November 22, 2014

No, I Will NOT Take a Shit-Selfie For You

You are not a viper but you play one

in my heart

                                        sick


ive not known many men. In theory ive known hundreds, thousands, all grossed, rotten and boored. All vile. All of my choosing, so vulgar.  How I become what I believe myself to be

with them

the thrill of their ugly: how they grasp.  So desperate.  Like my skin can grant them peace, my tits and cunt able to quiet the echo of their father’s endless insults.  Such intensity. That’s how they come at me.  That’s how I love. 

There’s a change but

there is not. 

It’s a wavering.  Handholds appear and I climb.  So much promise up top.  A shouting down. “You can do it!”  The crevasse is black and the voice encouraging.  A glimpse of warm sunlight so I climb. 

If your feet fill with jiggers, I will be there to scrape them.  Pull over on the highway when the screams get too loud.  Send me a beacon and I will come with my scalpel.  If you give permission I will drag you from the car and lay you down on wet grass.  I will call the villagers to watch.  They must learn how to save you themselves should this scourge come again.

Your first foot in my lap and I scrape.  The thick skin falls away in small, crusted flaps.  I am an old man on a porch eating an apple with a knife, but these peels I do not put into my mouth.  They fall to the grass, mounding, yellow-brown.

I scrape the jiggers while you moan.  It gets my dick hard.  I adjust your foot so you can feel it but you are too lost in your suffering.  There is a whisper-barrier between pleasure and pain and the sounds that come from both are twins. 

I cut the covers from the jiggers dens where they have buried themselves in your skin—their new home.  They come out white or black or green and I wipe them away. Your foot becomes cratered and when it is emptied of jiggers, I take the other, begin more work.  The villagers stand circle above us; a sunflower. 

This is gross but this is love.

Your moans clench my heart. 

Many years later, six old whores I fooled into loving me circle my deathbed waiting to see who will get what. I sink into death’s warm calling gazing up at the circle, now villagers, your foot in my lap, your moans soothing my transition. 


I take the sound of you to my grave. 




.

November 13, 2014

Grub Hub

Do you know the heat off me?  I want a rubbing.  There is a clandestine.  It shimmers inside me.  I can fill a vase with it. A cabinet.

This week, a warp.  I don’t know where it went. How it got swallowed.  All I know is that it happened and it was real.  Tangible in the meat of my thighs.  The cripple of my walk.  The new waitings.  A giant bottle of wine losing its full. 

This is how you come down.

This is how you shade things away.  A hand covering eyes.

I am not sure where I am, where I want to be. Nor do you.  It’s a guessing game.  Who put me in the circle?  I am in the circle. Where and why the circle?

Momma, be proud of me? You proud of me momma?  Yer daughter. Here she is.  There she’s going.  Love me momma.  Prouda me momma.


Cordial your daughter in your wings.  She misses you.  Misses unfeeling.  Let her float, momma. Let her free.

Let her know how, the end.

,

November 10, 2014

I Think We're Scared Again

The house is as quiet as it wants to be and it wants to be very quiet.  It mimics the outside where the zombie apocalypse has taken place.  Nothing out there but dead people and dead leaves.  Everything wet and gray but shellacked with a fine, crystal finish.  There’s a shine to it that reflects the sun.  The silent outside makes the inside that much quieter.  I am a bull inside its china shop.   I stomp around in my slippers.

I cannot make breakfast in the quiet.  After many phone calls they arrive.  I buzz them in; singularly and in groups.  I show them into the living room, kitchen, dining room and ask them to get comfortable.  They begin their warm-ups.  Guitars, harmonicas, and horns fill the house.  I sigh, relieved there is noise.

I tell them to begin when they are ready.  Show them the corner they can play in.  I set up a few chairs so they can play sitting down if they want.  I tell them to work out amongst themselves who will play first and who will play next and so on.  One of the men tells me, “The Blues are patient and kind.  We’ll all get up there. Don’t you worry.”  It makes me smile.

As the music starts I begin making breakfast.  I pull random things from the refrigerator and set them on the counter.  The pile begins to look like ‘a scramble’.  I get to chopping.

The Blues are sad but happy.  The music comes upbeat and deceiving while the words dig a melon baller into my heart.  Every song tells me one of my truths. The living room and dining area are a sea of brown heads bobbing, shoulders swaying, eyes closed and open.  Nobody is watching me make breakfast.  There is a bedroom down the hall with its door open.  All I can think is, “I hope the music is reaching back there.”

The chopped things go into the pan and it sizzles so loud like it’s pissed off.  Like it hates the Blues.  An old black woman, beautiful in a midnight blue dress, holding a short glass with dark liquid is singing “Let’s go ahead and fall in love, I need a little sugar in my bowl, and plump juicy frank on my hot dog roll, bring a little spackling you can fill my hole, Let’s go ahead and fall in love.”  I stick my finger into the middle of the pan until I scream.  I’m so happy.

