathological Lyin' Slutty Daddy-Molested Psycho Sadness story--was what saved my life.

because, see, that's what everyone else i've ever talked to has done for themselves.

and to say that i can't, don't deserve the same.

hell, i love floyd. the last two times i saw him i knew. i knew--

--he really IS the good man i've always, you know, if the choice was staying strong and death, i'm not so devastated that at 34 i'm nowhere near the career and the gal i meant to be. truth is, she was always elusive; i never have been hardcore cuntiliciousness, so allure and cosmo never would have been my deskination.

i was playing wii with terry the other night and in frustration and shame--i hate that my brothers can see how broken by rape and the struggle to right myself i've become, and i know the moment i stopped believing in myself is the dumbest moment, but i remember it clearly--consciously realizing that someone was so bent on breaking me that i decided that broken was better, since no teacher ever blamed him for anything, always me--for swearing, for not doing my work, for being distracted, for breaking down and crying in the middle of any class.

right, so i started crying, "i'm no good at anything but English, and i know that!" and he's all, "don't ever say that about yourself, ever," and he's just gotten his PhD...and later on, i'm all, "metallica, 'so close no matter how far,'" and he counters quick-ass in stumbling ASL, "'forever trust in who you are, and nothing else matters,'" and we get back to playing.


high heels and miniskirts. (and what i mean by brooklyn, the fantasies...cute, cute guys perk up and smile, and now i'm all porky-assed. each cheek has its own air jordan.)

snake-eyed devotion

here are the few people no one can ever expect to remain my friend after insisting that i reconcile with them:

joe santini
clint woosley

sitting around scratching your head: "why, why, why hasn't she called?"


quite the matter.

Friday, April 13, 2012

whipped-up: a five-minute foray.

The New Demographic

A squeal rounds the corner. The leaves fray
Beyond the dull street lamp’s commands.
Beyond, a fire escape zigs into a row of tins
Of vegetables, one clay pot towering empty
Then up to the roof like a swimming pool.
The black paddy hat set atop a steel drum
Doesn’t smoke, enjoying the view. Seagulls
Fly over Williamsburg. The gear behind
A green awning remains unaffected as flaps
Ripple in the breeze. Cyclists with ducktails
Of plastic glide serenely toward small futures.
An artist obscures someone else’s boast
A wisp of cigarette smoke bisects the day
Bicycles laze against everything with chains.
Portfolios swing alongside soft leather boots
A bridge sticks out its tongue, hard to see.
Cement plaques stuck into brickwork flower
So that even slick with rain they lend cheer.
Violent gusts rain petals into carpeting
And a bathtub squats defiantly on the sidewalk.


seagulls fighting vultures

Pas de Deux

     I’ve tried writing you letters. They litter my dining table, my bedroom floor, crumpled they trail my mind, mint stained fuchsia. Little strands of memory attach themselves, transform the balls of pulp into stalagmites of blurred ink. I feel a tug, skirl edgewise, buffeted into flushing the toilet or crossing the street. Sometimes the mirror shocks away, my face rearranging itself from my face.
     I’ve tried weeping, squalling, crumpling with tears so hot they evaporate before my cheeks. My glasses, crusty with salt, speckle my gray city with pride. The pain, purged for days, hovers like an echo squeegeed into a sudsy waterfall, always on the reverse: a riptide on display. My fingerprints daren’t fist a smash or the rush of anger will prick my face with the shards.
     I’ve tried working. I’ve crafted you into jewelry, smithed ropes that strangle. There are those draping themselves cool and gemmy into my breastplate without burning. I’ve caught a few drawling to snare my hostility, my generosity. There are colorings I can’t forge into expression, lines of apology where I don’t owe a thing. Sometimes I stroke my sewing machine and think of how thin I should be to feel you around my waist.
     I’ve tried therapy. To unstick the bad from the worse, to peel the fine strands of love you’ve snuck into my life. To convince the steely-edged woman with shrewd picks that you’re worth loving; I can’t bear her frowns. There must be something that would make her smile to hear. Hollow victories, the moments she allows that loving you is my business…the advocacy that you’ll someday return with a head screwed on right—knowing that she means that I’ll know you for what you are once my heart closes with a stitch in time, coarse black thread disintegrating into protons and neutrons, swapping electrons with pulsing.
     I’ve tried everything. For years I thought that trying meant that you were having a positive effect on me, that being your whipping girl was my salvation. After all, I wasn’t directly lashed. You’d wield the rod and I’d put my hands on yours to soften the blows, strengthen your awe. I believed that the snippets of torture I shared from my chambers, pumping fear and grit, would convince you to one day drop to your knees and apologize.
     I’ve tried everything but my fingertips. I’ve tried everything but my heart: word processing. The secret is to take back my story but your disdain for me now that I’m cracked raw so your fingers can paint my face with my own blood…has vetoed my own grip on what I’m worth. Doubloons from a pirate trickle karats. Doubloons from a rascal break through enamel into root canals.
     I’ve tried nothing like this. Writing the story that matters most: ours. Rape is nothing like a man who turns you loose for someone else’s haunts. It’s your hands I remember on my wrists: it’s my ghost that returns to them for lacing into rampages that end in exorbitant bills and your credit card on the table, the kisses after dessert that your lovers don’t get: warm pressing kindnesses heckling the umbrage my heart is always given, always takes, for my body’s imperfections. Your hands in mine give way to two children grimy with hunger and forbidden liasions between one beautiful man and one average brunette.

