Your choices anchor me. Him? I loved you with a ferocity you’d have to measure with a geiger counter. He is meat put to motion, barely capable of crafting the necessary syllables to articulate that he needs to stuff food into his slavering hole in order to continue surviving. Toothless, better suited to burning his fingers on jury-rigged burners in an Alabama meth lab.
Words. Scotch. Cursing. Nudity.
March 19, 2012
Haste
February 29, 2012
Drag King
I fight the internal war between art and necessity, where my inner dialogue curses me often and viciously for not having the sensibility to toe the line in the name of machine-printed checks. What does he have that I don’t? The sense to keep his fucking mouth shut and wear the right sort of tee shirts.
February 27, 2012
Venus Complex
The ground swells beneath my heart in the spots where you installed this lunatic algorithm. I don’t know how you managed to leave me zig-zagged in invisible scars. You aren’t special. You aren’t special in that remarkable way, where a person enjoys your company and thinks you’re pleasant before being hit, sideways, in the middle of the night by the sudden realization that you, darling, are not special. Your weird sort of awfulness is the only special thing about you.
Yet somehow you managed to drag me to the edge, with a bottle in my left hand and a razor in my right. I am a fighter on a whole other level, the evolution of poor country stubbornness and bipolar denial. You could rape my mother in my lap and I would cope. Except when it came to you.
You have polluted the color red in my memories, and I hate you for it. Every blonde woman I see is you. It isn’t the sense memory of the aroma of baking cookies or the time you sank the winning basket; this is a relic I never wanted and will always carry. It wasn’t bad enough you had to suck with commitment. You made sure to leave behind your face to tick away like a dirty atom bomb.
February 25, 2012
Chapter Four
A Columbian peasant bled into the orange can they used to package the coffee I’m sipping by a monitor too large to effectively view pornography. My modular white outrage is contained neatly by tempered American consumerism. Wal-Mart stole my heart long ago and replaced it with arsenic chocolates from China. I content myself with enough effort to form the thought that this coffee slavery is, yes, A Bad Thing, and I will truly care about it after being released from a hostage situation. I am helpless, awash in a forty-eight inch display large enough allow me to count the stitch marks in this girl’s cesarean scar, far too self-involved to admit aloud that I had to consult a search engine on the correct spelling of “cesarean”.
February 25, 2012
Northshore
I am besieged by the bewildering desire to burn off my own fingerprints, retributive action against hands that won’t weave the fire infecting my cerebellum. The self-help book I purchased from Barnes and Noble talks at length about fire in relation to the affliction that nests between my eyes, because human beings are obsessed with romanticizing our own evolutionary pitfalls.
Four oh three in the morning brought on by the sort of mania that sneaks through the door with friends while the bouncer is staring at the blonde. I’ve cracked open the last of six Silver Bullets destined to self-medicate a curse of endless cliches, the alcoholic art school drop-out word jockey.
I don’t think I threw away the cardboard sleeve when I grabbed the last beer. Write that on my tombstone.
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