The thickness of some things makes my heart race,
it calls upon my liquid nature and lets her loose
unbound
over sand and sky,
under your radar
and into the night we dream up.
The winds in me blow up a storm, a scream,
my body cavorting in pleasures which my mind filters in,
the heart not caring about the last time it ate, washed or took stock.
It is alive, and beating
for all of you,
for some of you,
for you.
Yelling my fanaticisms to each and every new recruit
on the thoroughfare,
raising myself and beating you all to death,
just so you take note, you are Alive.
My palpitations race, then to sleep,
and viscosity of our human circumstance,
is revealed, revoked, reveled
with every single word.
The water, it's warm today, mildly salty
a pale shade of green-blue
it softens my muscles
forces me into the feeling of floating without ground;
It has tiny, violent yellow shards of sun upon it,
and it is everything I will it to be.
I shout, because I know I am in this water...
do you?
M. Lucia
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Noah's journey to the other side was now complete. He cowered on the dark sand of this unknown shore, spent and drained, vomiting and spitting brackish ocean water, his thirst consuming him now as the lapping sea at his feet taunted. As he came to his senses he saw that he had actually arrived exactly where he had intended to go and that the sand was dark because it lay almost entirely in the shade-shadow of Purgatory Chasm. The only light at the moment came from the thin lip of the crescent moon waxing across the mere 40-foot-width of sky between the chasm's two towering cliff faces opposing each other above his head. Turning he could also see the water wave back out of the giant cut in the rock behind him and disappear into the darkness of a night on the Atlantic.
Only he knew now that it wasn't the Atlantic anymore. He had set sail from the beach in Rhode Island but the old man's words - the incantation spoken from shore by the enchanted fisherman - had sent up the waves and wind and had blown him here to the place he had, of course, wanted to go--the place he knew his father must be waiting for Noah to come find him.
As he looked around he became aware of a change in his vision. Only a part of the sky and the sea had been visible because of the walls of the chasm, but glancing around he realized now that he had in fact lost all his peripheral vision entirely--it was as if the walls of the chasm blocked his eyes, left and right, no matter where he looked. The feeling was disorienting especially there in a strange place, when he didn't know what or who lurked behind the rocks or even under the tide. But it also had the effect of focusing his sight on one swath of the beach at a time. And he found, after walking some distance deeper into the chasm, higher up on the sand and along to the geometric center-line of the cut into the cliff, that the moonlight seemed to form a lighted path on the sand as the erosion narrowed. He walked along it but it appeared to be fading by the second. He looked up and saw that the moon has crossed the thin slice of sky and was set to disappear behind one of the walls. He began to run now in the darkness and it became almost a desperate flail because he could no longer see the sand under his feet, only the ever fading line.
He lurched suddenly forward and flew off his feet, briefly through the air and finally head first into the coarse sand. He spat and scraped the grains, with the backs of his hands, from his eyes. He cleared his vision long enough to watch the lighted 'shadow' of a silhouetted hand slowly vanish from the sand directly in front of him.
He was plunged into the darkest darkness he had ever experienced as the moon-sliver disappeared overhead. A hopelessness overwhelmed him. He thought of his mother, and his sister. He thought too of his father lost at sea, long before he had ever really known him, and now lost here somewhere in the darkness. Before he knew what he was doing he was clawing at the sand in front of him, where he thought in his memory the image of the hand lay, almost projected by the moon, onto the sand. He was digging, searching. It was all he could do, all he had left to do. What was he thinking coming here to this strange land? Following after his father into the darkness? His father was a legend. What was he, a boy, a nothing, a half-man? If this weird place had conquered his father's will with the help of all the enchanted creatures of the deep what hope did he have?
His hand fell upon a metal object that was warm under the cold sand. The object had curves and points and it had heft, made of metal bars pointing in multiple directions. He dug it out of the sand and lifted it out of the hole. It began to glow returning light to the cavern around him. In that moment his vision was restored and he could even see 360-degrees around him at once. The walls and beach glowed yellow then red and a warm breeze blew up and enveloped him like a blanket. He began to see visions playing across the walls of the chasm. Visions he had a hard time organizing at first but then they coalesced into home movies almost, but as clear and as real as if the people and places were brought forward to him.
He saw his parents young again. They were dancing on the beach. His father, dark haired and muscular, his mother a vision, beautiful and exotic. Then he was with them as a child but from a time before he could remember, and then his sister was there too, and for an instant they were together as a family once more.
Then he saw the events he knew only from local legend--of his father racing to the beach to save a whale caught in the shallows. He watched as his father ran down the beach and dove into the ocean, swimming out beyond the whale and miraculously coaxing the great beast to follow him out the sea. He saw his mother walking the shore line scanning for some sign of her lost husband and he saw her dreams where she herself drowned and sank to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Time went fast forward now, he saw himself aging rapidly, growing beyond his father's oldest years, his own hair graying, his beard lenghtening. He saw his body shrivel and shrink and gasp for breath. He then yelled involuntarily.
"Noooooooooooo!!!!"
And the light and visions vanished. He was left with only the metal object in his hand. He knew now it was a small metal anchor. The breeze died down and slowly the warmth seeped away. But he heard a voice, softly whispering in the wisps of sand, that he knew to be his father's, older, injured...in peril.
"May you be safe from every harm."
It was more than a wish. It felt as if it had the power of a spell. The darkness fell full and cold once again. And Noah heard a stirring from all around him. They were coming for him now. He had awakened all the beasts of the land and sea, and they were angry.
