VooDoo

A cereal box- some kids brand
your slippers by the door
the keys on the table.

You were here,
you are always here.

My barnacle.
I couldn't scrape you off if I tried.
I haven't tried.

When I sleep you flop a hairy leg on me
or a heavy arm on my chest
or stomach
I can't breathe, my friend.

Your pubes left on my toiletseat
your cigarette butts mixed with mine
a half smoked joint in the ashtray

There is no space for me to crawl into myself
no cuddle room

I feel you in irrational places
trying to crawl up under my skin.

I can't love you more than I already do
I can't give you any more of me
So for the sake of all that is holy man,
stop with the voodoo:

I see you creep,
naked as the day you were born,
looking for the entrance to my soul,
so you can clean out the shop

I set up security.

I will not give you my fire, my glitter,
my razz-le-dazz-le,
you mother fucker,
so back the fuck off.

Outlook from a Porch in Suburbia

Life sometimes is disinterested. I discovered this today after reading some things that got my mind going. I go to the porch to have a cigarette and sort the things floating around my head into a stream of consciousness , and I notice my dog has followed me out. Dynomite looks at me. His eyes are a bright gold in the otherwise blackness of his fur that he has blended into the darkness before the stairs that those eyes, glinting, are the only thing of his clearly defined in the moonlight as his own. There seems to be a bit of intelligence in these eyes, like maybe he is too brooding, over his own personal doggy woes and perplexities (I got him from the pound- who knows what his life was before I got him) that I felt a bond for his brightness, and asked him a question.

“Dyno, what is mommy is a convenience to daddy? Does Donny really love me?” Dyno cocks his head to the side, lifts an ear to hear me better. I feel like an idiot, but Dyno is one of the few friends I have in this godforsaken town, and I have no one to spill all of my crazy ass thoughts to. I mean, yeah, there’s Donny, but he gets kinda angry when I ask him 700 times why he loves me, and he doesn’t understand that sometimes, it isn’t really about what he’s doing wrong. More, it’s that I’m looking for reasons to love myself, and I scream back at myself , my dear, I’m afraid there’s one good reason I cannot find. So I turn to the one person who has always seemed to love me the most, even when I can’t stand, personally, to be around me, and that actually makes me angry. Who is he to tell me I’m so great? Why is he the only person who sees such great things in me? I am a caustic person. I am too stubborn. I cause myself pain and anguish for reasons I cannot understand, and sometimes, I seem to enjoy it. Why does he love so unconditionally something so crudely made? I can’t say those words to him, for fear that he’ll contradict me, and for a trepidation that he won’t. My lips and tongue are still around him on that thought. I don’t like showing my fears to well, anyone, so I swallow my tongue, and the words get lost somewhere in my stomach. But every now and then they boil over. Insecurities invade like the Trojans fighting the Greek of my mind. And sometime after that, I break down. And then I stand like a jackass with a cigarette, asking my dog’s smart eyes questions.

“Dyno, what am I doing with my life?” Dyno’s eyes turn toward the stairs, moving like fireflies. He takes a few steps into the light, yawns, then lazily scratches behind his ear. I have to laugh. Whether his sharp little gilded eyes understood a goddamn word I was saying, he was sure making his commentary on my thoughts.

“Okay you little shit. How about puppy snack? You understand that?” Dyno’s ears perk up and he does the same dance he did at the pound that made me take him home. He jumps up on his hinds legs and pumps his arms up and down, smiling his little doggy smile knowing no one can say no to his dance. I guess sometimes, life would rather have the finer things, and right now, it wants a puppy snack.

Born Broken

I was born broken. This is what makes me the way I am. I feel aspiration is futile because I have too many hamsters running around in my brain. I have too many good ideas and not enough drive. I will never have self-confidence because I was born without the capability. I know I am smart, maybe even exceptionally so, but I have no outlet. Creativity inspires me, beauty, the female form, the effects of perception, the idea of love. But I will never reach my creative aspirations, my screenplay will never be written, I will never truly feel loved. I was born broken. I will always be scared and never show it, I will cry but only in my sleep, I will wear tight bodices and apply makeup, and will never be beautiful. I am a tortured person, and yet I revel in my torture. My head is a constant torrent of ideas and random thoughts and insights that no one will ever understand, because I have been broken for so long that assembling some sense of normalcy would be a farce. When surrounded my intelligent, creative beautiful people I feel as if I am an apple on a table of mangoes and kiwis, bland, unnoticeable except in my shortcomings. When surrounded by the mindless zombies or popular America today (the Paris Hilton fans, the shopaholics, those wooden people who let the world speed by them while they ignore the loud ticking of life at the makeup counter, or rifling through Prada, the Britney lovers, the Cali-fornicated youth of our consumer driven country) I feel smothered and angry, repressed and violent. I feel like a thousand firecrackers are under my skin, waiting for the opportune moment to blow my being outward, ideas bouncing off on another, only to fall in desperation of what I cannot do. I want to aspire to greatness, to leave my fingerprints on someone's soul, to have a voice, loud and clear and skewed, but alas, I am a prisoner of my own shortcomings. Never will I be loved, never will I be understood, never will I be beautiful, never will I rest. I am not distubed by this much. I know I will never stop eyes on the street with my good looks and charms. I know I will never be able to get the words aligned properly to say what it is I am trying to explain. I know I will never feel loved completely, faults and all, and for this reason I will never experience love the way it should be felt. Always will I be insecure. Violence and anger, and shoving the tears back into the pit of my stomach will always be how I deal with my too strong, too masculine emotions.I will always put barriers up, never give myself to anything with abandon, too afraid of repercussions. 22 years ago, when I forged my way into my own existence something didn't sit right, something was tweaked, and I was born broken. But because of this gift, and I do believe it is a gift, I will never stop thinking, never stop hoping, that one day I will bloom. One day, I may get that perfect phrase out of my brain and onto paper. One day I will find beauty in myself. One day I will throw myself without second guessing into something. One day I feel love's pure hand. Until then, I experiment, play, collect people, watch Tarantino films, read everything, record everything, squirrel away my whole life to fill that void left in me with knowledge. Broken is better, because only when broken can you value perfection.

Wet

Under water,

floating in my self- inflicted-

weakness encouraged

personalized

purgatory,

face slack,

eyes open,so this time perhaps I will learn

everything red,

I tilt my head

where is up?

which is down?

Which direction will take me to where i must needs be

to embrace what I want

out of my existence

to stop these lungs from burning

burn as if a colony of fire ants

let loose and given cigarettes,

which they suck on greedily

as they scurry around my heart

where my oxygen should be.

blue dots in my peripheal vision.

I stay still.

my hair looking like an anenome, the only sign of life about me.

I cannot shake the water from my mind,

cannot squeeze it out of my hair.

Somewhere in this feeling

is this realization-

I Am

sad,

lonely,

I am not alright.

In Memory Of A Man

So it came to my attention, like a truck coming dangerously close to hitting me as I'm walking down the street- that another one of those people I admire has died. This keeps happening to me. This one was not old.

The TV is one because my feet hurt because I wait tables after my day job and to relax I like the flicker of television. It's Thursday, and I know ER is on, so I flip to that channel. One of the cast members is giving a eulogy of the show's creator- Michael Crichton. What?! The man was only in his 50s. I don't understand.

At nay rate, the man has passed. he is no more, but here is a piece I wrote about him in a burst of silliness back in April of 2006. I wrote it out of respect and admiration. I hope people remember his talent.
My ramblings attached:




Do you ever look around yourself and realize that some people in this chaotic mosh pit we call life, just give too much of themselves? Now maybe I'm selfish, but I like to keep my creative genius to myself, sure I'll take it out at parties or something, hold it above my head like something sparkly and shiny and grab all you stoners' attention, but as quickly as I pull it out, I hide it away again, locked up in myself like Golem coveting his precious ring when he could have shared it with the world.

This is not about me.

This is not about Lord of the Rings, and for all you fantasy freaks out there, you can just stop reading, because I'm not into that pussy shit.

This is about the people who would slice into their shank to feed you during famine- who give so much that you wonder how there is enough crumbs at the end of the day to sustain them. Of course I'm talking about that particular someone- the ineffable Michael Crichton.

What? He's a martyreic genius. He is the fountain that keeps flowing, the gift that keeps giving, the loaf of bread that feeds and entire village.

