Month: October 2012

I’ve spent the last year trying to convince myself that I am a hedonistic asshole. A bad man. I don’t need love. I don’t need caring and tenderness. To that end, I philander and drink and eat, perhaps hoping I can dig myself a quick grave and dive in. Hoping that the uselessness of suicide doesn’t matter if I die as a consequence of living life. I sometimes feel pains in my chest and think this is it, but nothing happens. When I swim in the ocean I wait for a shark to drag me beneath the waves, even if a drowning death is said to be the most horrible. The slow departure of life as one struggles to breathe.

I use women as much as I can. The ones I find lonely at bars, the ones I pay. I do things I haven’t done and it feels good—so fucking good—to do them. Share a woman with another man and she’ll plead. Bring a lonely wife to orgasm and she’ll cry. Hookers still have to be treated with a facade of respect before you treat them like whores.

It began innocently enough by trying to get out and date. Do what good people do when their hearts are broken and their lust is raging. Meet people, try new things. I met people and tried new things. I did leave that first girl on good terms last autumn. Our first date was to seeDrive. I met her mother. The only real pleasure I got out of her was knowing that I did it. I bagged her. I’d proven that I could go on a date with nice, pretty, boring girl. Then the dating part became useless. Then the talking part became useless. Then the kissing part.

On violence: I am. I have a place in my heart for a woman who, if I had her here right now, I’d strangle. I’d hold her throat in my hand and watch her struggle and cry. I believe this is hatred, but I am too ill-equipped to make the judgement call. Hatred is a stream I haven’t paddled. She would be the third person in my life whom I hate. I couldn’t hit her, though. It would somehow be too wrong. Too much like men who beat their wives and their kids, whom I hate in general. Just stop her from breathing, as if that is acceptable murder. Watch her fade away naturally.

My advice for the shamed and guilty and myself is usually that you simply allow the shittiness of your humanity to take hold and run its course. Maybe a minute, maybe a month, maybe a year. Whatever type you happen to be. Then you shake it off and continue. Your choice to steal that candy bar or to cheat on your spouse is reflective of who you were at that time, and now you’re someone else. Still human, but further ahead than you were before.

I can’t be a good man and I can’t be a bad man. I can’t describe how frightening that is.

I’ve spent the last year trying to convince myself that I am a hedonistic asshole. A bad man. I don’t need love. I don’t need caring and tenderness. To that end, I philander and drink and eat, perhaps hoping I can dig myself a quick grave and dive in. Hoping that the uselessness of suicide doesn’t matter if I die as a consequence of living life. I sometimes feel pains in my chest and think this is it, but nothing happens. When I swim in the ocean I wait for a shark to drag me beneath the waves, even if a drowning death is said to be the most horrible. The slow departure of life as one struggles to breathe.

I use women as much as I can. The ones I find lonely at bars, the ones I pay. I do things I haven’t done and it feels good—so fucking good—to do them. Share a woman with another man and she’ll plead. Bring a lonely wife to orgasm and she’ll cry. Hookers still have to be treated with a facade of respect before you treat them like whores.

It began innocently enough by trying to get out and date. Do what good people do when their hearts are broken and their lust is raging. Meet people, try new things. I met people and tried new things. I did leave that first girl on good terms last autumn. Our first date was to seeDrive. I met her mother. The only real pleasure I got out of her was knowing that I did it. I bagged her. I’d proven that I could go on a date with nice, pretty, boring girl. Then the dating part became useless. Then the talking part became useless. Then the kissing part.

On violence: I am. I have a place in my heart for a woman who, if I had her here right now, I’d strangle. I’d hold her throat in my hand and watch her struggle and cry. I believe this is hatred, but I am too ill-equipped to make the judgement call. Hatred is a stream I haven’t paddled. She would be the third person in my life whom I hate. I couldn’t hit her, though. It would somehow be too wrong. Too much like men who beat their wives and their kids, whom I hate in general. Just stop her from breathing, as if that is acceptable murder. Watch her fade away naturally.

My advice for the shamed and guilty and myself is usually that you simply allow the shittiness of your humanity to take hold and run its course. Maybe a minute, maybe a month, maybe a year. Whatever type you happen to be. Then you shake it off and continue. Your choice to steal that candy bar or to cheat on your spouse is reflective of who you were at that time, and now you’re someone else. Still human, but further ahead than you were before.

I can’t be a good man and I can’t be a bad man. I can’t describe how frightening that is.

Some women–folks in general I suppose–like to enthrall you with the emotions. Get a rise out of you, as it were. That’s fine. But a screaming match is of no use to me and thus not something I’m like to do. Laugh and tease. Cry and yell. Pout like a child.

