Author: admin

A man, you see, holds onto the fence. He holds it like a fourteen year-old girl’s hair when he’s got his tongue in her mouth. Tight, firm grip. When he steps up he wraps each finger around rusted wire, installed by Waterman & Co. circa 1978. He holds the fence like it’s the baby he’s going to produce with some haina. He can’t be down unless he holds the fence. He can’t be a man until he gets book bags full of sharp cornered books dug into the soft between his shoulder blades by his homies. In other places he would get beat down to the floor leaving him bloody meat and beggin’ strips. When he holds the fence here he is bound to let his back take the beating. When it’s over he can let go of the fence and wonder why it mattered when it didn’t really hurt at all.

We’re all going to die sometime. I am alive now, and then I will not be. You are and you will not be, too. I do not know when. I suspect the unexpectedness of it bothers us, even when we see it coming. I also know that the spirit, freed, will finally fly. Some people might feel sad about it, if they love us or care enough. They need to be. We do.

I remember the one funeral. She was two days old. The sky was ashen and I played among gravestones. My parents and hers stood over the small hole in the ground and watched as the small white casket descended into the earth. Her mother wept. Two days of life might not seem like enough to us, the long-lived. Two days. Was that not more than none? In two days it will be a Monday. Will those two days be enough? I suspect, for those afraid enough to grasp for control, it will not be. They might be afraid enough to make themselves ignore.

If the imperfect world isn’t enough then nothing will ever be. I watch the ocean as I do every week. The wind yells against the calm, the calm stands against the noise. If you don’t mind the silence of the sea, join me. Our sometime will come and I do want us to appreciate what we have now. What I have now is the letting go. What I wait to see is if it will be enough.

In my flaws I see only a past. The concept of future is always hope, while the real future is never in view. This, right now, is a moment of clarity. It is clear that happiness is a phenomenon of the present.

I’ve been in need of physical contact, from everyone. We talk, we write, but we don’t touch. We don’t exist in the same physical space. This makes me want to stop talking, and stop writing, and this is not productive but it is being human.

I’ve been thinking of you.

People don’t spend enough time feeling more than their genitals. The rest is quite interesting and sadly taken for granted by all parties involved. Flesh is rough in places, smooth in others. All the hair is seen as a nuisance to be overlooked or eliminated. This, here on my stomach and chest, is like petting an animal. I’d be so bold as to say it’s not the fucking I enjoy most (though lord knows it’s what I want most), but instead the feel of feminine fingers fluttering against my grain. Digging in and wandering about because the human body may seem daunting, damn near frightening, but when all is said and done (many times over), this is what there is. It is a corporeal collection of motor functions, memories, sweet sensations, and exploration of the most intimate kind.

It’s been over 100 °F in Oklahoma City for 13 days, and it’s expected to continue for another couple of weeks. This is the kind of weather that drives a man to murder someone. It’s called the killin’ heat. Killin’ flies, killin’ fields, killin’ cows, killin’ the people. That’s the dry heat, like everyone’s humor.

Everyone’s got to die sometime. That’s pretty funny, ain’t it?

You might have heard of the story of La Llorona. She is a wandering spirit, condemned to an afterlife of wandering the streets of the living world after drowning her children to be with the man she loved. She appears from the ocean and weeps through towns in search of children to replace her lost ones. It is the cost of sacrifice. She chose one love over another and paid for it in misery. Could she have known that her sacrifice, her dear loss, would result in a plight of eternal suffering? Of course not. Such things are only revealed in hindsight, and even then only when one’s eyes are opened and guilt is allowed to dig into the core of one’s being.

The lesson of La Llorona is probably not to trust men who promise great things. It is probably a good lesson.

Angela once told me I should find myself a tolerant woman. It was in reference to the beard that is now perpetually cushioning my kisses. It also applies to everything that I am. Possessive, loving, crass, obsessive, objective, silent, verbose, supportive, lustful, patient, demanding, mellow… If I am consistent it is in my inconsistent approach to relationships. In short, I want it all, and hide nothing—not anymore. To openly demand someone’s secrets is haughty business, and I engage in it wholeheartedly. People fear not the revelation of their secrets, but the reaction to them.

I don’t need most people. I’ve learned to be sufficient and supportive of my own endeavors, to the dismay of many people who try and maintain acquaintance with me. But I am also not inclined to be alone. I desire a partner, a good woman, and I am so specific in my pursuit that when I meet someone who fits into my life I become vulnerable. It is difficult to feel this exposure, but it is honest, and I value that in my interactions with people. I know that much. This newly developed pursuit of honesty is something I will sacrifice for no one. I see no other way to get something beautiful out of this world.

So I give, and I take. I risk wandering in search of one. This is how it’s done.