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.


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