It reminds me of a quote: “Sidle up and smile. Hit you where you’re weak.”

Some women–folks in general I suppose–like to enthrall you with the emotions. Get a rise out of you, as it were. That’s fine. But a screaming match is of no use to me and thus not something I’m like to do. Laugh and tease. Cry and yell. Pout like a child.

It reminds me of a quote: “Sidle up and smile. Hit you where you’re weak.”

First, I’m sick of pumpkins. All of them. The way people flock to them like they know about the harvest or the sabbath. Let’s not front.

When I awoke this morning I was most eager to work on my car, play video games, and write a poem, in that order.

Last night, I arrived at home and left straight away with my away pack. I drove north to a secluded section of beach where high tide comes awful close. I parked a short ways up the road at a construction lot and then walked down the rotting wooden steps to the shore. It was dark by then and the cold was nipping. I set up the tent as best I could with full awareness of the sheer amounts of sand. I’d brought two bottles of water I’d filtered at home. One was gone by the time I finished.

I wished for a burger but passed the time with a fruit bar. When there was nothing but the roar of the ocean, I slept.

It may have been the cold or the lack of overnutrition, but I dreamt a dream as I hadn’t had in a while. I was married at the start to a nice, pretty, smart woman. We’d only known each other a few years. We planned on having children.

“Your car isn’t good enough,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“It has no back seat.”

“Yes, it does. I temporarily removed it because I don’t need it. I will put it back in.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“Yes, it is. Stupid drivers aren’t safe.”

“It isn’t reliable.”

“Yes, it is. It’ll run as long as I want it to run. Owners aren’t reliable.”

She became more annoyed with each retort, until finally she said, “I don’t like it. Get rid of it.”

And I replied, “Fuck it.”

By and by I was in middle age. My mate was a girl young enough to be my daughter. She appreciated what wisdom and direction I had to give. She stayed until she was near 30. We had sex everywhere and I relished in the public nature of our coupling.

By and by I was an old man. My companions were two dogs, large and small, male and female—McCarthy and Oates.

“McCarthanoats, McCarthanoats!”

They accompanied me in my jeep to the ocean every day, rain or shine. The three of us never died, but instead walked to every beach we could find.

I replaced my windshield this morning, when I returned. It took an hour.

First, I’m sick of pumpkins. All of them. The way people flock to them like they know about the harvest or the sabbath. Let’s not front.

When I awoke this morning I was most eager to work on my car, play video games, and write a poem, in that order.

Last night, I arrived at home and left straight away with my away pack. I drove north to a secluded section of beach where high tide comes awful close. I parked a short ways up the road at a construction lot and then walked down the rotting wooden steps to the shore. It was dark by then and the cold was nipping. I set up the tent as best I could with full awareness of the sheer amounts of sand. I’d brought two bottles of water I’d filtered at home. One was gone by the time I finished.

I wished for a burger but passed the time with a fruit bar. When there was nothing but the roar of the ocean, I slept.

It may have been the cold or the lack of overnutrition, but I dreamt a dream as I hadn’t had in a while. I was married at the start to a nice, pretty, smart woman. We’d only known each other a few years. We planned on having children.

“Your car isn’t good enough,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“It has no back seat.”

“Yes, it does. I temporarily removed it because I don’t need it. I will put it back in.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“Yes, it is. Stupid drivers aren’t safe.”

“It isn’t reliable.”

“Yes, it is. It’ll run as long as I want it to run. Owners aren’t reliable.”

She became more annoyed with each retort, until finally she said, “I don’t like it. Get rid of it.”

And I replied, “Fuck it.”

By and by I was in middle age. My mate was a girl young enough to be my daughter. She appreciated what wisdom and direction I had to give. She stayed until she was near 30. We had sex everywhere and I relished in the public nature of our coupling.

By and by I was an old man. My companions were two dogs, large and small, male and female—McCarthy and Oates.

“McCarthanoats, McCarthanoats!”

They accompanied me in my jeep to the ocean every day, rain or shine. The three of us never died, but instead walked to every beach we could find.

I replaced my windshield this morning, when I returned. It took an hour.

Light Snack

I brush against

the strain of tense

muscles. The hol-

lows of your knees.

Your ease of twist.

The grace of hon-

ey pouring in-

to the jar. Prick-

ly pear I peel

in silent prayer.

Dry, plump skin. Fang

marks. Juicy fing-

ers. Bob in the

bowl—turn around.

Moisture shimmers.

We are eating—

I am being.

Return to my

senses. See the

setting, smell it.

A dream no more.

Sauce everywhere—

an avalanche.

Just my sort of

a miracle.

