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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
Tinny groaning approximating rapture seeped through the divider wall, a greatest hits compilation looping from one implausible gyration to another wildly-- her neighbor, having fallen into fulfilling dreams of filled and filling buxom babes pleading for harder for faster for deeper never for softer or slower or shallower as though those options ceased to exist the minute the aperture of the camera lenses opened, forgot to switch off the iTunes repeat, leaving behind feigned cries intimations of a wet spot in the wadded tissues overflowing from the trash can he guilty shunted to the floor chute and backroom backdoor bartered ecstasy to lull her to sleep. |
front teeth slightly crooked jaw limned in red-gold stubble lucky leprechauns and treacherous djinn guard the windows with a hypnotic gold-green gleam angry snaking scars down the valley of both forearms another on the underside of the wrist a cigarette burn in the shape of a star the shape of better things to come. |
| Some days, he wished she tasted of her first self before the reinvention a heady sweaty mead or even her former self sweetmeats slow-basted proteins breaking down from the edges. Strawberries - fucking strawberries a more useless fruit he'd be hard-pressed to find - recall summers in the countryside Uncle Stuart’s wandering mind Aunt Janice’s wandering hands. The damned dental dam warming lubricants a hindrance to the risk he's willing to take supplant the tacky earthiness of a bitch in heat with the cold chemical stink of "natural flavors." But safety first; there are contingency plans to memorize and a new field of conquest to suit up for. |
1. You sat me astride your lap despite a room of empty chairs; in full view of the scandalized class, you nonchalantly licked my earlobe as if it were a lollipop and you a rambunctious five, prompting the professor to stop lecturing on the lives of amoeba to glare impotently in your direction. “Carry on,” you said, having no such problem with distraction, only discretion. 2. "For you," you mumbled gracelessly, brandishing a bouquet of flowering cotton thistles. With that thoughtful gift you subverted my mockery of your bristly Highlands pride. The exuberant purple flowers, bracketed by spiny-winged stems, were an apology for your dour countenance; the twinkling amethyst platinum necklace, draped like twine around the bouquet, was meant to hold us all together. 3. You kissed the inside flesh of my knee with lime. "We're having body shots, and I get to pick the part," wielding that impish grin unerringly, a dagger thrust into previously unknown erogenous zones. Would it have mattered had I guessed what lay behind that sloppy citric caress? After you knelt on the floor, rubbed salt onto my sweaty skin, I was open to anything and everything you could throw my way. 4. You never promised what couldn’t be delivered or spoke sweetly of forever. A thief in the night, a wandering minstrel, you wove in and out of me with pleasure and ease. And I, a fool, was drawn to the striking irregularity, unpredictability the lure used to tease and trick a jaded palette into otherwise unpalatable sentimentality. And I, a fool, was occupied thus: you, by paying attention, won me one ridiculous feat at time. |
On this side the reverse pushed headfirst into walls when you lift up your skirts display shapely hairy thighs A man alone an island where rich ones alight for mimosas and massages and the requisite happy ending Spy with our little eyes cunt-hungry fame whores big boys dream of sugar daddies checkbooks and cock-rings All the best mommy can buy On that side the obverse kept alive in battlefield triage blood loss no longer a death sentence in an age of artificial aids Biological imperative as coping mechanism and misery below the suicide line a survival strategy Where else could giving up giving in selling out moving on seduce |
nothing so showy as a sea or an ocean there were two inches of common worries deep enough to drown in |
But the interesting stories are in the falling out. Why do you think fairy tales end when they get to happily ever after? That’s a cynical notion of romance. Most people don’t want to live a life worth telling stories about. They’d rather live in the boring happy ending. Where’s the romance in slowly grinding down each other’s hopes and dreams? I’ll take near-starvation under desert skies over suffocating with a house and children. It’s not always like that you know. I think it’s really wonderful, finding someone, making a life. Realizing that there are new dreams, new hopes, on that path. For you, and people like you. Not me. Not now, anyways. Hopefully not ever. How did it come to this? Doesn’t it matter to you, not even a little, compromising to make this work? Why ask me that? No one wins if I answer. But I’m serious. Fine. You changed. You’re unhappy because I haven’t. |
What he's going to say is that the township needs him costs to the community are spiraling out of control and he's the man with a finger on the pulse on the trigger Concerned citizenry, sure, but those other people (like you) look for leaders When seasoned operatives exist there aren't enough daylight hours to grade on a curve What use in the reminder our nine-to-five counts as forty only if one doesn't count the six-to-midnight a veritable plan of nights and weekends with no help for the overages you work every week |
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