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

dude...so 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 do...is 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 ear...my 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 here...is 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 IMs...is 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 poor...you're no intellectual...you 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 before...is 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 just...it'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 victim...so 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 date...so 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, him...is 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 believed...so, 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.