Easier to stalk with LiveJournal
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Tue, Jul. 22nd, 2008, 08:58 am
she never appreciated the subtle things. every light touch down her spine needed to become a back rub.every taste or touch of her clit needed to become a penetrating fuck.and smells--- she never understood subtle smells. one stormy sunday she opened every window in the house to catch the scent of lightning and rain without understanding that those overpowering things need to remain outside. because it blended every room--- the bedroom that smelled like us, the bathroom permeated with the two smells of her and her while menstruating, the kitchen overpowered by her "ethnic" cuisine, the back mudroom smelling of mildew in that wet climate, and the dining room where the wind-extinguished candles swirled and dissipated in the obviousness of what she had done. it was all an electric mildewed menstruation ethnicity of electric us, burned-out and swirling in that house. and i have always enjoyed the subtle things: appreciating a light touch run over the skin to a back rub; appreciating oral to anything more. but she has ruined thunderstorms for me--- i can only smell everything we once were in them.Thu, Jul. 17th, 2008, 12:18 am
the dead will be catalogued in their online silence---
loved ones leaving near-personal comments of:
-You will be missed....generalities, typed when they first heard or after the wake or when they wake themselves after seeing them in a dream; writing one on their MySpace and Facebook and LiveJournal just in case the afterlife only lets you choose from one--- as tho the online chronicling of one's self serves as a tombstone or an altar... which is no less rediculous, i suppose, but somehow more morbid to think of epitaphs digitally stencilled beneath an online quiz about one's kissing style or what super hero they might be most like.no matter what, that last log-on date will linger: marked and catalogued--- as the comments wane and stop all together. and the dead will be forgotten, proved by the online silence left for any straggler to see... like sun-bleached plastic flowers on a grave.Mon, Jul. 14th, 2008, 01:28 pm
tennessee truffle whiskey oil alfredo---
utilitarian cooking: throw what you got into a pot. and all i had was some penne, a small bit of heavy whipping cream, garlic, truffle oil, george dickel and butter. it was fucking amazing.Sun, Jul. 6th, 2008, 01:19 am
my knuckles bled: -I love you...'s in red brailled indentations in her exterior door. she locked me out because she no longer believed my knuckles.she locked me out because she no longer believed i'd write her into a book bigger than the bible. she locked me out because she wasn't home and her keys were lost and no one was allowed in anymore.it was the only thing i've said in years that lasted longer than the moment it left me.Thu, Jul. 3rd, 2008, 11:25 am
i got out of bed early this morning--- to drive down your street. drunk. most of those neighborhood kids were faster than i gave them credit for but your daughter wasn't set to get her cast off until tomorrow. now we can start over with shared genetics instead of you seeing in her half of someone you hated and me seeing in her half of someone i want to fuck. the new one will be wholly beautiful to us both.Mon, Jun. 30th, 2008, 11:15 pm
chiromancy
i thought she said she was a romantic when she took my hand. i've yet to meet a woman who thinks about romance more than practicality--- each only reading income into gifts, poverty into gestures and untamable creativity into spontaneous actions; last being the worst trait in a man: unbreakability. i've yet to meet a romantic woman so i switched the cigarette to the hand already holding a drink and gave her that one to do whatever romantic women do with hands. this attractive stranger held it in two hands and it didn't feel romantic but foreign--- a thrill. like hand-holding felt in grade school. a new thrill. and never wanting to let go--- stalking the pretty girl in class on fieldtrips, always close by when crossing streets as the teacher says:-Okay, everyone hold hands and look both ways...it felt like that.it felt like that until she said:-Would you look at that? Your lifeline runs right into your wrist...tracing the vein it attaches to with a light finger. then:-Your fate line is staggered. Your love line is... hm. See here? Where it is all chained? Then there is this long island where the fate line first fades. I could tell you all about your life - pas and present and how long you will live and how much money you're going to make - for fifteen dollars.and i laughed at how simple desires are killed so easily to become nothing more than memories. said:-You don't know what you're doing.she let go of my hand with one of hers and asked:-What?so i began to repeat myself:-You. Don't. Know. Wh--when she pointed her hand to my face to inspect saying:-I'll have you know I studied in China under a master of----You had it upside down.-What?