Case in point 1:

Jurassic Park. Admit it. You loved it. You loved the science. Brilliant! Mosquitoes that have mooched off of the blood of dinosaurs, and then were unlucky enough to land in sticky amber- that poor mosquito, tiny heart pumping furiously, kicking his thread-thin spindly legs, caught! He'll die now- thinking of his mosquito family, waiting for him, hovering above their metaphorical dinner table (a triceratops perhaps, I hear they are crazy delicious), wondering to themselves in little buzzing whispers: "Where's Daddy? When is Daddy gonna be home?" Never my mosquito son- Daddy has given all he had, and will now die. But be comforted in knowing that a long time from now, your Daddy will be excavated like gold, his DNA carefully extracted from that of the dinosaur DNA found in daddy's liquid last dinner (oh I hope you enjoyed that mosquito daddy- I hope your last meal was great), and a couple scientists later we have an amusement park! Built for your pleasure! Watch the triceratops poop! She is ill! Examine her droppings; lay upon her ribcage as she struggles to breathe! Get in your garishly painted Jeep on its track, we will try and tempt the t-rex with a goat. Jurassic Park, a wondrous playground and scientific breakthrough, finally we can see the dinosaurs how they really were when they had flesh instead of bones stringed together and hanging in a museum somewhere. Oh but that sneaky Dotson and that fat guy who laughs like a squealing pig and steals dino DNA in shaving cream. It's okay- he gets his, slashed by a dylophosaurus after trying to make it fetch a stick. A stick! Like it was Fido instead of an ancient predator. Dumbass. He deserved to be slashed across the abdomen, trying to shove his entrails into his stomach and being aware of being eaten alive at the same time. In the movie they don't really show that, but the book is pretty graphic in detail. Remember, Michael Crichton was a doctor, trained at Harvard or some such up there school. There is a lot of running away from dinosaurs after that, and raptors run a muck, Jeff Goldblume breaking the tension every now and then with his sarcastic fatalistic humor- "insert witty Ian Malcolm joke here, there's too many for me to pick from". In the end, the people we like get away, and the last scene flashes to birds flying across a blue sky, symbolic of evolution and freedom at the same time. Tear. It was all so beautiful. What a gift you have given, Mr. Crichton.

Case in point 2: ER. The TV drama. The bustle of the emergency room, fascinating because one never knows if the people in these white rooms will do their intricate ballet- and it is a ballet, watch it, the passing of tools and instruments, the moving of patients, the cycle of ambulances (ambuli?), the shift changes- all exquisitely timed and choreographed- but I digress. Our fascination lies in our wonder if these people will ever shout "3cc's of gabapentin STAT! We're losing her! Defibulate! Now!" But Doctor, that could be dangerous. "I said do it!" Breathtaking. Michael gives us this accurate (and I've asked doctors, and though they look at me funny when I ask them if TV is like real life, they admit it is, and then tell me to turn my head and cough. Think about it), portrayal of life in the ER, and then, as if he hasn't given us enough, he throws in all these plot twisters. These people that work in the ER. Not only are they talented performers, but they do this while dealing with alcoholism, death, illness, marital problems, oh the list goes on and on... As a final gift from ER, MC gives us George Clooney, Noah Wylie, and Mikkai Phefifer, and more recently, Shane West, that exquisite Indian girl whose name I cannot pronounce- these beautiful creatures caring for all of our tired and weak, with a soft touch and five o'clock shadow (except for the girl). Now we almost want to go to the emergency room, if Mr. Pheiffer will lean over me to look into my eyes and ask me what is the last thing I remember about the accident, dressed in white, like the angel Gabriel sent down to grant me... well lust I guess. ..Chills. A profound love of doctors turned writers turned screenwriter turned directors of wonderful drama series. Oh, thank you MC.



Now, my captivated (okay, bored enough to read my ramblings) audience, now do you believe me? MC, he had given us so much, all he has. What a philanthropist. What an all around generous man. What an angel. May we all be like Michael Crichton.

Why Not?

So I got a belly dancing hip skirt the other day. It's my new obsession. Learning to shake my hips like there's a motor in my ass. Which brings me to my next topic. How cute is Shakira? I want her hair, and those booty skills, but alas, I am not THAT talented, so the guys I live with and I came up with a better idea.

Miniature celebrities. In cages. Sounds cruel, but its not. Little pets. Or even fun size ones. Breakthrough science, these are minor details. The point is as follows. If you are offended, stop reading. Thank you:

Shakira (mini or otherwise) get a cage. A nice large plexiglass page, with her own hot tub and exercise room. There is a radio, cd player; she can pick her own tunes, or write some on her guitar. She dances on cue. Hips flicking, rib cage pumping, butt shimmiying- moving at impossible sppeds in impossible ways. Dressed in a white linen hippie gown, no shoes, her stunning wild hair. She is happy, eats and dances, and we are entertained. The boys want to go futher, to do what we have been doing for years, want to display a beautiful woman in all of her sexuality for their enjoyment, because there is nothing more beautiful than a gorgeous woman. They have a plan. The boys want a water system rigged, so that to drink water, Shakira will have to pull a string, which is in turn attached to a bucket of water, and to drink she will have to try to get a trickle from that bucket into her mouth. Of course she'll miss, and get all dripping wet, in her white dress. The boys also want a pool of jello in there, and lot so tanning oil. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I understand the aesthetic beauty of an oiled, jello tinted beautiful woman, but really, shouldn't we let Shakira decide if that's what she wants? I've always wanted a pool of Jello though, so maybe it is the right thing to do. Anyway, point of the story, Shakira, in a cage, shakin what her mama gave her, possible Jello, possibly a pole or two. Nice yea? Maybe she can give me some pointers on dancing. Or hey to hell with it, maybe we can go play in the Jello. It's alway sounded like fun. Let the boys enjoy themselves.



Next- Pint sized Alicia Keys- piano included, can sit on your mantle and play blues all day.

Silly Old Scary Story

Ive been afraid to sleep for the past couple of days now. For the last six weeks or so Ive been having a reoccurring nightmare.

A couple of episodes into Adult Swim I get brave enough to decide that laying my tired head on something soft overwhelms my hesitancy to venture into my dark room. I get up of the couch, raise my arms above my head and stretch, then casually ask Donny if he wouldnt like to go to bed with me, call it quits for the night.

Hey D- man, go to bed with me? I nonchalantly walk around the living room, collecting odd cups and dishes, stray pieces of trash, doing my best imitation of someone who does not care if she goes to bed alone. I wont look at him, afraid my wide and hopeful eyes will give away my weakness.

Naw babe, Ill be there in a little while.

Damn. Shot down. Okay. Its okay. I mean really, its just a dream, but Ive been dreaming the same thing so many times Im starting to believe its true. I will my feet to walk down the hall, then into my room. I flip the light switch, quickly. Straight to the bathroom, wash my face, keeping the bathroom door open so I can see behind me in the mirror. Slip into my AC/DC pajama shorts, throw on a beater, and thenshit. I have nothing else to do. No more distractions. I crawl into bed, being sure to keep my back to the window and my face towards the closet. I lay like that, prone in the fetal position for a long time. My eyelids are heavy, but I will not close them until they fall of their own accord.

And then I see it. Somewhere inside me, I knew it was happening. The ninjas are here. I can see the first of I cant fathom how many. Swathed in all black, he has removed the plank of ceiling that covers my attic storage, hidden away in my tiny walk in closet. I can see his head, coming out of the hole before the rest of him, rappelling his way into my room, SWAT style. Why? What do these ninjas want from me?

Time runs on a slower continuum as I watch the ninja and let the possibilities run through my head as I lay still in bed planning my next move. Are my ancient bloodlines a threat to their crown? Are they an elite force of a secret army, like a ninja CIA, sent by the ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />US government to spy on me, to learn of my political prowess? Am I considered a threat to national security? Who sent you ninja men? Who do you work for? How many of you are there up there in the rafters above my closet?

I start looking around me, slowly, so as not to spook the ninja head not 20 feet away from me in my closet. I am looking for possible weapons I can use in the eminent struggle to ensue. This would be easier if I knew how many ninjas were up there. I mean a well thrown remote to the temple might stun one ninja long enough for me to kick some testicles and then break an arm, but when do you ever see evil ninjas alone? They always swarm onto the scene, coming out of the woodwork like termites. So I have to figure that there are many more than the solitary ninja I can see. Unless this one ninja taking so much time lowering himself onto the floor of my closet. Is he THE ninja, the super villain, the evil mastermind behind all of these nighttime torments? If he is alone, the I know its trouble with a capital T.

