Monday, December 29, 2008

flowers, candy & claustrophobia

it makes me nervous

looking so far ahead
it gives me vertigo

sometimes lately, if I stare emotionless into someone's eyes for too long, avoiding the look of disinterest and unattention in a conversation, I get dizzy and the world evaporates into a cone and I feel time all around me
what is that?
what is that?

it happened the other day at a job interview
my peripheral vision became warped and rounded on the edges

I felt time--it felt like a blur
it felt like water
feels when you try to cut waves with arm knives

is that what anxiety feels like?

I've heard it often feels like panic
your heart races
and mind
and you sweat...

Once, you said a tibetan monk explained anxiety to you as an object floating in water and resisting the water, or something

And I said: what the?
I said: like a turd?
you said: more like a human

oh, I'm sorry

you said: we resist change
I said: I try to embrace it
good: you said
listen: I said: this is one reason why I hate the idea of being confined
I understand one of my roles on this planet...I am considered "challenging" I am a "free-spirit"
I have often been a muse because of my curiosity
but the catch--the catch is: these men, these people, they want to put me in a box and hoard me away and possess me--knowing that would kill me
or not knowing
it's seems like simple math
yes: you said: they don't know
my last boyfriend: I said: he was a complete narcissist--he was a beautiful oil painter
he never asked me questions I didn't want to answer
He let me go to New York and told me if he tried to make me stay I would hate him and he never wanted me to hate him
I have never felt such love
freedom: you said
yes: I said
the most brilliant people, men I have met--do not understand because they would rather impulsively possess me before they'd ever love me enough to understand otherwise
maybe it's nature
and then I asked you: are you learning anything about women? Is this useful to you?
yes: you said: yes
I understand the desire to possess, I empathize with it
but I am not happy with it
I would like to change it

good: I said: this is good

this is symbiosis

yes: you said: I like that

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

on the new drunken lady epidemic

This was an interesting article in the latest NY Mag regarding the rising rates of urban binge boozing business babes "a.k.a." hard-working women finding equality through 'not' puking after ten Irish Car Bombs and a twelve pack of Brooklyn Lager.

I read it all the way through, as well as the 53 mostly frustrated comments posted by angry feminists, lushes, prudes, and anyone else trying to throw their two cents around a new species...a rich persona of party babies I call: the Contemporary Boozekitten.

It's funny to me, how this subject makes some girls so defensive--especially the one's who don't (because they can't) stomach whiskey like a champ. What are they so scared of? Why do people take the observations of trends so personally if some written opinions/findings/ideas don't coincide with their own lifestyles?

I respect both men and women who can sip & relax into a nice glass of scotch, a Beefeater martini, or hold steadfast after splitting a bottle of rum. I think I even read somewhere that Socrates could out drink like forty sailors too and still totally philosophize circles around all the wanna-be chumps who didn't even know what questions were!

Face it: it's all a fun composure game. Who cares if who's what or whatever with the boozytime shenanigans, as long as folks don't act like complete stumbling, slobbering imbeciles after one Cosmo, a Pina Colada, three glasses of Pinot, a flippin' thimbleful of cordial, or a flamin' keg of "the ultimate corn sauce grog" on an empty stomach.

But do me a favor: don't make-out with and wake up next to that ugly sonofabitch you found in a corner picking their teeth all: this'll work because you lost your beer goggles--even though they're still glued to your head where you left 'em.

Girls, boys, women, men: Know your limits around strangers; get wasted if you've had a hard day with friends; just try not to get too hella crunk around your boss at the Christmas party, and especially where there's mistletoe around and you haven't touched a warm ass for what feels like centuries.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

the hand job

I accidentally met Britney Spears
once, in a dark alley (as opposed to those
bright alleys where man eating clowns
wear sunglasses);

she was dressed as a Chinese dignitary
& wanted discount on a hand job; we
agreed on the fair price 0f $11.

Doing my business, I knew something
was fishy when this stuffed suit started
saying things like: Hit me baby, one
more time--you drive me crazy!

(& I thought, wow, I didn't even hit
you like one time yet, you weirdo!)
That's when I realized, it was the
infamous & one & only lady supreme.

(& what I thought was the smell
of fish was actually a beached whale
sifting through a nearby dumpster,
totally trying to get its lunch on.)

Friday, December 12, 2008

the glorious basking of two a.m. hours & part-of-a-previous-evening-prowling-for-ass over coffee

Woke up in the
morning, for once,
a little before 9 am,
the anxiety of a dark
dream bolting me into
a lucid bedroom, & I
was glad not to be
in that other world
anymore, in that hall
with tall, round card
tables & foot dangling
bar stools--with my
mom & various Korean
ladies from park picnics
& card games past--
cameos in their skin-
tight faded flowered
bodysuits, hair permed
into curls or in tight
black buns, & as always,
the vending machines
were there--to illustrate
my obvious infatuation
with variety & novelty,
represented by: chips,
fruit pies & junk toys

Halfway between being
awake, & dreaming, I
examined my nails in
the filtered dusk above
my face, adjusted my
eyes & stared at the
still, blue light beneath
the bedroom door, I
glanced at a plastic
alarm clock's glowing
analog hands, I
fingered an empty
water bottle on the
floor--in a room
smelling of stale
booze & old fast food;
& branded in my
brain, spinning--the
peaceful complacency
of familiar facial features
mirroring my own
numb funk behind
milky morning blinks.

After lying still
for what I counted to
be a thousand minutes,
I finally got out of
bed, went to the
kitchen & made a
pot of French
chicory; I waited for
you to wake up, to
attend to your
discomfort of being
rejected in a torrential
downpour the night
before, when you
stumbled home an
abandoned mess &
went straight to bed.