Light Snack

I brush against

the strain of tense

muscles. The hol-

lows of your knees.

Your ease of twist.

The grace of hon-

ey pouring in-

to the jar. Prick-

ly pear I peel

in silent prayer.

Dry, plump skin. Fang

marks. Juicy fing-

ers. Bob in the

bowl—turn around.

Moisture shimmers.

We are eating—

I am being.

Return to my

senses. See the

setting, smell it.

A dream no more.

Sauce everywhere—

an avalanche.

Just my sort of

a miracle.

The Promise of Prayer

Bert had a nice way about him in bed, but he was moving into territory reserved for years Elsa had yet to experience and at this time did not want to explore. His manners were nice, his eyes pleaded when he didn’t speak. She pleaded, too, but far more openly. There were moments when that felt wonderful.

So, needless to say, she cut him loose.

Elsa tells herself that she will never give a fuck again. She painted it in red spray paint on a wall outside the wood chip factory. She prays in the direction of the wood chip factory when she feels good again. When she drives to work or school she has to pass the wood chip factory and blesses her forehead, chest, and stomach with a light tap from her right index finger. Elsa prays that she will find the strength to be alone.

She keeps a bottle of the worst whiskey in a cabinet in her bedroom, which remains locked at all times. Her roommates, Poe and Mary, would steal her whiskey. They are in a relationship of proximity with one another and Elsa does not trust them to give each other reason, as they are like her in the way of sense. She keeps only one bottle at a time and does not purchase the next until she is done with the extant whiskey. This is a rule that must be kept.

Elsa walks to her classes in denim pants and large sweaters, regardless of season. She doesn’t know any other way. She attends her Poli. Sci. class at nine o’ clock in the mornings of Monday and Wednesday. Bert is in that class and she does say hello to him but only because it would be rude not to. Bert says hello back and seems to portray the very model of masculine stoicism. Elsa accepts this because he will not pester and she will be allowed to concentrate on classes.

In Poli. Sci. the professor’s name is Klein, and Elsa wants to fuck him. She recognizes it as attraction and considers the reasons to herself until he is done pronouncing and declaring before her and, in her imagination, for her. She does not say goodbye to Bert.

Work for Elsa is about pizza. She does not make the pizza, but she does ring up the pizza. Mexican men in the kitchen make it. One, named Alberto, thinks she would be a nice girl for his nephew, whom he calls Humberto. Elsa does not show interest but wonders what he might be like as the nephew of a pizza man.

Elsa goes to work for four hours on Mondays and Wednesdays. She gets asked about the tattoo on her neck frequently, and always by boys. She tells them it’s a dove. She neglects the most interesting part of the story, which is that she got the tattoo to impress the tattoo artist.

Now you know things about Elsa.

She speaks to her manager like he’s the prince of thieves. Respect, but no trust.

-I’m not going to be able to close next Monday.

-Why?

-I have an appointment at the doctor’s after class. I’m sorry.

-One week’s notice? You know to give me two weeks, Elsa.

-Yes. It just came up suddenly.

Her manager shakes his head and brings out a worksheet in triplicate held down by a clipboard.

-You’ll have to ask Allyson to work a double.

-I do?

-It’s your problem to resolve.

Elsa nods and walks out to resume closing the register. She counts the twenties, the tens, the fives, the ones, the fifty cent pieces, the quarters, the dimes, the nickles, and the pennies. Her register is good.

She calls Allyson to ask her if she will please cover her shift the following Monday.

-Yes. I know. I can’t change the appointment. I understand that I owe you. Okay. Bye.

Elsa drives home and opens the cabinet. She sits in bed with her headphones over her scalp and falls asleep when all the whiskey is vanished.

You don’t know this, but Elsa dreams. She dreams that she is running from people and animals. She is always running somewhere and they follow her everywhere so she runs on. She runs from one side of the country to the other and always with different people behind her. She is sometimes wearing a red robe and sometimes nothing at all, except not naked but a floating head, still running ahead of her pursuers. When she stops dreaming, Elsa goes back to sleep.

She rises in her bed with her lips dry and acrid. She removes the headphones before she sees that it is noon and she missed her morning English class. With little time to shower and drive to school she forgoes school and drives to the liquor store for one more bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and drives away with two more. She returns to find Poe on the living room couch, playing a video game.

-What is that?

Poe’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he explains that this is a new game from Japan in which he must successfully date a girl and win her heart.

-Do you have sex with her in the game?

-Yea, but it’s about getting her to love you. Then you have sex.

-What if you just want to have sex?

-That’s not how the game works. If you do the wrong things you fail and start over.