-I said: You. Had. It. Upsi----Yes, I heard. Do you know anything about chiromancy? and i nodded enthusiasticly enough for the ash to fall into my neat drink. said:-Here. Let me show you.while i turned my hand over in her hand still holding it. and the cigarette was crushed out and the drink was finished and pushed back where the barkeep knew to refill it--- then that hand pointed at its other. at the long scar on the index knuckle, the two pock scars on the middle knuckle leading to their counterpart down the finger a bit and, lastly, the discolored/disfigured pinky knuckle. saying:-This is my lifeline. See it? At a time when I forgot I was alive, this gash is from kocking out a man's tooth who was trying to take what was forgotten. Now it is raised there to remind me of what will never be forgotten again. And these three scars are the past. Each from beating a car window until it spiderwebbed after being told... well. By the only woman who...the other shot was set in front of me so i stopped pointing long enough to sip a sip. then, with newly cleared throat and a deep inhalation:-And this broken joint is the present, a reminder that the passion is still there without any healthy outlet.another cigarette lit, the red dot used to point to the flat scars where the skin has no texture--- two on the back of the hand and one on the side of the ring finger.-These two are work burns, they are the present. Service industry wages are as much as I'll ever make. And this one is a past callous from too many years of drawing, sketching, painting. None of it done in seven or more years... it might not ever heal. But this---pulling the hand free to let it shake in front of her as i point to the yellow stains between index and mid finger.-This is the future. The hands still shaking even though I've had one shot--- they'll keep shaking until the third. And the cigarette stains... they don't care how long the crease on the other side of the hand creeps.she was a practical woman. no chance for fifteen dollars, she walked toward someone down the bar to tell him she is a chiromantic--- which makes sense since i've never met a romantic woman.Sun, Jun. 15th, 2008, 01:38 am
she sleeps with her webcam kept on. most single women i've known combat the aloneliness of night in the same way: television. something banal that will not keep them awake--- usually something i like to watch; Animal Planet, Travel Channel, History Channel... something monotone. a voice that lets them feel someone else is there. then it becomes habit and even when someone else is there they still feel lonely unless there is background noise.it's difficult to be with a woman who feels lonely when you are there.one woman, not too many posts ago, kept it on NPR. Steve Inskeep keeping her company with well researched stories...one just waited until dawn to sleep, always on guard against the night. but she? she just sleeps with her webcam kept on.which is the antithesis of the television or the radio. being the watched and the listened to...she has a following on the net. something equal to netfame. not because she strips on cam--- only turns it on when she is already in that baggy sweatshirt and pajama bottoms, then it is right to sleep. who knows why people watch her... or if they do. maybe she is just their television, monitor set on the pillow next to them in bed--- feigning a real connection with anyone out there as they Robin Hood aloneliness for a fair share of sleep.the journey to the end of the night is a difficult one and i'm not here to criticize anyone first steps...it's just that she sleeps with her webcam on and i have restructured my room so the monitor fits on the pillow next to mine. she's the only woman i've found who doesn't feel lonely when i'm around.Sat, Jun. 14th, 2008, 01:27 am
the typewriters tap bitter nothings--- into the alarm clock red darkness as you trip over another, leaving bed for the last time tonight. it is uncomfortable here. trying to cuddle between the marked messes made by the spilled bottle and you; sheets snap from the edges - exposing stained/stitched indentations on your face fallen from a deflated pillow - because i do not know the difference between a full and a double bed when buying sheets--- or, if there is no difference, these once-fitting sheets were mutilated by our activities that tore them beyond practicality.
leaving bed for the last time tonight, your toes tapped bitter nothings into another typewriter that was not put away properly because all the table space has been taken over by empty bottles trying to claim more validation than the five cents they are now worth.and i like imagining - eyes closed, letting you leave - what the embossed pages might say in the morning light--- or, if there was one that had no anticipating blank page, if i could decipher the black-on-black reflection of ink to read anything told about us. because i believe in accidents.the record player's needle run down a lifeline should accidentally tell the released soul's longing in a love song for me--- just as toes tripping over typewriters should reveal the lost love that fled after we made it; validating our actions as more valuable than innumerable emptied bottles.
