Month: July 2011

bovine skull

If I see a bovine skull I think Pagan, I see fire and bones in the wilds and the gases from the bog. If I see the kneeling I think Ritual, I think of rites and repetitious worship. If I see the bared woman I think Goddess, primal expression of female and corollary to male.

If I had no words, a silent brain, what would I make of this? What must the wordless mind think of such an image? This is a consideration beyond silence. It’s meditation on preconceived images and the nature of natural versus societal.

bovine skull

If I see a bovine skull I think Pagan, I see fire and bones in the wilds and the gases from the bog. If I see the kneeling I think Ritual, I think of rites and repetitious worship. If I see the bared woman I think Goddess, primal expression of female and corollary to male.

If I had no words, a silent brain, what would I make of this? What must the wordless mind think of such an image? This is a consideration beyond silence. It’s meditation on preconceived images and the nature of natural versus societal.

stories

When I was fifteen and pimply I sat in a classroom and told people I had a daughter, and that my childhood sweetheart had died of a brain aneurism. One girl cried before I finally fessed up. Another girl became my girlfriend.

It was around that same time that I convinced one younger brother that everyone in the family was a space alien except for him and I frightened one baby brother by staring him down.

I believe these events mark the point in my life when I realized that making shit up and fucking with others for self amusement is useless human behavior.

stories

When I was fifteen and pimply I sat in a classroom and told people I had a daughter, and that my childhood sweetheart had died of a brain aneurism. One girl cried before I finally fessed up. Another girl became my girlfriend.

It was around that same time that I convinced one younger brother that everyone in the family was a space alien except for him and I frightened one baby brother by staring him down.

I believe these events mark the point in my life when I realized that making shit up and fucking with others for self amusement is useless human behavior.

this animal

I speak of “the animal” often, most often in regards to sex. “The animal” needs to fuck, needs to be satiated that way. This is not unique in any regard. But this animal needs much more. This animal requires a connection. This animal has been alone for a long time now, and has developed certain senses. A sense of honesty… a sense of the point… a sense of the state of things right now. The sense of the past is informative and the sense of the future is hopeful. This animal needs to protect, provide, and is confident in the ability to do so. This animal is archaic, is lonely by nature, is not searching. This animal finds what it wants when it isn’t looking.

this animal

I speak of “the animal” often, most often in regards to sex. “The animal” needs to fuck, needs to be satiated that way. This is not unique in any regard. But this animal needs much more. This animal requires a connection. This animal has been alone for a long time now, and has developed certain senses. A sense of honesty… a sense of the point… a sense of the state of things right now. The sense of the past is informative and the sense of the future is hopeful. This animal needs to protect, provide, and is confident in the ability to do so. This animal is archaic, is lonely by nature, is not searching. This animal finds what it wants when it isn’t looking.

next

I woke up alone again. My first thought.

You become used to people who are in your life for a while. Even if you don’t live there inside her bed, you get used to it. The sheets are different from yours and it smells like cinnamon and sweat and cum, but it gets good, it gets to feeling so good that you don’t ever want to leave. I mean, you get used to this, this feeling. This strength of character from holding her close and rubbing your skin against hers and knowing in your head that she’s closer to you now than when you first met her. When there was distance and unfamiliarity it was different than when you held her and whispered ‘you’re so fucking beautiful’ in her ear and felt your cock harden against her and felt her respond with a sort of hum that isn’t about singing a song.

My tears ducts are active. Next.

When neither of you wants to cook anything, not even eggs, and you wander her kitchen in search of something. You return with her parents’ hard-earned apples and you give her one. The walls are custard yellow and you eat that fucking apple. Wipe the apple dribble from your stubble and tell her to skip class, high school being useless as it is, you lie. You remain there and don’t consider that there is anything more than tracing fingers along the beauty of the stretch marks on her shoulders, her hips, her breasts, and playfully biting her with your fangs, telling her ‘I might break the skin’ because she doesn’t get off on the blood but she does get off on you.

I left the fan on. Something profound changed along the way. This humanity arrived later than expected.