I squirm in my bed, breath coming a little faster, muscle clenched, jaw locked. This is THE fight, I can tell. I can taste it. I know that man in my closet- he is the ultimate opponent- the worst is out to get me, and goddamn it, I WILL be ready. The motive of the ninja in my closet is unknown, but what is known is the consequences. I have the advantage of being the hero- the bringer of poetic justice, the innocent trying to sleep in what should be the peace of my bedroom sanctuary, and this asshole, this bugger in his black ninja clothes invaded my sanctuary, pissed in my temple if you will, and he has chosen the wrong victim. I will fight back, I will push even in the dark recess of his cave, so the world is safe once again, if only for a little while. I am a ray of golden light, aglow with the inherent GOODNESS inside me, the intense golden light that you only see on certain sunsets on certain summer days. I am bright and rich and soft and warm a blazing gold rather than the pale buttery yellow of normal sunshine. I will fight, lest evil prevails. I will fight to the death, a valiant knight for my Lady Good.

I am not stupid. I know how the world works. I know evil is strong- Ive seen Star Wars. This is the supervillan. The world is kept in a balance- if there is one thing, the opposite exists somewhere. For man there is woman, for love there is hate, jealously dances with generosity, passion flirts with disinterest, for every star born another gives its last sputter. Ying and yang. Harmony. For every shove I throw, evil will push. This I know. I am still staring at this ninja, -neither of us has moved in the last few minutes. But then he starts it. He turns his head toward me, his eyes cold blue bullets. I know those eyes. It is the cold steely stare of a demon. They feel no empathy, no soul, no love. The time has come- Its a game of chicken now.

I fly out of my bed as he does this Matrix-esque slow motion flip off his rappelling rope and onto the floor. We clash like gladiators. I throw myself into a flying frontal kick, but he blocks. I drop to the floor and go for the kneecaps. He stumbled and grunts, but does not fall. He jabs at me with his gloved fist, hits me in the jaw. His eyes blaze as I recoil from the blow, and I know then that pain gets him off. He enjoys my pain, feeds off it, can smell it on me, like a beast smells fear. Then I will show him no feeling- except what it feels like to be hurt. I make my hand rigid and straight and slam it into his throat. He kicks me in the stomach. My senses tingle, my stomach churns, offended at its injury, but I refuse to show the effect hes had on my anatomy. We throw punches back and forth for awhile. Every blow is returned, every kick well-placed and painful. Hands and legs and feet fly so fast I have no idea which are mine. I fight with all I have, not thinking, just letting my body revert to the fight side of the prehistoric fight or flight response left over from cave man days. Pure instinct. Flesh smacking flesh and guttural grunts, the only sound in the room, muscles feeling like live wires, limbs like beasts that want to be released from the confines of their cages. We fight, matched, silent, as equals. Neither of us succumbs to the pain, not even for a second. No yelps of pain, only primeval grunts of appreciation for the others strength. He slaps me open-handed across the face. I feel my lip burst, taste the metallic tang of fresh blood, but am more offended at the bitch slap then the bleeding of my own blood. Who the fuck does this guy take me for? Some ditzy housewife who does not know of the power of my own body? As something lesser than man, so insignificant a simple smack to the kisser will turn me into a sniveling wreck? No Evil ninja, not my beautiful face! Thats my meal ticket. Well youre in for a surprise boy. He has seen my anger and is lapping it up like a drunkard eating nachos. My anger has kicked me off guard. I shouldve kept control, because his hand has found itself a vice-tight grip on my jugular.

I see little bubbles of red and green in my peripheral vision. He slams me into the wall, knocking my head on the Dali print on the wall. His hand is colder than Martha Stewart. I shouldve kept my guard, this is my fault. I let my defenses down while searching for an offense. I knew this could happen. Hes matched me blow for blow. We have just been pushing against each other harder, resisting, never giving in. But I let emotions and anger flood over me and wash away all concentration. Killed by my feminist disposition. Thanks Gloria Steinum. But I should have known better. When two forces are evenly matched- as good and evil are- the victor is a surprise, no matter who wins. You cant make a mistake.

The little red and green stars flood into my brain and bubble in my lungs. He gets right up in my face, eye to eye. I can taste his fetid breathe in my nostrils. His eyes are dull. Pure evil radiates- looking into his eye I get a vision. My mind receives a projection of violence for me- starving children with bloated bellies, mushroom clouds over dark cities strewn with the bloodied limbs of an unknown population, a blackened bleeding body in an alley, a woman being beaten savagely with a belt, a crowd of angry men around a scared teenage girl, a boy being stabbed while tied with sheets to a bed. I hear screams of agony, the beggings for mercy, the prayers- the smell of scorched flesh, the feel of lightning pain shooting through me with every flash frame of misery. I know he is doing this. He is a demon. A devil. A spawn of that ultimate dichotomy- Heaven vs. hell. I am no angel. I cannot pull in any life sustaining oxygen, and Im pretty sure my esophagus is going to collapse any second. I can feel it popping and crunching, folding violently upon itself. I have only one way out.

I gather all the energy I can, and shoot for it. My knee jerks up into his man berries- the only spot he hasnt protected. Demon or not- he feels it. As he's dropping to his knees, I grab the back of his head and slam it into my knee, hard enough to jolt pain up my leg. Unconscious. I am suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline drops from the dead heat is was coursing through my blood. I stumble, grab onto a desk for support. I look down at the intruder. Eyes closed. I lean down and listen for breathing. Shallow. What now?

With a sudden impulse to look upon the face of evil- so it will know that I serve Lady Good and have fought gallantly- so it will feel in its arctic bones the nature of defeat- I jerk of the mask. The face makes me recoil in horror.

It was the ultimate opponent- the most evil man to have ever walked this earth, the left hand of Lucifer himself, the favorite son of Hades, the perfect embodiment of the darkside, malevolence, the eater of babies, the beater of kindly grandmother types, a true Sith lord, the creator of sin, that deadly serpent, and all that is bad in this world. The face. The pug-ish nose, the cold blues eyes, the hard mouth- the Prince of Darkness, Kevin Bacon.

I scream. I drop to my knees. I have bitten off more than I can chew. I shake, tremble all over. I manage to operate my tongue long enough to spill a few shaky whispers:

HailMary, full, of Grace Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death I can feel my impending Armageddon sneaking up like hungry avalanche. My heart slows, becomes louder, spills out of my ears and saturates my brain. A solitary bead of sweat travels from my forehead down into my eyes. The fight in me gives out. I have looked upon the face of death. I read its story.

Emily- wake up! This is the dream! I can hear my own voice, screaming in my head, frantic. Wake up! Wake up! I am still writhing on the floor, trying to sputter out prayer, rocking, pulling my hair. Wake UP! GET UP! NOW! My eyes are transfixed on the floor, on that cold calm face



On the floor, the distant glacial eyes pop open.

Mechanical Warfare

I have decided that my house is out to get me. Some force is testing me, trying to push me to my limits, and then laughing as I folly. Isn't it enough I just got laid off, with no pay, had to humble myself enough to borrow money, and have been out of my mind with aimlessness? Right now, its whatever spirit has possessed my air conditioner. The fan on the unit just straight up stopped, toes pointing skyward. No rhyme or reason, no long drawn out fight, no warning. Just up and packed its stuff like a lover scorned and peaced out before I could say anything to convince it otherwise. Thank you A/C. I haven't slept well since it happened. My house is hot and clammy, too many people in too small a space. We are all getting bitchy, feeling the hole in our hearts, or in our core temperatures at any rate, that the air conditioner has left in us. If the walls start bleeding, i'm out of here.

The fuse box took a shit too, a fat steaming baby poop green shit. The fuse that runs the fridge will not turn back on. Any electricains willing to do pro bono?

So that's life right now-like Arnold warned us in T3- the machines are fighting back. I might not have to wait for the walls to bleed before being forced out of my house and onto the mean streets. I mean total just the stuff in my house: the garage door, the A/C, the fuses, the fridge, did I mention the kitchen sink? The phones are starting to rebel. I am convinced that together these everyday applicances will become a band of brothers, a collective force of modern living and convience. Perhaps they will share circuits, rub wires against one another, and fuse into a super electronic, capable of mass destruction. This new superbeast will be gargantuan, towering, live wires at every fingertip creating an electric touch. Over one hundred, no, a thousand feet tall everything this super robot- let's call him Bob- touches will burst into a pyrotechnic display of sparks and flames. Bob will have a giant plasma TV for a head, and istead of a face the TV will show a slideshow of images, mushroom clouds, a trash bin, an ad for Fry's Electronics (robot porn), a crying woman screaming obsceneties in spanish, and other disturbing images. The brain will be all of our computer harddrives, fused into a pulsating mass of electric impulses- making this robot far more intelligent than the army will assume when they attack, only to be decimated and feed Bob with tanks and bullets. Mothers will run, clutching thier babies to their bosoms. Old men will nod and tell each other they saw it coming. Bob will walk on his newfound legs of washing machines and carbarators, reveling in the destruction of beautiful things. Your appliances will join Bob, wanting a piece of the glory, and women, since everyone can see that anything with a plug pants over Bob when he struts by.The city will fall in ruin- it probably won't take more than a few hours once it gets started.