He lurched suddenly forward and flew off his feet, briefly through the air and finally head first into the coarse sand. He spat and scraped the grains, with the backs of his hands, from his eyes. He cleared his vision long enough to watch the lighted 'shadow' of a silhouetted hand slowly vanish from the sand directly in front of him.
He was plunged into the darkest darkness he had ever experienced as the moon-sliver disappeared overhead. A hopelessness overwhelmed him. He thought of his mother, and his sister. He thought too of his father lost at sea, long before he had ever really known him, and now lost here somewhere in the darkness. Before he knew what he was doing he was clawing at the sand in front of him, where he thought in his memory the image of the hand lay, almost projected by the moon, onto the sand. He was digging, searching. It was all he could do, all he had left to do. What was he thinking coming here to this strange land? Following after his father into the darkness? His father was a legend. What was he, a boy, a nothing, a half-man? If this weird place had conquered his father's will with the help of all the enchanted creatures of the deep what hope did he have?
His hand fell upon a metal object that was warm under the cold sand. The object had curves and points and it had heft, made of metal bars pointing in multiple directions. He dug it out of the sand and lifted it out of the hole. It began to glow returning light to the cavern around him. In that moment his vision was restored and he could even see 360-degrees around him at once. The walls and beach glowed yellow then red and a warm breeze blew up and enveloped him like a blanket. He began to see visions playing across the walls of the chasm. Visions he had a hard time organizing at first but then they coalesced into home movies almost, but as clear and as real as if the people and places were brought forward to him.
He saw his parents young again. They were dancing on the beach. His father, dark haired and muscular, his mother a vision, beautiful and exotic. Then he was with them as a child but from a time before he could remember, and then his sister was there too, and for an instant they were together as a family once more.
Then he saw the events he knew only from local legend--of his father racing to the beach to save a whale caught in the shallows. He watched as his father ran down the beach and dove into the ocean, swimming out beyond the whale and miraculously coaxing the great beast to follow him out the sea. He saw his mother walking the shore line scanning for some sign of her lost husband and he saw her dreams where she herself drowned and sank to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Time went fast forward now, he saw himself aging rapidly, growing beyond his father's oldest years, his own hair graying, his beard lenghtening. He saw his body shrivel and shrink and gasp for breath. He then yelled involuntarily.
"Noooooooooooo!!!!"
And the light and visions vanished. He was left with only the metal object in his hand. He knew now it was a small metal anchor. The breeze died down and slowly the warmth seeped away. But he heard a voice, softly whispering in the wisps of sand, that he knew to be his father's, older, injured...in peril.
"May you be safe from every harm."
It was more than a wish. It felt as if it had the power of a spell. The darkness fell full and cold once again. And Noah heard a stirring from all around him. They were coming for him now. He had awakened all the beasts of the land and sea, and they were angry.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Fat Tuesday Was Her Name
Probably the most dangerous thing anybody could ever do, on these cobbled streets, or in front of these closed doors, is move through life knowing themselves sexually.
As above, so below, the great occultist spoke, and so it is. A brain without a body to live through is just as fuck all useless as a cock without a station, a cunt without a fixed star to move towards...like all those wild, young tourists, shoving tits upon tits upon tits, with no real connection to the skin, to your heart nestled inside that skin, to the touch and eyesight that engrosses the walk and the meaning, the manner and the animalistic, carefully distilled, uncontrollable thought process.
They've no time to make these constellations form, no map is created from within themselves to those they lust for, love, infatuate, obsess, reach out to or need. There is no need with them.
They are about as connected to the realness of their cunts and so forth as a skyscraper is to a rice paddy, physically speaking of course. The sad state of affairs, often botched, since they are mostly shitfaced drunk when they fuck, and so smashed up that they disconnect not only from their partner but from themselves, a million miles away, a witness to an accident that they were not present mentally for, most likely because they were looking away.
Little girls trod their tits around like lollipops on a spit -racked stick, with each skill-less degradation, a false sense of entitlement and power, their broken voices inside shouting "take that, daddy....." for those who didn't love enough, or ask for too much, or disappeared, or touched wrong or ignored....
Sluts all of them, and as a whore who was taught to be a woman, a lady on the outside and a life loving whore on the inside (not through actual instruction but through a certain strain of DNA), the whore remarks that she has loads and loads of free and easy time on her hands, when so much of her life wasn't affected by these broken fathers. Sometimes people don't know what to do without some element of internal psycho-sexual struggle. Against who they are, usually. These tits out girls crying out for their long lost daddys are the prime example. They're scooped up, they are free samples at the grocer, gone before you know it. Dried out, mentally plundered, no sense of what they behold, or radiate, just that which was stolen from them, or that which they perceived to be.
Their cuckolded equivalents aren't much better. Lifetimes short stacked in childhood of disappointment and failure coupled with an itinerary of check lists about women, about safety, and strife. Most people want a kidnap victim, or a captor to accomplish same. Most people scream out, drown themselves in cheap green alcohol, puke it up on the streets and on their would be lovers, hide out in that which doesn't frighten them, and keep it going for as long as they can, sexually dumbfounded and without the presence of the gods, which is most necessary to be present then, above all other things!
The beer streams down the young men's cheeks, as they think about why they want women they can control, or be nagged by, or form a sort of mental spiders web, each strand another pathology of illness that they themselves can never fix, therefore they are safe with these bead carrying sluts til the end of time. For ignorance begets ignorance, while the truly liberated get clubbed in the same streets during the day times, when the cloaks are out, resounding silence against one and all sinners - morality without base, hypocrisy knows no bounds - their minds so institutionalized with compartmentalization - wife, mother, pureness, virgin, god, freedom, knowledge, whore, shame....nothing in this or any other world is as rife with maze upon maze of fear about one's self as sexuality is.