Saturday, March 31, 2012


this shitty excuse of a webcomic, represented by the FAQ that's all OOO I KNOW SPEECH THERAPISTS is honestly getting my goat.

i will not weep to read of the creator's death. SHAZAAAAAAM!

how many of us have had our voices mocked? hell, CLINT used to tell me he wished i didn't exist because my voice was grating. i vividly remember standing by the stairs in the star gallery and being so shocked to see him tearing me apart in yet another way...that it just became another reason to fake a suicide attempt in 1994--all my reasons had to do with him mocking my body, pimping me out, kissing me and pretending he didn't know me, dragging me by my panties (which were thus ripped and bloodied)and the hair...and pelting me with objects heavy and hard...

--and i still get laughed at. sometimes people just burst out laughing...then if i deign to explain that i'm deaf i get, "oh, i thought you had a speech defect!"


ah, racism is NOT racism when it's deaf people. we're just cutez and dumbz!

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

scheiss for the wise:

i've written some Mighty Excellent Verse on new york city. i'm still postulating excellent works. i realized today that i'd like to see what others have done, whether anyone's decided to take my approach. all i can think of as a true poem about the city is (the often weak poet) millay's


    We were very tired, we were very merry—
    We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
    It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
    But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
    We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
    And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
    We were very tired, we were very merry—
    We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
    And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
    From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
    And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
    And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
    We were very tired, we were very merry,
    We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
    We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
    And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
    And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
    And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

a truly peurile site has collections of corrosive poetry about new york city, one of which is this steaming *ahem*:

Robert Clairmont

Pretty girls are selfish, little things;
Darting in and out of plate glass windows;
Walking prettily all over city streets.
A pretty girl stood so near a street lamp,
Hair coiled and shining and O, she didn't even smile.
Pretty girls are selfish, little things;
They'd rather read a magazine.

From Quintillions (NY: American Sunbeam Publisher, 2005)

really? ...who told you this was a strong finish? it doesn't even go with the rest of the poem. reading a magazine is a vacuous act, if it's a beauty rag or a tabloid, or even maxim or gq and its ilk--

--not selfish. and anyway, it's like the poem is a little Chinese empress with her feet bound. no matter how hard she tries to stand, she's too top-heavy and topples. and topples. and topples. 

also, news flash: post-berryman, the dreamiest and henry, "O" had better lend impact, absorb velocity from what's before it and knock the next bit dead.

o! how dreary this new world order, where everyone has a "reason why [sic]" and thinks that "that being [sic] said," something new can crawl across my eyes.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

to be pissenlit

scheiss. i miss sebastian. HEY! YO! you, the crippled german who lived as one of us for months, who made us cry to see you go...