We ate a delicious
breakfast: poached,
runny eggs, strong
coffee & buttered
toast, while
calm battered black
& blue face, cursed
the piece-of-ass who
somehow managed
to get away as soon
as you turned your
back, leaving you
without a warm
escort home in the
rain, without a soft
hand to hold your
bored lust to; & at
a little after eleven,
two cups of coffee
later, our heads
were cleared to--
default mode again.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

dirty martini

Hanging out
with a handful of
businessmen the other night,
at a bar in Chelsea, as a favor--
for a buddy's friend, I ordered:
a dirty Beefeater martini,
when someone asked me
what I was having--provoking
the head wolf (obviously in
charge) to say, "Whoa,
that's a BIG DRINK for
a little girl like you,"
kind of dramatically to his
other businessmen colleagues,
very nudgingly and winkingly,
& as they howled in unison
from: sexual tension,
intimidation, occupational
hierarchy, boring sexless,
loveless marriages, Viagra
dependent erectile
dysfunction, the full-moon
demi-entendre, in-the-closet
trans-gender porn addictions,
upper thigh & elbow psoriasis
--or probably, maybe
even general nervousness...
I nuclear bombed the world
in my head, & smiled
before taking
my first salty sip.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

mackular de generation

My question is: Why are everybody's eyes so weak these days?

Was there some really dark 100 year period where everyone's eyes atrophied sleep standing from a magical spindle prick until some wandering playboy with stiff trousers came around for a narcoleptic orgy?

Who was awake to write about this-aside from some witch bitch?

If we took a look through the Deep-Field view of the Hubble telescope: could we see a huge number of collapsing corneas, imploding irises, destroyed pupils, and failing retinas unfolding time and space into nothings and never was'es?

Would galaxies vaporize great volumes reducing our optic nerves to their origin?

If you combine: 4 cups frozen eyelids
1-1/3 cups granulated oblique muscle
3 tablespoons quick-cooking medial rectus muscle
1/3 cup all-purpose vitreous humor
1/2 teaspoon retinal extract
Pastry for 2-crust, 9-inch Superior oblique muscle tendon
and 2 winking tablespoons of EDFCZP or OFCLTB

like the recipe says to do--

what's with all the blurry-50 to 55 minute-slop that comes out of a preheated 400-degree eye exam?

One day I will to wake and find my eyes to be morphed into shriveled wasps' nests filled with dried peas and dust. I'll go to brush my teeth and the sink will be clinked by what used to be mucusy orbs of depth perceptive fruit, peeled grapes in a Halloween bowl, inspiration's sad songs rolling down a drain into a sewer somewhere.

And I won't be at all surprised.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

laundry day

Dear Diary,

Today I dropped off five pounds of laundry with the Chinese lady after getting down to my last pair of tacky underwear. She said to come back tomorrow. I told her to please be delicate. I don't think she cared. I also put some letters letters in the box around the corner. A random man told me I was beautiful. The weather was so nice I decided to take a walk across the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn. Passing bikers, runners and a handful of Hasidic Jews, I stopped in the center of the bridge to gaze the honeycomb projects and imagined the activities of the people inside: washing, cleaning, making love, turning blender and alarm clock parts into sexbots with vibrating fingers... When I got home I kissed Matilda on the mouth and made her sneeze. All in all, it was a good day.



Friday, November 21, 2008

good day

This is my favorite song right now:

I had a good day. Woke up at 10am after wine boozing the boy blues away with Jenny Miller who cried hard when "he" canceled AGAIN with a sorry excuse for a text.

Also: Had a good Vinyasa stretch, went magnet shopping in the Village with funface Zac German, and an accidental sold out Danny Boyle movie on Broadway lead me to the best steak sandwich I've ever had around the corner.

The boys coming in and out of that place--they were practically hitting on us nonstop; you should've seen JM's poor heart's self-esteem get the nicest little belly scratch from an Enrique Iglesias doppleganger of a film-maker.

I mean, it might've just been the sweat, working like some irresistible potion, since only minutes earlier we'd been face-dripping-covered-in-it-all-twisted in a heated room with thirty strangers, but it also might have something to do with the way I felt really beautiful today, because I'm sure boys fall in love with beautiful feeling girls easy, in case the feeling could be contagious.

The cold wasn't as bad as jumping feet-first into a spring-fed pool, as long as you're constantly treading, or walking...and smiling. I think I'll go out in it more often. I hope things are nice for you as well. Nice and light every other hour of heavy.

Sunday, November 2, 2008


After years of news and porn,
Mike was tired (of the anxiety).

He was tired of the boozing
(and whores
and meaningless bingo nights
seducing septuagenarian widows).

He wouldn't miss the cat
(hair on his blazers anymore) either.

That, or the spider bites (from
being tied up in basements all the time)
even though the mildew was okay.

At least he wasn't allergic to mildew
(like he was to the color orange,
which would inexplicably spin his brain
into an irrational whirlwind of impulsive
[slash] urgent behavior).

Mike's desire
(to explore new flavors, smells, textures,
in the homes of very filthy,
but wealthy people)
had almost even become

But he thank'd the goodnesses
for (his resilient gag reflex
and) OCD's
being quite convenient

Sunday, October 26, 2008

love & marriage

I remember my mom preparing me for it as a child, into teenagedom, twentydom; she finally gave up with the talks of security in finding some doctor or lawyer to marry about three years ago, when she realized, after my step-dad passed, how unhappy she'd been spending the last eight years with him.

Once when she was giving me "the talk" on how a husband was necessary to obtain while I was a nubile naive princess at about 23 or so, me completely rejecting the notion enough to date the biggest losers I could find, the same step-dad actually stepped up for me, saying something like, "Now Cha (my mom), I distinctly remember Sabra saying when she was 13, that she wouldn't marry anyone until she was 31. I think she knows what she's doing, leave her alone, she'll know when she finds the right guy."