Elsa walks into her room and places one bottle in the cabinet. She takes a towel from her closet and enters the bathroom to run a bath. When the foam is well above the top of the tub she removes her clothes, holds the other bottle of whiskey in her hand, and slides in. The water envelops her. She rests and rubs her free hand over her belly until she dreams again.

The Promise of Prayer

Bert had a nice way about him in bed, but he was moving into territory reserved for years Elsa had yet to experience and at this time did not want to explore. His manners were nice, his eyes pleaded when he didn’t speak. She pleaded, too, but far more openly. There were moments when that felt wonderful.

So, needless to say, she cut him loose.

Elsa tells herself that she will never give a fuck again. She painted it in red spray paint on a wall outside the wood chip factory. She prays in the direction of the wood chip factory when she feels good again. When she drives to work or school she has to pass the wood chip factory and blesses her forehead, chest, and stomach with a light tap from her right index finger. Elsa prays that she will find the strength to be alone.

She keeps a bottle of the worst whiskey in a cabinet in her bedroom, which remains locked at all times. Her roommates, Poe and Mary, would steal her whiskey. They are in a relationship of proximity with one another and Elsa does not trust them to give each other reason, as they are like her in the way of sense. She keeps only one bottle at a time and does not purchase the next until she is done with the extant whiskey. This is a rule that must be kept.

Elsa walks to her classes in denim pants and large sweaters, regardless of season. She doesn’t know any other way. She attends her Poli. Sci. class at nine o’ clock in the mornings of Monday and Wednesday. Bert is in that class and she does say hello to him but only because it would be rude not to. Bert says hello back and seems to portray the very model of masculine stoicism. Elsa accepts this because he will not pester and she will be allowed to concentrate on classes.

In Poli. Sci. the professor’s name is Klein, and Elsa wants to fuck him. She recognizes it as attraction and considers the reasons to herself until he is done pronouncing and declaring before her and, in her imagination, for her. She does not say goodbye to Bert.

Work for Elsa is about pizza. She does not make the pizza, but she does ring up the pizza. Mexican men in the kitchen make it. One, named Alberto, thinks she would be a nice girl for his nephew, whom he calls Humberto. Elsa does not show interest but wonders what he might be like as the nephew of a pizza man.

Elsa goes to work for four hours on Mondays and Wednesdays. She gets asked about the tattoo on her neck frequently, and always by boys. She tells them it’s a dove. She neglects the most interesting part of the story, which is that she got the tattoo to impress the tattoo artist.

Now you know things about Elsa.

She speaks to her manager like he’s the prince of thieves. Respect, but no trust.

-I’m not going to be able to close next Monday.

-Why?

-I have an appointment at the doctor’s after class. I’m sorry.

-One week’s notice? You know to give me two weeks, Elsa.

-Yes. It just came up suddenly.

Her manager shakes his head and brings out a worksheet in triplicate held down by a clipboard.

-You’ll have to ask Allyson to work a double.

-I do?

-It’s your problem to resolve.

Elsa nods and walks out to resume closing the register. She counts the twenties, the tens, the fives, the ones, the fifty cent pieces, the quarters, the dimes, the nickles, and the pennies. Her register is good.

She calls Allyson to ask her if she will please cover her shift the following Monday.

-Yes. I know. I can’t change the appointment. I understand that I owe you. Okay. Bye.

Elsa drives home and opens the cabinet. She sits in bed with her headphones over her scalp and falls asleep when all the whiskey is vanished.

You don’t know this, but Elsa dreams. She dreams that she is running from people and animals. She is always running somewhere and they follow her everywhere so she runs on. She runs from one side of the country to the other and always with different people behind her. She is sometimes wearing a red robe and sometimes nothing at all, except not naked but a floating head, still running ahead of her pursuers. When she stops dreaming, Elsa goes back to sleep.

She rises in her bed with her lips dry and acrid. She removes the headphones before she sees that it is noon and she missed her morning English class. With little time to shower and drive to school she forgoes school and drives to the liquor store for one more bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and drives away with two more. She returns to find Poe on the living room couch, playing a video game.

-What is that?

Poe’s eyes remain fixed on the screen as he explains that this is a new game from Japan in which he must successfully date a girl and win her heart.

-Do you have sex with her in the game?

-Yea, but it’s about getting her to love you. Then you have sex.

-What if you just want to have sex?

-That’s not how the game works. If you do the wrong things you fail and start over.

Elsa walks into her room and places one bottle in the cabinet. She takes a towel from her closet and enters the bathroom to run a bath. When the foam is well above the top of the tub she removes her clothes, holds the other bottle of whiskey in her hand, and slides in. The water envelops her. She rests and rubs her free hand over her belly until she dreams again.