...hey! you! the one who got what i realize now was my terrifically LOUD ass out of the car and into the tent and just snuggled me all night HEY YOU and the sex you had with me still in your arms in the morning AHEM yes anyway...that made me die laughing. it says everything about me that i giggled inside and was horrified but preferred to let you finish than sit up and go OMFGWTFUGUYZES all four hands are still wrapped around me, JUST LET ME GO FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

LOL see this "hottie" who was so fake and everyone was all OMG HOW EXPENSIVE and i was like see dat's why you go to tjmaxx and they all OHHH. this total rooted-out a&f cunt met me and did the thing a lot of guys we meet do at first. only he had a bad heart, broken somewhere, and our eyes clashed, snakes at opposition.

he was adam's friend, and adam is hot. and CHILL. got out of the marines and went all hippie. so sunuvafitch is all pissed at me for being the one ugly person there. TRUTH: all the rest of them, jane, sebby and em and jason and adam&amy. you'd fuck 'em all in an orgy. so.

i'm triggered because when nobody's looking he snatches a bag of munchies out of my hands. he makes sure he glares and glowers. when he's advised to come hang out with me and see why i'm so cool but have to be able to lipread etc he just goes stony. dude. we've all drunk into the night and he disappears, and the tent is crowded and we're all passed out.

he's exactly the type to either pretend to hit me and snarl that HE doesn't see anything special about me and i'd better watch out...or do all that, then grab me somewhere deeply private/rape me and then threaten me. i'm triggered as fuck and asleep but not quite, meandering a good buzz.

and he comes in. i feel something on my ass. i realize that it's sunuvafitch with his awful highlights and idiot shoes. i fantasizes all day about taking a piss all over them. they look like shoes that get accidental drips out of neighboring urinals. they BEG to be sloshed. Brown suede shoes that flare out and then taper in and down. what flair!?

so just before it sets in that he was falling asleep ass-to-ass with ME, too drunk to care, i was having raped-awake flashbacks and was UP AND SCREAMING and locked into a car, unable to shake myself out of the convulsions. shaking and screaming and crying like my heart was about to break. months into our friendship and not one of them knew i'd been raped, except POSSIBLY em. but, no, that was the following spring. no; this was nearing halloween. THAT was a fun campout too! SQUEE!

SEBBY of all people is recruited to get me, and comfort me enough to get me out he does. i can't help myself but i'm hyperventilating too badly to do anything but gasp words over and over again until each has been repeated into enough intelligible syllables to get them out.

and he's the first person i've told outside of marci and josh who's got the decency to be horrified. but he's not just shocked--he's sad. that, you know, gets me calm. into the two-person tent with just us three.

and it is precisely this that makes me love people.

in the morning a little sexual assault is lookin' mi-ighty fi-ine.

the boy was full of himself. sexier than most, as i had the privilege of seeing a few pix he'd sent, and flinging through girls. too big a shot to keep from drinking and recklessly motoring--on his cycle. flung through the air and a lucky bastard with broken legs and all--well, he said, eighteen years was enough of that! he was the most handsome, adorable teddy bear of a pretty fit, strikingly sharp man with a cane.

so the old sebby never would've had a chance in hell.

i miss walking into sitwell's and seeing him at a chess table with some beer. a
and being greeted with a brisk cane walk and big tumbling hug, a seat and a guinness. and i know that all those crystal-stained moments helped save a life.

good-guy-moment collage: PRETTY MUCH ALL FILLED UP.

meeting floyd got me calmed down enough to sit at that bar and put dad and clint aside and pull out my postersoul and sift through all my good-guy moments and keep them permanently tacked to it.

spinal tap

must've been too big for [toys in] babeland to keep restocking. it's nowhere to be found. I just don't feel like taking the ruler off the floor and deciding where the base really ends. the tape measure and circumference shall never meet at this rate.

i just want to send someone a photo; it really does have a spine printed into the back. i have to hang on to this; what if the MoSex batters down my door for it!? poor spinal tap, unstretching things since 2005.

it has no anchor.

Monday, March 19, 2012

preying on a dime

shilling for time.

to say little to nothing.

snarfin' da larfs


but OMG post-floyd me what? self can laugh at all manner of absurdities. cuz life for-for?

