Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I'm a derivative of an awake person. Of a hopeful person. Once firm, now floppy. Can't knock a Weeble-Wobble down, but you can pop that fucker. I'm too weary to feel disappointed now. But I'm no damnfool (yes I am), that will come later. It's one of the defining qualities of curses: Inescapable. Onward! I suppose... live to bleed-out another day.

Saturday, October 27, 2012


I've traveled a road that I fear is a circle, as I find myself in familiar grounds now. Acting a fool, except now I feel old, and worry about my skin and what I'm going to die of.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


If I were more of a narcissist, and I am --albeit a wounded one--, I might think that the wind and the calamity last night came from me. That was certainly happening in my chest cavity, my neck, things were tumbling down the streets; I didn't bother to chase them. I just sat, dumbfounded at its persistence, and clenched in pain. Until the wind started and the branches started breaking and the power outage resonated my own short circuit, and then I felt calm. And I fell asleep to the howling and the banging of my blinds. So, of course, it wasn't from me, but I could appreciate it.

Monday, October 15, 2012


Things seem strange to me right now: unusually bad. Death in my family, and my neighborhood, and all my friends have broken hearts. I am speeding toward a cliff myself. But it's too late to stop, fueled by an intense fantasy. Winter is just about right then; it's time to retreat, allow my loneliness something real to cling to, instead of vagary and unrooted malaise. I don't feel weak though, just weathered. This is likely to change if I do end up off that cliff; not sure my hope parachutte will open anymore.

Saturday, October 13, 2012


Dear ---,

Maybe you don’t consider yourselves as misogynists. But you are. If you would watch a woman breaking in front of you, set aside the fact that you know what you are doing to her, and still take what you want under the thin excuse that you explained yourselves, if you disregard her time, diagnose her problems and presume to know the solutions, if you run hard and fast from your fuck-ups and tell yourselves and others that your happiness is the ultimate priority, if you won’t look at her in a crowd but enter her in the dark, if you live accidentally, if you are one-dimensional and childish, if your excuse is heartache and fear, then you are misogynists and your punishment is your own metallic and bitter taste, your own desperation. For those of you who are calculated and Machiavellian about it, the accumulated pain and hatred that you cultivated will destroy you, give you cramps and make you fat and tired; it will give you illness and bad luck; flies are burrowing in your soul and your life force is dwindling; you will fail. I’m not worried about what will happen to you.
I am worried about the women. My friends, my family, I wish I could scoop out the shit you have been served. Don’t believe it, fight it, expand like a flood light. And like light and sound, there is no place your heart can’t reach.  I see what generous creatures you are. Even in your most derelict-form you choose to destroy yourself instead of another, and even though I know it’s all you can muster, it’s a beautiful act. Now fight. Don't negotiate, wait, figure, or resign; fight.

Monday, October 8, 2012


Writing here was supposed to help me. Now I'm feeling stifled. Censuring everything is beginning to piss me off. I want to write his name all over this fucking page. I want to write it out plain, to hell with being beautiful. Self consciousness is the death of art am all I'm doing here is looking right at myself and judging it. Trying to make it readable, interesting to other people. I've dragged myself though the ball sweat stink of pretension. It's fucking funking.
What I really want... really really really... is to write out my obsession. How these thoughts have blotted out every moment that don't absolutely require me to think of something else, moments for instance like talking to my boss, or making a left turn in traffic... or riding, not then. How it feels to watch yourself go crazy. Watch yourself climb a up the fucking water tower in a lightning storm, and not even bother to coax yourself down. I'm in danger. There is no doubt about that. The gap between fantasy and reality is probably getting bigger and bigger each immeasurable moment. And yet... there I go.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Knock on Wood

I had a series of unfortunate events. All related to money, which I moderately value. (And when I say moderately value I mean this: say for instance that I was asked to move and the reason was money. There was more money over there... that direction. I wouldn't go. Not if that was it. But say there was love, over there, that direction, I'd go. Not tomorrow, but let me get the money worked out, and then I'll see you there. )
I'm not sure where I  picked up my superstitions, and damn me for not realizing they were there sooner, but one bad thing makes me fear the next. A speeding ticket is a sign that I'm on the wrong path, and a lost phone is a harbinger of more loss and sorrow. I once got locked out of my sister's house with a 3 year old for hours in the vicious sun, then the transmission fell out of my car on the way home, and then I got dumped over dinner. I tried to be nonchalant about renting a car for 280 dollars just to get to the lousy date... nothing was going to stop me, but should I have been paying closer attention?
No! Fear mongering. What are you, a Republican? No sir! Superstitions are for the lazy, the victims of the world whining that the universe cursed them into always loosing raffles. It's for the control freaks and the paranoid.  It's a trap; most of the time, your car accident wasn't about you or what you deserve; it just blows.
Fine, I admit it. I'm superstitious. But I'm not pretentious enough to claim I know the language of all these messages.  But strike me down in my very chair this moment if I am wrong! Nope... I'm still here. But did I just tempt the fates? Jesus, superstitions are for the mentally ill...

Wednesday, October 3, 2012


I've overindulged. I'm icky with dirty water and the same muggy thoughts swirling in whirlpools. It's time to leave this bath for now. It's out; I'm clean and I'm ready to romp in some other field for a while. I'll check back in with you later, sweet man, and fear disappointment some other day.

Monday, October 1, 2012


I said before that being with you was like honey in a bowl. I was right. Now I’ve got the pot flipped over and I’m waiting for you to come out (before I had my snout in it). I suppose gravity pulls only as fast as gravity will pull. And if you are honey, then I am water. I spill.  And when you come out, I’ll tell you my secret. I would have told you before, but you never asked the right question, or gave me a sure enough sign I could trust you, or even just some extra time. That’s all hogwash now. As soon as I see you roll over the edges of your container, I will invite you to the swampland of my soul where my shame resides and show you, whether or not I leave that place alone, I will show you.