One of those cases comes up, as these kids fuck each other without remorse, or care, or self, and then live other plain lives when the sun comes up. The white, free moon ain't gonna shine in the noon time for them, and if it did, they'd all fuck off and hide under a rock, crying for their mommies who made them this way and their gods who they forgot about, lost in the pleasure of a night's binge drink fuck with dry cunts, empty minds, limp cocks and detachment served up drive through style - like riding a bike indeed. Except this is your soul, your animal, your primitive needs and personal desires - it's not ten jumping jacks and brushing your teeth before bed.
The night bleeds on, they are interweaving in their webs of time wasting themselves, encircling their own childhoods in the muck of fluids lost to them, their own disorders set to the tune of a New Orleans jazz band, as the masquerade continues down the quarter....by sun up they'll be crossing the streets with ashes above their eyes, a tight fist in their selves, warning them to keep it up for as long as their youth will let it. They've got their whole lives to be dissatisfied, might as well feel good about flashing their tits that many times to that many strangers....intimacy scares the fuck out of human beings, so keep fucking in the dark, they do. You can give up so much for Lent, revelers......give up the idea that to know yourself in this way is dangerous. Frankly, the sight of these tarnished, suicidal liver consumerists of sex cannibalizing the avenues, getting closer every day to each other and their worst fears becoming their best laid plans, is the real monster in this here parade. If they burned the effigy of all they thought they were supposed to be, and rose up from those ashes with a fervour, with their huge, live hearts being through those wet t-shirts and love in their fingertips, the lust of kings and queens in their masked eyelids, and shame long gone at their feet, then what a celebration the favourable fuck would be, vital and raucous, all through each night of their lives. Laissez les bons temps rouler.
M. Lucia
As above, so below, the great occultist spoke, and so it is. A brain without a body to live through is just as fuck all useless as a cock without a station, a cunt without a fixed star to move towards...like all those wild, young tourists, shoving tits upon tits upon tits, with no real connection to the skin, to your heart nestled inside that skin, to the touch and eyesight that engrosses the walk and the meaning, the manner and the animalistic, carefully distilled, uncontrollable thought process.
They've no time to make these constellations form, no map is created from within themselves to those they lust for, love, infatuate, obsess, reach out to or need. There is no need with them.
They are about as connected to the realness of their cunts and so forth as a skyscraper is to a rice paddy, physically speaking of course. The sad state of affairs, often botched, since they are mostly shitfaced drunk when they fuck, and so smashed up that they disconnect not only from their partner but from themselves, a million miles away, a witness to an accident that they were not present mentally for, most likely because they were looking away.
Little girls trod their tits around like lollipops on a spit -racked stick, with each skill-less degradation, a false sense of entitlement and power, their broken voices inside shouting "take that, daddy....." for those who didn't love enough, or ask for too much, or disappeared, or touched wrong or ignored....
Sluts all of them, and as a whore who was taught to be a woman, a lady on the outside and a life loving whore on the inside (not through actual instruction but through a certain strain of DNA), the whore remarks that she has loads and loads of free and easy time on her hands, when so much of her life wasn't affected by these broken fathers. Sometimes people don't know what to do without some element of internal psycho-sexual struggle. Against who they are, usually. These tits out girls crying out for their long lost daddys are the prime example. They're scooped up, they are free samples at the grocer, gone before you know it. Dried out, mentally plundered, no sense of what they behold, or radiate, just that which was stolen from them, or that which they perceived to be.
Their cuckolded equivalents aren't much better. Lifetimes short stacked in childhood of disappointment and failure coupled with an itinerary of check lists about women, about safety, and strife. Most people want a kidnap victim, or a captor to accomplish same. Most people scream out, drown themselves in cheap green alcohol, puke it up on the streets and on their would be lovers, hide out in that which doesn't frighten them, and keep it going for as long as they can, sexually dumbfounded and without the presence of the gods, which is most necessary to be present then, above all other things!
The beer streams down the young men's cheeks, as they think about why they want women they can control, or be nagged by, or form a sort of mental spiders web, each strand another pathology of illness that they themselves can never fix, therefore they are safe with these bead carrying sluts til the end of time. For ignorance begets ignorance, while the truly liberated get clubbed in the same streets during the day times, when the cloaks are out, resounding silence against one and all sinners - morality without base, hypocrisy knows no bounds - their minds so institutionalized with compartmentalization - wife, mother, pureness, virgin, god, freedom, knowledge, whore, shame....nothing in this or any other world is as rife with maze upon maze of fear about one's self as sexuality is.
One of those cases comes up, as these kids fuck each other without remorse, or care, or self, and then live other plain lives when the sun comes up. The white, free moon ain't gonna shine in the noon time for them, and if it did, they'd all fuck off and hide under a rock, crying for their mommies who made them this way and their gods who they forgot about, lost in the pleasure of a night's binge drink fuck with dry cunts, empty minds, limp cocks and detachment served up drive through style - like riding a bike indeed. Except this is your soul, your animal, your primitive needs and personal desires - it's not ten jumping jacks and brushing your teeth before bed.
