Crash, crash, Boom!

Today, I had to sit next to a man that I used to have foolhardy relations with and explain why it was that I was not going this weekend.

I wished I had worn panties under the miniskirt.

I hadn’t wanted to relive those venturesome experiences with him, it was just too hot for unnecessary fabrics.

So after he gave me a thorough tongue lashing, we played the “Remember When?” game.

I kept my legs crossed and the music pulsing through the place kept my legs rocking in time. The friction stimulating, imagination wild, I had to recite the alphabet backwards…

Z, X, Y, W…

“Remember when you were thrown out of Sullivan’s for throwing punches because the girl trying to fuck Chris thought Vonnegut was a constellation?”

V, U, T, S…

“Remember posing for our realism class and all of the men concentrated on your wetness pooling on the stool?”

R, Q, P, O, N…

“Remember when we fucked on stage back when The ‘Kids were all together?”

M, L, J… Shit, M, L, K, J, I, H

“Remember when John tore your shirt off trying to pull us apart because we were making too much of a scene during out last art show together?”

G, F, E, Goddamnitfuckwhoretwat, D…

“Remember my Bronco?”

Summabitchalmostthere C! B! A!

Yeah, I remember.

I’m still canceling the event for this weekend, but I remember.

Theory Of Everything

It’s getting late…
Much too late,
to not have
what I should be having.

It’s growing dark
through the shades of fiery orange.
I’m beaming light
through thin panties.

There is a universe
that exists when we connect.
There is a universe
that we created because it was not.

And every night
our flesh rests together,
We devour
the darkness,
the light,
and the music of every universe
that we have made,
or not yet invented.

The hive, the hammer, the sun.

As I lay here, head resting on the arm of the swing, I let my gaze drift heavenward. I found myself thinking, “Fuck, when was the last time I looked at the afternoon sky?”

It was a strange feeling. Felt as if my eyes started breathing, trying to suck the oxygen out of the atmosphere through vision.

I’m not quite sure what I was hoping to see, what I needed to see, but something occured within that initial moment.

Masturbating with Mayo

Here it is, after much talk and an even longer wait:

Masturbating with Mayo

Beware, it’s going to be insanely gross, crass, and all too graphic. It’s a place for the disgusting to go and die.

My dear friend Cado and I are the writers for this specific blog.

You’re welcome.

Save your scissors, dearheart.

He grabbed my wrist as I was trying to walk away.

For some reason, none of them want me to leave, on both sides of the window.

The news spread quickly, like Mary Mallon’s typhoid fever. A week of explanations, of lack thereof, of abused promises that’ll go nowhere but due to the simplicity of social niceties.

One co-worker took it harder than the rest. Probably because he lives with Jesus in his heart and has not yet been perplexed by the sway of loss, no matter how much he has studied and read on the subject.

As I left work, said goodbye, he grabbed my wrist as I tried to leave.

He looked as if he wanted to say something meaningful, perhaps even heartfelt, but I didn’t have the stomach for it. I stopped him before he even started and put my free hand on top of his for a moment, then placed it on his heart. I looked at him, and laughed at the idea of a future priest and an aethist becoming such good friends.

I removed my hand from his heart, put my index finger to my lips and simply said, “Shh.”

Of the toes that bend.

Non dirlo a me.
Non dimenticate.
Non prenda.
Ho sempre dare.

Non aspettare.
Non urlare.
Non lasciare.
Io vado sempre.

Non piangere.
Non cadere.
Non pausa.
Mi fa sempre piacere.

Non.

I kept so quiet.

The profile tells the whole story though you only get half the picture.

She says, “Miss me, miss me.” He sticks his tongue out and says, “Blech, I’m never gonna kiss you.”

Her dead granfather sat in the shadows last night and said, “Oh amore, non danno ancora.”

All while the raccoon stole tiny purple blooms from her front flower bed at an ungodly hour.

Dragonflies that light up the moon = Fireflies

A few nights ago I was walking to the park to find a very particular bench, prepping myself for a conversation that I wasn’t sure I had the words for.

I get within mere feet of the location and a little boy, (the grandson of the old lady with an even older beagle) is playing in the side yard with a bucket. He sees me and giggles. The fireflies were out, everywhere, and I half thought he was using the bucket to capture the glowing orbs.

He runs to become parallel with me, and slows down to match my stride. He puts the bucket on his head and I smile at him.

Eagerly, loudly, he says, “Hey! Hey! Look at me! I’m a bucket head!”
I laugh softly and say, “Oh? How’s that working out?”
He responds with a big exhale and removes the bucket from his little head.
I’m almost to the corner of his yard and he exclaims wildly,
“Look at all these dragonflies! They are lighting up the moon!”