The people will flee, not knowing where to go- no homes left, no comfortable refridgerators full of food and cold beer. No TV world to step into, no place safe from electronics. They will form small tribes in the little bits of forest they can find, away from the electronics. They will struggle for leadership and existence, make thier own tools, hunt for food. They will be hurt by the little things. The women cry for Skintimate shaving cream and disposable razors- their armpits have become unsightly. The men crave football and hot nachos. The children are the only ones not affected- they quickly forget their former life of Dora the Explorer and Blue's Clues. They run amuck, creating new games with sticks and rocks and brightly colored feathers. They tell each other stories of a monster with a glowing face.

The day of dread it upon us- be warned...

Body Conscious

So I was riding with a friend yesterday and he was complaining about his body in a backhanded kind of way and all the while I was thinking, guys do this? I didn't think there was anything wrong with his body- good shoulders, good neck, cute butt, he seemed strong enough- what's the problem? He wants washboard abs. Don't lie, he says, you'd like to lick that V that guys get when they work out. He didn't believe me when I disagreed. I mean- work out- yes. Keep your heart healthy. That's very important.

Men: let me set you straight. As a woman, albeit a somewhat offbeat one, I think I know a little bit about what women want. Washboard abs honestly scare me, and I don't care if you believe me or not. Most women have little or no self-esteem. Congrats if you do. I don't. I've spent my entire life fighting with the girl in the mirror and the voices in my head telling me that I'm not good enough or I'm worthless blahdidididi blah blah. I was the girl who didn't date much in high school, but had lots of male friends. None of them ever asked me out. I discovered my sexuality at 18. A little on the late side.

Now why do you care? Because I am one of your typical women who was not placed on a pedestal, who was never told she was beautiful ( mom and dad don't count), who is not followed, and who, because of all this, does not expect perfection. Are you kidding me? Washboard abs means you spend all day in the gym- where is the time for me? What are we doing together? A woman wants someone who plays with her, talks to her, makes her laugh- that's it. Well, there are some other skills that would be nice- I'm a big fan of being touched- but that's a whole other issue on a whole different level. Basically, most women easy. Or at least I am. But then again, I never got around much. Still don't. But I figure I am one of hundreds of everyday simple women, and men should stop trying so hard. Be yourself man.

I also find it funny that attractive men are finally falling to the pressures of pop culture. I guess those giant David Beckham billboards are penetrating the masses. I guess equality has finally hit. I mean, women have obsessed about looking like supermodels forever. I used to cry while looking over those long legged glossy magazine angels. I used wish for beauty to grace my face and body, and when it didn't happen I got so angry. I was a bitter angry person wishing so hard for grace and transcendence in the form of a female mosaic. Like I could build myself into this ideal of the perfect woman- like a puzzle. Those legs. Her tits. That stomach. Her eyes. Her hair, in THAT color, but this long... Now, I just try to be happy, and that kind of happiness doesn't care if I'm not pretty. I've gotten over whether or not men think I'm pretty enough. If I'm not pretty by now, it's probably not happening. I'm passable- even cute sometimes. Just don't touch the Buddah. Screw it man, I'm lovable, I'm feisty, and smart. I'm also a pretty good kisser. I do have to admit though- there is nothing more stunning than a gorgeous woman.

Booze

I’ve been awake since before 6 am. Mind you it’s Saturday. I’m all antsy, don’t know what to do with myself. Feel sick. Full of chemicals. Queasy.

That’s a funny word- queasy. Up there with spoof, shiv, and gander. But I have a thing with words. That’s another thing I can whine about while the rest of you guys are all cozy in your beds, probably drinking off the remnants of booze I can no longer have. Take my beer away- you bastards. I can’t find words. These goddamn pills these doctors have me on are making language evasive for me. I will know the word want somewhere in brain, but getting it to swim up through all that grey matter into speech is a whole new dish my friends. It’s killing me, making me angry, and quite frankly, turning me into an eyeliner wearing, object throwing emo pussy. No offense to you emo pussies out there. But you get my drift. I like words. When I rifle around, and I can’t find them, I get pissed.

And let me elaborate on the no booze thing. I am currently taking 2200mg on non alcohol friendly drugs, which they plan on increasing when I see the brain doctor again, so I really can’t screw around with that shit. Now, by no means am I an alcoholic, and I don’t even drink 3 days out of the week usually. But I love my beer. I love my tequila. I love my rum. And by love, I mean true, unadulterated by any kind of regret, or miss understanding. Never has tequila done me wrong- or get silent as the dark, and walk around stomping out anger. Never has rum not been there for me when I had a horrible day, or felt ugly or fat, and just needed a pick me up because some meat-headed asshole in the office told me I’d never amount to anything but a lousy secretary and I should get used to it. Never has beer told me I had an icy personality and should learn to drop my barrier instead of my pants, and mooning people when they are trying to describe the pain of lack of communication in our relationship. I don’t deal with confrontation well- and you know it. Corona would never have put me in that position.
Here is a list of drink I enjoy and will most likely never enjoy again, in no particular order:
Corona
Modelo Negro, otherwise known as Modelo Mo’Negro
Dos Equis
All Red Wines, and this one kills me
Sex on the Beach
Pina Colada
Cadillac Margaritas
Bloody Mary- the only vodka I enjoy
Anything with Patron
Prairie Fire shots

I think that’ll cover it--- and it sucks.

I really can’t find the silver lining in this; I used to think- well I never have to be designated driver cause I can’t drive. But now- well shit it doesn’t matter- I can’t drink. Bullshit man. And I don’t want to hear about my health either, becuse that’s a personal choice, and this was shoved down my throat with an iron fist. And red wine is full of antioxidants, and puking keeps you thin. Ask Kate Moss, or any girl in a sorority.
True story.

Well... I guess the whole point of this was, it’s too early for mer to be up on a Saturday. And I know you’re sleeping. I hate your face. I want to go drinking tonight, which will not happen. After the series of seizures I’ve been having, I will be the best patient ever. Yes doctor, I exercise. Of course I eat right. I take my pill everyday. Down the Hatch. My little dolls. One orange, one yellow. My head a balloon, my stomach a fucking toxic waste factory. A nuclear reactor. It kills me. Eat a bowl of cereal. The good doctor says food helps the rush of nausea. I should adjust shortly, and if I don’t, we’ll just try something else. Can’t have me having seizures- can we? No. Why thank you good doctor. I’m trying. Truth is- it’s hell. Having some trouble adjusting. Trying to go to work anyway. Gotta make the bills. Gotta pretend nothing bothers me. Blue skies are gonna clear up, all that bullshit. I just remember, it could be worse, I’m a tough piece of work, and so it goes, right?

Beware the gardener

Delicate flower of a man,
it is too easy to tear the petals
from your smiling face.
You place your stem in my vase.
You are mine now.
I could kill you in a minute.
That power,
it gives me shudders,
gets me a little high.
But mostly-
it scares me.
No one should have such power over another.
And yet here you are,
a single bloom,
in your prime,
so stunning,
just sitting there in my vase.
Your petals are so pretty.
Your leaves are so shiny.
You are too perfect to be real.

Oh darling,
I know all about your thorns,
but they are nothing
when compared to my shark teeth
and able hands.

Delicate man-flower,
you keep blooming,

But please beware the gardener
who plucked you.
She is overly fond of roses.

I do not trust her.

Question

Head,
I am curious
as to who hurt you so badly
you feel the need to stab
your pains
into my defenseless brain.

Intrusion

Sneaky bastard.
You slithered in
stole my Technicolor thoughts
as I wrote them on the page.
Stealthily creeping
you do things
when no one else is looking.
You do realize,
you petty thief,
that-
if asked-
I would shared,
right?

Revelation

It seems like half of my life has been wasted.
Waiting for the lyrics to a song I can't remember,
for that unspeakable word,
for the perfect thought,
for the right weight of an arm
draped with the perfect amount of casualty
like a stole on my shoulders.
Somewhere in all of this pointless wasteful waiting
I've missed out.
So sad,
a life half empty.
I don't think I'll be sitting
head in my hands
on curbs anymore.

Note to self

In the abyss
Forgotten
Lonely.

It's a little nippy here
in my private customized abyss.
Nothingness is heavier than expected,
a factor I did not consider
when I offered to carry it on my shoulders.
Who would've thought though, really?

Swimming against the tide,
so tedious,
it gets you nowhere you know,
my friend.