That was cool, since at the time I hadn't remembered saying that, but now that I'm 31, I've had crazy feelings that I might be ready for my first husband, and contrary to popular belief--these notions, I'm sure, have nothing to do with love as much as dating doesn't have to have anything to do with it.

Love is a word, a concept, some fairy tale expression--especially romantic love, and all that it's ever really resembled for me are: obsession, possession, and ideology wrapped into a neat four-letter word. But maybe I'm being overly cynical again, a bad habit I've been trying to break for years.

I know I sometimes crave the company of boys I want to, and have, shared intimate moments with, and appreciate the convenience of some warm tight body embracing any sporadic notion of being seduced dependably, but that's more luxury than love any day to me--a person whose freedom's been known to scream compromise and obligation in reciprocated monogamy.

Marriage to me is more about sharing stuff, looking good together walking down the street, in pictures, saying--I found this cool person that I might make babies with one day because they don't seem to piss me off like most people and I'm proud to be associated with this buddy of mine that I sex now but would still get along with if we stopped sexing and maybe we'll combine families for the holidays and go on trips together and call each other honey, husband/wife, or daddy/mommy.

I've had so much time and fun with (way too) young, gorgeous men, artists, musicians, adonis cherubs, alabaster skinned perfect penis'd vagina worshipping playtoys--I think I knew then these thoughts of settling would come.

That's why I've never even considered being serious about marriage until now; and even now I'm only halfway serious--still even occasionally getting caught up in said fun situations when I've let myself get heavy on the boozy, AND too frisky feeling for optimum health levels of self-esteem and sexual confidence, but that's more a maintenance issue.

How necessary is it, to experience marriage, to officially declare it as either lame or great depending on whatever rock star sweeps me off my feet? I don't know yet.

And with a January 26, 09 deadline to boot (since by then I'll be 32 and very proud of myself having resisted some precocious childhood urge of matrimonial compromise) I'd better not get too desperate aka husband happy.

If it happens, it happens. Even I have to remind myself of this from time-to-time, and I treat life like it's one big party.

To be cont'd...


Friday, September 12, 2008


Thursday, September 4, 2008

candy-coated politics

Satire's like a sugar coating to help the bitter pill go down better; it's chocolate covered malt shit balls. A shit brownie sundae with caramel, low cal whipped topping and a cherry; a shit butterscotch cordial.

Comedy Central gets away with murderous honesty disguised as satire, and has for years.

Remember when Colbert was roasting Bush to his face in front of handfuls of jerkwads, and millions of others eventually later on beautiful internet tv?

When I watched the 'mock tribute' at the White House Correspondents' Dinner, I couldn't believe it; I thought, "Yeeess! This is happening." It was megaballsy.

At the time I was probably feeling hopeless enough to think that kind of honest exposure to the truth, to the world, might help in doing something with this absurd war situation.

This was before Americans became distracted in getting backwards fisted by the economy, trying to walk straight knowing their sphinkters and lumens have been reamed through the spin cycle without even the idea of grapefruit/papaya Astroglide, or a spitty palmed handshake and a sweet Lil Wayne or Mariah Carey tune to help get us in the mood.

Comedy takes the edge off. And this this case, with this vignette on the D.S. I'm surprised the writers aren't assassinated; but this race is so interesting: Palin's trashy fundamental backwoods Christian karma's replaced Angelina & Brad on the tabloids; it's like the biggest soap opera ever with every raunch and punchline.

It's like the new "Britney Spears".

Yeah, McCain's some tired, idiot Vietnam war veteran with
golden connections, a Crypt Keeper rehab Trophy wife, and Palin's bitch slaps bear cubs in their soft spots before they can even think about mauling their first porridge tree, but with the shady way politics has looked for zillions of years...I think he's going to win--albeit very unfairly. Just like last time. Just like Bush,
and his ugly, ugly machine of marionettes.

It's too bad too. I like Obama. He gives good speech.
He seems like he's a nice guy from the time he wakes up too
(even before coffee); like he made straight A's because he studied his material thoroughly (and didn't just memorize it at the last minute), was a male cheerleader or something, volunteered a lot at the old people hospital, saved kittens from trees, and I'm sure he looks pretty good naked.


Saturday, August 30, 2008

930 days ago



Thursday, August 28, 2008

egg tossing

Last night while I sat with an acquaintance, a poet
and guitar player, our families tucked away in the same
small town still; we sipped wine: him from his swiveling desk chair
in front of his laptop; me on the floor in front of his miniature tv, pulling turnips for coins, tossing eggs at egg spitting bird dragons guarding caves leading to slot machines.

In the middle of it all, I got a call from a petroleum engineer
who moved to Tulsa for a job; he said, "People are about to be fucked, the economy's fucked, the depression's here, the money's gone,
the US is in debt."

I said, "I'm drinking wine, the princess can fly, but Toad
plucks turnips with intense speed.

He said, "I hate Luigi."

I said, "Luigi sucks; he can jump high, but he's slow."

Tonight I got a call from an ex, our families tucked away in the same small town still; the other day at the pool he said he didn't like Beck anymore since he found out he was a Scientologist.

I asked him how any one person could appeal to so many different people's ideals without being overwhelmed with responsibility.

He said something about "space people".

I told him he should Wikipedia "Scientology".

He said he has.

Maybe he only read the parts he wanted to believe, with his predictable habit of hating things in most seemingly irrational ways.

He once declared that he hated both "nurses" and "people with tattoos" in front of a girl with wing tattoos on her shoulder blades who whined, "Heeeyyy, I have tattoos".

He said at a party once too that he hated cutters, in front of a cutter who went, "Heey, I used to be a cutter.

With luck like that I told him he could mentally hate a telepathic transvestite cokehead golf fanatic in an empty men's room at Dunkin Donuts, and the only one in the world would be shitting in a stall shouting, "Heeey..." between coffee farts.