The night bleeds on, they are interweaving in their webs of time wasting themselves, encircling their own childhoods in the muck of fluids lost to them, their own disorders set to the tune of a New Orleans jazz band, as the masquerade continues down the quarter....by sun up they'll be crossing the streets with ashes above their eyes, a tight fist in their selves, warning them to keep it up for as long as their youth will let it. They've got their whole lives to be dissatisfied, might as well feel good about flashing their tits that many times to that many strangers....intimacy scares the fuck out of human beings, so keep fucking in the dark, they do. You can give up so much for Lent, revelers......give up the idea that to know yourself in this way is dangerous. Frankly, the sight of these tarnished, suicidal liver consumerists of sex cannibalizing the avenues, getting closer every day to each other and their worst fears becoming their best laid plans, is the real monster in this here parade. If they burned the effigy of all they thought they were supposed to be, and rose up from those ashes with a fervour, with their huge, live hearts being through those wet t-shirts and love in their fingertips, the lust of kings and queens in their masked eyelids, and shame long gone at their feet, then what a celebration the favourable fuck would be, vital and raucous, all through each night of their lives. Laissez les bons temps rouler.
M. Lucia
Number #2
It was one of those roads like from the movies, long, flat empty fields on either side, lone tree in the distance. The road ambled and they...rode on.
The boy rode with his father in an old purple station wagon staring out the passenger window, unbelted in his seat, and a cold wind freezing part of his forehead through the door's window which had been lowered slightly by his father via the driver's side automatic window 'command center' as they had backed out of the driveway earlier that morning. The sky turned iridescent, cycling kaleidoscopically through colors and shapes all with angles, and so not like clouds at all but more like shafts and pinwheels of light poking through the boy's squinted eyes.
The back seat of the car was filled with suitcases each with brown metal buckles and locks, and small rusted keys hanging loosely from each case's handle by an old rotting string. The father was himself transforming weirdly every few seconds in the driver's seat, appearing in one moment as a mid-40's man in his white Navy uniform, a Captain with white shoes and epaulets and a visor of what he called "scrambled eggs," and then the next moment he sat there driving, an old man falling asleep in his chair, one leg draped, pens accumulating in his shirt pocket. He kept changing did his father, moving back and forth through his life--one second in his confirmation suit circa '47, the next in his lawn-cutting shorts and t-shirt--but the boy? The boy, he just stayed a boy, watching his father be adjusted back and forth through the years.
On the side of the road, animalia collected, carcasses accumulated, broken bodies their numbers increasing as the journey-miles accrued. The boy pointed and the father pulled to the road side. He opened his door and moving to the car's rear he opened the hatch. He began to unload the cases and soon the boy, silently assenting, assisted. His father lined the cases side by side along the roadside and the son soon followed suit. When they all lay in a row the father stood nodding, his hands on his hips. The boy without asking began to work the locks with the rusty keys but none seemed to open. He then tried the key from one case on another and now the keys began to break and crumble in his hand.
His father stood and watched, waiting. When the boy had exhausted himself and sat, spent, the father pulled from his pocket a golden key, unblemished by rust and the passage of time. The color of the key blinded the boy and yet the father seemed, in the reflected light, to grow in stature. And the cases each glowed and collected in a constellation of light consuming all around them. The boy's last sight of his father was of a man perfected, levitating mightily weilding a sword of black ice.
When he woke up he lay in the cold on the side of the road, completely alone.
The boy rode with his father in an old purple station wagon staring out the passenger window, unbelted in his seat, and a cold wind freezing part of his forehead through the door's window which had been lowered slightly by his father via the driver's side automatic window 'command center' as they had backed out of the driveway earlier that morning. The sky turned iridescent, cycling kaleidoscopically through colors and shapes all with angles, and so not like clouds at all but more like shafts and pinwheels of light poking through the boy's squinted eyes.
The back seat of the car was filled with suitcases each with brown metal buckles and locks, and small rusted keys hanging loosely from each case's handle by an old rotting string. The father was himself transforming weirdly every few seconds in the driver's seat, appearing in one moment as a mid-40's man in his white Navy uniform, a Captain with white shoes and epaulets and a visor of what he called "scrambled eggs," and then the next moment he sat there driving, an old man falling asleep in his chair, one leg draped, pens accumulating in his shirt pocket. He kept changing did his father, moving back and forth through his life--one second in his confirmation suit circa '47, the next in his lawn-cutting shorts and t-shirt--but the boy? The boy, he just stayed a boy, watching his father be adjusted back and forth through the years.
On the side of the road, animalia collected, carcasses accumulated, broken bodies their numbers increasing as the journey-miles accrued. The boy pointed and the father pulled to the road side. He opened his door and moving to the car's rear he opened the hatch. He began to unload the cases and soon the boy, silently assenting, assisted. His father lined the cases side by side along the roadside and the son soon followed suit. When they all lay in a row the father stood nodding, his hands on his hips. The boy without asking began to work the locks with the rusty keys but none seemed to open. He then tried the key from one case on another and now the keys began to break and crumble in his hand.
His father stood and watched, waiting. When the boy had exhausted himself and sat, spent, the father pulled from his pocket a golden key, unblemished by rust and the passage of time. The color of the key blinded the boy and yet the father seemed, in the reflected light, to grow in stature. And the cases each glowed and collected in a constellation of light consuming all around them. The boy's last sight of his father was of a man perfected, levitating mightily weilding a sword of black ice.
When he woke up he lay in the cold on the side of the road, completely alone.
Monday, March 7, 2011
LOVE IN THE TIME OF TWILIGHT
Like most of them, this king too had three sons.
