Hoop-Hop Heartache

I'm going back to the pet I was two summers ago -- what was it, again? A chrome buzzard or a black swan? Dog days and I can't remember for some reason, probably something I ate, but either way, I just mean back when I was expecting nothing from, of, or in return, including but not limited to: commitment, the truth, your time. I wanted so much more but promises are only as sincere as the person manipulating the words and the truth is? The truth is that I don't believe in the truth: it is simply a measure of reliability. And your time? I will take what I can get, and that is nothing new, but I will try to be more interesting than television, internet lizards, porn, books, newspapers, magazines, and games, but that is a tall order and, forgive me, but I am only just the one girl, with brown hair and hazel eyes and only an average sense of conviction. So, I get it, okay? I believe that inspiration lies in wherever you seek it, like me -- I try to write with your taste in my mouth. But Its my own fault, really, and I have a wild imagination and I really must learn to teach myself not to read so much in to everything; its just that I've spent most of my life having to read so much in to hardly anything at all. But at least I don't have to work so much or take the vitamins anymore. And I feel slightly less nauseated each time I make my way through the moral labyrinth of obligation.

That, boys and girls, is the story of the optimist that never died: misfits, motherfuckers, facists and fools -- god bless us every one.

Super And Natural (Being + Nothing = Becoming)

I fell in love with the institution but ultimately lost respect for the whole industry. See? Sick. Scared? Stuck. Like getting high at the bus stop, hitching a ride with the devil, getting nauseated in the backseat: and now the windows won't roll down.

He wants to have a baby with me and I want to marry him and I'm sure we'll strike a mutually beneficial deal in the very near soon; or we won't, and we'll just use special lube,

And he'll continue be:

• the secret apple of my eye
• my shut-up boy
• the criminal to my terrorist
  

And I'll continue to be:

• the sweat in his sheets
• the question that lies between him and the rent
• the cool girlfriend

Normal people do it every day and I am not so very fucked up, I'm just afraid that I might be; fulfillment, meet prophesy. Just be easy Killer! and don't use the un-L word, unless you haven't had your daily fix of rolled eyes and sighs.

And I'm not so very conventional, I just want a husband, kids, a place to call my own and all that jazz; pot, meet kettle. And be even easier, Killer! and don't forget that you are still too smart to remember how it really felt to:

1.) be vowed to on account of duty
2.) be accused of ruining another person's life
3.) to love the quintessential put-upon

Its just that I do know how it feels to do things out of an ironic homage to an over-developed sense of responsibility instead of out of an actual desire and I am so fucking tired of dealing and being dealt:

a.) the disingenuous
b.) the constructive
c.) the fraudulent

And I'm not sure what it is, exactly, that I do want, just like I don't know what it even means to be "subjectively ready", but I know that I do not want:

I. to be the spitting analogue of happy
II. a Diophantine approximation of truth
III. a Hegelian synthesis of a life

I am sick of the paradox and of the fatality of a fall from vulnerable heights. If I wanted slack, I'd buy a rope and if I wanted complicity, I'd buy a politician. Now don't go pointing the fingers that you have left -- I know I am severe but that is because my exacting and my unapologetic are my nature. It is part of why you love me and, honest injun, it is how I really am.

I do not want the virtual equivalent of love.

Swoon, Baby, Starry Night

I'd been waking up for quite some time, workers breaking pavement outside, and it is all I can do to stare at the ceiling and not to look at you. This is the time I realize that I am just the smoke in your hair and that I will die drowning in the hazelest of seas, and, in lieu of doing something that will make money, I lay there and lazily lick the salt out of your past failed lives, toast your face, and make play like nothing will ever change; and that I will always know where to find you. Oh, Momma, why so forlorn? Didn't you just get just exactly what you moaned for? Me, speaking for you, and, no, I don't know why I have these little knots in my heart, but I have my suspicions, and I love how nothing can keep your adventurous cock out of the Vesuvian pussy, not even when there's a possibility that it could turn you into a Pompeii person. So, tell me truly, how can you safely say that you don't know that you are my last supper? I am so afraid that you have not considered sadly the ramifications of making me love you so bad. I know that you don't trust yourself but you should trust in this, and I know, Baby, I know: it takes a long time just to get it all straight. The man in you wants the woman in me to grab you up and demand things of you but the exhibitionist in me just wants the voyeur in you to

look casual
but
listen careful

as I get off for you again, again.