The point of the call was to help keep our friend company, while he was going through hydrocodone withdrawals.

"I sat with him last night, I said, "we drank wine, while I played Nintendo; and besides, haven't I done enough of that in my life?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot, I understand," he said, and let me resume a conversation on the other line with a friend; a conversation about a girl who'd been fat most of her life, but became skinny roughly two years ago, giving her an excuse to accept attention from every Harry, Dick, and Tom even though she was pretty now.

My ex didn't know he'd met the girl, but hooked up once with the friend I was talking to--and once all three of them were at a party, the four of us drank tequila in the kitchen, and wine, and beers .

I'm not sure if the girl had a Nintendo, but her parents live in Portland, her father's a lawyer, and she doesn't have any tattoos that I know of; although my friend on the the phone, the one who fooled around with my ex 'the hater' once, has eight tattoos: including a bird, a snake, and a large Sandra Cicernos quote scrolled her ribcage; she's in law school, and just found out her ex fiancee OD'd on painkillers a week ago.

I told her that was worse than finding out that someone's grandma or uncle was dead, that he probably wasn't suffering anymore, hopefully; then we talked about our latest sexual conquests before she escaped down the subway to catch the L; I waited for her to say "I love you," before I closed my phone.


Sunday, August 10, 2008

ninja-pirate Bruce and his best friend Peekaboo

Ninja-pirate Bruce was involved with controlling,
manipulative types for way too long before he learned
to love himself.

Bruce was an optimist and was grateful for the awareness he'd honed in his ability to see through liars and control freaks; but it wasn't easy reconstructing after being taken apart in repeated attempts of being brainwashed by feebs.

In fact it was the most exhausting ordeal, ever.

Looking back on one particular lover, Tyrone--a professional ballet dancer/street hustler, Bruce'd become agoraphobic and anorexic from the lack of control of his own life.

It didn't help that he was working a full time high stress job as a bagger in a local Piggly Wiggly with asshole inbred pervs either. Ugly ones too. But Tyrone really hated fat asses anyway.

That's the closest Bruce'd ever come to losing it, while dating Tyrone--a sex addict, stealing from friends and family for prostitute money, knocking his ex up, again, impregnating twelve check-out girls, three stewardesses, two girls that worked at Express and a grandma from Boise, Idaho dressed as Sailor Moon for a Comic Con convention; all in less than a year.

Bruce's childhood Nintendo buddy/roommate, Melinda, had become an addict too, an in the closet food addict, literally, sticky ice cream boxes tucked in shoe boxes, powdered doughnut cellophane wrappers in pockets of sports coats fat as hell from skinny as shit in only two months, then BOOM, one day in the park, human dog treat city, she exploded all over the benches.

Thank goodness the complete wild and scared mess Bruce was...found his best friend Peekaboo when he did.

Peekaboo listened to his stories of watching the people closest to him fall part at the seams; he listened without judgment, without criticism, a solid rock of loyalty and patience Peekaboo; he helped Bruce become an overall better ass kicker ninja-pirate with the potential to make the world a better place.

Bruce became less cynical, more elite, a warrior highly trained in all aspects of martial arts combat, taking treasure from nitwits who spend too much money on lame crap: like trying to get the Village People back together for their son's bar matzvah; or 'sending a specialist to steal John Travolta's kidney'.

And he still couldn't believe they asked him to do that, but he did get a free cool looking book on something called Dianetics.

Bruce's mom was a Diane; the book made him remember the smell of her Sunday morning cinnamon streusel and that made him happy, so whatever.

Sometimes, when Peekaboo rides on Bruce's shoulder while he's walking, he whispers things like, "I wanna shove a big bar of Ivory soap down your narrow little throat," or "tell me I'm beautiful or I'll cry."

This makes ninja-pirate Bruce smile because he has a dark misogynistic sense of humor that leans toward the absurd and occasional violent tomfoolery.

Then someone pretends to trip, and laughter ensues between two best friends conquering the world in their optimism and discreet understanding of rigor mortis fart jokes.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Sha'Beouf GPS meatloaf sandwich

I don't know if I look better in person or in pictures.
My best friend Adam says I need to lose weight.
I can't sleep at night unless I get really drunk.
I've been jogging two miles sometimes
around the neighborhood lately.

Into a lank who zoomed through skanks,
straddling the back of a bi-wheel'd glory machine
it's a shame to become so stupored by smiles
bursts enamored, whiffing sporadic
clouds of lemony zest all over me.

Someone with pretty green eyes
is making me a meatloaf,
behind me right now
in the kitchen as I type this.

Last night my dashboard GPS
'transformed' into an evil anarchist robot,
like in that movie with Sha'Beouf,
from a cartoon I used to watch after school.

It lept out the passenger window
of my Maxima while I was sleeping
or drinking merlot trying to get sleeping
watching Battlestar Gallactica,
kittens on youtube, giant iris'd anime,
stumbling the occasional cigarette outside.

It knew I was thinking about selling it
to have money for food in New York,
where I won't need a car anymore, for trains,
for the smell of knish wafting waves from sidewalks.

My best friend Adam says I need to lose weight.
I don't know if I look better in person, or in pictures.
I've been jogging two miles sometimes
around the neighborhood lately.
I wake up thirsty more than hungry.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

there is a woman coming out of the back of your knee and she is carrying a container of motor oil

plastic spoons

I like to eat anything either really

hot or really cold with plastic

spoons so that my tongue doesn't

get shocked by the

impressionability of steel. Plastic

also: does not break when I throw it.

Glass, on the other hand, usually

makes a big mess.

Saturday, July 5, 2008

stripper tits

I wish,
I had nice enough tits
to be a stripper,
like Lauren,
aside from this birth defect
like a Siamese twin,
got detached via hatchet,
right above my left nipple,
which is smaller
and less round than my right.

They are pinkish, my nipples
because I am half white.

