Second Hand Photons

Hey, Sunshine, did you know that you're made of stardust? My tender tympanic membrane tells your traduced talus to fuck off but what I really want to know is: which of the seven basic human emotions you are operating from when you play your electroautoerotic hares and hounds? I almost tricked myself into believing that I was worth something but it was just a bad case of deja jamais vu. Well, now we're both here, and your nakedness is backlit by the blue sick illumination, so there's no more time for thinking or waiting for you to come fuck me at your convenience.

SuperMoist Finds Nirvana After All

What theeng? Oh, that thing? Life? Yeah. Oh, my precious Lamb. I'll see you your spooky and raise you an uneasy silence that is meant to mean: I'm so very sorry that I just didn't have any of the answers to all of the complicated questions you asked me in the future. But I'll try to make it up to you by swallowing Damocles' sword, and hope the god-laws of nature will take my torn trachea as tender for the tariff on the lives that matter much more to me than mine: yours, his, and theirs. I don't mean to say that I want to pluck all the thorns, but if you need to sleep off the pain, as even the strongest have to sometimes do, well, I'll tuck you in and keep watch: check on you, bring you water and leave the hall light on. Can't you see, my little Treasure? I don't want to sell my soul, just use it as collateral.

And you. Criminal. You are indelible. Without you there are no reasons left to find. And I'll collateralize and come for you in whatever way you wish. I could write pages more but I think I will take a bath quick fast and then crawl under the covers and coerce you into collecting on some cabeza I owe you because my words never make you oh-oh-oh like that.

I bleed a lot in my imagination but I have two people who need me and don't mind me needing them. I am not sure that I could be any happier.

Acceptance Speech

So much on my mind; so little of it worth anything. I miss you in your sleep. I miss you in mine. I am pathetic like a magnet. I mean I'm like a magnet; pathetic. I can't help it. I don't care. Let me speak plainly: I love you completely. Here's a phone call I recently had with you in my head:

Hi.
Pick up.
Pick me up.
Take me back.
To bed. With you.
In it.

Be gentle.
Put me back.
Put me back together.
Won't you? Can you? Will you?
Because I will. Wait up.
Wait up for you.
To wake up.
Wake up.

Wow. I'm so honored to be here tonight. I can hardly believe that -- it just seems like ... Look. I love my children. And, practically speaking, I did it for them. But without the incomparable company of my darling Criminal, I would've forgotten to continue breathing a long time ago. You've worn off my velveteen and made me real. Your face is perfect. You remind me that I didn't die. There can never be anyone else.

The Intimate Dance

Just three words is all I got, said too much or not enough or too casually or, even more embarrassing, too sincerely. I was in a dream, on a crowded street somewhere, and the sky was red and opened up and revealed to me the secrets about evolving my destiny and I woke up with a headache. How common of me not to rise above the exquisite pain of relinquishing yet another measure of control over my own heart. But isn't there something profoundly beautiful about watching me in a biblical struggle with my fear of being completely owned? Aren't my gaping wounds so sublime? And what about witnessing a person sacrifice the only thing they have ever really owned just for the chance to be a part of something extraordinary? How one person's damnation can be another's salvation? Can you find meaning in that? Can you find something to believe in? Can I? Tell me truly, how much have you gambled? I'll tell you truly, the stakes couldn't be higher for me.

I want your silent parts
I know that there is such a place
I have spent one year falling into grace

Thank you, my darling Criminal.

Tulip Crazes and Lynch Mobs

I can't forget what you've forgotten, but I've never been so in love. My escape valve is all clogged up with metadata and I've got a semantic gap between my legs; could I get any more dirty? Ask him. Where time is a function of love, there is nothing I won't try, trying to make him happy. No, I don't know where I got the idea that the concept of happiness implies the concept of forgiveness but I know I need it because I bear the weight of the sins of my father on a cellular level. And so do you, my favorite little epigeneticist, but your secret kisses of confidence remind me that even though I dream defeatist, my negativist nightmares are all in my head. Literally. Its just the circumstantial evidence, the question marked calendar days, the fascination with short-cut corridors to counterfeit contentment -- they are the toxemia modern medicine can't leech out and I just need you to notice. It takes a long time just to get it all straight, handicapped by my inchoate methods of distinguishing the difference between that which is real and that which is ghost. Homespun desperation is knowing that on the inside your cover is always blown.