TODAY first-time ever! booger HANG FROM NOSE since before memory.

two-years-ago that me wonder-think-HMM-deeper-analysis: inevitable what? one read-down found that-there list: BOOGER HANG FROM NOSE. embarrassing, yes. before meet floyd, after serious abuse, me do-what?

GUARANTEED pre-floyd me BLARGH. mind-gone. all taunts point to one thing. KILL SELF because dry sinuses got dusty. my bedroom heater is still on and dries my nostrils into caves in my sleep. BUGGER.

first time ever: i didn't wipe&blow a follow-up.


at a store. and I busted out something snarful. just OH SNAP GIRLFRIEND THOSE GUYS! And they're like you're cute, seriously, and i could get hit on four times...well, that's one fantastic haircut!

WHY NOT. i was like, oh, that's why they were like SERIOUSLY, snicker, really, yum, but SNICKER. my compact stays packed every day forward.


p.s. who caught "bugger"? sean better find the right rosebud to kiss; WHOZ HOOKED ON PHONIX!?!?!

psychotic explosions of the boorish pixelation

i wrote this for the insanely sexy genius who kept almost killing me or sending me to the ER so nonchalantly that it was always amazing to recognize his brutality: he was perfectly aware of his own strength.

he was perfectly built and quite literally four feet from shoulder to shoulder; his ams were easily eighteen inches around: he had the perfect tiny amount of fat so nothing veined or cracked mussels. i found him perversely attractive.

he made me laugh. i loved every las twisted drop of gallows humor--

--until it was too much, and too much it was.

predicting the mess he couldn't contain (like i really would've lasted with a man who bragged about his stint in jail), i contained it within...

Galactic Pollution: Soho at Twilight

the billboards along Canal could poke an eye out
with how big they say to love.
the way the billboards leap from their sticky backing
will never prove us enough
so ill-lodged are they 'twixt heaven and pedestrian
as blustering through the tuff
we scuttle pedestrian as ants down the sidewalk
too burdened to glance above.


the dolly pardon: the drink dissected, the heart eviscerated!

so. floyd mixed me a drink. so in the most important way, he loved me, because he didn't. in the least. except he did; he mixed me the doll.

no one had ever hinted at me being pretty. i looked him levelly in the eyes and thanked the universe for bringing me there. and then shit blew up. to recap:

it was j-spot's birthday. we'd gone on one date; seven hours later he confessed that i was just too brainy. he likes to read and play anime. being clever is too much work. he has a girlfriend. he's much too young for me--he confessed that it hadn't been just a friendly date, that he'd been intrigued and wanted to see if we were well-suited to each other. we were.

we were inseparable. we met right after i almost jumped in front of a train post-L.A. he and a friend were the first to a party, and i third, at a cavernous bar. (not just big, see, stalagmites and stalactites and luke upside-down in chains.) they were FOAF. i zeroed in on them, seeing them sign, and said my typical zany wacko WTF randomisty: yo, i like weed.and j-spot was petrified. OMGROFLOLWTFUCRAZY? they were just such pantywaists, all wide-eyed and geeky and young, dorky and in need of a good mental wedgie.

j-spot is also just as hot as floyd. and i once took him to the BDSM sex shop off the christopher stop, and then he totally was like, be my sex therapist! what should i do with my girl? MMMMMM, me loves the authority-doling.

so his girl's all paranoid. he's been forbidden to tell her about my sexual abuse. she thinks there's an affair going on. she's not so far off the mark in that we resemble each other but i'm 4582 shades paler. and so what if we have a secret? i blubber about rape stuff. GURL IT AIN'T SEX.

she talks incessantly about how hot j-spot is. she's had a pretty shitty history with guys. ain't none of it worth repeating here, but we have mutual acquaintances and friends. we've both been made fun of for being less than pretty. so she's stupider than dumberest and i can't stand her for it. j-spot is like, see, we can just chill. it's h!lar!ous.

so she gets more and more paranoid, becomes distraught. and j-spot celebrates being half a decade younger than me. i'm a proud mama. i know the most fantastic bartender in the world and would we like to end our night there? SO YEAH!