My mother's nipples
are brown and large.
She showed one to me
in the mirror once,
filled with silicon,
standing beside me,
then asked to see one of mine.

"I think you should go size bigger," she said,
"maybe B."
I told her I'd think about it,
and asked her
if she wanted to pay for one.

Get a good husband
and make him pay
for new boob,
or corporate job
with health insurance,
make pretty grandbaby,
stand straight, back crooked,
suck it in,
find direction, like arrow
don't pick at food,
I don't wanna get internet,
I traded in my Rincoln Towncar
for a Cadirrac sports car,
It's cream color, not so big.

I really, sincerely,
my mother's gigantic-assed
-surgically-altered tit,
or show her
my one pathetic breast,

but she makes good spam,
egg, and ketchup sandwiches,
and bought me very nice jeans
with third shift paychecks
when I was even more of a dipshit,
than I am now,
sitting here, angry,
wishing I had Lauren's stripper tits.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

maybe scabies

All over my body, but not in between my fingers and toes to make it scabies, I have spots of itchy mosquito type bites which resemble chicken pocks; but I have already had chicken pox between 1 and 2, I remember the calamine, so it couldn't be chicken pox.

No, I think what has manifested as a head-to-toe pain in the ass is something I recently (last night) heard of as a pandemic of sorts on this particular Brooklyn street, according to my hustler, sculptor, half-Mexican friend, Gabriel. He says I've probably been bitten by bed bugs; to wash all the sheets in hot water, to check the source of the couch that's been my bed; "Poor baby," he said.

I could tell he wanted to kiss me outside the Bushwick bar with its golf course in the back, with its $6 Pabst and shot of Jim special, and all you can eat cheese puffs (which are exceptional when they're fresh). He was clean cold sober too, on soda and bitters.

"You should've caught me yesterday," he said,

"on the last day of June, I'm not drinking in July."

"Like lent," I said.

"Yeah, I guess so."

I told him, "I didn't drink for a February once, after I'd been an alcoholic for six years straight," while fumbling for a match, while digesting cheap beer and whiskey, as his face came so close he could probably smell my hair, his eyes dipping almost too intensely to take a sip of some sad recognition in mine; then a friend of his walked by, and they had to say hello, of course.

Sarah was her name, tall, pretty face, friendly personality. When she asked my name I told her it was like hers with a 'b' in the middle, without the 'h' if hers had an 'h'. She didn't say either way, then asked my name again one minute later after an attempt of pronouncing it kind of retarded. We both smoked a Parliament Light, mine borrowed from the bartender.

Standing there, I wanted Gabriel's full-fledged attention again. I started to get distracted into noises of voices and people with dogs shuffling by between standing there smoking, almost drunk watching them talk, small talk, thinking about Adam who I'd left inside at the bar alone with stale cheese puffs and an almost gone beer.

It felt like forever, even though it probably wasn't because I'm not that patient.

When Sara(h) finally off'd to resume her sidewalk adventure, Gabriel started briefly into her looks: not being as sharp as they used to be, criticizing her hunched shoulders, her receded bottom lip.

"She looked better when she was thinner a few years ago when I first met her...she's a good connection in the city...I needed to say hello instead of ignoring her when she walked by."

When he apologized for seeming too critical, I told him it was okay, that I'd be the same way once I got to know him better.

He asked me if I had plans for independence day, and I told him I didn't. He said he would probably call me, and I told him that was reasonable, then unlocked his bike he said, "Don't get too drunk!"

I said I would try my best not to, and ran inside, while saying that, halfway waving.

Inside Adam was waiting to chastise me a little for not waiting to smoke, in inadvertantly attempting to leave those two alone at the bar in being selfish and trying to go outside alone, without inviting Gabriel, to give him at least a choice in the matter of standing with me or going home.

I told him that romance was too complicated, and the best thing I could probably do to keep Gabriel around was to treat him like I would any other friend that I wasn't interested in, "Like Aaron," I said.

Aaron was our very unsexy friend who always wore terrible colors, like bright orange. When I met him he was fat, until he started swimming and eating better, and lost 40 pounds.

I try to keep in mind that Aaron's still getting adjusted when he imposes on my personal space on the sidewalk and pushes me into walls by accident, or into the street, has trouble squeezing through crowds, or steps on me.

"Phantom fat," I've said, to justify his awkward mobility in spatial trajectories, "he thinks it's still there."

I wish I could tell him to his face, but people who used to be fat have a tendency to get defensive, just like how whores and pseudo-intellectuals get defensive.

Aaron also used to be a goth cutter. This is probably why he likes it when I'm mean to him more than most people like it, and the more he takes it, the meaner I get because I hate weakness.

It'd be nice if he told me to shut my hell hole up one of these days. Then I could tell him to not take up so much space on the sidewalk.

Then he could crawl into my lap and I could tell him stories about farting pigeons with explosive bed bug infested diarrhea flying over Brooklyn covering all the commuters coming out of the L and M bird shit making them itchy, and he would laugh and get sleepy, and take up most of the bed even though he only needed half.

I'd say, "Never wear that bright orange shirt with the yaks on it again, please, it's such an unflattering hue on you, and looks terrible in pictures.

He'd whisper, "Kiss me," and touch my hand," and I'd say, "Gross!"

I'd try to use the word 'phantasmagoric' in the pigeon story with him being too sleepy to notice, it being new and raw in my vocabulary, but kind of pretty, even though mostly useless in my life.

Like 'circumnavigate' or 'romance'--though attention's nice from a pretty face one in a while.

Especially when it looks like it's about to kiss you when you've got a buzz outside of a bar by a bicycle being unlocked, when it's hard to take anything seriously anymore, and pleasant distractions are a luxury in eyes, and flavors garnered in the path to obliviousness.

I really hope I don't have chicken pocks again.