Do You Want To Be My Angel?

Give it up to me. I'm smarter than the average average, so what's it to yuh and whaddyuh want? DNA for to make the smart babies? Intellectual companionship? Atrophy wife? I meant that last one to be spaced differently. "I think," I thought. Caveat tempura! or however it goes, whatchawhicheva it is. I'm not gonna lector you, but it is the biggest ticket item and I'm not sure you've given good and valuable consideration to the cost of buyer's remorse, and I'm not talking dollars nor making no sense. I'm not even genuis, Genius, just kind of in the genus; profoundly re-gifted. I just goog'd "define it" because I realized I never knew exactly what was meant by it even though it was a whispered wraith throughout my childhood and throughout several years of therapy, but I never really bothered before because, why? yuh know? who cares? But as soon as I clickeyed on the wiki linkey, I wished almost immediately that I hadn't because I felt like the curiosity-killed cat that got the cream and the only profundity I saw was in my spectaular squandering. But I took consolation in knowing that I've passed it on and will again to those who will be, Allah willing (I mean, fingers crossed), less disabled by crippling neuroses, existential depression, subtle but systematic dehumanization, and years of being misunderstood by several orders of magnitude. Personally, I was never especially impressed by intelligence although it was always a requisite in a lover. Only later, after before, did I realize I also required kindness in equal measure, and moreover, forgiveness. And only even later did I realize that a person only forgives to the degree that they love, which says to me: very, very much. This has been a long way of saying that you go on and you watch whatever T. Banks show you please and you keep whatever hours you like because I can forgive anything* because I love you for all days.

*almost

Stalkers That Are Stalking You

I'm not the one who gets Matrioshkyas in the mail, Sir. I know my irrationality is irrational and that is what makes it worser. I know my emotions come from my brain as a result of chemical reactions and electrical impulses but the ache in my chest is like a belief in god, somehow. I know my heart doesn't really break, it just feels like it does sometimes. I used to want brains that could explain any feeling. Brains that would be faster than the rush of the flood. That could code blue lockdown my imagination at the slightest slight. But these days I'd be pleased as punch just to have effective damage control. I just want to be melted down or retrofitted so the white noise of my thoughts can be quieted. So I can have a little peace of mind. So I can love you better. It wears me out, the human condition: ambiguity of emotion, my defeatism, your fatalism, weakness, fault, mortality, consummation, transformation, starvation; the Culprit North. I am too very sick of my chrysalis stage and I want so badly to be your deserving monarch but I am afraid that all I am is a bee with no sting.

Bargain Basement

Write it on a slip of paper, fold it in half, and now slide it across the table. I get to redo the kitchen if you get to do other women, so long as they're just like me and like it; a lot? You drive a hard bargain. Do you mind me asking how it handles? And how much does that guzzler cost to insure and does your policy come with a self-respect rider? Riddle, riddled with, I mean. Don't try it, Daddy! Stick to the safe road that you know gets you home! Oops, I forgot not to be boring again. A thousand mumble apologies. I meant that to be humble. I mean, grumble. Twice-bargained, now thriced, is a little too much, don't you think? I'm talking about the post, Silly Criminal. And thrice-waited if you skipped ahead to the ending. Like we always do. Don't. A society age-life modified and stratified by our real-time need to be insta-gratified: the On-Demand I Love You's types or The Microwave Takes Too Long types or the Are We There Yet types and such a couple more, more amoral or immoral than I care to wax on or jack off. On compromise, impatience, and morbidity? The story of my life. And yours, too, my darling beastlings, if it ever occured to you to have it occur to you. You wicked little children are epic songs about how we are living now: cursed eyes that are always closed, diphthonged real pretty like. I read your words and watch your pictures and I think: this world is out of this universe. Come now, Criminal, and don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'm young. And spry. So rest your fuck-weary corpus, and when you're ready to come back down, I'll be waiting here, smoking, arguing with the Frugal Gourmet with the volume all the way down,