I crack the eggs while the musicians sing, finish and switch.  New ones arrive, old ones leave.  There is a fine layer of cigarette smoke pooling against the ceiling that I want to walk through.  I open the door to the balcony and the players and their smoke spill outside infecting its quiet with their song.  Fuck the zombie apocalypse.  We have the Blues.

I pour the eggs onto the chopped, silencing its hissing.  I put some bread into a
machine that will turn it into toast.  I ready plates. I hum the Blues.

The house is in full swing now.  I can barely remember the quiet I woke up with.  How it made me feel so large.  A noise King.  A Godzilla wrecking the house with my slippered footsteps.  I am microscopic now.  A mute’s orgasm underneath slide guitar and jangly piano.  It feels safe.  I think about the back bedroom.  About blankets wrapped around a head.  It takes all of me not to run down the hall and rip the blankets off that head, pound the pillows with my fists yelling, CAN YOU HEAR THE BLUES? CAN YOU HEAR THEM?!   But I don’t.  I am making breakfast for that head.  That head I will wake with a gentle shaking.  That head will hear the Blues shortly.  I must be patient and kind, I tell myself, like the Blues.


October 18, 2014

WE INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING FOR A FUCKED UP SHIT SHOW WHERE YOU ARE THE STAR!!

She’s been broken before me and now she’s broken with me and that means I am broken too. But I do not fear because she will overcome as she has always overcome and that is as true as a railroad spike in my thigh.

So much proof.

She’s been the girl in the woods who had to push her bike home because her child’s parts her LITTLE GIRL PARTS were too torn apart to be able to sit.  She’s been a chalice of unimaginable loss, her spill of gold stealing a piece of her she will never get back.  She’s been many things in between, not all of them the best, but through all of it she’s BECOME…

better though

broken though

beautiful though

beaten though

brilliant though

burdened though

buoyant though

bold though

big though

breakable though

brave though

bewitching though

busy though

benevolent though

though

though

all of those things have made her become what she is and what she is is a gift everyone wants wrapped and pretty handed to them for opening.  All hands fighting, ribbons flying, punch spilling, staining the carpet, mom's pissed.

All of the horrible has shaped her into what I swim in.

She’s been broken before me and now she’s broken with me and that means I am broken too but I know how she heals and I know how she scars and because of that, I am not afraid.




October 07, 2014

New Interview/Storything

Hello People of Earth.

A lovely person named Allegra Frazier interviewed me for the new Origins Literary Journal.  

She says nice things.

I probably say dumb things.

There is also a story thing in there.

Shout out thanks to Lisa Mecham for hooking me up with these lovely folks. 

July 17, 2014

Literary Orphans Interview


A super nice person interviewed me for Literary Orphans.  I am humbled by their kind words at the end.

June 03, 2014

Title

It’s hard moving your life.  Sticking things that long-lived in one place into boxes that will be brought to another.  Sometimes you tell those things, “See you in Sacramento!” before you close the box.  You aren’t actually moving to Sacramento, but the phrasing seems sing-songy and silly and you need as much of those two things right now because moving to a new city is nucking futs.

So, yeah, I’ve been busy.

Sometimes two days isn’t enough but it’s all you have so oh well.  When you succumb to time limits and rub up against them, warmly, like they’re your grandpa and you are his “best gal” only good things happen because you know every moment counts and so you make lots of those moments.  Or you make a blur of those moments that when you try to think back you can only see a pink smear across the sky in front of you that has some dark brown behind it and a feeling like floating.

I’m so tired but it’s good. I’m sinking into my bones.  A deflation.  I want to say right now, “albatross”.  I want to say right now, “communion.”  I want, right now, a single space between us.  I want a very definitive arm to hold on to.  

Wonder Twin Powers, activate.

I smiled a lot last night and mostly listened because of the tired.  I saw that from outside myself. Felt my eyes slitted and stoned.  I couldn’t eat all of that raw meat.  Are you kidding me?  It seemed ‘pranky;’ but you gotta try scary shit once in a while, right?

How can time together be simultaneously as different as snowflakes and as constant as the rising sun?  It makes for great peace, let me tell you.

I get really mad about people who bring dogs into human establishments and I get really mad at people who don’t know how to behave in a movie theater.  Probably those are my only two things.  Most of the days I feel those people are all of the duplicated Michael Jacksons in that one video where an army of him is dancing for miles and miles and you’re like, BILLIONS OF MICHAEL JACKSONS!  Most days I feel like those people are winning and I get really bummed about our world and our society.  But last night I was around so many wonderful people and it made me think that maybe our side could win. 

Maybe.

Stuff of dreams happening to someone that couldn’t be more deserving. It’s a joy to be there to see it all. 


"Welcome to Hollywood! What's your dream? Everybody comes here; this is Hollywood, land of dreams. Some dreams come true, some don't; but keep on dreamin' - this is Hollywood. Always time to dream, so keep on dreamin'."





May 14, 2014

Juliet Escoria Summer reads me over at HTML Giant!