and she says to j-spot--he tells me this apologetically--"do you want me to break up with you? no? well, then, you gotta ask that bartender to go out with beth." and he fucking--ignores--me as i gasp in terror that he KNOWS that i'm so happy to have a NJ floyd who knows about the tape stuff but that we're BFF and floyd is my safe bartender pal who helps me parse wordlessly what i sometimes re-parse with j-spot verbally.

he says, dude, but she gon' leave me if i don't do this. c'mon, man, i point out, she's just bluffin'. but the idiot's all sensitive from some awful abuse and won't fucking see her manipulation. par for the love goon. i explain that if i have to deal with this i'm going to fall apart; it's too close to sexual abuse for floyd to start treating me with sexual disdain, not comfortable, charged, nonchalant either-way-it-dips friendship. Too bad, j-spot whimpers. he needs his girl, and she told him that she'll move out that. very. night.

THERE WAS NEVER SO MUCH AS A FUCKING KISS, DUMBCUNT. our cuddling was when i was slime-faced after a rape. AIGHT, eight months AFTER this dolly pardon.

so she's smirking at me. she's been obsessed with me and floyd since they met. smitten, the kitten, cuz he really had been kind. signing a bit and really answering questions. she felt so at home she kept pressing the issue. DAMMIT. some people really don't believe that hearing people treat deaf people well for reasons apart from romantic interest.


and then j-spot's asked. and floyd mournfully says no TO MY FACE. to ME. resolute and his eyes are cut off, dead a little, less trusting. and i want the world a table because i need to turn it. topple all the cakes and punch bowls. upend myself and howl. but he's been such a perfect friend i can only smile back in shock. betrayed by j-idiot.

and i'm so scared i'll never be his friend again. that he's going to follow me out one night for real, grab me and shove me against the wall and tell me how disgusting i am and why do i keep acting like i'm pretty and hit me or shove his hand somewhere my heart would break.

and he just smiles and it's back, and solemnly he mixes a drink, and he gently curls safe tendrils of caring all around me: this is the doll. i just created it for you.

and i felt pretty, not pretty at all but knowing that he wanted me to feel pretty instead of pretty lousy changed my life in a way all our other moments hadn't. BUT THAT FUCKING CUNT smirking at me and all smug that j-spot was HERS NOT MINE and crestfallen that floyd-that-nice-bartender-who-signs-for-beth-so-he-wants-her-RIGHT!?!?!? had turned me down...when we left the burger joint, she slipped her hand into mine and rubbed my arm sympathetically, saying I'M SO SORRY AWWWWWW--and I started sobbing. big angry heartbroken sobbing. CUZ HE WAS WATCHING AND THINKING I WANTED BIM.

and SURE i'd've fucked him. in three years. with a stable friendship and oops okay too much to drink and gigglypuff falling into his arms and OMG he IS cute and HE WON'T HIT ME and we can totally have hot chocolate spiked with BOURBON in the morning and i'll cook naked because he won't hate the belly cuz as they say:

OH WOW YOU LOOK GREAT NAKED. i made a good decision!

but I NEVER EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT IT. i totally misjudged him. he was a total asshole i wouldn't've pulled out of a burning car...until he touched me. and opened his perfect mouth with all affection and zero affectation. GOOD-LOOKING AND HELLA SWEET(er than the honey inside my NIN hive).

he watched me fold and bawl. i walked them to the train and went back to look him in the eye so i could sleep knowing that he didn't want to hit me or gloat that i was ugly. he was so stern. I CAN'T HAVE YOU CRYING OVER ME. AND THIS IS MY IMAGE, MY PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT. so yes, darling, dry your tears, you may have some water, with ice, but you walk right outta here and don't let me catch you having feelings for me.

secret: i think he might've said yes some other time, had he been single and sure of trusting me, which shocked me to my core. when he scolded me it was almost like, "dude, you screwed up--i need discretion."

cuntface MEANT to make me cry. but cuntface also has an IQ i'm almost positive is sub-100. so what good is hatred? dumb is dumber than dirt.



didn't just shut me out!

he forgave me. i was safe. that LADEEZ AND GELTS

is a real friend. a real man.

now he likes me to know he likes guns.


