Thursday, January 26, 2006

Bank Robber Christ

It started with television. Product placement. I don’t know why I shave with this shaving cream. Or why I shave at all. That man is so pretty. Such soft skin. Cock out, few strokes necessary. I think these are bedsores.

Too many Doritos. I should go outside. Skirts have gotten to be so short. Sucking the cheese dust off my fingers. Need to cut nails. What’s the point? Short skirts. Fuck it.

When you mean it, no drama, just action: sharp blade, soft wrist, soft cock. Few strokes necessary. He knew nobody would come looking for him. He laughed at the idea of his neighbors shrugging off the horrid smell for several days. Temperament awkward and honest as holy blood bled.

Three days later he woke up smiling, but still hadn’t realized who he was.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

NYC 11.1.6

this city is a broken coffin, air slipping between the cracks not to resuscitate but spread the stench of death. breathe me back.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

their houses weren't really houses

They had gas caps, plastic windows, and small mirrors that made the desert seem bigger than it actually was. Their houses had plates made by prisoners and tubes that led into underground tanks of shit and shower water.
Your mom’s shit and your dad’s shit, and your shit, said the boy with the pubic hair, whose house was parked less than a mile away.
So, least I know where my dad shits, said Marcus, the boy with a mother and a father. His body was small and unclean. They were both unclean. They had bloody gums, rib-tight chest skin, shirtless out-pouched guts, belly buttons good for picking and smelling, the crust hot with the stink of dried summer sweat.
The boy with sprigs of hair on his balls was called Junior, named after his father, the famous soldier that went off to serve his country, but actually just left one morning and three years later got drunk and drove into an oncoming car on Highway 85, killing the family of four on impact, his own fatal wounds suffered from the bullet he shot through his throat two nights later. Junior’s mother doesn’t know about Junior’s father’s death, and if you told her, she wouldn’t be able to place a face to the name, having never heard it before. And so what if Marcus didn’t have pubic hair, at least he knew his father’s real name and what it felt like to get hit in the face.

Marcus always went over to Junior’s house because Junior’s mother had two jobs and was never around. She wore lots of makeup for the job at night, so she never noticed when they sprayed her perfume and tasted her lipstick. Unlike her, Marcus’ mother didn’t wear makeup— she smelled like a person, not thousands of drunk flowers.
Also, the abandoned junkyard was closer to Juniors’ house. The old man that owned it died facedown in dirt, between rows of broken refrigerators stacked high enough so the fall would easily defeat his already defeated body. There was still a mark from where his head cracked the hard desert sand— the rest of his body, like his life, left no impact on the earth. Marcus and Junior found the dead old man and put him in one of the refrigerators. He prolly laksit’n there, Marcus drawled as he started climbing the refrigerator towers.
This was the end of summer. The one where they both turned 10 and discovered jumping. Junior could jump higher, but neither of them knew this because when they jumped, they threw their heads back and stared at the sky so they could see where they were going. The summer they put an old man in a refrigerator. The summer Junior saw his mom fucking— it’s called fucking, the fucking man said, now close that fucking door. The summer that Marcus’ mom packed her things and left for good, but really just cried in the Plexiglas shower while everyone else was asleep. The summer they threw each other off mountains of useless metal machines and desecrated things out of ignorance.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

She Says Seasons Change in Seconds

If you don’t believe me, go look outside and see for yourself, she would say if she wasn’t asleep. I want to wake her up, tell her that she’s wrong, but instead I walk to the window. The tree’s leaves are green, but when I blink they turn brown. They shrivel into flakes, as if burned, and fall onto the flowerbed below. But before they land the roses lilt and break, making room for the falling leaves. I can hear her breathing behind me while the ground gets covered by snow. With each breath, the snow melts, then more snow comes, the ground rising and falling like a white water river flood, rushing and slowing at the pace of her sleeping. By the time I look back up at the tree, it’s dense, chemical fire green, like deep electric moss. I focus on my reflection in the window, I notice a new wrinkle. I want to look for an old scar, but I’ve forgotten them all. I get back into bed and close my eyes, wondering if in the morning it will be winter.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

ragazza

her perfume reminds him of other places, places he's been before, and when the smell is washed away by the wind, he wishes he was somewhere else.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Desert Drive: A Paradelle

She is a Taurus, though his signs say Cancer and stop.
She is a Taurus, though his signs say Cancer and stop.
They drive deeper, each caring less about carrying other emotions.
They drive deeper, each caring less about carrying other emotions.
She is carrying his cancer signs, and though emotions say stop,
they drive a Taurus deeper, caring less about each other.

The division faded, that highway decayed unseen.
The division faded, that highway decayed unseen.
The car is undecided on lane, for the driver hopes to crash.
The car is undecided on lane, for the driver hopes to crash.
On highway lane division, to crash, for that driver,
is the undecided car, the decaying hope, the unseen fade.

The wreck lies crushed on concrete desert blanket; the road is a hollow graveyard
The wreck lies crushed on concrete desert blanket; the road is a hollow graveyard
Fingers clutch the air around her. Stale, she is ready for something different.
Fingers clutch the air around her. Stale, she is ready for something different.
Her stale lies blanket the road wreck, the clutch is on a hollow desert.
Different fingers around something concrete, she is ready for the graveyard air.

They each say less about that highway wreck, for the faded signs drive
the concrete graveyard. The other lane is for emotions’ car crash –
the division is his unseen cancer. And though the driver hopes to stop caring,
she is undecided on carrying a decayed taurus deeper.
On hollow road, desert air fingers the different ready lies.
Her clutch, a blanket around something. She is crushed stale.

Marcia Lee Anderson, "Diagnosis"

We multiply diseases for delight,
Invent a horrid want, a shameful doubt,
Luxuriate in license, feed on night,
Make inward bedlam-and will not come out.
Why should we? Stripped of subtle complications,
Who could regard the sun except with fear?
This is our shelter against contemplation,
Our only refuge from the plain and clear.
Who would crawl out from under the obscure
To stand defenseless in the sunny air?
No terror of obliquity so sure
As the most shining terror of despair
To know how simple is our deepest need,
How sharp, and how impossible to feed.

============
music:
Bournemouth Sinfonietta
Gorecki Symphony No. 3
Thirteen and God
Shirley and Spinoza
and...of course, endless Xiu Xiu.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Haiku For Toru Takemitsu

glass strings shatter sharp
through rocking mirror daybreak
soft, silent, like aches