yours always,

Queen King of Kink

ps. do a tanka

Insupportability Due To Discord or Conflict of Personality

What are, exactly, the legitimate ends of a marriage? And who gets to paid to write these mawkish love stories, anyway? Construe away, motherfuckers, because this version of my desertion is the only one that I could ever subscribe to; and sleeping together is so better than not. Boy, what I wouldn't give to be fucking my man the old-fashioned way during a thunderstorm tonight. I can't imagine a better partner and he writes, too, when the holy spear, it moves him, and he wants for nothing, except an auxiliary television and the occasional daily high. Me? I want for a healthy cigarette and sunglasses that don't inspire ridicule; and a normal life -- you know, one without cancer and death and addiction and angst and fear and struggle, because I'm sure such a life exists somewhere (humans don't.) My advice to you, boys? Give everything you've got to give up, to make sure you found the right girl, in case that feeling starts to stick, like star-crossed eyes are purported to do in the wind. The end of the line is lonely and I've just got to find more civilized ways to murder myself because there are lots of things that stand between me and my grave, like sad sack dance parties. Do you ever notice that I 180 my position halfway through a sentence and that I never, ever apologize for it? Just like I will never, ever apologize for expecting a little something in return for going out for bread and milk. I'm talking about double penetration, Husband. Hang tight!

It Didn't Seem That Bad

Well, this week's shaking out to be real productive, getting rid of cancers new and cancers old. Oh, I'm just being histrionic (feign surprise) because despite great efforts, I just can't seem to get worked up about something that I nothing and besides, the latter could hardly be considered a cancer -- just a huge lapse in judgment, but even I don't blame me, for being young and dumb, for posing for no reason and no rhyme, or for trying to keep it simple but making it more complex. But never again, because I'm exponentially smarter now and now I never make mistakes, or catch myself in my own lies. Criminal wants to find softer ways to fix things and I just want to joy-cry because he is so fucking human its sublime. Even the mechanics of ugly ways are beautiful, if you peek beneath their shadows, like mortal fear and slow burns. And you have so much to wake up for.

Open your eyes, put it in drive, get on the road, and just go
City lights turn to tree lines and national park signs
Mountains approach with more winds in the road and the air turns to falling snow
The engine blazes, the elevation raises, and the dynamite walls contain us
Everyone's watching for animals crossing through the part of the glass that's defrosting
Miles away, just up ahead; it doesn't matter what any of us is looking for
We'll never find it because its not even there

Prompts/Miscues

Have I done enough to be brave and, if so, why am I still scared? I just want more hours spent in generosity and less in ultimate sorrow because I think I've truly paid, thus concluding my famous and last. But even with the best ambulance driver driving, we all still go alone; putting the brakes on the whole fucking way, like a dog to the vet or a kid to the dentist. But I just try to be beyond it, somehow, like being positive, except very less new age bullshitty, or like praying on it, except a very lot less praying, or like thinking outside the box, except very different words; something more social mores refusenik, like me. All further damning evidence that it isn't so much a translator that we need but simply the warm comfort found in the knowledge that there simply exists someone else that speaks the same language; intimacy, if you were so inclined to use theirs. But what I mean to say is that I make plans for the days or years after because I want to live for you and ours; honorable intentions for life and your always-down part-beast part-girl counterpart, but without the desperate or pejorative connotations of beatitude, poetry, or dependence.

Hi, There! How Are Things?

Quanah, let me clarify: you were just darling and you really had us inured urbanites scratching our heads over your honor system for fee collection and your main drag with a Sonic terminus was adorable, even by Roanoke standards. And while we won't be back, except for a friendly nod as we pass on through to points beyond, it isn't for a lack of warm Texan hospitality nor for your adequate lodgings noticeably devoid of the SI copy of The Gospel According to Gideon. No, we won't be back because of your under-abundance of fish and your over-abundance of no-see-ums. Quite simply: we are only liking your ecosystem as a friend. And if it makes you feel any better, we didn't even slow down for Lake Arrowhead in ugly ol' Wichita Falls.

Romo, however. We are coming for you and we're going to draw it out for a real long time and suck you dry until we are mindlessly sated. Metaphorically, natch, because we leave no trace.

And Now I Will Entertain You With Toilet Paper (Murder On The Interstate)

Told you I would use that as my next title.

There's something about you, Boy, that makes me sweat (bullets). What can I say about Quanah, Texas that hasn't already been said (by complaining boys and girls north or southbound on 287)? Just be sure to allow yourself at least three hours to take it all in; makes you appreciate how all the little things are, like the crackling plains sporting lonely trees bowing to the applause of invisible gale force straight lines or lightening threats spinning silver tongues or medicine mounds that will remain a nine mile mystery. I must be crazy, or looking for an early grave, to sign up for this again: road trips and parenthood and love. But when this mean world casts its baited hook, you'll be glad you're not an orphan and that you have someone on the shore to reel you back to real and someone who cares enough to fold your clothes and pick you up a pecan cinnamon roll which you really, really don't deserve. Lucky for all of us, life's not fair and daylight never remembers last night's transgressions and I hold a lot of things, like sick babies and immature fears, but never a grudge.