The first was the heir to the throne, his destiny assured, his path chosen well before even he knew it--what of these things, the motivations, the guideposts of destiny, where did they come from? Was his rebellion part of the path, required reading, say, in the lesson to become a man "just like what married me ma?" Maybe he rebelled and fell so he could be redeemed; so he could return and make good what was bad, to make whole what was torn, to carry on the life's work of the master of us all.
The second son was the mystic, destined, as always, for the priestly arts. He was the reader of leaves, the diviner of prophesy and of totems and harbingers. He saw the clouds move in the sky and the ants move the earth below and saw too the connection. He sat on a rock in the field and laughed at the rain and conjured spirits from smoke and grass. He could watch patiently as the stars themselves spun in the heavens and saw there in the constellations the father and son and the spirit of theirs before them and of those too yet to come and he saw that life and the throne with the armies of all the nations and those of God Himself were at work and at rest all at once and forever.
The third was set aside and adrift to make his own way, provided for all but the path he might walk, let out the backdoor where the road never came into first the garden and then to the fields and beyond only wilderlands.
In the garden was the flower tended by mothers, sisters and aunts, a single blossom of color and scent enticing but long ago forbidden, they fretted over it and revolved around it and he sensed there something of a source and of a beginning but forgotten. It both called and repelled, inviting and careening him off with a message of both experience and of want, a desire to go and to find.
In the fields nature flooded over a tide of gathering and release, an ebb and a flow, a sun and a moon. Bug and bee like vapor on drafts of wind rivering through the air around him and hidden creatures scattering away from each footfall scurrying and teeming the brush like a pond wave concentrically.
Then all life fell away as bush became tree and the sun clouded her face and the dark forest enclosed him. Here his journey became months-long and monotonous and all-consuming. His hunger a lust that overcame him as the ground bogged dead to mud and to mire. Then, in the darkest part of the forest itself an ancient man was found submerged to the chest in the dark snaky waters praying in the olden tongue. The trees all around inclined as if to hear the words he spoke and the man then turned and the third of three saw his own fathers face.
"The power of the throne derives from this unwholesome place and is delivered, you should know, by me to my own self in the palace-luminousa, back beyond the trees and fields and flower from whence you have come. This...this is the dark secret that must never be known and can only be held proxy by the son of no consequence. You must carry the burden as I have done before you and by doing so you will sink too in this place but take all the black to yourself. See, I sink in the mud, my days are numbered down to single digits here, where the night comes every few hours."
"I want to leave, I cannot watch you go nor do I want to take your place. It is all to painful for me, I have not the strength."
"You have that and more. You are the one truly me, can't you see? I am not your father and I am not your brother. I am you and you are me. Our destiny is one as it always will be. One day you yourself will again come down this path and you will again greet yourself not recognizing you as you do not recognize me. And we, you and the I in you, will look upon him and tell him as I have told you. But for now, take my hand, son, brother, and my own true self, and embrace me for I am finally fearful of the twilight, afraid the mystery must consume me."
The third son held him and all was lost. All of it. He was son no more.
The first was the heir to the throne, his destiny assured, his path chosen well before even he knew it--what of these things, the motivations, the guideposts of destiny, where did they come from? Was his rebellion part of the path, required reading, say, in the lesson to become a man "just like what married me ma?" Maybe he rebelled and fell so he could be redeemed; so he could return and make good what was bad, to make whole what was torn, to carry on the life's work of the master of us all.
The second son was the mystic, destined, as always, for the priestly arts. He was the reader of leaves, the diviner of prophesy and of totems and harbingers. He saw the clouds move in the sky and the ants move the earth below and saw too the connection. He sat on a rock in the field and laughed at the rain and conjured spirits from smoke and grass. He could watch patiently as the stars themselves spun in the heavens and saw there in the constellations the father and son and the spirit of theirs before them and of those too yet to come and he saw that life and the throne with the armies of all the nations and those of God Himself were at work and at rest all at once and forever.
The third was set aside and adrift to make his own way, provided for all but the path he might walk, let out the backdoor where the road never came into first the garden and then to the fields and beyond only wilderlands.
In the garden was the flower tended by mothers, sisters and aunts, a single blossom of color and scent enticing but long ago forbidden, they fretted over it and revolved around it and he sensed there something of a source and of a beginning but forgotten. It both called and repelled, inviting and careening him off with a message of both experience and of want, a desire to go and to find.
In the fields nature flooded over a tide of gathering and release, an ebb and a flow, a sun and a moon. Bug and bee like vapor on drafts of wind rivering through the air around him and hidden creatures scattering away from each footfall scurrying and teeming the brush like a pond wave concentrically.
Then all life fell away as bush became tree and the sun clouded her face and the dark forest enclosed him. Here his journey became months-long and monotonous and all-consuming. His hunger a lust that overcame him as the ground bogged dead to mud and to mire. Then, in the darkest part of the forest itself an ancient man was found submerged to the chest in the dark snaky waters praying in the olden tongue. The trees all around inclined as if to hear the words he spoke and the man then turned and the third of three saw his own fathers face.
"The power of the throne derives from this unwholesome place and is delivered, you should know, by me to my own self in the palace-luminousa, back beyond the trees and fields and flower from whence you have come. This...this is the dark secret that must never be known and can only be held proxy by the son of no consequence. You must carry the burden as I have done before you and by doing so you will sink too in this place but take all the black to yourself. See, I sink in the mud, my days are numbered down to single digits here, where the night comes every few hours."
"I want to leave, I cannot watch you go nor do I want to take your place. It is all to painful for me, I have not the strength."