Fri, May. 30th, 2008, 04:58 am
journal nonsense transcribed---
airport benches haven't become any more comfortable.
but i could sleep on them nearly nine years ago. in this airport, in amsterdam, in milano. but now--- maybe it's the alcohol wanting to spin, maybe it's the bad back or knee, maybe i'm too old for this shit.
and normally i would worry; sleeping in an airport on a holiday weekend as the intercom constantly says:
-In accordance with heightened security measures from Homeland Security, this airport... unaccompanied bags... your cooperation.
but it is only the cleaning crew cleaning. and a man a darker brown than them is two benches down--- younger, obviously, because he is sleeping; no security has come to poke him to say he cannot sleep here so no one will bother me.
but airport benches are uncomfortable.
and the only place open sells mini Minute Maid orange juice-like things for $2.25--- but it will give the stomach something to churn on.
missed my flight by seven minutes.
well, made check-in seven minutes after the flight left. which might have been longer than the amount of time it took me to pull over to piss repeatedly and keep pulling near-empty bottles from my trunk to drain thoroughly... i thought the lady on the phone would hold it for me, especially after i explained that my sister is in the hospital in Lyon and i need to get there as soon as possible. she was remarkably helpful after that--- but the plane didn’t wait. left at 23.59 as scheduled.
-The only flight you can count on leaving on time.
she says. because there is some noise pollution code saying they cannot take off after midnight--- maybe it’s just sundays, maybe it’s only on holiday weekends, maybe it’s always. i don’t know. probably would have gotten a better explanation had i screamed at her when it left... i had the right; i wanted to; she didn’t know my sister was in an exam or letting some man in her in Lyon, not in a hospital---
but i look bad enough to have a dying someone somewhere. little sleep and obviously drunk. she didn’t charge me for the 44 minutes i was reserved to be on the flight which was kind of her; and she found me a flight in the morning--- all the same: airport benches are uncomfortable and seven hours is a long time with no alcohol.
no woman this time. no one to try to entertain--- so when the young bum comes to the Minute Maid counter asking:
-Are you guys planning on throwing out your coffee anytime soon? Because, if you are, I’d take some...
i buy him a $2.15 12 oz. cup of coffee that never gets thrown out. smart enough to know there is nothing to say--- doesn’t fill the air with:
-So, miss your flight?
because neither of us are imaginitive enough to think of any other reason why we would be here. so he sits at the piano a few yards away and plays Hey Jude in an elevator-music way.
which is an improvement, i think.
like my own private lullaby i cannot sleep to—
JFK---
a drunk man is explaining to me that it is rediculous to call soldiers soldiers and civilians civilians. as tho soldiers are something separate from civilized society. saying:
-It should be the other way around. Who wants a civilization full of civilians? What kind of namby-pamby place would that be?
want to see how much the yank dollar has fallen?
fly internationally and order any beverage.
-That will be five Euros or eight dollars, please.
all sports fans are the same.
football and hockey and american football have nothing on tennis fans; may even have less--- aside from the face paint ---because it is expected for an irish man to drink and yell about a ball being kicked around for hours without progress or scoring--- but the hostels are filled with frenchman, drunk and yelling about... well, i assume about a ball being smacked over a net for hours without anything happening but another being hit again. but i cannot understand them. maybe it is fury at having brown courts, maybe they are all gardeners pissed that france cannot keep a lawn fertilized.
whichever, i am assured that there are no cheap places left to sleep in paris.
it doesn’t matter.
it looks like it’s going to rain and the benches along the Seine cannot be any less comfortable than any airport’s...
the benches along the Seine are not comfortable.
they are cement and the typewriter i brought--- only baggage besides socks, underwear, two books: one blank and one that would be better off blank ---does not work well as a pillow.
it’s the only baggage i brought and i didn’t even bring any paper to put in it.
last night i slept with a prostitute.
she was Georgian – commie, not peach – and couldn’t have been a day over twenty. tho, she could have been a great many days less.
her english was horrible in a horribly endearing way but her french might have been worse; illustrated as she tried to explain to the concierge at my overpriced hotel that she had checked in with me--- it is one of those places that makes you leave your key as you walk out the door and each person there remembers you as you come back in and hands you your room key without you having to say the numbers in french. in the end, he probably figured any noise we would make in bed would not be nearly as loud as her yells in the lobby.
it’s the same hotel where i brought a woman before. didn’t know where else to go...