But it doesn't feel good to be the only one catching.

He Always Knows What To Do In An Emergency

An Open Letter To The Approximations Of Success:

Stump removal service, bail bonds, funeral home, bed and breakfast, and Springtown Powerhouse of Praise? Maybe you should try rounding your expectations down. Because you've seen better days.

PS. who hasn't?

P.P.S. My darling Darfur, you'll always make for The Great Gruesome Alternative of their generation, (mines was Ethiopia vis a vis unfinished dinner plates); the place parents threaten kids with, who aren't being sufficiently deferential.

with love, from:

martyr

Its true, if I wanted slack, I would buy some rope and might anyways, just to keep you interested, but I just have these crises of confidence sometimes, like flash-floods or like learning to ride sans training wheels: swerve, swerve, crash, cry; kissed all better. I don't know how I know things about you, except for that I do, somehow? and that I am, most assuredly, intellectually above the power of positive thinking. Its just, when I feel outgunned by the grick of this universe, that is when I need to know that I fucking matter to you the most, the most. That you will do what you say you will do. That I am not on the verge of being fucked over. I mean, what's so wrong with safe and comfortable? But, as always, complacency is for the idle rich and you do not come cheap, with your expensive threats and your costly kicks. And I don't mind saying: I work blue-collar hard; trying to coax you out of your newfound hiding places. C'mere lil fella. I'm not gonna hurtcha.

Running/Returning/Releasing

So much on my mind, so little of it worth anything, and I quote myself again, again. Make play like this is some kind of something important, like I have to say something significant, and even if I did, anyone to say it to. "I hope she liked me," is not meta, but trying to forget that the only immortality these days is in the machinery and that the only sacrament is a meme, is. That's what you told me some place, but I can't remember when, it was a long time ago. Would you save my life if I got sick? And if you get married, can I come? Because I definitely may. Now hurry up, get gone, and go get high, because I can feel the tell-tale eye sting and blinking it back is becoming arduous and definitely, this is the wrong place to be. But in a peculiar way, you clutched me by the shoulder, then walked away and forgot our phone number, leaving me at the counter, trembling, stuttering, sunglass-clad, fighting a losing battle against mascara tears and fumbling for my license so I didn't have to speak my address and, in that moment, so fucking bad I just wanted to crawl under your shirt and just hide there until I had untied the knots in my heart, but I think I burned all my capital at the last funeral. Besides, catharsis feels almost sinful in its indulgence and intimacy? Surely, they won't mind. So, next time I'm not around, tell me what I want to hear. Good luck on finding those words. I mean rolling that rock up that mountain.

The sun looks right on your face but I don't want to sleep alone anymore.

Nevermind -- strike that last one because I just remembered how much I hate it when I get what I want, like the twenty minutes of your captive audience I swindled into my possession on the way to pick up take out last night. Don't get me wrong -- I'm as much a slave to pleasure-seeking and pain-avoidance as any other human -- but the guilt of even the appearance of me exerting my will is orders of magnitude more crushing than compared to how bad it feels to go without whatever. Evil, meet Lesser Of The Two. Honestly, I'd hate to give you any more reasons to go.

We all take orders.

No, You Can't Fuck A Stranger In Houston Nor An Ex-Girlfriend, But You Will Look

or, "To Be A Bird"

Trapped? No thanks (add "fucking" between the two if you require emphasis) because I have eaten of that bitter fruit and gazed, amazed, as the accusations sprouted primaries, fledged and flew, absconding with the shrapnel of my self-respect in their talons. Tell you how I really felt? Like a pumpkin, not a petroglyph, in terms of the degree of carvedness, diphthong-ed to take the sting out. Well, you (hadn't) asked! Take heart, my little wing. Someday, I will be ready; and meet your expectations of height, weight, eye color, and solvency. Sure, I'll feel a little bit dead for knowing that I am loved based on my actualization. But lucky for me, you don't even know what that word means! and lucky for you, I have perspective. Isn't that why we always love other people, anyway? It was my favorite book as a child, The Little Penny Stock That Could. There are skeptics out there, who believe that we are nothing more than facetious expressions of purines bound to pyrimidines. And then there are romantics, who believe that even the most mediocre nonstarters can be eminently lovable. But which came first? Emotion or blood chemistry? I mean, ultimately, even death could be considered a psychological phenomenon, a compulsory kowtow to the demands of a social construct immemorial; dying simply because it is expected of you. But we aren't talking about death! We're talking about anovulation. And I always get lost in the extrapolations.