Monday, April 28, 2008

evolving definitions of good times

I feel different. I wonder if I seem different.

I'd have to ask somebody who hasn't seen me for at least a year, the way people grow and change with you, or just stand still in their set ways and all.

More serious perhaps, or maybe I'm sad and confused right now. I can't really tell much with emotions.

Last night I arrived at a birthday party and a buddy says to me, "You look sad," and I said, "Maybe I'm sad." He said, "You shouldn't be sad, you should be happy." I told him I'd try.

Seems I'm so numb right now, and forward thinking, that I can't really distinguish the difference between being happy and apathy these days.

I wonder if happiness is more of a big thing with young people than it is with adults.

With adults what is mundane or even consistant can seem to resemble happiness, when challenges or inconsistancies render stress.

For me, I still feel restless, and I know this is some child in me, a very curious one, wanting to taste every taste, smell smells, have its bulging wide eyes surrounded by awesome architecture.

It's funny, the growing pains of transition; especially the final ones in leading to really letting yourself grow up. And for a while my worst fears sat trembling on ledges of boredom.

It'd be nice to be able to appreciate boredom after a few more trips around the world. To sit with a pet or a partner, warm, doing absolutely nothing and feeling good about it.

A year ago I wasn't thinking this way; a year ago I cared most about wine and sex and art.

After a while those things just become things to help pass the time.

Now I'd be happy for the world to slow down a little because days go by faster than ever.

I am 31 years-old. Maybe it's time for this.


Wednesday, April 23, 2008

This is why Obama will lose and our nation will stroke from a massive embolism

Why does Obama lose?
Because he doesn't say yes
to the people who
could make him win?
And she says yes,
I bet,
yes, I'll do it,
I'll do it for a gram,
a rock of respect,
a warm embrace from the blue flames of history books burning,
behind walls of puppet and emcees,
progeny playing house.
And theirs is the rules.
And it's been that way for a while
And it will stay that way awhile even longer,
as long as persecution sings,
its pretty package distracts,
our dysfunctional illusion
of order compels
a massive byproduct'd culture
stupored with denial.

Friday, April 11, 2008

the artist

She was driving drunk, and couldn't keep it together, jerking the wheel to keep it straight, watching the cars behind her hoping they weren't police noticing the swerving. She didn't think about jail, but imagined a sobriety test on the roadside, stumbling on one leg, adrenaline hopefully coming to rescue, to absorb the buzz before it was too late.

She made it eventually and knocked on his door, and so unexpectedly and conveniently easy he opened it. He had locked himself away with his scotch and his movie; he looked almost hostile, wrecked, muttered something about her probably having something to say and for her to say it...something about if she raised her voice again or patronized he'd kick her out, twice...rushed to say something about breaking up being a good idea before she could say it as to avoid the mind's poison of rejection.

Then came the storms of "unlesses"--the worst being the one long: "Unless you never disagree with me being right...and accept the things I do for leisure to be very impressive and lucrative seeming no matter what or how broke I will always be...or you don't believe in me or my my father who painted landscapes after he got laid off from construction and my mom complained when he wouldn't rake the leaves...

Remembering the "My Mother Worked Her Ass and we were poor" story from a different night with scotch, she asked who him raked the leaves if his father wouldn't. He stopped for a minute after, "My mo..." then looking her in the eyes; lied in trying to maintain his arrogance, and long before, she knew he wouldn't know he'd be lying all the time like now, after letting his defenses down for the sake of either rest or ennui depending on the weather.

She was getting sleepy, his voice pleading and desperate, repeating redundant illusions for the sake of sound alone in her drifting; she watched his shuffling to bed in scoops of light, then exhausted, fell asleep finally allowing herself peace from a long and tired impending week of bracing some inevitable disaster.

In the morning the couch was cold, and her mouth dry, eyes swollen and sad in the bathroom mirror after getting up to brush her the soured copper from her tongue and lips. When she returned he was sitting up in bed.

She sat on the couch quiet for what felt like some sick sad eternity thinking, revisiting the carelessly thrown words from hours earlier, defensive accusations of obsession and self-centered delirium, before speaking.

"So what of it then?"she mumbled, without looking up, instigating his rattling off some drowsy romantic plan of experimental separation. In her mind, allswhile, crawled determination, dignity for a clean and bloodless break, though there'd certainly be a bruise and most likely a scar.

Listening, he'd put some thought into it, which she was proud of him for; he was all of 33, and it was the least he could do to put things into perspective at least once in a while aside from trying to be famous for artistic endeavours in an effort to prove himself to people he hated; like every other creative lazy asshole these days, she thought, like the pretty boys who played instruments before him from her self-proclaimed less mature phases, like her, like his father, but what was ambition good for these days--when she knew he slept well past noon on most sunny weekdays.

"I love you, I'm in love, there's no one else I want, I've imagined spending the rest of my life with you," from an artist with words borrowed from idiots, who borrowed from poetry read to gullible incubators worth trapping, those words like worms, dangled with their shiny hooks so obvious.

And he knew after her he was doomed in his drowning, that she was just foolish enough in his charm from a streak of luck, that the next would be foolish even without, some drooling mindless puppet, not even worth the distraction's sake of a toy, like all the others, just like him.

She hugged him holding tears and he kissed her neck holding her. She opened the door to leave and remarked on the light being nice, saying it was a good day to paint; he agreed.

A painting sat unfinished, of her reclining in a window, eyes closed and smiling as if nothing had ever been wrong. She walked out of the door, as he watched her walk away, wishing her a nice day at work, telling her he would talk to her soon.

Thursday, March 6, 2008


The hostile stigma associated with homosexuality bothers me tremendously, and it's a shame to know that even in the liberal and weirdness encouraging atmosphere of Austin, TX, it exists within the huddled niches of human ignorance, also known as "the consensus."