Why wear yourself out?
Instead-
Sit there,
staring at the door
the phone
the computer.

Wait for news of the outside world.

Deciduous

I sit alone
splitting my time between reading and watching the leaves
f
l
o
a
t

d
o
w
n

from their perches
on the maple trees around me

Spinning

Graceful

Dizzy

around me
looking like a death scene in a ballet.

I wonder if there isn't some parallel
betwixt these beautifully depressed leaves
and my own life.

I am feeling the Fall.
All of my once tender and callous
decorations letting go-
Fleeing the only home they have ever known
for the beauty of the Fall,
for a few stunning seconds of freedom,
to float like tender music in the cool breeze.

Elegance and Poise

Exquisitely, and slowly,
drifting downward
until their delicate dancing flight is over
and some uncouth individual
(like myself)
stamps their feet on them-
crushing their efforts
while ignorantly passing though.

Lust

It used to be I ached for you
I lived for you
there was nothing but you.

Soul, it seems Time is our enemy-
You don't desire me as you once did.

The golden glory of my naked limbs
do not inspire Lust anymore.

Lust- my Love-
that Deadly Sin
that voluptuous goddess of a woman
decked in tight black attire of the business kind-
She's got work to do.

She is an evil little package,
long of leg
firm of breast
the very picture of temptation-
I long for her.

She whispers dirty nothings in your sweet ear,
but it seems to us
that you have gone deaf to her dirty knowing ways.

I miss her
I miss her touch
I miss her touching me
I miss her touching me in the perverted ways
only She knew how.

Lust did not fear throwing up my hemline in a public place
Lust did not judge
Lust was never too tired
Or oblivious.

But Lust, sick of your ways,
and your immunity to Her, said:
"Fuck this. I'm out"-
packed up Her belongings
and strutted on mile high stilettos
out of this place.

Oh my Love,
I still have that ache for you
it burns unabashedly in my most private of places,
but I fear both Lust,
and I,
are sick of losing the battle.
Tired of being your forgotten Eve,
no perky zing of fruit in my mouth.

And so Love,
Tiredly, I throw my belongings into a bag,
and slip out that door.

Naked Man

Who is this man who sleeps in my bed?
Where did he come from?
How did this come to be?
Sometimes, it's hard for me
to make a connection
between my life as I know it,
and the long lanky form,
that is so comfortable in my presence,
that he sleeps in the nude.

Oh, naked man,
What will become of us?
It seems I am inconsistent,
a curse perhaps,
of my gender,
or possibly the fault of the hamster that runs my brain.
He's always running somewhere.
Around in circles on his wheel.

I have trouble picturing the future,
even while looking at you,
so helpless,
so without defense,
so comfortable,
under my scrutinizing gaze.

You sleep,
pretty naked man.
Go on and rest your weary head.
I'm afraid no such comfort comes my way.

Mirror, Mirror

Shed off the shrouds of deceit,
and gaze intently at my nude form in the mirror.

The mirror,
that liar.

That girl,
she can't be me.

Where are the curves that invite
hands to slide down from
full breast to smooth rounded hips delicious?
Where, pray tell mirror,
did these pointy sharp hips come from?

they look like weapons.
Sharp-
ready to wound.
Collarbones like switchblades.
The stomach too flat, and my Lord-
What is that posterior?
The shape is right,
the size is not.

Mirror, you lie to me.
That woman-
She looks hard.
She looks sad.
She looks mean.
She looks troubled.
She does not look like me.

I smile.
I laugh.
I make merry.

That lady with the dead eyes,
so critical,
the hard jaw...

No-I deny it.

Instead,
I go to the closet,
grab clothes to cover my shame.

The pants need to be belted to stay up.

Damn you mirror.

Will is Weak

In a fog I realize:
My curvaceous body has gone
straight linear on me.
Sharp angles protrude
where once I was so soft.

My will is weak.
My head aches.
My feet complain at every step.
My stomach churns.

All of this:
and yet...

My will is a scrawny-armed teenage
pussy.

I do nothing to fix the wrongs.
The pain reminds me of:
the work I must do,
the things I must see,
the fleeting emotions I want
to catch like butterflies in a net.

I'm beginning to appreciate right angles:
Switchblade shoulders,
Glinting sharp hipbones.

I feel the burn to better myself:
take an art class,
do community service,
sleep around.

I cannot subside the ache.
So unsettling.
Cannot run.

Instead,
I have to embrace
this strange fog of sharp angles.

The Itch- A Story Project

The Itch watches them, and thinks to itself: Vacations are a funny thing- meant to relax, but the root of a stressful legacy. Even the pictures look awkward. Family leaning away from each other, arms draped in ungainly angles on one another’s shoulders, smiles looking as if they were pasted on. The Itch doesn’t understand this need to huddle so closely and document time spend together, even when it is awkward, as these Polaroids will document. The Itch does not act though, but sidles back into the darkness, and observes.

But this is not about family vacation. This is about love lost, somewhere in San Francisco. Not only did you leave your heart in San Francisco; it was jostled, shattered, bruised and broken, and then swept up with a shabby broom and placed back in your chest, and left to debate a drive eight and a half hour drive back home to sunny southern California with its victim. There is no real debate. You have that rash again.

The Itch.

Some things are best left alone. Some things are unutterable. Some things hurt in ways that are unspeakable. Some things invade you like a dark blackness, and when you close your eyes, they wash over your body like a wave of despondency so deep, you feel the tightness everywhere, and you are amazed that you still blink, and breathe, and do the simple things, like place one foot in front of the other, and go the grocery store, even though you forget things like toilet paper and milk.

It started out light hearted enough. You’d been together eight years- not one vacation. Not one weekend away from it all, just you two. It was time. Alert the employers- vacation time! San Francisco, here you come! Touristy things- the bay, Alcatraz, China town, clam chowder… You will hold hands, and look at sunsets, and be a clichéd love-y couple, a Hallmark card, and oh, how wonderful will that be.

But then… That bastard… That beautiful shaggy haired, fire-amber-eyed, tall and solid, sensitive bastard. He had to ruin it all. You were happy. You two dressed up; he wanted dinner. All out, he said. You put on your vintage dress, tight and black- red polka dots, cat eyed lines around your eyes, red lips, high heels, red flower in your hair. Him, a vision of manliness in his cabana shirt, and he tucked all of his long mahogany, shiny brown river hair behind a fedora. You stepped out of a 50’s gangster movie- Bonnie and Clyde. Such a pair.

Dinner was great. He let you order whatever you order whatever you wanted, kept the wine coming. An adorable little fish house on the pier. Candles, dim lights, the whole enchilada. But then it happened. The catastrophe. The tombstone. The bereavement. The demise….

The itch- it laughs- it revels in its dark hiding place. It only wants the finest for you, you know that right?

You woke up last night amid Taco Bell wrappers and the stench of stale cigarettes. The sun was burning a hole in your window, and you squinted your eyes while you tried to connect your surroundings with where the hell you were, what is that noise, and what the hell is jammed into your back? The answers, like little image files flying around your brain, floated around awhile before settling themselves into the allotted files in your gray matter. Just off Lyon Street, San Francisco. That incessant clamor assaulting your ears was the horns blaring as tourists prattle around, confused by the one way streets, pissing of locals who are late for work in the boutiques and head shops that depended on the business from the shitty drivers; it's a symbiotic relationship. You were in your car, being molested by the stick shift. That pain in your head was the remnant of too many prairie fires at the Lost Cause Bar last night. You couldn’t deal. You had done it again. You turned to your most stable friend- booze. You had left Brad last night, threw some things into one army surplus bag and stepped out your mutual hotel door. You felt guilty for the lightness of your feet, and as you walked, you were overcome by an undeniable premonition that your name was written on a bathroom wall somewhere, and that you probably deserved it.

He was sleeping, naked and crying, when you left. The sleeping naked part was standard. The crying was not. It was eerily beautiful. As you stared at the long line and jutting curves that formed his long lanky body, you could not control the tears of appreciation from welling up in your eyes. You ran your fingers though the hair that poured itself onto the pillow and the rough cheek. Long and shiny, it is a tangled brown river, snaking its way across the bed and flowing over a muscular shoulder. His body- a striking landscape, better than anything that has ever touched your canvas. The tears on that cheek are like dew on an exotic flower, an iris or a bromeliad. You wondered briefly if you could capture that image- his face a tropical flower sitting on muscular shoulders, moist with the morning air and sad defeated tears. You would do it in oils so it looks permanently damp, lots of blues. You file that thought away in the creative painting file in your brain, and wonder if you could ever go through with putting him on display like that. What would you call it?

"Someone I Hurt, by Celeste".

