Unassailable

He even puts the words "quit putting words in my mouth" in my mouth and now let's see what else we can fit in there, shall we?  Pabst Blue Ribbons in my hair, done up all pretty, all bangs pulled up gently with bobby pins, all mascara and batted eyes, all Gatsby all the time, all the galas we will never attend, and all their invitations getting used as coasters, are not half as fine as your frog hair, Friend.

And I'm definitely not thinking about you when I'm imagining the real part of complex plane integration and certainly not when I'm changing my tampon and for sure not when I'm checking out at the grocery store, and never while I'm twisting my hair around my finger, wondering if anyone else in here is as uncomfortable as I am.  And I assure you that you never cross my mind not even a single once when I'm in that sleepy twilight place that lies between watching BBC's WWII in RGB and my hand finding its way like a blind thing to my warm, waiting crotch.  But somehow, even with all that not thinking about you, I find you in my heated, padded wet dreams, still.  Besides, hands got their own sense of tunneled vision.

It is the hard and the soft kiss in the dark room, that pulls my body up to meet yours, your arm hooked perfectly around my ribs, that supports my increasing arching, that pulls my hips to yours by way of my lower back, that communicates to you how fucking turned on I am, that makes you harder, that makes my hip joints relax.  And even if the Bible was actually the Sutra or even the other way around, I still wouldn't worship because I gots no need for instruction with holy communion like that, transubstantiating all over my ass and back.  Things like that are the only things in which I have any faith at all; and I don't even need to know your fucking name when you suck me up into your silent vortex.

No, no magic sky fairies for me, thanks, I've got my own religion and narrative of reality, like: peak oil has passed past, people, 'cause if a treble can only make 12% say "Either love me or blow me, I don't really care which," ... well...I'll keep my Malthusian trap shut for as long as I can but, you know...I'm a talker.  And a lover.  And a blower.  And in my uterus, there is no keg.

Today at the grocery store check out, when I was absolutely not thinking about all the many ways I'd love for you to lay me, lay me down, lay me the fuck down, hiss at me to shut up, shut the fuck up, and pull my turned face up against your falling chest above, tell me to roll over, tell me to do it now, take me by the hips and roll me yourself and then, yes! the crop or your hand, again, again!, when I was not thinking about that, I was thinking about other things, such as how fucking bizarro plastic surgery is, and how, as bad as I hate my face sometimes, I never have the urge to invasively modify it.  And then I said something I should not have to someone who really was glad to hear it.

"Does rhinoplasty hurt?"  And then after I answered and saw her look, I said, "well, you shouldn't ask questions to which you don't really want to know the answer."  Of course, I said that last part in my head but some things just don't need saying, I guess.

Then I said in a stage whisper to the cashier, "You sure get some weirdos around here."  And then the cashier says, "Well, everyone is .... special --" and I finished her sentenced, " -- in their own fucked up snowflake way." She laughed and said, "I love it when people say the things we are thinking but can't say.  Like, the richer they are...." "...the harder they fall," I said on cue.  Then she says, "You are my favorite customer.  You made my night!"  But she made mine because we all need a little reminding, just a modicum of fucking validation, that we make things better for someone; even a stranger.

Two eyes made out of coal do not confess of a dead center, at least, no more than a nose nicely contoured from grafted cartilage belies one.

A(,)men.

A thousand hot breath, peanut butter pistachio sticky kisses blown your way, Mi Puerco.  Get well soon, sooner.