In her long hair you see that the fundamental difference is about what is expected. It is all expected, and in the mole on her neck you see the what is wanted. In the mole there is only a spot of dark skin and you kiss it with your juiced lips to realize. The mole is neutral. She says ‘I am so tired of being here. I want so much more. I want to feel like I don’t need you to be my daddy.’ You hold her shoulder and say ‘if it makes you feel good.’ She says ‘I’m just a kid’ even when you assure her and see what you want to see when you tell her she is wise beyond years.

I no longer think ‘I don’t know’ with any sincerity. I think I know everything I want to know. No one will ever get rid of me unless I leave.

Her parents and sister won’t be home for a while yet and you blew off work. You rub your foot against hers. You lie next to her and rub your hand over her soft white belly. The blue veins of her arms guide you along a river of a river of a river and you don’t know that you’ll be somewhere else eventually because everything feels like the end of the world. It is all grand. ‘What will you name our first baby’ you say. ‘I don’t know yet’ she says. ‘Something pretty and Irish.’

I threw out all my coffee. I have some tea, no milk or sugar. That’s all I have.

next

I woke up alone again. My first thought.

You become used to people who are in your life for a while. Even if you don’t live there inside her bed, you get used to it. The sheets are different from yours and it smells like cinnamon and sweat and cum, but it gets good, it gets to feeling so good that you don’t ever want to leave. I mean, you get used to this, this feeling. This strength of character from holding her close and rubbing your skin against hers and knowing in your head that she’s closer to you now than when you first met her. When there was distance and unfamiliarity it was different than when you held her and whispered ‘you’re so fucking beautiful’ in her ear and felt your cock harden against her and felt her respond with a sort of hum that isn’t about singing a song.

My tears ducts are active. Next.

When neither of you wants to cook anything, not even eggs, and you wander her kitchen in search of something. You return with her parents’ hard-earned apples and you give her one. The walls are custard yellow and you eat that fucking apple. Wipe the apple dribble from your stubble and tell her to skip class, high school being useless as it is, you lie. You remain there and don’t consider that there is anything more than tracing fingers along the beauty of the stretch marks on her shoulders, her hips, her breasts, and playfully biting her with your fangs, telling her ‘I might break the skin’ because she doesn’t get off on the blood but she does get off on you.

I left the fan on. Something profound changed along the way. This humanity arrived later than expected.

In her long hair you see that the fundamental difference is about what is expected. It is all expected, and in the mole on her neck you see the what is wanted. In the mole there is only a spot of dark skin and you kiss it with your juiced lips to realize. The mole is neutral. She says ‘I am so tired of being here. I want so much more. I want to feel like I don’t need you to be my daddy.’ You hold her shoulder and say ‘if it makes you feel good.’ She says ‘I’m just a kid’ even when you assure her and see what you want to see when you tell her she is wise beyond years.

I no longer think ‘I don’t know’ with any sincerity. I think I know everything I want to know. No one will ever get rid of me unless I leave.

Her parents and sister won’t be home for a while yet and you blew off work. You rub your foot against hers. You lie next to her and rub your hand over her soft white belly. The blue veins of her arms guide you along a river of a river of a river and you don’t know that you’ll be somewhere else eventually because everything feels like the end of the world. It is all grand. ‘What will you name our first baby’ you say. ‘I don’t know yet’ she says. ‘Something pretty and Irish.’

I threw out all my coffee. I have some tea, no milk or sugar. That’s all I have.

a certain sensitivity

They said it takes a “certain sensitivity” to write that story and I didn’t know what the fuck they were on about. It was some shit from that place in my head where ideas come from and get forgotten. They laughed where I expected silence and didn’t say a word about the best part where he compares her to the Brooklyn Bridge. That was damn romantic. I’ll never be the poet Whitman because I don’t want to be. Similes are for pussies. Be the fish or the lion or the rich man who woos with diamonds. I can’t say why I wrote any of it. I’m the messenger is all.

a certain sensitivity

They said it takes a “certain sensitivity” to write that story and I didn’t know what the fuck they were on about. It was some shit from that place in my head where ideas come from and get forgotten. They laughed where I expected silence and didn’t say a word about the best part where he compares her to the Brooklyn Bridge. That was damn romantic. I’ll never be the poet Whitman because I don’t want to be. Similes are for pussies. Be the fish or the lion or the rich man who woos with diamonds. I can’t say why I wrote any of it. I’m the messenger is all.