September 30, 2014

The Measurement For Love

A heart’s radius of less than three feet at all times for forty-six and one half perfect hours.

It’s black rooms, black shirts, black couches, black skin and black cars.

It’s gin, green beans, Gerber daisies, Nebraska license plates, car songs, burgers and the jarring fresh scent of Eucalyptus. 

It’s honesty and trust and laughter and fear.

It’s tremendous weight and chandelier quiet. 

It’s the world slipping away or shrinking or both.

It’s being forcibly crowned, fight-wrestling with its gold and diamonds, then letting it sit on your head despite its uncomfortable press.

It’s relinquishing.

It’s not having enough gratitude. 

It’s traversing the same paths so many times it becomes a Groundhog’s Day.

It’s heart-shaped Bougainvillea hanging onto concrete, shaped against dirt. 

It’s them winning,

you winning,

then both of you


September 16, 2014

Save Me If I Fall

I didn’t have a fridge for fifteen days or whatever but now I have one.  It’s buck naked on the inside.  I haven’t seen buck naked fridge guts in probably six years.  It feels like a new beginning. Like an empty house.  I feel like I’m going to ‘move in’ to my fridge.  OH THE POSSIBILITIES!  I want to rearrange things. Put things where they never were before.  Maybe I’ll put beer on the top shelf and maybe I’ll use the ‘luncheon meat drawer’ for salad dressings or butter.  Really ‘mix it up’.  But first I have to go grocery shopping.  All I have are canned goods and canned goods don’t need to be refrigerated. 

Ice is a luxury. 

When changing the standard placement of items in my fridge is ‘really mixing it up’ you can only imagine how exciting my life must be.

A nice person wrote a REALLY nice review of Billie the Bull, a chapbook the world forgot about before it had time to be remembered.

In a quieter house I walk around in faux-silk.  Perhaps nylon.  It's black. It cost ten dollars.  I can afford ten dollar babydolls and nine dollar sex toys.  It’s been hot in So. Cal.  Faux-silk babydoll hot.  Ponytail hot.  Buttcrack, underboob sweat hot.  I keep windows open at night, turn the fan on, toss and turn.  Heat is a nervous mother.

I wrote a ‘domestic themed’ ‘piece’ for Dogzplot.  You should read all of the pieces by all of the people. Really great stuff. And they are short. Fast. Fast.

I am not really ‘trying’ on this blog post right now.  I’m just typing like a fatso.  Probably wont even ‘edit’ it.  Im tired. This week has been “full”.

Helicopter noise.

When Chef Ramsay fucks me I want him to call me a stupid donkey, a fucking pig, a worthless cunt and a talentless piece of excrement and various other things that mean I am useless while he is totally getting off on all of my holes. 

The part where my heart is, is here.  It is on a Lazy Susan.  It spins to three plates.  The Chinese restaurant guy keeps filling up the Lazy Susan with all kinds of dishes and the Lazy Susan gets too full.  There are plates filled with every sort of dish; Peking Duck, potstickers, Mongolian Beef, Cashew Chicken, Turtle in Hot Pot, Chef Special Chow Mein, Chef Special Lo Mein, Garlic Green Beans, Ma Po Bean Curd, Lemon Chicken, Hot and Sour Soup, Sliced Pork with Bean Curd, Five Spice Pork, Duck Wang in Portugal Sauce, Twice-Cooked Hot Nutsack, Spicy Beef Turd, Fried Semen Cunt Dick, Orange Pork Chicken Beef Tofu, Secular Jewish African Spaniards, Dumb Dumplings in Curry Noodle Thai Chorizo Weightless Butthole Fuckoff…all stacked precarious.  All steaming and tipped.  A tower of food and it spins and stops, spins and stops and all the food wants to be eaten but the Lazy Susan is a bitch.  Probably because of all the years of being called ‘lazy’.  That’s not very nice.  Like this ‘analogy’.  It’s not very nice.  I don’t know what I mean. I just know that there is a beautiful photograph in my heart and it makes me feel like more than ive ever been and I don’t know what to do with that. And it’s a two-sided dagger without handles and there isn’t too much blood on the floor yet, but there’s some and it’s pretty and I want to touch it.

p.s. im a worthless human being.  Wanna be punch-fucked or pissed on fucked or both or some. Just kidding!  I love my dad and my dad loves me!!!

September 06, 2014

This Week: A Lesson In Discomfort

This week was supposed to be a ‘fresh start’ but it began by being a ‘rotten start’ because my fridge stopped working and all the things in the fridge melted and rotted and I had to throw them away soggy and wet.  It was like trashing dollar bills. 