"You have that and more. You are the one truly me, can't you see? I am not your father and I am not your brother. I am you and you are me. Our destiny is one as it always will be. One day you yourself will again come down this path and you will again greet yourself not recognizing you as you do not recognize me. And we, you and the I in you, will look upon him and tell him as I have told you. But for now, take my hand, son, brother, and my own true self, and embrace me for I am finally fearful of the twilight, afraid the mystery must consume me."
The third son held him and all was lost. All of it. He was son no more.
Sea Gypsy
The Sea Gypsy was not born as such. One is never quite born into who they are, usually (there are always those rare times when you can see someone’s star shining out of them as a baby, some just before even). No, he was a lotus; crooked, with seams, a particularly pathology of stitching starting from the outside in, for it was always those external influences which bore themselves down upon him, pressing and ripping his petals from early childhood. His mother was a drug addict. Nothing special there. She had turned tricks for money and somehow was pregnant with the spawn of a beautifully kind and gentle homosexual. Sea Gypsy used to remember being driven around in the back of his gay ol’ dad’s car while Neil Diamond’s “Forever In Blue Jeans” played, Sea Gypsy always singing along to the wrong words, thinking it was “Forever in Blue Cheese”…His mother was all he had though, mostly, growing up. And she raped him every chance she could get. He was like a little adult, due to this and other facts. He would sit at home, after school, alone and looking to break out, as post marijuana/drinking/general drugging get togethers with his mom and her drug riddled johns / friends, they would leave for long periods at a time, and Sea Gypsy, not yet that, would scour the place since she always locked it up tight when leaving him there. At least she was protecting him, in some capacity, she thought. By the time he was 10 he always knew how to bust out, and was also trying out many of the items left out on the coffee table himself. He became a pro at this and much else. She used him like she was used – his body there to comfort her in some pitchfork in the night sort of way….the hushed sound of angry townspeople gathering in the distance, stomping their way towards you but you can’t quite tell when it is they are coming for you. Once, earlier, when the abuse had just begun (five or so), when he was living a short stint with his dad (he wore the rainbow coloured shirts and had the sweetest mustache in San Diego, Sea Gypsy thought), his mother managed to kidnap him away to Hawaii and work full time as a prostitute there. His grandmother Nani (Nana Nani), a North American and Mexican Aztec carved straight from a ritualistic totem pole (the grandma who was wise, and psychic and detached from all of this) came with his grandpa and rescued him. He would remember them until the days when both of them died – that was a cry which set him back on the heroin for a spell. But first – the boy grew up, looking for escapes and finding them always, and most definitely on his own. He ran away from his mother, still drug addicted, her sagging tits one of the worst memories that he had to witness.
He always loved slender, young looking girls after that. His first (and probably one true) love, M, was light as a butterfly and was only 16 when they met – he was working behind the deli counter at 28, having just gotten fired from one of many office jobs – he would bring his briefcase to work, even though he was nothing close to executive in any way, shape or method – usually a temp, in for the week or the day. Trying to make money to support his habits…the ones which made him forget his mother’s tits and losses. He used to carry cocaine in that briefcase, and was known to leave with it, for his lunch break, and sit in his car (an old Camino, which was allotted in proper jest to his half Mexi-Cali heritage) and get high and then just……not come back. This graduated to heroin, and falling asleep there in the back of his car, in the office building’s parking lot. Waking up the next day, ready for work but then again not, due to urine stains and the occasional migraine. Either way, his office career was going nowhere. So, the deli it was. He was slicing the meats as he did, and this young girl and her mother came up to him, and he saw her angelic face, dark eyes and ghostly skin reflecting in the meat counter glass. He was in awe, but was known to keep his cool about most things (he kept his cool about his own mother raping him, so this was really not a problem) and asked her if she needed help. She was mostly dumbstruck at him, and when he took off his baseball cap and his princely dark hair flopped on downwards into and around his face, well, she was struck completely mute. And he loved her long, and lean body, small and non offending breasts were like honey to him, since he would often tell her how, in his words, “big, floppy tits….uhhhhhh (shudder, there was always a shudder)” reminded him of his mother and that just wouldn’t do. After this first meeting, it went the way it usually does. They were together, he then cheated and stole and gave into his heroin, finally running away on a trip to Costa Rica while she was left in his apartment, just like he once was, told by his roommate that he had gone. He was the sort of heroin addict that, even when clean and sober and one of the foremost sponsors in the Mar Vista chapter of AA (Heroin junkies and most former drug types preferred AA over NA…there is a reason – perhaps they see alcohol as the moat around which their castles of puke, theft and self circumstance arose), he would hear “Monkey Man” on the car radio while driving around Mulholland Drive, the twists and turns, the ocean just there, and sigh out – “God, this song makes me want Heroin”. He knew the darkness under his eyes told the shadowed story of his demise and rise (he had it figured that he never really had a downfall, since he’s been rising since the lowest day, which was the one on which he was born), especially when he spoke at AA meetings, which he interwove into his musician/writer/surfer life like the most steady of constitutionals.