I'll elaborate. Through a friend, through his job, I am now friends with a lesbian couple; one of which recently shaved her head completely bald, while the other sports fuchsia dyed punk spikes. The couple-before the shaved incident-were obviously gay since they display their 'smitten goggle-eyed joy in finding each other' on their sleeves: kissing, touching affectionate grazes on backs and necks as they walk by if they're not sitting like Siamese joined at the hip, we're-really-into-each-other-and-we-want-to-shout-our-love-from-rooftops type stuff.

Then, while on a set of a collaborative sci-fi low budget film production, Costume's looking for wigs to add feminine appeal to a leader of the notorious all-female tribe of space mercenaries who subjugate and dominate their male foes, and it comes out, because of the bald lesbian's new low maintenance hairstyle: her dismay of having to deal with closed-minded bigotry involving dirty looks from strangers "more than ever, especially students around campus" she said, especially small groups of girls who look like they're rich variations of the same exact product walking by quietly, leering condescendingly, and then laughing.

These are children I've known, having been raised in Christian communities, being from a small Southern town. These are insecure children raised by insecure parents who were raised by Leave It To Beaver, coddled with ideals, parents who wish to one day become beautiful baby grandparents, in a picture perfect fairy tale story, Susie Q married to Doctor X, a dog named Lollipop, birdies landing perfectly on a fingertip in the morning sunshine singing Tweet Tweet I love you, birdies who never poo, because no on ever poos in LaLa Land except for Lollipop of course because he would shit on the mailman every once in a while out of pretentious pet boredom.

In a fall first semester ever Intro Philosophy college course in 1996, debates on moral and ethical issues were a given, extra credit points were incentive for participation, we discussed euthanasia, abortion, Socrates, and towards the beginning of winter, homosexuality.

In the end of most of these debates I would usually have to walk out of class first, away from 30 minus 1-2 angry Christians armed with the phrases, "It just is, because the Bible says it's wrong, because it's not God's way, it just ain't natural" My desk was close to the door because I had been raised with the freedom to use my own logic when answering the riddles of the universe. I had not received all of my information in a nicely wrapped package. I had not been raised with fear of a place called hell where I would suffer the rest of eternity receiving torture for misdeeds according to an ancient book of the mortal world. I'd been raised by a broken English Korean immigrant single mother without a military dad who left us for a dancer when I was eight. She remarried when I was eleven to a psychologist, a Presbyterian, and we went to church a few times before Sunday lunch lost its glamour and my constant pleas for new dresses to fit into the 'cool' Youth group crowd was replaced with disinterest in over-learning the word 'hypocrite.'

But back on track with the debates, and even more specifically: the debate on homosexuality, the canned answers of, "Because the bible says it wrong," even after the teacher asks for "Something else, for anything else" to "What other reason would you need?" to my:

"What business is it of others what people do behind the sanctuary of closed doors, is everyone supposed to have missionary style heterosexual sex in the sanctity of marriage for procreation only, anyone here who's not married is a virgin right, what gives us the right to judge people's character and point fingers and condemn people and act as if they have some contagious disease, what makes you think every gay person wants to have sex with you and will try to seduce you or lick you or stick you against your will, or that they are into perverted or grotesque sodomy practices involving leather chaps and leopard skin underwear, have you ever thought that they could be nice people aside from judging them by sex preference, that aside from sex their hearts beat and need love, and that they can be smart, and that if they had a choice in this sometimes horrible world they would choose to be was considered by so many a moral abomination?"

I left class a little extra 'first' that day feeling the tension in the classroom strung by eyes of hatred. Already I was an outsider by my "Chinese" looks in a predominantly white male classroom, but as an outspoken girl defying the bible's dogmatic recommendation of avoiding questions in keeping the masses at bay, I had become a Communist Devil Worshipper who was going to hell, and on my way out of class that day, I heard three words which gave my arms chills from an anonymous coy voice amongst other livid voices that said, "You'd better run."

And now Ellen Degeneris is crying on her show because an eight year-old boy killed another eight year-old boy for asking him to be his Valentine. Like puppies killing other puppies for barking at them the wrong way, it just doesn't make sense. It's not always the luxury of choice which governs our personalities, since if that were the case there'd be no such things as Psychiatrists, or divorce, or prisons, or Prozac.

There are people who are attracted to the same sex biologically, and others who follow their desires based on chemistry and attraction, and others who are turned on by more soft than hard, or vice versa, more of less hair, muscles, curves, smells; and what business is it of ours what these preferences are in strangers, unless they become friends with us, and confide in us the details of what makes them the unique people they are, apart from the ambiguity of being unknown and, in general, a human?


Sunday, February 10, 2008

picnic patriotique

"Hurry up," said Natasia, "it's cold out here; and I don't know how much longer I can hold this cow."

"Quit being a queen," I said as I rubbed my hand back and forth, furious, "everytime you open your mouth I have to start over again."

Now where was I? Oh yes, "Ohhhoh sayyy caaan youu seeeee!"

"Godammit, Sherman, this thing just licked me! What's it doing? That's my nipple you little shit. OW! Sherman, this thing's trying to give me head!"

"Byyyy thee daaawn's eeaaarleeee liii...for fuck's sake! For fuck sake! YEAAAAH."

"It's about damn fucking time, Sherman. You and your kicks. If you weren't a genius musician and didn't get the best coke in town I don't know what I'd do. I like your mom too. She's not crazy like my psycho hellbitch of a mom. Can we go now? Can we get sushi?"

"Raw fish sounds retarded right now, Natasia. Let's get some soup. I'm really in the mood for soup. Minestrone."

Yeaaah. That felt pretty good.

"Put your clothes on Natasia, get your handbag, let's go before some crazy gay rancher tries to kick our asses. Leave the sheep. Let's go."