I giggled until I found the waiting bench.

The smallest composite number.

Four characters have yet to exist, but are still very much alive.

Here, before too awfully long, I wil be moving to Louisiana.

Moving to where I can create these four characters for a book deal.

She was fabled to be the daughter of Reason.

“Come, please. Sit with me”, says Little Girl to Young Bear. Her tiny hand patting the spot to her left. Coaxing him, making promises with no words.

Young Bear hears Little Girl and moves slowly towards her without caution. His movement is synchronized with his thoughts. Thoughts perhaps abnormal for a young bear. -Yesterday his world was different. Yesterday this moment could never have existed. Yesterday he was not he, and she was not she. Yesterday was for the ignorant trout and indifferent pines. Yesterday, he slept.

“Please Young Bear, my baby bear, please, come sit next to me.” With lips quivering and eyes quickly filling with griefhoney, Young Girl cannot understand why she needs him to settle near her so badly. She doesn’t care about reason in a time like this. She threw it to the Great Winds, because dissection does nothing for beauty but poke it with pins and expose the shadows to light.

Young Bear doesn’t sit. But he’s close to her now. He can feel her, smell her, taste the air around her. He’s becoming alarmingly aware of himself and her blending into each other, of the honesty he wishes to embrace. He pushes his snout into her hair, the wetness from her eyes dampening the fur on his face.

Nearly in a whisper, in a prayer, she says so close to his ear, “Please, Young Bear. Please, sit with me. Don’t think of the trout, the pine, and I won’t think of the wind and pins. Please, Young Bear, please, sit with me.”

Hint at my twists.

At times, it’s hard to see what occurs between the points.
What shifts, who becomes whom, and where the gravitational pulls do fall.

All that can be viewed is the beginning point.
The where you were.
And the point to where you’ve come.

A craving of flesh, of happenings, of conversations yet to be had.

You can wait patiently, watching the clock tick away time so effortlessly.
Wait for the next occurrence.
The next point on the large, but ending, map.

The old crooners can croon,
The cicadas can still shed,
and the fireflies can light the moments.

And where will we be?

1 + 1 = Chopsticks on the counter.

She called me this afternoon as I was getting ready to leave my house. School has let out for the summer, and the idleness has already swept in. Alone with her thoughts and wearing out her favorite camera, she takes a break. She told me she was hiding in a tree as she talked to me “because no one ever looks up anymore”.

In not too many days she turns 11, which worries her.
“No one takes an 11 year old seriously. How did you manage to survive it?”

She mentioned something about a summer love, how some boy with a typical name is surprising to her.
“I read that book you gave me, and there doesn’t seem to be much behind his name. What am I supposed to do with that?”

When asked how her music lessons with Pookah were going she became frazzled.
“I don’t think he understands what I say. When I say movement I mean damn movement!”

After I commented on her foul language she cited our Grandfather that she barely remembers, save for the stories I tell her.
“Swearing is hard to do poetically. We must try frequently to achieve this.”

She asked me to tell her a story of how it all used to be. The little thing as nostalgic as me, taking comfort in the what was.
“I know we’re not morons, I know we’re not stupid, but is it foolish? Is that what a fool is? We can be fools together… Right?”

She does this thing when something really makes her feel. This reverberating silence, not unlike the pulse before a thunderstorm. And when those moments hit, it’s best to not poke her, though I always do. It’s out of preparation that I do this to her. Better me than some asshole.
“Sissy, I love you, okay? But I really hate you too.”

Yes, babydoll, it’s okay.
Just don’t forget it.
The of it all.

Lady and the Bear.

Over the hill,
Through the park,
Across the bridge,
and down the path lies a spot where a single leaf was thrown.

It had to be thrown,
It was coated in a secret,
Slicked with a hush,
and did not belong in the hands that it was placed in.

If you see the leaf tumbling down the graveled path,
Grab it,
Repeat.

Days as doors.

It’s when you can’t quite articulate what you mean, let alone try to define.

It’s when a swirl of images take over and you’re forced to take a seat.

Open mic nights are always terrible, and sometimes drunk men dress up as Superman.

Sometimes men are bears. Sometimes that’s just a term that gay men use.

Às vezes, eu apenas não têm as palavras.

How a lady doth piss.

The lap dance technician that was off duty wiggled her head between my thighs and I laughed because surely a girl that young, that vapid, would have no idea how to make me come considering the amount of liquor coating her tongue. She was pretty in that fresh-pop-star-yet-to-be-corrupted kind of way. She was blond and lacked in a spectacular ass. Her teeth hit mine when she pinned me against the wall. Trying too hard and missing luster and spark, I didn’t have the heart to start pointing out anything, though she begged me to be her new girlfriend.

Later, she pissed in a sink.