He loved to tell the story of his overdose (the main one) on heroin, just before which he was hiding out in the attic from the cops with two bags of coke stuck up his ass. That was his defining moment, and he died – twice – (which he loved to bring up to Misha in the beginning, and a decade later when they found each other again and knew that they were sewn together, Psychic Boy and Clairvoyant Girl as they called themselves – for better or worse. During the second or third time they were together, she’d look at him, those adoring brown eyes knowing and then forgetting about the magic that they both had, which others would take and use and throw back at them, deflated. She’d say “you’re my soul mate” and he’d look her dead pan in the eyes, no smile and sigh, saying “seems like there’s no way out of it”. He loved her more than his body or mind could take, and this racked them both year in and year out, always re-connecting and dis-connecting, each other’s heroin and redemption at the very same time. He lived a low key, and relatively sane life for someone who never drank, smoked or did drugs anymore. For someone with his past (until his mother died, he barely spoke to her, still maintaining a good and solid visiting friendship with his dad, who himself had full blown AIDS). People’s tragedies didn’t faze him – yet he never would make his out to be more tragic, terrible or important than anyone’s. He just wanted to see it through and see what was next. The AA’s loved him – he was good looking, not typically so, his Mexican-Indian strong nose against dark, tan skin and green eyes. His hair always grown out, his dress always like a 16 year old, even when he was pushing 40 – he simply didn’t age. He had a sort of charisma one might only feel in a superstar of some kind, but one with a solid center filled up with immovable magnetism. There were actual celebrities around – as there always were where substance abuse took place….Anthony Hopkins was in one of his groups, and on his 5 year anniversary, Robert Downey Jr. presented him with the anniversary cake, later exclaiming to those around him – “Is he an actor? I feel like he’s famous and I know him”. M once stole his old cassettes of some speeches he gave, which were filled with real, and honest applause and not once tender drop of bullshit. He didn’t know what to do with bullshit, excuses, lies and compartmentalizations, and I loved him immediately for this fact. Sea Gypsy swam through oceans and oceans of hurt, shit and disappointment, the empty silence hounding back at him every time he waited to be helped, or saved or redeemed. He began to practice Buddhism, quite regularly, but not obsessively, he just apologized for kicking the shit out of the lies around him, and that he was on a rigorous spiritual journey. I use that line and another he coined - his spoken and written words were like an unheard of gold that was said to exist in some happier time, but you don’t know if it was every real, or a made up fairytale. His phrases like this made you believe it was worth looking for, even if these words were just around the outermost walls of the great maze.
He used to stumble upon Henry Hill on Venice Beach, washed up, leather faced and with a bunch of other drunks, chatting, stealing, drinking. He talked to all those guys, and had what one might term as an old man’s soul. Henry Hill used to show up at the occasional AA meeting, but would be drunk, or stealing cookies and snacks, and end up back on the beach with his brethren – living out of his car, or worse. The Sea Gypsy was the ultimate picture of Buddhism, the lotus growing up out of the muck. He made this completely visible to any and all who knew him, once he got a tattoo of a big, bounding Lotus Flower – growing up artfully from the track marks on his elbow and forearm. He didn’t share more, you had to ask him about it if you were curious. Even then, he’d probably tell you a story about someone else. He would always warn M about the others, taking the light from them, the fireflies – they always wanted to catch people like them, keep them in a jar just to look upon their light, not caring if they killed you in the process, cut off your ability to breathe and fly. They didn’t give a shit, long as they could see some of your light. The world is not always a benign place. Them that do this will do this, because it is their nature to do so. And Sea Gypsy never held that against him – but he would give them one fucking second of his light and time. This, ultimately is what split them up, but to this day, she shares things with him occasionally, and he will ask about her. They even cross paths now and again. He told her, since it was 7 years between each time they were together, that in another 7 years or when they are old, in many more sets of 7 to come, maybe they can work it out then. He would say these things on a daily basis, when he played his upright bass in that old man/big band at the Veteran’s Club up in Eagle Rock. He was jealous of you, and your sips of whiskey and wine when feeling “inspired” or taking a bath – he said “God, I wish I could do that. It must be so nice to be able to just enjoy a set amount”.
Tough as nails in the palms of Christ, he is. He still is, and will always be. He chanted for truth – so much of it that it would turn his life and experience on fire, burn down all the fear and blackness out of him, in little bits, day by day. He cat, a black stray called Needle, would sit on the couch and watch him play. He looked like a rock star with lifetimes to spare. His eyes told you this, even when he was not talking. When angry at him, M used to say “you look like a mean Indian!” because he would look at her, knowing all that wasn’t right, or true or the way it naturally should be, with those green Eagle Eyes. Standing with his sinewy, surfer’s arms crossed was the way he liked it best. Too much of everything, not enough of anything, those fields of fireflies fought inside of him. Simple, and with the beauty of every instant on the tip of his tongue and fingertips surrounding most every of his moves, he is always in some west coast café, my Mexican brother and Captain of the 7th Cavalry of Truth, playing the bass or reading a book or writing a brilliant set of words unlike anyone else could even be wired to do – exclaiming, when the machine has got you, swallowed you up, and made you its slave, it’s easy. It’s so easy. “Just turn the machine off”.