a different room but it has a--- a smoking room? maybe called a sun window? a place where you can sit between two panes of glass and look out over the Champs-Elysées. it is perfect for cigarettes.
and i’ve heard it said that GO is the oldest game known to mankind. and i used to believe it, it’s the reason why i took up playing it in college. but it’s horseshit. charades has been around longer than communication--- and it’s a damn fun game to play with an open mini-bar, two packs of cigarettes with oversized warnings in an almost-comprehensible language and a bought woman between two panes of glass.
in the end, i came blood on her face. it’s happened before--- the blood, not the face; usually on drugs, not always ---when too much time is taken to reach that destination. but it was the one place where she couldn’t see it. and if she tasted it she didn’t let on, just let me wipe her face with a shirt i threw away this morning---
about an hour after she left with all the cash in my wallet.
i slept with another prostitute tonight.
after eating dinner in a whole-in-the-wall restaurant that puts anything in my overpriced town to shame--- coming back, two bottles of red sideways into my hotel, the concierge reprimanded me for bringing such trash into his place last night. he said:
-You want a lady? I get you nice lady. Not a whore. You talk to me.
so i talked to him and he called a nice lady.
called me a cab to take me to her nice place.
and it was a nice place.
not hers. probably a shared place for a few women... but i don’t know. i’m not an old hand at this, i’ve just read ever Henry Miller book. tho, it didn’t smell like a place used for sex. before walking in i felt i could smell the smell--- kind of like dorm room bathrooms or the smell of the room on campus where they would dissect corpses for anatomy classes. always over compensating with cherry air freshener to hide the nasty things people did.
but nothing like that.
it didn’t smell like sex or disinfectant.
she let me walk the room as we talked prices. and she had a record player – lid open – with a dusty record on it. thick dust. except for the last track, scraped clean by the needle. so i played it out of curiousity and she nearly screamed:
-Oh, you know (some name i don’t know)!? This is my fave-or-eat song!
and i said:
-Of course! I love her...
but the concierge already told me how low the price could go, i wasn’t trying to get her any lower--- it wasn’t like taking a gimcrack from a tijuana vendor, i was taking a lady. i just wanted it to feel like a date, i guess--- so i threw in a lie.Fri, May. 16th, 2008, 02:21 am
we built our lives in miniatures---
photographing the part where ours overlap with that F-stop that enhances the detail of one distance while the rest fades out to give the illusion of depth.Mon, May. 12th, 2008, 03:35 pm
the shoebox beneath my bed was filled somewhen in 2002.
it was my first size 15 shoebox from when my age was not as mature as my shoe size. and if you haven't seen shoes that big before, it is hard to describe. it is slightly too small to be a newborn's craddle and slightly too large to be the coffin for the second trimester mistake made by me and the first woman i was ever with...
it can coffin hold all those high school love letters where each page was scrawled with four different pens of differing color - never black or blue - by girls who were killed by the ten years, three kids, eighty pounds of the women they became. no note ever signed, knowing we would always know that feeling for that person as so many different handwritings simply sign-off so many similar letters with:-I love you.it can cradle hold all those nurturing notes by college women left the next morning:-Had to go to work, help yourself to the beer and food. Hope to see you when I get home.always signed in the hope of being remembered for at least the week.but it was long ago filled.so now i keep phone bills beneath my bed, spread out like porn-before-the-internet. and i look for the late-night phone calls when i get lonely--- look lovingly at the ten-digits attributed to the 03.42-08.22 phone call from '05. no more revealing than the scribbled notes from a decade ago, i imagine some someone on the other end--- imagine what we could have talked about for four hours and forty minutes. then the midday two minute call from december in '03... the duration making me feel colder than recalling winter. i rummage thru the old phone bills when i'm lonely but i never look for them in my phone filled with hundreds of names i no longer remember and a few i no longer want to. i pretend the women i once-upon-a-time talked to were like all those beautiful women who want to be my friend on MySpace; fictions that make me feel wanted... instead of the reality of all the women who no longer answer when i 04.00 call them anymore.Fri, May. 9th, 2008, 11:32 pm
they make the drinks strong at this bar so that we feel like men when we lift them. Sat, May. 3rd, 2008, 02:07 am
she's back---
