Haydn's Hard Work

And aren't you sick of the piano yet? No? Well, how about sick of me? Because I do. Get sick. And then better again. Insert obvious statement of the century. Why are you always in such a hurry? I know you wonder how all these people got here and when are they going to leave, but stop and smell the honey, Honey, the ginger mixed with milk, sweet sweat and smoke, and remember that you have more to live for than you do to die for and that you can't argue with ignorance in the same way you can't make a bad driver good just by imparting knowledge or by swapping paint. Pant. Yeah. Right there. Just like that. Anyway, where was I? Before the bed? No, no, before the car, even. Oh, yeah. In the bath. Thinking about how I see you in the eyes of babies unmade and how I even I see you in the grey-blue of those already born, so go fuck yourself, Maury. Besides, you took my nickname and made it into a production (company), so I hated you from before. For someone who's so into adoption, you sure do make a big deal about blood lineage, but I guess its not you, personally, just your marionette strings being pulled by your biggest sponsor, Who's The Daddy, Inc. What is this? What have I become? A freak strife ad? Well, clear the ground for your rained parade and get your dick out of my mouth, "liberal" "media".

Its October, Criminal, and you know what that means, so come to me and explode in me like a fractal. Give me a bracelet of rain hung on a spider's web. Give me a necklace of sun captured in droplets draped over branches. Give me children. Take a year in your hand. Nothing makes me matter more than meaning, so take that which I trace on your skin in the quiet, pre-dawn, post-coital moments in our bed and flip it.

Won't You Come Home? I've Been Waiting.

Milk and holy water are pouring from the sky because I'm finally free of the straight jacket I put myself in, Houdini in rewind, unwound. At least for the meantime, until the next time, I mean. But for now it's all black panties and sno-cone huts and sex in public -- did I just say that in private?? Define either and then think again, Spinal Tap. Whatever it is, hold it close and keep it safe in the lockbox of your heart because this place is filled with shameless beasts stabbing breasts looking to take your most intimate moments to the Stop Six chop shop, said three times quick-like. You will have just looked away for a second! and the next thing you know you've gone missing! and dozing every night on the couch thinking familiar thoughts in an unfamiliar house that half belongs to you. Yeah, I sure miss the early days. Tied up in so many ways, none of them in the ways I like to think I'd like. And that was a coupla lifespans ago but I still remember the comfort I found in things too pathetic to mention. Speaking of pathogens, can you -- but I -- I'm -- hey -- bye. Yeah. That shit is dangerous. We need strong winter love and the most robust of blood just to stay awake. Oh, Criminal. I've been scared because I can't protect some parts of me from you. Your possible heart can beat again. So stick with me and I'll come for you, as on display and bring you my lifeboat when you slink away.

Take Me With You

Subterranean by design. I wonder what I would find. On the inside, I tremble electric when I look at his jaw. I guess we all find inspiration in different things which is good, I guess, or irrelevant, moreover, like fatalism. My eyes are going fast, faster and I wonder if you'll describe the world to me when they're gone. Something corrupted my brain a long time ago and when he says things like, "I wouldn't marry me," what I hear is, "You know I can't marry you." I just want him to love me the way I love him. So? I am conventional, but not so. I just want my unloved parts to get loved. I want niceness five days a week (four minimum) and I want to be put abed every night (seven minimum, no maximum) by that most salacious soporific. That and the two non-negotiables of fidelity and respect. He's like a shark because I have blood in my mouth and he smells it from ten feet away, acknowledging me with a knowing smirk and questioning eyes and maybe if I lure him close enough I can tag him and steal his DNA. Really, though, I just wish I could cap the old times and lines and be naive all over again, but he cruises for camp and I self-reference for satisfaction, and I'll never see that place again and we'll start talking about that or this and I'll start to lose my confidence. His x-ray vision makes me feel nervous and I read about this kind of thing in a sci-fi psychobiology book that I never finished and I don't actually think I'm worthless, I'm just scared that I might be.

"Circumlocution and ambiguity are not synonymous." - Anonymous

Lullabye and Goodnight

What's at the heart of your engine's race? I would never describe myself as a thrill-seeker, but that's a lie because the slow drain of the fast train of love is a rush like no other. My Spanish nanny used to sing a song to me about a lonely caballero who rode around the Mexican desert looking for nothing, for something, for anything. Then, one day, he met a woman, quite by chance, who was traversing the desert, too. She was a harpy and a gypsy but he loved the way she spoke and he fell madly in love with the food on her lips and he took care of her and washed her clothes but she teased him and made nooses out of words for him to walk into and kicked him with her heels in fake fury. She was a bitch and wasn't shit as a critic, but she could read and she was bad, and they made it work somehow. It's different now that I'm poor and aging because I've lost my harpy leanings and gypsy inclinations and I used to make love by candlelight but now I fuck to the televised war, or worse. I got existential exit wounds.

You'd A' Done The Same Thing

I should've just kept my cockholster shut -- by which I mean, my mouth -- but given the circumstances of our lives, I can understand the confusion caused by my ambiguity. I've only broken three bones in my life - the itty bitty ones in my ear - and that was from playing the bloodsport ballgame of intimacy; run-diving to catch the foul ball of low-pitched words blunt blurt bunted by bad batterers out of left field. There are three tests one should apply to sex: is it legally permissible, physically possible, and economically feasible? Oops, that was meant to be "real estate development." But what do I know of real estate development? My day job is licking the stamps of love letters that are rarely read by the recipient, overlooked like junk or hate mail, either out of disbelief or boredom, its hard to tell the difference sometimes. No, it doesn't seem right to take information given at close-range, for the gag, the bind, and the ammunition round. This is the age of pixelated pleasure and pain, of liquid crystalized cringes and curiosities, of hi-speed psychosomatic hard-driveicide. A new blog is created every two seconds and he's afraid of my finger-print speech patterns. Eponymous anonymity is the new armor and new safety blanket for tradesecret spillers and slipping spouses everywhere. But that anonymity comes at a price, like everything else in this free market den of ill-repute, and after a day and night at the bosom of your best friend, do you even know who you are anymore? Are you your ageless avatar, your pseudo-clever pseudonym, your prolific profile? Pluck what you need from the stream, like data for work or love for life or purge your inner poisons via push-button, and then get the fuck out. Reality will always trump fantasty in my house of cards, but if you want to "Win Friends and Influence People" become a machine.