You don’t realize how vital your refrigerator is until you don’t have it.  It is where you get ice to cool your drinks and it is where you get cold, filtered water.  It is where you keep your produce and dairy items and meat items.  When you go work out and you come home sweaty and dying for some cool refreshment it is no bueno drinking a glass of cool tap water, let me tell you!.  It is like a kick in the balls.  I dare you to try it. Nobody will do this.  It’s the opposite of sanity. 

I tried to salvage some things like eggs, tortillas, bacon and beer (important) by putting them into a cooler with ice.  Outside of the beer, everything got really soggy and every time I ate an egg I wondered if I would get sick.  I googled things about “room-temperature freshness”.  I ate cans of soup for lunch but I only had two, so the other two days I scrambled some eggs with Spam.  I didn’t get sick, but I also didn’t have any ketchup or Sriracha to put on the concoction because those “died in the fire.” 

At work we have the “stairs of death.” They are made of marble and I always knew I would fall on them one day.  Thursday was that day.  “Luckily” I fell up the stairs and not down them.  My right knee took the brunt.  It has two areas of blackness now; the area under my knee has a fist sized bruise and on the top right of my knee there is a bruise that is deceptively small-shaped like an arrowhead.  The small-shaped bruise is the hurtiest.  Even when I was doing nothing it hurted.  Today it felts better.  I said ‘felts better’ on purpose. That’s not a typo.  I wanted to say it that way because I like how that sounds right now. Right at this moment.  “Felts better”

My work doesn’t have any ice packs.

Then, yesterday at 4:30 when I was at work I sat down at my desk and my pants split.  I heard a truly comical ‘pants ripping’ sound in tandem with me sitting on my chair.  I smiled.  I reached under my ass and felt my underwear-clad ass cheek. I smiled and sort of silently laughed to myself.  From what I could feel, my pants had ripped from the bottom of my right ass cheek, up alongside my right pants pocket, to almost the waistband of my jeans.  My officemate noticed my weird facial expression and started asking me “What?” What?!” and I told her and it became a ‘hubub’ and word spread about my humorous predicament and it was pretty funny if I do say so myself. 

I wrapped a spare sweater I keep at the office around my waist as soon as it turned five oclock.

I came home and the house was hot. This whole week it’s been hot.  It’s been an emotional week with lots of heart-turmoil for various things but mostly one thing.  It’s like my heart took up crossfit and now it’s all ‘brainwashed in the cult of crossfit’ and I’m like, ‘when did I sign up for this?!?!’ and my heart is all, ‘you were always enrolled but the classes didn’t start until mid-year’ and I’m like, ‘fuucckkk this sucks, but THESE ABS THO!”  So last night, when I came home, all I wanted for my sore kneeheart and hotsweat face and exposedasscheek was a super cold dark beer beverage.  I felt ‘owed’ this beverage.  I felt I ‘deserved’ such a beverage.  But in my current world, what you feel you should get and what you want is not exactly what you are going to get. 

And, as apropos, I didn’t.


August 28, 2014

Come Pick Me Up

I look for you in the 140 characters.  You're usually always there.  A ticker-tape heartbeat visual pulse I can check to make sure you are breathing. I’m always checking. I’m like Santa. I’m like Santa Claus.




There are never enough words, are there?  I mean, there ARE enough words but none of them can bridge that gap, can they?  None of them are airplanes.  None of them true healers.  They are only Band AidsTM   Look, I will type words now:  face, hands, arms, tattoos, breath, blankets, gin, valet tickets, room service, surfboardt.  These words mean things and these words are beautiful but these words don’t do shit, Sherlock.  They just look back into brown eyes from this black screen and masturbate that tender heart for maybe one minute.  Two if I’m lucky.


I can type words all day.  And I will.  And I do.  I will toss these words around like drunks tossing midgets at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day.  I will connect words together and add some punctuation.  I will hit the space bar and the enter key a multitude of times.  I might even use a few emoticons.  You know, to add “flavor” and “personality.”  I try to be a charmer.  I will sign my name. Maybe some exes and ohs. I will type in an email address that will auto-fill because my gmail knows where I send most things.  I will hit send and I will refresh until I get bold back.  Then I will do it all again.


Distance is a bitch and a fuckface.  My life is its twin sister.  Try to help someone who lives so many miles away by typing words.  It’s hysterical.  It’s a fucking joke.

But I will do my best because I can’t not do it. 

I will do my best because I have to.