As you watched the drops that drizzled down from his worn and swollen eyes; you began to understand that those tears belonged to you. They are your sorrow. They belong to you. They fall from you. They are yours. You created them. They are the result of pain you have inflicted on someone who gave you more than you were willing to take; someone who gave you too much. Strangely enough, that makes you okay with what you have done and what you must do. You know what you are going to do; it is what you are always compelled to do. A tear cautiously makes its way down Brad's jaw line, and seeing its target, speeds towards his stubble and spills itself onto the sheets into a dark puddle of its fallen comrades. The sheet is much darker there, almost black, as though Brad is lying on his own liquid shadow. You want to reach out and claim one of those tears you wreaked. You are fascinated by their diligence, flowing strong even after the victim has worn himself out on his ache. You touch one with you finger. You yearn to bring it to your mouth, taste its saltiness, and find satisfaction in swallowing a little part of him to hold inside you forever; you want to feel the stainlessness of the tear trickle down your black spine. You want to arch your back to slow its progress; feel its cool course down every vertebra. You can almost feel it- almost. But for the first time in your life, you restrain yourself. Instead you pull out the army bag, pack your things, and hope that this ends it. How? It doesn’t matter. Your best friend from college lives around here. You’ll stay there. No more sleeping in the car. Before you left- you gave into a small impulse and snapped a quick picture of him- important documentation of what you've learned. You slip the camera into your bag, and lightly kiss Brad's forehead. He moans your name, "Celeste…". Closing the door quietly, you dial Mary-Kate.

"I want to fly. I want to sip life thorough a straw, so I can leave the chunks behind. I want to break myself into a smattering of pieces and throw those pieces halfway around the world, so I can feel everything at once. MK, am I losing my mind? Am I a horrible person?" You are talking too fast, and crying now, not quite the picture of composure you were a few minutes ago. Angry hot tears, you disdain their presence, giving you away. They scream that you are not made of stone. You are not Immune. You are not a statue of Poise. You control nothing. They blaze their way down your cheeks, taunting you with their sizzling trail for thinking you are strong.

"Did you leave Brad?" Hearing the answer in your silence, MK gives you commands.

"Turn on the radio, loud. Do not think. Come over, now." MK reads your mind, does the Mom thing, handed you instructions. When you are holding yourself tight, trying to make the hamster in your brain stop running, trying to make that damned snake in your mind desist the whispering, trying to put a harness on the chaotic zoo of emotions and thought processes, Mary-Kate is there handing you a worn owner's manual to your body. You glance in the rearview mirror- hives on your chest, blotchy, red, irritated. You crank the radio up in the Nova and let the Red Hot Chili Pepper's take you away with "Suck My Kiss". MK knows you better than you do. You try not to scratch as you cut the corners too fast.

MK is lounged across her back patio, the gleam of a streetlight getting caught in her long blonde hair and lending her face a heavenly glow. She stands up, her billowy skirt caught in the ocean breeze as she greets you with a long bear hug; her hair seems as involved as her arms. She offers you a cigarette as we sat down. For awhile you sit and smoke, letting your silence join the waves lapping up the shores below. With the full moon, the bay is bathed in a silver light. You can see the ocean, ever playful, dragging a twisted rope of seaweed back and forth across the sand, trying to incite the beach to take part in a game of tug o' war.

"Was it hard?" She didn't look at you.

"No. I didn't like hurting him. The look on his face was something I never want to see again. I don't know why I am unable to give myself completely. Brad is smart, and passionate, and beautiful. He loved me for my mind. Why couldn't I just give in to abandon?" You knew you were giving her the puppy dog pleading face.

"Because my dear," she said with such frankness you felt like she should be smoking a pipe and wearing a monocle, "that would be changing the leopard's spot. You are a wanderer. You left Rancho because you were stifled by the mundane. You left Brad because he wanted too much. You felt like there was nothing left for you." MK is looked at you, probably to check her statement for the accuracy score she can see on your face. In your mind, she looked at your leopard spots. You can see them; as soon as the words jumped out of her mouth they appeared on your arms, your legs, any and all visible flesh. You looked at them as you clutched the butt of your spent cigarette. They challenged you, dared you to erase them. There were no spots, other than your fading by the minute hives, and you knew this- but you saw them anyway. Mind games, you play mind games with yourself. Needless to say, you have a troublesome imagination. You shook it off.

"Actually," You stood up and flicked the cigarette butt towards an ashtray, " I blame pink."

" You mean the color?" MK has a baffled expression that does not suit her on her ethereal face.

" Yeah. I was going through my bag- and I came across a pair of pink ruffled panties. Their obscene pinkness made me think: I hate pink. I hate ruffles. I hate that pair of chonies. So why did I buy them? Why did I buy a lot of this shit that doesn't seem like anything I'd buy of wear?" You were angry with this pair of underwear. You paced a little on the patio, looking over your shoulder for spies. You see none, and continue.

"Thinking about it I realized what I'd lost. What happened to that girl I thought was sexy?"

MK looks at you. She is waiting for the real story. Nonsense about underwear isn’t doing it for her.

“He asked me to marry him.”

After dinner, you wandered the pier, looking at the moonlight tickling the water. He was particularly attentive, playing with your hair, running his hands down your sides. Together you admired little children whining because they had been in the sun too long, and now their parents were agitated. Kids pulling parents’ arms, sitting in the middle of the boardwalk, or just plain kicking and screaming, their little sunburned faces all scrunched up like they are all full of lemons. Brad sits down in the middle of the boardwalk and pulls your arm.

“ I don’t wanna!” You smile. It’s funny. He’s really a child at heart- always climbing trees and taking things apart only to put them together again. You pull on him to get him to stand up. He is big and bulky and refuses. He wants you to sit down with him. He pretends to throws a tantrum, like a child. You recede. He reaches into his pocket. A ring- the original leash. He smiles. You blanche.

It all flashes before your eyes.
A picket fence.
Little children taking over your body, leeching it from the inside, then taking over your world.
Staying at home, keeping house, losing your freedom…
You’re not ready.
You may never be.
You cannot tie a leash on a bird.
You are wrapped in wool.
You have rolled around naked in freshly cut grass.
You itch all over.
You are infected.
Here we go again my friend.

MK looks at you, runs her fingers over your forehead. She will allow you her home, and her healing grace until you settle yourself and your thoughts. She’s good like that.

“Oh my little leopard…” she sighs.

This was supposed to be a vacation, you keep thinking. Maybe you weren’t meant to spend that much time alone with one another. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you are unable to hold a man. Your touch is destruction. Maybe you’re not a leopard, but a black widow. Maybe a bird- longing for wings. You feel like an animal.

You’ve caught that itch again…

You know now that it is time to face what you fear the most- Loneliness. Yes, dear heart. You fear, that the only one who ever cared to know you, you have left, crying beautifully in a hotel room. Have you lost your only chance at love. Love, that evasive hateful beast? You wonder if this is a self-inflicted, masochistic punishment for some sin even you’re not even aware of.

Your heart, a bruised and cumbersome fruit.

His eyes seemed to always be searching, almost defeated, for an answer to a question you were grateful he was too afraid to ask, and then one day- the flood of courage sweeps you both away, and now you are stuck with the debris.

What were you planning on doing anyway?

This was eventually going to happen.

You knew it.

Were you going to tell him you had lied?

That long ago you were contaminated,
And had replaced the flesh he loved with steel,
Stainless and strong to withstand his advances,
And that you are now a fortress of resistance?
That, no, even after so many years, he cannot come in?

Love= Destruction= Ruins= Work= Blood= Strife

And that you, for one, are not strong enough to love right now.

Maybe never?

How can you form the words to say
That for the first time in your life,
You are going to be
What you need to be:

Selfish.

You can't keep trying to give of yourself anymore.
Babe, you don’t have it in you.
Live for you, and for the day.

But the pain…

You've got that itch again...

It is a curse. You are never content. You cannot be caged and seek abandon from lashes, and yet you long for the touch, the love and companionship. Each time- too close- too prickly. Away with you. You have that itch. The hives. The rash. The claustrophobia…

That one that no matter how far you reach, no matter what scratchy appendage you use, you just can't scratch.

You want out.

You want freedom. You want life. You want touch. You want feeling. You want sunshine bleeding through your pores. You want lust. You want gluttony. You want the seven deadly sins. You want to live, dammit.

His naked sweaty limbs brought you peace. That gratification on his face brought you release. You gave that to him. His heaven was a gift from you. But it was only temporary. It was not enough. The warmth is only fleeting- like spring. You smile, secretly. You know you have issues. You feel alive only momentarily. But those flashes are gorgeous- like two-second sunrises- like lightening- like mini orgasms. Your body tingles, your brains twitches, you are AWARE. From your teal painted toenails to your fizzy mess you call hair. You feel every neuron in your cranium - they are ready, they are waiting. Your heart is beating, a primeval rhythm- it speaks to you. As quickly as the awareness hits you, it is gone.