We grabbed our shit and split. I lit a cigarette, Natasia pulled her imitation designer sunglasses out of her Fendi bag, tromping her sinewy arms, legs stuffed into some five dollar thrift store cowboy boots, hair sweeping in the cool breeze smelling of three day old juniper berried tobacco smoke and lanolin.

Later we would rob a bank and fuck on top of 80 grand in the same motel that I lost my virginity in when I was twelve years-old. Her name was Tabatha. She was 42, beautiful, always wore this expensive fur coat made out of chinchilla or minx or something.

I liked the fact that her name was the same as that witch on tv, the one that twitched her nose, and that freak Darren was always such a putz; both the Dicks, losers, but Tabatha, now she was class.

Wednesday, February 6, 2008


Sometimes I exercise, but not all the time.

Last night I did: 500 crunches, 150 stairs climbs (only counting verticle), 20 lunges, and 1 mile on the treadmill. This morning: 2.5 miles on the treadmill and 100 crunches.

This kind of extreme exercise is sporadic. I don't do it all the time, at all, or as part of some sort of fitness schedule. The way I do it is: Whenever I feel gross and not in perfect shape meaning my stomach feels bulbous or I see cellulite forming on my inner thigh area, I exercise pretty hard or a few days and then it's gone and I'm in good shape again. I'm 5'7, weigh 130lbs, and am mostly muscle.

I drink tons of water too, which makes a huge hell of difference as far as skin goes, face wise and all over, and try to lay off the alcoholic beverages, which also lets the brain have a break from scary feeling of neurotoxic nausia, impairing memory and processing speed--no fun.

Regardless, knowing how to listen to self-preserving semaphors waving around on the intuition boat is a talent to be reckoned with, it's called awareness. The same awareness cat owners have that keeps their house from smelling like a turd factory.

I was trying to do smaller portions of vegetable based foods too with little sugar, wheat, meat, and dairy, but then I had the flu for a couple days and needed the calories to avoid having my ass kicked by fever and my immune system needing energy to kill vicious health debilititating bacteria monkeys.

I had the flu when I woke up Monday morning, it's Wednesday and the said flu is gone. I'd like to say I willed it away, but that's probably only part of it considering the handfuls of vitamin C I was taking along with 12 hour sleep nights and a pretty healthy immune system overall due to the fact that I'm a stark mixed breed.

I like to think I have the ability to concentrate a cold, have it really terrible for like a day, and then fight it tired until it runs away screaming. My immune system's akin to the buff soldiers in 300 without the cod pieces and chisled abs. It's a tough sonofabitch when it needs to be, most of the time, luckily.

My temperature was 100.5 on acetaminophen soaking the sheets squeezing my head in a vice nasty too. Fevers have to be universally synonymous with damn torture by anyone's book.

Sometimes I get colds, but they don't last long.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

lick my 14

arts is
when on
the drink,
in aluminum

Wednesday, January 23, 2008


Sometimes I think I'm really smart.

Smarter than most people anyway, in the most important way, since there are many ways a person can be smart.
Don't get me wrong. I've been known to do some pretty stupid, selfish things, which don't even work out for anyone, but me, or not even that; or compromised my time and efforts and integrity for the sake of obligation, or for the sense of 'doing the right thing,' which ultimately only served other people's selfish desires.
All that got old after I realized things didn't have to suck unless you let it.

The kind of smart I'm talking about though, is hard to explain since in order to even understand it, without it seeming like some smart myth, is to either be that brand of smart, or to see it, respect it and try to achieve it through patient practices in humility.

What, what is it, what are you talking about, you're talking out of your ass little girl, what do you know sexy, come here, let me put my fingers on you.

The kind of smart I am is in the way that I can see things for what they really are. It's about perceptive awareness; it's about intuition which can be so keen that precognition seems feasible and not some Philip K Dick sooth seer jive.

The sad thing is: People can't get this smart unless they've been murdered and resurrected a couple dozen times in life, brushed off, sore when it rains from broken bones mended, raw meat heart held together with tar and splints, fingers jagged razors cutting through exteriors, to see past the all too familiar veneers; it's by watching people die, by heartbreak, disappointment, deception, poverty, compromised freedom, deconstruction, faithlessness, complete and total feeling nothing for a long time apathy, earned and warranted cynicism, topped with a big heap of total fucking asinine bullshit people copping power trips, ego trips, ownerships.

I mean sure, books are good. I love books. They have words in them; words which are tools to communicate.

And speaking of tools, my desk chair is held together by six screws.

I didn't know that until I got it home in a box.

I had to borrow a screwdriver, a Phillips, and screw the damn thing together thinking the whole time: I wonder how many screws are in a blender, in a car, there are screws everywhere, holding everything we own together, and I've been taking this for granted, my alarm clock may have fifteen, my refrigerator, like fifty screws!

I felt accomplished my chair was sturdy and upright, felt as if I learned an important lesson about deconstruction, reconstruction, productivity, I felt smart and independent in ways which felt important, useful, unlike GRE perfect scores, unlike Pulitzer prize winning poets.

I fell today on a soapy mop watered floor in front of two Mexican ladies cleaning, got up and kept going with only a minor flinch of humiliation on a mission, it hurt later, but at the time, there was no time for hurt. My elbow feels as though it's been punched.

Sorry, this has nothing to do with anything, I just wanted some sympathy. A kissy on my elbow would be nice. I could go for that. Kissy's are cool.

Sometimes I think I am really dumb in a way that everybody understands, since that is what they expect from me in the first place.

I probably fell hard.

Sunday, January 13, 2008


last night was some
incredible party.
everywhere red, white, and blue.
themed campaign suicide,
we wore ties, suits,
face painted gashes,
slashes on wrists,
there were pretzels,
plenty of rum,
and music to dance to,
in the living room,
along with the pundit stand,
made out of styrofoam, and
a speaker,
streamers streaming,
the faces were nice,
though the liquor was nicer.
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