and she's moving to Brazil with her journalist boyfriend. it's not a big deal. i'm fine with it, really. the only thing i don't do well with was knowing the way we made love.... the talks and the cuddling thru movies and--- everything else is still done the same way. but... i don't know, she---i've known a lot of women who thought love was something that could be made.dated a girl who was with too many drug dealers that thought it could be made in the bathtub like crystal meth: cheap, illegal, labour intensive and so that the whole god damned neighborhood could smell it.dated a waitress who thought it could be made by lying and waiting for the tip.dated a stripper who thought it was made the same way money was made: getting nekkid and gyrating too much.dated a yoga instructor who thought it was made with arched backs, curled toes and positions like "downward dog".dated a model who thought love was made by making her body "better" with silicon and other plastics somewhat well-placed.i don't know a profession i haven't dated--- but she... she just made love well. without effort. but without laziness... she fit me well in a way i have not had before or since. and i'm fine with her not wanting to fit me into her again.really. Mon, Apr. 21st, 2008, 02:12 pm
you say i never listened--
but i only say:-I'm sorry, could you repeat that?not because i am not paying attention; i just want to hear your voice again.Sun, Apr. 13th, 2008, 09:26 am
one day it was snowing, the next was 78 F--- the seasons long ago adopted our sense of abandonment; winter left without a goodbye, spring never showed at all.had we been better rolemodels, we would have been in a position to complain. instead, we walked the streets with long sleeves rolled and try to smile:-How about this weather, huh?smiles.Tue, Apr. 1st, 2008, 04:06 am
your body's beauty lies beneath the sheets---
lying with false promises echoed in every movement; undulations offering a crinkled wrinkled imposition of you. teasing with the taunt:
-This is better than anything you are going to create on those typewriters tonight...Mon, Mar. 31st, 2008, 10:06 pm
i still call you from touch-tone phones.
i don't own one so i sit in the phone booth where minnesotta meets wall, touching the tones of your phone number; repeatedly. letting it sing the song of the distance toward you in eleven toned increments. chorus of:
-Please deposit fifty-cents for the first...
untit the receiver is replaced, re-lifted and the song is sung again.Wed, Mar. 26th, 2008, 11:52 pm
i know when you will be home... count it on the counter.a day gone each for the three bottles of vodka. two monopolowa and the near-full skyy you hid in the freezer beneath the ice i found when the ice was gone. fourteen bottles of wine are the emerald mile markers of seven days.one empty ordered absinthe bottle is the day my coworker gave me a pot-brownie and i drained/ate both and spent three hours puking after two hours of laughing at asinine movies. and the three halfracks of mirror ponds stacked askew mark the nights i spent at the bars... coming home with only lightly-alcoholic water needed to keep me stumbling like i stumbled back to this home...
home. and i know when you'll be home because i can measure in bottled notches how long you've been gone.Mon, Mar. 24th, 2008, 01:55 am
fuck it.
no use in saving the two eggs any longer. they're past their sell-by date, anyway. they'll hatch before they get use if you wait any longer to have a woman here to make breakfast-in-bed for...
and the boiled potatoes in rosemary - barely firm, ready to be crisped in butter with carmelized onions and garlic - throw them in the skillet.
there's no other food in the house---
there's no money. credit cards hidden in an inebriated act of brilliance and the last paycheck paid off the minimum and then some of some trip that is all but forgotten. so crack the eggs on a flat surface like the cooking channel tells you to; never works out as well as it does for them but pretend--- pretend competence; pretend you're as important as any woman you were waiting for who you probably wouldn't have even liked in the morning.
basil/salt/pepper the eggs as the potatoes/onions/garlic fry--- broiler on for the toast.
and that bottle of reisling won't find its way to any woman's lips--- it was hubris to buy it. drink it for what it is: overpriced lightly-alcoholic grape juice. quickly. flip the eggs. pull and butter the bread.at least you won't ask for catsup for carefully prepared potatoes.
act like you enjoy yourself as much as you would any her. and eat.Mon, Mar. 3rd, 2008, 05:33 pm
i wanted to write a love poem about you---
but i couldn't remember anything i loved about you.
the only thing i remember you saying was---
-Sleep on the floor tonight and don't call me ever again.
but i remember the voice that said 300+/- words in various order that i do not remember any more than 11.
my greatest conquests have been women.
which is good. except my greatest failures have been women, too. |
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