i stopped using craigslist to cover up the pain post-sexual assault when NO JOKE this guy was really enthusiastic about meeting to fuck and was funny, clever enough and reasonably cute...and sent a picture of himself arm-in-arm with a friend: floyd.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

the doll: just peachy with a shot of courage

brian floyd is hot. the last time I saw him he was probably balding. he's so sexy and i always thought it was a nice side benefit of being pals. the only man better-looking is the indian doppelgänger with a huge thick AHEM who was an amazing kisser, funny, brilliant and spent fifuckingteen minutes post-kiss TOUCHING UP HIS SHELLACED HAIR because i'd tried running my hands through it and COULD NOT GET MY FINGERS UNTANGLED. cue the ER.

i was able to see into the bathroom mirror from the couch. narcissistic clueless echo that he was--that hair product I have NEVER encountered before, and i swear by ice spiker!

so, floyd was safe. i stopped blogging because i was alive. busy not drowning in rape flashbacks. just so safe that even though i was terrified of him i practiced until not only was i fearless...i looked forward to his gorgeous features for one reason:

i had one man in my life who thought i was funny and didn't follow me out to slide his hand down my pants or up my shirt and stick his fingers somewhere MINE and laugh that i should have known, don't look so shocked, would you stop crying!?

I STOPPED SPLITTING IN ORDER TO DEAL WITH THE PTSD. i dealt with it head-on all day every day until it dissipated. because for maybe twelve hours a week i had a place where in all my filth and froth i could spew forth on all matters disgusting, hysterical, philosophical and sexual. all my sex jokes were met with a merry twinkle and pealing chortles. he shot back as good as i came.

in time i was sighing dreamily at the one imperfection the man has: his nonexistent ass. i love a man with an ass. JWWCS had none, and he was a waiter! it was marvelous, watching him jump like an agile curious george onto the counter and reach for his bottles.

he let me tease him when he muddled basil for lemonade. i'd make orgasm faces and beat off in time with him, and he'd just blurt out a giggle and make a face right back, just not an orgasm face, and my heart would just swell all nutella.

so to my secret ingredient i wrote, and he mistook it as a "baby i wanna i just gotta marry you" piece:

Serenade: O Heart, Useless Organ
Your feet tap out south like Texas big as the swath they cut
Like a Bible. Your blood must be in every edition. Parchment
Needs ink to breathe. I would set pen to paper could I note
The molasses your laughter breathes into the armadillo sky.
Your toes curl sunrises, your ankles laze, I fear I’ve fallen
through the floorboards.
There has never been one,
The alchemist frowns. Never, not purple
Nor any fairy tale under the rainbow.
No one has ever loved the ordinary.
But look, one will pluck,
His gnarled finger bunioning mine,
So plucked you will bear fruit. He winks, for
Fools climb glass mountains every day.
                                          Come. Your eyes are that of the third prince.
Once at a supermarket an eight-year-old coveted me.
I had left the apartment at long last, could no longer
Sleep, pricked tho my finger. It burned until the hole
Through me was gone. I grabbed a silver dress, lips
Red, ears dripping baubles. He returned, tiptoe, without
His mother.
As I stooped, careful to cover my cleavage as easily
As I could, I caught my breath at his beauty, thinking
The most confounded things: that I was sculpted ice,I
Maybe a queen bedecked in diamonds out doing my
Grocery shopping, cart and determination shining
As a pair.
I might order one of those.
Now, among the spidering you do,
The fade across the seat of your jeans
Calls to attention lumps of plasticine.
I would sculpt you a bedroom to match
Crawl into my grandparents’ secret room
To retrieve the antique doll hangers
Hearts in spades
And you haven’t a whit to lose.

snuffling towards the shuffleboard of scuttling hordes:

there's no time to blink, never.

wrote this about Dan the Man with the Polka-Dot Band (i didn't get it right til i was eight and had a polka-dot dress so 'course i got it wrong for fun then!) in 1996 or 1997:

his wife, in her misery, had fucked the dog
his son dangled from the ceiling fan
all the more reason to nurse the bottle, he thought
strolled out the door&off to work he ran

spiked his coffee with Jim Beam
a Dunkin' Donut got him through the day
he built the wall he ran to leave
we saw the tombstone but not the grave

poorly written. construx are more fun. i loved construx; they were my fraggle rock. lemmings to eat and eat and eat at the straws. yay kittehs!

