Chairwoman of the Suicide-by-Assassination Committee

My delts, my pecs, my lats and my traps, Mi Puerco! They are so sore from carrying around:

the weight
of the burden
of the knowing

that I am holding you back; from the actualization of your sexual self. Because I should really just lighten up and stop caring and give you my blessings to do your biddings.

But the cost!
Bleeding christ on the cross!
The cost!

I am not sure it is worth it. But I am beginning to think it is not my place to decide, because I am only an appraiser and I am only paid for my opinion and I don't broker the deal.

I cry
I cry

and I don't know why, but that's because rich people like me never understand anything, like the value of Fendi shades or how a person can get so broke(n) when they are born with a greasy silver spoon hanging out of their stupid mouths, like a wagging dog tongue. But I've turned it off before and I can do it again, if it is what you really want, and that is not a threat, it is an offer. And when I'm done drawing up all of the detritus in to a dustpan, I'll get my pilot real clean (if you know what I mean) and take a vacation then come back as the automaton-tronic wife of your wet dreams and we'll ride off into the simulated sunset, feeling:

the spitting analogue of happy
in the synthetic warmth
from our virtual
equivalent
of love

I can go back to living and dying in my head. The lies do smother, but not to the point of asphyxiation. My heart gets heavy and my hair gets long, and you'll get high and I'll get low, and we've just got to breathe in, breathe out, and remember that it all boils down to how the serotonin flows in our heads.

Oh, heart, of what is it that you're made?
It's blood, and blood can be remade.
I know because I cut you and looked into your veins.
It's a long ways down from the tallest building.
But its the radon in the basement that eventually kills you.
The average man is 35 years old.
Owns a car but would like a better one.
He's overweight but he's working on losing it.
He'll have sex with 7 people.
And will fall in love at least 2 times in his life.
He will have 3 incidents of infidelity.
His brain weighs about 3 pounds.
He loves his wife but would like a better one.
He will spend 3 hours per day watching television.
And 3,000 hours in front of the mirror shaving.
He has a face but would like a better one.
His penis is 5 inches long when erect.
He works 251 days, gets 6 federal holidays, and 10 vacation days.
The average man is living for the promise of tomorrow's gimmick.

"On WE" Ennui

Its just another reassuring way to buckle my knees; the realization that truth is the bottom of a bottomless pit. Twice this week I have awoken because I forgot to breathe and I thought that was supposed to be involuntary but something is wrong with me; I need a friend, to whom to tell my tedium. Yes, quite right, less a friend and more an ear, to bend. Because friendship implies some kind of give/take, some kind of camaraderie, but all I want is someone to think that I am worth knowing, that my brain is worth picking, that my company is worth having, that my sneezes are worth blessing. Maybe something bordering on adoration but not like a lover because I have been properly re-acculturated and I know, for a scientific irrefutable fact, that men are biologically incapable of sexual fidelity and its not their fault that novelty is a goddamn sacrament. But back to what I was saying, I don't know if I want someone to worship me or what, but I kind of think I just want someone to think I was really fucking special?? Or, rather, the most special? And I have to tell you, I feel like a favorite fucking workhorse these days, and I don't mean that to sound like I feel unappreciated, because I know I am appreciated, in the strictest sense of the word, in the cool, quiet of the pre-summer night; when I have finally FINALLY gone to bed (away) and the children are sleeping and the luxuries of a modern Western life can be enjoyed without my interruption. And I can cook up all kinds of apology from recipes I've picked up over the years, and I fully admit, I have some really fucking far out ideas about love and the mightiness of. And, yes, I am pretty sure that most of my shit would go away if I could find something about myself to love or someone to convince me that such an animal even exists. I suppose that the devotion and personal sacrifice that people who love me must daily make should be evidence enough, but I'm rill sorry to say that it just isn't, because I (sigh) am just the way that I am. You see, I fish for compliments to validate me(?)(because I didn't win enough blue ribbons as a kid or something?)(or I have daddy issues or mommy issues?)(or a pretty superior inferiority complex?)(or an abandonment neurosis?) but I hate when they take the bait. And I see:

the seams
in their sagging arguments
in favor of Me
through the brick-broken
pane
of my heartsick
brain

Seaven Teares figured in seaven Passionate Pavans together with six songs of teares and Weeping.

You remember in Tom and Jerry when Tom would somehow get his head stuck in a bell and then Jerry would, invariably, gong it, and then the bell would come off somehow and Tom's head would still be ringing and also it would be in the shape of a bell? Yeah. That.

But today's tears are for the snow that falls on a dead person's birthday. For the outrageous courage to feign guilt. For suffering in solitude. For the burden of being attractive (and for the measures which we will undertake to get that way). For the girls that torment me. For the man that forgives my madness. For the horses hunted by dogs and for the dogs hunted by people. For the build up and the let down and the blow off valves. For showing up and saying hi. For celebrating one year in two hours. For rock hard breasts and soft cocks. For chromatic languages and 18th century ears. For the lack of inspiration that satisfaction brings. For the good men and for the women that complicate them.