smash spree

looking for a fair fight

I am mad as hot butter and my guts turn around themselves

my body tightens against the skin and I want to vomit

Reading List

Lolita, A Spy in the House of Love, Tropic of Cancer; enough said.

There is an immense elephant of a project looming over me that I pick away at. I snip through old memories (lord, I wish I'd kept better notes) and wonder about the quality of the images in my head. I am thinking about going dark, by that pulling this blog down for awhile. I won't, it's only a consideration. 

Poverty is grinding my joints. I lost my foodstamps because of an office error and have not had time to get that mess straightened out. I can only image that it will take months. I have been living off of noodles, fresh eggs, leftover bread for two weeks.

More than this is the reality of working endless 60 hour weeks, know that if I say 60 I mean close to 70, and unable to feed my body mind spirit with enough sleep and rest to maintain begin to fray out into space.

Solace is in the spirit, strength in the body as the muscles continue to wrap in on themselves tightening around bone, it is only my mind which concerns me now. If the three are linked and one surges forward the others tag along into the new frontier. What if that's true of surging forward into less constructive realms. Does the mind undo what the body builds.

Lolita is surprisingly good; I've not read it before. There is a not too old man who craves pubescent girls, nymphets he calls them. They are his primary drive.

The cut on my right middle finger

is in the shape of a heart
because he loves me
this horse

when his teeth and the metal bars of his stall
sandwiched my finger

we both cried
because it was an accident

not like that one time
with the fingers tight to my throat

I remember what I wore that night, and, finally, I've managed to forget your name

I've taken to drinking budweiser—

I've taken to drinking it by the bottle

in hollows and haunts and dives sipping against the florescent lights and the popcorn chatter—

I put a finger to all upstanding red blooded americans 

not in nostalgia but in rubbing my face in prejudice

because, really

the perfect number of budweisers to drink before

riding a mechanical bull

is three

especially if the bartenders

serve in bikinis and chaps and have

shots of jagermeister

in hip holsters

two budweisers is rhythm

balance and increased bravado

three is only

a second, forgettable act

More Phobic than Not

final moments

when that last exhale passes the lips

and the cold hard flesh as

light expires

what vision strikes the eye

what holds most dear

what time is it in your life

when the beginning ends

and dreams unfold

us

we never know our bodies against the sky

and forfeit the  possibility of potential

in disguise and retribution

that's why it's better 

marry young

technological wizardry

I have a new phone number. After seven years of the same all the same same same, I decided it was time for a change. I'll be texting you from area code 707

the electronic ghost in the sky

claimed the shit phone I've had in my pocket for the last seven months. If you need to contact me leave a comment here. You never know.

lipstick slingshot

Our eyes glanced shards of light reflected across the crowd

I recognized you seeing me watching you

and for an instant less

I thought

alone together alone

bare, the disguise we mask in our eyes

stripped down to skin

and cotton

sheets fresh hot cotton sheets

the crisp sharp edges

dissipate before I sleep