Don't worry -- I don't mean any of this, except the part about me not being okay with you fucking someone else and also the part in the very beginning about feeling scooped. I just needed to cough it up before I went to work.

One Hit Wonder

Someone looking to procure innocence, I presume, or maybe just trying to ascertain the going-rate thereof; sickos, both. Just another ship passing in the ethernet night, trying to get away from (t)here for awhile while settin' a spell and looking to dock: not anywhere. Except for some of us, who love (,) living for being moored up from the floor up, lusting for acres of rolling terrain while discussing the finer points of sourdough, humming off-key to party-shuffled indie in their multi-stage-airbag-protected-third-row-having family ferry SpUte; any color will do, so long as it "pops"; against the fucking pavement. Sounds not so bad, to me, but I'm easy, just ask him, and am pretty even-keeled, except for the times when my equilibrium is disturbed or I have to sleep alone for too long: two rings plus money does not necessarily a happy home make. Kindergarten is fucking brutal and even all the more reason to make a real refuge out of these rafters. The trick to parenting is successfully stifling the urge to put a knife to someone asshole kid's throat. Advice that segues rill nicely into:

Humanity's fortune cookie: find someone special and make them less so

My fortune cookie: don't give up on the dreams of your youth, as is your wont to do

His fortune cookie: the answer to the question "which hole will it be tonight (today, this afternoon, etc.)?" is limited only by your imagination

No Fucking Way

Sunk, like a treasure, but rising, somehow, like a tide but faster, jet propulsion esophageal intrusion. Suddenly dumb, in the old-fashioned sense (the other was endemic) but said in my head: moonlit midnight fellatio is the best I've got. So, uh oh, I've gone and lost my pop-off valve. Can't you find those words lost on tongues and spit them on me and make me know? Better, write them and leave it for me between creaky slat one and broken slat two. Because, fuck a burden of proof: I think it is all a very clever cop. Now come cry unto me and don't you dare say anything else; I was talking to myself. And if you're waiting for that kairos eros, where he lays it all on the line? Well, take a fucking seat; and a nap. Because girls can tell when boys won't and all I really want is something made just for me, only for me, to serve as empirical evidence that I have been loved. But I lack the necessary x-factor to command that kind of emotion. Promises are words, only just, and they do not care enough to do your laundry or make you a panini.

Innocence For Sale

Find that friend that won't betray you and then quick! hold them fast and give them things, free things, things you've found, things you've made or things you've written. Work hard for them, earn them, and put out, too.

Riddle me this:

If the only happiness is freedom, how do you limn the shape of perfect rapture found in being bound by choice?

Of being married at the marrow and proximally by the pillow?

Of floating together down a river of sleep?

Goya just wanted to paint his mistress. Me? I just wonder how anything survives. No, it isn't very pretty in the foxholes of Operation Shutdown on these hot dead battery dying days, but we all do what we all always do: what we can and cross phalanges II and III for the rest. Throw good money after bad, as my mom would say my dad would say. We are all terminal (causing, ending in, or approaching death) and you'd have to be religious to believe otherwise. Babies say things that are wildly inappropriate and simultaneously soberly honest and they've never met a euphemism they don't like (to repeat) so yes, I'll stay in bed for the better part of year, if I have to, because I remember when she was very, very young and very, very small and I was rocking her to sleep in the old blue rocker I was rocked to sleep in and her chin was on my shoulder and her chubby rag doll arms were around my neck and all my equilibrium slipped away as I felt her milky-sweet breath on my skin and breathed her hair like air and rubbed small circles into her back with the palm of my hand when suddenly I felt her tiny hand on my nape, rubbing small circles. We revolve around the sun but we live only for each other.

Wait for me.

A Cheaper, Easier Malaria Pill (Deux Ex Machina)

HP, don't do me like that. And Jaguar? Goes double for you. Not that anyone owes a goddamn thing to anyone else, just ask my dad, the double-edged melee master of the exception-proving rule: the guilt-stricken parents of fucked up kids, and, upon further reflection, maybe that Wal-mart checker whose swallowed tongue I fished out of her trachea with a blue Bic pen. Not that I go there anymore: no, I make too much money to shop there. But not too much to steal from there. Look, my hostile readers, I have shit to do, like quit having cancer and comparison shop for technologies and eat Chinese takeout (deep six the dog); I don't have time to be your hero. Instead, you should just go eat a cookie with a cause.