so forgiving david changed most everything. liddabit o' bangin' will do you right. mosi was so fucking shitty in bed that i was super-duper nice and no mincing here on HERRINGBONESUXXOR for far too long. IT WAS AN ACT, PEOPLE! i promised myself and joeray that after clif NO MORE LOUSY SEX OR TINY PENISES. somebody likes her cock to stick it to her.

anyway, mr. cock of the walk is almost as bad as mosi. nine pretty inches with another half to pack the perfect wallaby wallop. josh was just a quarter of an inch shy. and all three suffer elephant dick BUT! david knows what a female orgasm is good for. BUT OMG IS DAVID THE BEST IN BED OMG!

i've had some amazing, sizzling-hot lovers and dates and two boyfriends here in NYC. i love my thirties; my first favorite looks like a sunburnt snowboarder bob harper, freshly thirty, only younger and with reddish hair. sweetest thing, a little dumb--and i never fuck dumb--just a bit thick and all WOW WOT IZ DAT WORD WOW I LOVE THAT YOU'RE SO SMART IT'S SEXY IN A WOMAN WOWZA. i still have the hand-drawn liz in fingerspelling and his typically ditzy addition of letters underneath.

(squee: i was so scared. and he squealed, YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL! i went stiff. i shifted so he couldn't get at me. and he had me all gathered up in his strong arms and me blushing and shying away with fearfearfear. he was all OMG WE ARE GONNA GET YOU THERE GET OVER HERE and scooped me up on the couch and UPSIDE-DOWN gave me the HIGH-FIVE FRENCH KISS. grimmie and i actually preferred that to regular french kiss--the taste buds really tickle each other something pink! we totally 69kissed all the damn time. SOOOO steel-spoke is all bob harper painted with jake pavelka's brush, and it's all fucking awesome AND THEN BLOWS MY MIND. from penetration alone i have a fuckton of orgasms. like rainbow-chasing unicorns.)

and that is how my sexual-peak titties xxx thirties began at thirty-two. HUR HUR TO THE BURRS. and david's the one guy since then who can't get me to orgasm during INTRAVENOUS. but his hands are so special i say UR NUMBA ONE! UR NUMBA ONE! it was almost embarrassing because kissing was always orgasm time!!!>> and he exploited that--he'd have one small foot trapping my kicking boots and thank his lucky stars that people could hear me through the kisses.

what naughtiness. what an idiot--that sign was always "in for you all up in my bidniz!" i could be sick and cramping with a tension headache and off my panties would glide. soak in that visual--

forgiving david was the best thing to do. excuse my french.

florence fabricated it better than i could, and she was only talking to her booze!

Florence and the Machine (not Dan the Man...)

shake it out

regrets collect like old friends
here to relive your darkest moments
i can see no way, i can see no way
and all of the ghouls come out to play

and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
i like to keep my issues strong
it's always darkest before the dawn

and i've been a fool and i have been blind
i can never leave the past behind
i can see no way, i can see no way
i'm always dragging that horse around

all of these questions, such a mournful sound
tonight i'm gonna bury that horse in the ground
so i like to keep my issues strong
but it's always darkest before the dawn

shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--
shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--

and it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
so shake him off, oh, whoa!

i am done with my graceless heart
so tonight i'm gonna cut it out and then restart
cause i like to keep my issues strong
it's always darkest before the dawn

shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--
shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--

and it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
so shake him off, oh, whoa!

and given half the chance would i take any of it back
it's a fine romance but it's left me so undone
it's always darkest before the dawn

Oh, whoa, oh, whoa...

and i'm damned if i do and i'm damned if i don't
so here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road
and i'm ready to suffer and i'm ready to hope
it's a shot in the dark and right at my throat
'cause you're looking for heaven, for the devil in me
looking for heaven, for the devil in me
well, what the hell; i'm gonna let it happen to me

shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--
shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--

and it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
so shake him off, oh, whoa!

shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--
shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, ooh, whoooa--

and it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
so shake him off, oh, whoa!