in case you say something to me
in case you say something
say something

Things like this make you nervous. They shouldn't. You read too much into this. You shouldn't. You should write Blogger a nice thank you for saving you 15% or more on my caaahr insurance.

Random Rhome Roads

I saw you in distraction, wishing you were the wind but tied up until the end, whistling while you worked; for it. You might succumb to what you haven't seen and I have a keen eye for what you used to be, I mean what you still are, and I love you like I love a gravid moon in the cool harvest season, acting like a nightlight for all the outside lovers sticking it in at Inspiration Point. Last year, in the middle of the night, we took a farm-to-market to find god, or some reasonable facsimile thereof, and struck starlit luck, especially when you consider the odds of finding someone else who fucks like they mean it and who will forgive you your frailities, mine always seeming much harder to forgive than yours, to my mind. Someone who doesn't kick your crutches out from underneath you. Some godless god or godess who is willing to bet the farm on you and your long-shot wager. It's about time that I found you. Stick with me, Criminal, because there's love and babies to be made, so just stay here for another year or hundred or whatever you have left or for as long as you like. You like?

T.V.O.(C).D

And for my next trick I'll try something de-caffinated, watch and be; amazed. Everyone, and I mean everyone, mocks my television aversion and being afraid of being alienated is alienating but you either are the kind of person who can sell your soul or you aren't and my self's self-preservation competes directly with my fear of rejection and smokes it. Isn't it a big deal or isn't it? Extrapolate, my nigga, and see if you can palate that plate of plain pablum that would be my personality if I folded for every flashy fashion because I'm a human first, a mother and a lover tied for second, and the point I'm trying to make is that consumer is pretty far down the list, but I never met a blazing noodle I didn't like, so don't listen to my good intentioned shit talking because I'm a hypocrite, but I'm an honest one, which is more than I can say for most.

Wicked Words Work (Winning By Wading)

Aww, has it got you bad? Has the biter been bitten? Do the trees in your mind bend over in their wake? Do you adore their: everything? Are you laid low by the long list of loving things you've never done for them? Do you feel bested by the exes who beat you to the punch? Do you secretly wish you could be melted down and made into the most impenetrable armor so you could personally protect them from every blow to their fragile chest and every burden unfairly lain upon their tender shoulders? Yeah, define "youth" -- that's exactly what I was thinking.

God, remember how nice it was when you didn't love anyone? Before you broke the hermitical seal that is your: everything? Psych. That's just a dream I had where I had frozen hands and bloodless veins because, in real life, I don't have a pre-Columbian era, just an ear full of hard words I begged to hear. And if I weren't soft, I'd pack up all that fur-coated sanctimony in a discarded drive-through duffle and dump it down by the empty lots and early graves of half-orphans who lost their way, or whatever smooth place of mine that exists at the end of the line. Next, I'd kick off my shoes and roll up my jeans and I'd run through five hundred thousand fields of pavement until I found a sequoia to sleep under. I would never pick up a paper so I didn't have to see you in it, reminding me of how you're important in the ways I never will be; in the ways you wish I were. I'd build myself a house with a slurpee machine right inside and I'd make-play like no flood or famine could stop me and you couldn't find me, but if you could, you'd have to look somewhere over the rainbow trout where no fly could bait or lure me because I'd be smart enough to know that it was just a bad game of catch and release.

That's actually a complete lie, though, because there is no un-knowing about love nor is there any un-needing to need and be needed, and even if there was, I wouldn't want to un-know or un-need you, Criminal, because even though it didn't show up too good, I wrote I heart u in the ashes to your right.