Can someone tell me how much is too much lube? Because the accordian squirt bottle tells only truths.

Let's discombobulate!

I used to be so good at finding a spot to park and write, and, yes, usually a park because reality knows how to keep it real, yo. Goddamn getting stuck behind the short bus stop sign, captive rapt audience to a homecoming parade in honor of hydraulic lift hiss happiness with the main float featuring a daughter, whose cripple is on the outside and a dad, who looked like a coach. From what I remember.

I always find it a sad thing that success gets rewarded, more and before, suffering gets noticed. Something about priorities, something about shame, something about humanity, ending on something about getting over it.

But seriously, is this what life is like for everyone else? Useless as a spare part.

Idling. Stalling. A face like yours. Thinking an awful lot about things. My imaginary internal bleeding and your real internal bleeding. An open letter, a plea, a missive, a valentine, on clearance. Maybe I've too delicate a constitution. Lots more hookers and old people 'round here. From what I remember.
I think there's too much earwax in my ears, or something, because I can't understand people too good lately. Because I believe there must be a physiological basis for our emotions, like having a heart. From what I remember.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

Defender/Destroyer

I've spent a good deal of my life living in my head and now I spend nearly all of my time outside of it, and I can't say which way is best, except that real life tastes much better and imaginary life, more sanitized. I wonder if "lucked out" is the same or different from "crapped out", like in cards not like in cars. I hope it's not the same, because if so I've been using it wrong this whole time, and when I say it, what I mean to say is:

"
I don't care
if I never have
even one more
stroke
of good luck
ever again
because, after this,
well, this is....
this that's
between us
is the part
that is left over
after all of the other parts
have been taken away.
This
is the
remainder.
"

That's what I mean when I say I've lucked out. And believe me, I know lucky, because my mother is one of the kindest people I know and my father is one of the wisest and my brother, one of the nicest and my children, two of the smartest, and my husband ... the loveliest. I won't have much to complain about on my deathbed and did you know that my great-grandmother, on her deathbed, asked us to find a little tiny silver teddy bear ring that she had worn as a child in the early 1900's. How crazy is that? You have to understand, she was like a hundred years old, well, less than that, but at least in her 90's and well over 100 in dog years, and, is it just me but are we getting more industrious, faster? And do you ever have an available moment in your ironic, intellectual, hipster douche bag, iCal life to sit back in awe of this place instead of giving it a cavalier flip of your hair whilst you trot out your usual sneered-lip contempt? I mean, really, how lucky to be a spark, to be the fastest swimmer, the survivor of the fittest? Sure, there was a time in my life where I was immature and nihilistic, but now I feel that:

this is a ride
only a ride
and if there had been an actual purpose for
the ride,
following the Attention Signals
you would've been instructed to stay where you are
and await further official
information
news
or instructions.

I just hope it holds out long enough for me to taste saltwater and sand and breeze and my husband all at the same time. Not that I haven't already. I mean again.

I need more tasks in my life, like doing dishes and writing and cooking and taking drives and music, oh my god, music. I am being squeezed right out of my little brain. I often wonder what makes him work. He still has that wayward boy appeal that drew me to him ala moth/flame or cat/hamster or marionette/strings or ace/hole.

I stared at the ring finger on my hand thinking, "This prom dress is the closest thing I have to a wedding dress." Yes, the holidays must be approaching because I'm pitiful and self-indulgent and I think in seasonal, dirty double entendres, like egg my nog and log my yule, and

I know it has been a long time
a long, long time
since last October
but
I'm coming to you now
Baby, I'm coming
to your bed
to await further instruction.

A skull can't save face but I am not ashamed to be a hedonist.

Can You Draw Me?

"Oh, a million things come thrusting forth like fireworks and then, oh ouchie, sucked right back in, like a house devastated by a tornado, but in instant "let's see that again!" replay," replied my mind to your mind's command to "prove it." So, instead I make you sugar cookies and balmex myself with benzocaine and await your glorious reminder, of my womanhood, of my muscles, of my place. I'm more in love with you than ever, and holy god, is this what 30 feels like? Because in my twenties, I believed that those soundbytes about thirties and their Y/Y improvements were lies to keep me from hari kari-ing myself upon their approach. I never thought I'd live long, at least not this long, to really be happy and right as rain. No, no one else, not ever, not never ever, as ever, only you, only for you, because you are so beautifully real. "Too fancy," she says and I wholesale agree. "Now, can I put one on your face? You don't have one. You need one." Can't we ever disagree? It (comes and) goes with a quickness, and not just the days; all of it, everything. And just like I don't know how people decide what is right for their own lives, I don't know how to describe feeling ass-hungry, just that I am. Vroom vroom, you're here and I'm back, and I fucking long for the day, said in a whimpering decrescendo, with 'fuuuuckkkking' long and histrionically drawn out, for effect,

etc.

Here you come now, smiling.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5