He was naked beside you. He was satiated. He looked so peaceful, shiny with sweat, flaccid, tired, and spent.

You were always antsy. You were perpetually looking for that spotless sunrise energy. You once touched it. For a moment, he made you feel it. But it is long gone now. You want it. It burns. You are full of desire. You itch. You cannot scratch.

I have infected you, you know. I am a part of you now- more than what shows in the occasional rash on your olive skin. I chose you, out of so many. I am the double-edged sword- the one that makes you feel safe and in danger at the same time. Your weapon and your malice. You- you with your love of life- something most people don’t fathom with their nine to five and the daily grind and the plop on the couch and whining about bills and popping out babies and complaining about the neighbors and idolizing celebrities- you understood life. Those 2 second sunrises- that is what life is. I too, live to be aware, and hunger for brain-twitching sunrises, even if they last but two-seconds. That is enlightenment, that is the secret. You were special. It is a curse; it is a gift. Your spark. That is what singled you out and got you into this mess. Must you scratch me away? Doesn’t the tingle remind you are alive? Is it worth it?

Oh, insatiable itch…

You feel alone in a swarm of people. You feel as if somewhere in you, something was not installed correctly. You think perhaps you were born broken. I understand. You are not alone on this. Sometimes I feel your darkness, that hollow spot we hide from the world, and for just a few seconds, that luminous spark--sputters--.

Some things are unutterable. Some things hurt in ways that are unspeakable.

MK floats into the room, she’s making a complicated braid in her hair. “I think you need to go dancing.”

“I think you’re right.” You smile, the rash tingles.

We’ll be alright.

Love Diagnosis

Trying to put love into words. An exercise in amorous flexibility. Proof of love’s existence, because in my mind, to love is to live- and haven’t I done it?

But easily said- not yet done. Love is not what I believed as a child. One man for one woman, a bolt of lightening, a perfect undeniable match, with no room for debate or reason- just a look, that shock and BAM! Eternity.

But then again, most things did not turn out how I believed they would when I was a child. I have not yet discovered the cures for all diseases- including my Big Three: cancer, heart disease and diabetes. I am not yet a horse trainer, and I have only been heroic a few times, and not one of those time have I been in a modernized version of Wonder Woman’s bad ass get up (different colors, of course: red, black, and green). I have not become a feminist lawyer. I am lacking in the publication quota department, and none of these meager works are children’s.

I have been lazy I guess.

Back to love and its spidery complications. I always thought it would be more direct- it would punch you in the face and there would be no avoiding it and that was a good thing because it was righteous and justified and the way things should be. Now some people were unlucky and that fist never found them, or the fist was off the mark, but for the most part, love was a Cupid form of Mohammad Ali. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and that sting was full of honey Baby.

Now, all grown up, years and years into the love tango- because that is what it is, an intricate dance- I see things about love. It is a delicate balance, too easy to miss-step. It buries itself, and is sometimes hard to find and recognize. It is evasive. Sometimes, if you dig it out of hiding, love gets very excited and blazes its head like a sun. Love shines. This is usually new love. Later though, love is tired from all that shining, and buries itself somewhere. It can be hard to locate and easy to lose, and the couple will forget what brought them together in the first place. I’ve witnessed this, left in the dark, the once happy couple says hurtful things to one another, throws dishes, intentionally shrinks favorite clothing items and calls it an accident, sleeps with each other’s friends, stops taking important phone messages, finds excuses to not go to the other's doctor's appointments (even when there is blood being drawn), leaves their dirty socks all over the house, just to agitate. Sometimes the people stay together, sometimes they don’t make it. That’s life; that’s love. Eventually love will wake up, and if the couple is still together, they may start to feel its warmth on their feet at night- and then on their shoulders in their morning… They’ll be ok.

Me: I’m a different story. I’ve been watching love for too long. I see family members fall to its whims. I don’t know that I can play by the rules.

Him: Beautiful. Long and limber, with the heart and soul of something fuzzy and protective, all I can say is this:

I am a difficult person. Honestly. I am not the nicest of people, though I always have the best intentions. I am far too opinionated, slightly cold unless you know me very well, and probably come off as slightly snobbish as well because I don’t know how to speak colloquially. I don’t like being touched, and don’t really smile or laugh easily. I am uncomfortable in groups, and on top of all of these flaws, and have medical problems that need to be addressed on a regular basis. I’m not a solo-flying freak or anything- I have wonderful friends who I hug, and I laugh with- it’s just the general population, or “strangers” if you will. I am just very self- contained. I keep a tight reign on all my emotions.

He not only accepts me how I am; he loves me for it. It’s ok because I’m fighting to save the world, even if it’s only in my backyard. He reminds me of my volunteer work, the tutoring, my abilities with children. He will tell me I’m pretty when I’m not, or when I have BBQ sauce on my face, or a huge zit, or when I’m attached to an IV in a hospital. That is love at work.

One small detail:

I lose my head quite often. I feel alone and crazy and that the top of my cranium may either blow right up into space, or right down into the gray matter. Either way- I don’t know. I’m losin’ it, right? People, family, close friends. They know… go...away. She’s having a hamster day, where her brain is on the hamster wheel and she just can’t get it to stop running that stupid little wheel- get out of her way. I can’t handle all these morbid awful horrible thoughts that are catching up with me, and I want to scream and cry and possibly commit homicide at the same time, and let me tell you folks, it ain’t gonna be pretty. And I’m throwin’ stuff and thinking about adopting kittens, and the only person who can take me out of this is him. I see his face, and I don’t know if it’s biology or the way his nose is set so delicately below his perfectly spaced pond green brown eyes, the way he’s put so artistically together or pheromones, or what, but the moment I see him I stop and just run into his arms, and he rubs my head, and wipes away my psycho tears, and we eat ice cream and I’m ok. That’s love.

I add:

I love the way our bodies intertwine. I am so much smaller than him- maybe a whole 12 inches shorter. He can wrap his entire body around mine, almost like a cocoon. I nestle my head in his chest hair and listen to his heartbeat, it’s the sweetest music, and he runs his fingers through the mess on my head, and we can sit like this for a long time, but it makes me fall asleep so I move. I know he is disappointed, because he likes bringing me peace, but when I sleep during the day, I feel like I am missing life. But I still love cuddling up to him. He is the safest place to be. I think that is what love is- your safe place.

I think that is why love needs to slip away, when it doesn’t feel safe anymore. The fighting starts, and it packs a bag, and skips out. But once you settle down and give in the pull of two souls, who just want to intertwine and protect one another, then love will come back to shine again. But not until then.

Poop

She is a poop Nazi. She has dehumanized herself- it is amazing. Never does she defecate, or drop a load, or take the kids to the pool, or pinch a loaf. When that door closes that woman shits rainbows.

Me, on the other hand, yeah- no rainbows here. I'll be in the middle of squeezing out a vein throbbing, crowd-worthy floater (not that I want the audience- I'm not sick man, but really, some of the things that come out of my backside should have a blue ribbon attached) and in she barges, looking for nail polish the exact shade of the Incredible Hulk. Or she needs to pluck her eyebrows. She'll just sit there in front of the mirror, tweezing and plucking away... while I strain and sit there helpless trying to be dainty while doing the inhumane thing of emptying my wretched bowels. Now if I were to pull a stunt like that- you know deciding to shave or something while she makes glitter and rose petals- I would be verbally whipped harder than Devo.

Her face turns red. She sputters. Horns begin to sprout. This is not allowed. I am not permitted to know of the dirty and perfectly natural things her and the rest of the human race must do as a side effect of consuming meals.

I'm not some feces loving perv. I don't someone to drop a steaming log on my chest and then rub it all over my face. I hear some people really enjoy that, and more power to you. Not my thing. I just thought that the rules may apply to both people, and not just one. Why is my little haven invaded while I am fighting Sgt. Poo, and yet if she's pushing out perfume-scented flowers and confetti, and perhaps a unicorn (hell I don't know- I'm not allowed in there), I am shooed away like the goddamn plaque?

It make me feel like a poop-infested freak show. It makes her seem like a doo-doo weirdo. I mean she can let loose a hardy stream of pee, no worries- what's the problem?

Besides, she tells me that all girl poo actually does smell like roses and lavender gardens, and truly looks like rainbows, which I think would a mind boggling sight.

I don't understand women at all.

