Thursday, May 24, 2018

He reminisces, wincing.


The dalliance was dim and short lived.
What would one expect from a founding forged in mutual disdain?

I think maybe we merely hated the same people. No. We were hated by the same people. That’s even less of a connection.

We shared nothing beyond disinterests.

I wanted to care. I just couldn’t.

In theory her lips were inviting. (I mean, I had direct invitation.) It was momentum rather than passion that carried the kisses through. Did she care, though? Was there meaning outside the lens of my being? Does it matter now…?

Her dick was amazing, no doubt. Magnetic, really. In theory.

I mean, I mean. Goddamn. Maybe I am an asshole?
It seemed almost separate to her. Like, it was attached to her for sure, but with smooth heft of it, in my hand or my mouth, I didn’t have to remember that.

That wasn’t fair. Not to either of us. Just, ya know, we were all we had. Xtian school is tough, you guys.

We were both broken because we were taught to be broken.
We were both, uh, trying really hard to be open. I wanted to fall for her. I wanted to love her.

Of course, I never did.

She was she. I was gay.
We didn’t have the words to understand our failure.

I hope she doesn’t hate me. How could I blame her though? I mean, the whole thing was forged in the fires of hate all around us. Uh, what’s that word? Quenched! Forged in the hate of others and quenched in our own ignorance.
We never stood a chance.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Perception



Woah. I didn't know you could experience ego death on Boone's Farm and methadone.

Wait, no. This might just be regular death.

It's not. It's not. It isn't fair.

It goes on?! Echoing silence and shining dark? Always. Cold linoleum on my fingertips unending. Final taste on my tongue, sickening sweet artificial strawberry... forever?



Forever.


It goes on, and it isn't fair.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Fuck Me. And fuck this coffee shop.

The last chips of glitter stick to my fingernails.
(I know, I should quit.
 Microplastics only photo-
 degrade into smaller bits.)

Life is a beautiful Cupcake
with an exquisite rose,
such delicate folds,
impressive in buttercream.

Then a cockroach falls,
from an open cabinet door
into its midst.


The comfortable chairs are never free
because somehow I'm too nervous to sit in them.

The thought, a human might
land near to me.
It falls under fear, this morning,
but disgust is always a possibility.

Saturday, November 25, 2017

It was built of lines, glowing trails like overstimulated retinas.  Rubberish blue-grey flesh, however, had begun to stretch between the violent shimmering edges of its unreality.

Eyes like floating abstractions were beginning to see. Impossible mouths were beginning to hunger.

How had we hoped to control that which we cannot comprehend?

It stirs and frets in vibrating fits even now...

Friday, November 24, 2017

tis the season

I think the tainted, tepid
consumerist thrusts
of unhappy women intent on savings
gave my soul a seeping rash

if not that then,
men with gray hair and
matte windbreakers in
faded hunter green,
crisp navy, or black
with disapproving
mustache

families in layers, and layers,
(cold from the bus?)
buying desperate necessaries,
in a tired, resign├ęd rush

one woman, at least, was very happy to pay more than $60
for a few pounds of formed plastic and polyester
not happy, relieved, I guess
the centerpiece of christmas, she called it

Saturday, October 21, 2017

Was this who she was?

Why must the mountain loom, in the window of her room? Fore and aft in all her thoughts?

Sweet black tea and too much cream slid silken past pale, frowning lips and down her scratching throat. Smooth synthetic fabric tickled the tops of her pink knees.

Eventually Samantha realized how much she shook. The teenage girl sat heavily on the goldenrod folds of her unmade bed.

Cartoon bees traced elegant curlicues between daisies and daffodils on her rayon robe. Plastic vines and dim christmas lights hung in shallow waves, interconnecting the multitude of smiling photographs and sun faded posters.

Still there it stood, framed within her only window, that terrible cragged peak. Still there it lay, the odd poem in her tangerine glittering dream journal, written in crabbed script.

Colossus, north and west
Waiting beyond
patience, past, and rest.
Movement of fire,
slow. Breaking perception and scale.
Glacial, molten, motile, unchain’d.
Movement of fire,
ash and groaning stone.
Stone and glacial flame.

Sammie told Todd she was going out for some exercise. Short green cotton shorts and a faded gray sweatshirt quietly confirmed her lies.

“Call your mom if you’re gonna be late.” 

His words did not follow her out the door. Sammie’s phone was under an orange towel, dead on the bathroom counter anyway.

She did not remember how she came to be there as she started up a steep dirt road, far from home. Cold wind whipped across her long legs and stole the sweat from her brow. Soon enough the angry fire of her ascent washed the dry winds’ discomfort from Sammie’s surreal awareness.

The rest of the trek became little more than unpleasant flashes:

Taupe colored mud on her lips and gritty water in her mouth.
Sand colored stones slowly giving way to rust and black basalt.
Flora losing the green punctuation of juniper, turning to leafless gray scrub oak.
Branches scratching at her hands as she climbed ever higher.

Somehow it all intermingled with distant memories of Todd. Times he was drunk and they were alone.

He used to insist she sit on his lap:
Hot pressure in her neck when she relented.
The scared jittering in her ribs.
The terrible weight of his rough fingers lightly resting along her thighs.
And More:
A memory relived of Dan stealing a kiss Sammie did not wish to give.
The slap of Jenna’s fingers against her face in return.
The weeks of lonely lunches thereafter.

Sammie squatted with feral strength on the volcano’s naked southern face. Her skin was abraded and bleeding, blood becoming mud in the incessant scouring winds.

Deep with her aching bones, deep within the mountain’s ancient bowels, she felt slow crushing movement. She knew the insistent joy of glacial flames.

Sammie in futurity did see; the false town beneath her suffocated in caustic ash.

She smelled the brimstone caress of burning flesh. The dead-eyed smiles of cashiers choked away in sudden black skies. Church steeples burning unseen, dry distilled and rendered unto crumbling charcoal crosses. Fake laughter and undeserved apologies dying on ten thousand lips…

Sammie laughed through clenched teeth and tears. Stones jittered underneath her blistered feet.