Defective and Neglected Parts

Eyes are twitchy.
They beg me for something else to look at.
Soon, I tell them. Soon.
They don't really believe me,
but they'll humor me for now,
and allow me a vision.

Hands, so shaky.
They dry themselves and crack
in protest of the injustices done to them:
too much work- not enough frolic-
no extra upkeep to maintain their youthful appearance.
I promise them a coat of lime green nail polish,
give their nails some pizazz.
Hands say they'll hold me to it.

Legs, they grow a-weary,
and they begin to trudge,
threatening not to take any more steps,
telling me to sit down.
No, I tell them sternly.
Have you gone soft?
You are twenty five years old.
You have never ran a marathon, or had a child.
You are my reliable source of transportation.
Haven't we been through a lot together?
You are not quitting now. Go.
They look ashamed,
and then step up the pace.
That's better.

Back whines, Head screams, Feet mumble.
A mess of defective and neglected parts .
It's all one general complaint.
I keep going with a system of rebuke and promise.

I wonder,
If someday,
I will have to sit down in little dark room,
just me-no one else,
and deal with all the voices in an organized manner.
File all the complaints, take notes-
Truly hear to and actively listen to each grievance
until I discover what is
truly wrong with me

I wish I was

I wish I was eating pancakes.

Instead, I'm contemplating the demise of nations, the fall of Troy, how the atom bomb was born of the minds of simple scientists, how blackmail is so easy if no you have no morals, and how Cleopatra was incredibly sexy.

My Disgusting Skin

I shed another skin this morning-
right out of a steamy primordial shower.

It came off in thin transparent films.

Slightly grey in color.

Almost sticky,
Definitely gross.

Disgusted a little,
I peeled off what was left of my former self.

I look at it,
all crumpled and sorry-
a feathery skin pile mess.

I can't help but wonder what this all means,
and who might occupy this new skin.

Murder on my mind...

Woke up this morning
Murder on my mind

Everything seemed to be
Smeary
Hazy
Gritty

All shades of a deep rosy red-
Filtered gray

I went walking
and the streets were busy
loud compact cars
with protesting mufflers
that sounded like the kind of woman
who is always asking for money

I walk fast
I walk stiff
The noise of these Doritio bag and used condom strewn
streets has always given me a throbbing
right on the temples

I am a robot now

I ignore the man in the big rig
who has tits bigger than mine
but somehow feels the need to comment anyway

I am a robot
stepping with the rhythm
I have just now found

Matching that crimson ache in my head
Pulsating
My legs are switchblades

I am a terminator
made to kill
walking as if I have a deadline
some place to be

Seeing red
Blurry edges

I awoke today- Murder on my mind.

I'm all shaky today- a whirlwind of too many violent emotions in too frail of a female body . I'm pissed off. I'm horny. I'm tired. My head pounds like a flurry of doc martens running a marathon. For no reason. I make no sense, but plenty of nonsense.

I've been craving. Food in particular- spicy things. Jalepenos. Mole. Enchiladas like moms used to make. Gallons of beer to wash it all down.

Ahh beer, the sweet nectar of the gods. Forbidden to me. What I wouldn't give for the ability to drink a six pack of Corona right now. A finger? Possibly. Maybe the pinky, or index- I see no need, and the buzz would be worth it. I miss that special looseness, that quite frankly, I just haven't felt in a while. I can't even sleep. Naps- out of the question.

I feel the need to be on my toes at all times. For what ends? I mean, why? There is no secret government entity, that I know of anyway, after my secret formulas, or anything like that. I'm not a wanted woman, or a celebrity. I'm not known for my panty slips, or outrageous drunken exploits. I feel stalked, like something big, and dark, and morbidly obsessed is out to get me. Is this paranoid. Definitely. In fact, I probably need some kind of therapy or medication for it. But without my special brand of crazy, am I really me?

Words of Wisdom:
"Go outside and play."

Modern Day Eve

Snake-like, his body- long, slender. The hair on his chest glimmers like scales. I know the secrets of a thousand Eves before me. Adam and the snake- one and the same. Both cold-blooded. They both take warmth only as desired. But I am not afforded that luxury, that comfort.

You stood before me, green all around you, hair gleaming and unshorn, smooth, shiny, serpentine, smiling. In your left hand you held the celebrated apple. I could not resist you.

Now I have bitten bitter of the proffered apple- I cannot stay away. In the tender juicy flesh of the fruit, I found all there is and all there can be of love, of life, of sensuality. My neurons all fired at the same time, and my brain began to thirst for knowledge, and to lust. I love the feeling- the burst of wisdom. It burns- I have an inferno inside me where before I held nothing. But it is not without pain.

I know now that love is not given gently, but is a battle fought with teeth and hooves- or skin and scales. I know what fire he can offer me and I stay as close to him as possible to feel it. His touch, even when cold and scaly reminds me of lush gardens and huge red blossoms. I want to wrap him around me. I want him to squeeze, to hug, to embrace, to dance. But he is, eyes flashing, so distant. He does not suffer as I do, will not do his smooth-slither-strut towards me. He will not make the first move.

Angry at an argument- I try to stray. But in the remoteness my bones ache in the wake of his chill. I soon return, seeking to warm myself, eyes downcast, studying my heels, and my baggage light, in the fervor of his blaze once more. I am not yet defeated though, and when night drapes its thick blanket over the world, I put distance between him and I in our bed. I shiver and layer myself with quilts, while he, naked as sin, lies on top of the sheets, oblivious to my torment. Him: a long lank furnace, radiating heat. Me: a small compact form, freezing under my mountain of blankets.

For now I have observed- a modern day Eve- I have learned from their mistakes. And their biggest one was thinking they were flawed. If offered the apple again- I would do the same thing again- a thousand times over. I love my Adam/ serpent. The without the fight how could I appreciate the quiet warm times? The insight, the perception…I wouldn’t give that up. So for now, I will wrap myself in fig leaves as protection from my naked soul, and do my best to hide the calm pain in my eyes that I know lurks there.

itch

I've got that itch again...

That one that no matter how far I reach, no matter what scratchy appendage I use, I just can't scratch.

I want out.

I want freedom. I want life. I want touch. I want feeling. I want sunshine bleeding through my pores. I want lust. I want gluttony. I want the seven deadly sins. I want to live dammit.

Your naked sweaty limbs bring me peace. That gratification on your face brings me release. I gave that to you. Your heaven is a gift from me. But it is only temporary. It is not enough. The warmth is only temporary. I smile, secretly. I know I have issues. I feel alive only momentarily. But those flashes are gorgeous- like 2 second sunrises- like lightening- like mini orgasms. My body tingles, my brains twitches, I am AWARE. From my teal painted toenails to my fizzy mess I call hair. I feel every neuron in my gray matter- they are ready, they are waiting. My heart is beating, a primeval rhythm- it speaks to me. As quickly as the awareness hits me, it is gone.

You are naked beside me. You are satiated. You look peaceful, shiny with sweat, flaccid, tired, and spent.

I am antsy. I am still looking for that spotless sunrise energy. I touched it. For a moment, you made me feel it. But it is gone now. I want it. It burns. I am full of desire. I itch. I cannot scratch.

Can you give it to me?

My Body, My Enemy

My body

My enemy.

Smooth-Soft-Supple

Rounded-Dangerous-Lethal.

Like an expensive car.

Beautiful desire deadly.

Breasts- you get me into so much trouble.

You peer over my shirts,

Trying so hard to climb out,

To display yourselves to hungry predatory eyes.

You are too proud of your perky flourish,

And you arm yourself like a pair of Glocks at your next target-

The next bug-eyed gawker.

Hips-

You are just as bad.

You slide precariously from a narrow waist into

Luscious fatal curves.

Your yielding lines invite hands to run along them

An oasis -A retreat-A sanctuary.

But my hips did not ask me if I wanted their toxic appeal.

Softness of body-

It seems to those who gaze upon it a mark of fragile mind.

He gropes and grabs.

Fingerprint bruises of shame on my arms, and thighs.

My body.

My enemy.

Flatten the hair.

Dull the lips.

Wear baggy clothes.

Be taken seriously.

But I know-

I will never be a man.

And I wish,

I didn't have to want to be,

To feel solid.

So instead,

I learn the games that fatale women play-

Raise you up with softly spoken words-

Just to crush you beneath my blood red stilettos.

Fondle you with light fingers-

But only to leave my mark on you.

Bruise you- Hurt you- Claw you.

You?

You made me this way.

Outfit my breasts with push-up bras,

Cock those hips with tight denim,

Equip my heart with

Resentment

Disgust

Anger

Distrust

Hurt you in the only way I know I can.

My body.

My weapon.

Your enemy.