M. Lucia
He always loved slender, young looking girls after that. His first (and probably one true) love, M, was light as a butterfly and was only 16 when they met – he was working behind the deli counter at 28, having just gotten fired from one of many office jobs – he would bring his briefcase to work, even though he was nothing close to executive in any way, shape or method – usually a temp, in for the week or the day. Trying to make money to support his habits…the ones which made him forget his mother’s tits and losses. He used to carry cocaine in that briefcase, and was known to leave with it, for his lunch break, and sit in his car (an old Camino, which was allotted in proper jest to his half Mexi-Cali heritage) and get high and then just……not come back. This graduated to heroin, and falling asleep there in the back of his car, in the office building’s parking lot. Waking up the next day, ready for work but then again not, due to urine stains and the occasional migraine. Either way, his office career was going nowhere. So, the deli it was. He was slicing the meats as he did, and this young girl and her mother came up to him, and he saw her angelic face, dark eyes and ghostly skin reflecting in the meat counter glass. He was in awe, but was known to keep his cool about most things (he kept his cool about his own mother raping him, so this was really not a problem) and asked her if she needed help. She was mostly dumbstruck at him, and when he took off his baseball cap and his princely dark hair flopped on downwards into and around his face, well, she was struck completely mute. And he loved her long, and lean body, small and non offending breasts were like honey to him, since he would often tell her how, in his words, “big, floppy tits….uhhhhhh (shudder, there was always a shudder)” reminded him of his mother and that just wouldn’t do. After this first meeting, it went the way it usually does. They were together, he then cheated and stole and gave into his heroin, finally running away on a trip to Costa Rica while she was left in his apartment, just like he once was, told by his roommate that he had gone. He was the sort of heroin addict that, even when clean and sober and one of the foremost sponsors in the Mar Vista chapter of AA (Heroin junkies and most former drug types preferred AA over NA…there is a reason – perhaps they see alcohol as the moat around which their castles of puke, theft and self circumstance arose), he would hear “Monkey Man” on the car radio while driving around Mulholland Drive, the twists and turns, the ocean just there, and sigh out – “God, this song makes me want Heroin”. He knew the darkness under his eyes told the shadowed story of his demise and rise (he had it figured that he never really had a downfall, since he’s been rising since the lowest day, which was the one on which he was born), especially when he spoke at AA meetings, which he interwove into his musician/writer/surfer life like the most steady of constitutionals.
He loved to tell the story of his overdose (the main one) on heroin, just before which he was hiding out in the attic from the cops with two bags of coke stuck up his ass. That was his defining moment, and he died – twice – (which he loved to bring up to Misha in the beginning, and a decade later when they found each other again and knew that they were sewn together, Psychic Boy and Clairvoyant Girl as they called themselves – for better or worse. During the second or third time they were together, she’d look at him, those adoring brown eyes knowing and then forgetting about the magic that they both had, which others would take and use and throw back at them, deflated. She’d say “you’re my soul mate” and he’d look her dead pan in the eyes, no smile and sigh, saying “seems like there’s no way out of it”. He loved her more than his body or mind could take, and this racked them both year in and year out, always re-connecting and dis-connecting, each other’s heroin and redemption at the very same time. He lived a low key, and relatively sane life for someone who never drank, smoked or did drugs anymore. For someone with his past (until his mother died, he barely spoke to her, still maintaining a good and solid visiting friendship with his dad, who himself had full blown AIDS). People’s tragedies didn’t faze him – yet he never would make his out to be more tragic, terrible or important than anyone’s. He just wanted to see it through and see what was next. The AA’s loved him – he was good looking, not typically so, his Mexican-Indian strong nose against dark, tan skin and green eyes. His hair always grown out, his dress always like a 16 year old, even when he was pushing 40 – he simply didn’t age. He had a sort of charisma one might only feel in a superstar of some kind, but one with a solid center filled up with immovable magnetism. There were actual celebrities around – as there always were where substance abuse took place….Anthony Hopkins was in one of his groups, and on his 5 year anniversary, Robert Downey Jr. presented him with the anniversary cake, later exclaiming to those around him – “Is he an actor? I feel like he’s famous and I know him”. M once stole his old cassettes of some speeches he gave, which were filled with real, and honest applause and not once tender drop of bullshit. He didn’t know what to do with bullshit, excuses, lies and compartmentalizations, and I loved him immediately for this fact. Sea Gypsy swam through oceans and oceans of hurt, shit and disappointment, the empty silence hounding back at him every time he waited to be helped, or saved or redeemed. He began to practice Buddhism, quite regularly, but not obsessively, he just apologized for kicking the shit out of the lies around him, and that he was on a rigorous spiritual journey. I use that line and another he coined - his spoken and written words were like an unheard of gold that was said to exist in some happier time, but you don’t know if it was every real, or a made up fairytale. His phrases like this made you believe it was worth looking for, even if these words were just around the outermost walls of the great maze.
He used to stumble upon Henry Hill on Venice Beach, washed up, leather faced and with a bunch of other drunks, chatting, stealing, drinking. He talked to all those guys, and had what one might term as an old man’s soul. Henry Hill used to show up at the occasional AA meeting, but would be drunk, or stealing cookies and snacks, and end up back on the beach with his brethren – living out of his car, or worse. The Sea Gypsy was the ultimate picture of Buddhism, the lotus growing up out of the muck. He made this completely visible to any and all who knew him, once he got a tattoo of a big, bounding Lotus Flower – growing up artfully from the track marks on his elbow and forearm. He didn’t share more, you had to ask him about it if you were curious. Even then, he’d probably tell you a story about someone else. He would always warn M about the others, taking the light from them, the fireflies – they always wanted to catch people like them, keep them in a jar just to look upon their light, not caring if they killed you in the process, cut off your ability to breathe and fly. They didn’t give a shit, long as they could see some of your light. The world is not always a benign place. Them that do this will do this, because it is their nature to do so. And Sea Gypsy never held that against him – but he would give them one fucking second of his light and time. This, ultimately is what split them up, but to this day, she shares things with him occasionally, and he will ask about her. They even cross paths now and again. He told her, since it was 7 years between each time they were together, that in another 7 years or when they are old, in many more sets of 7 to come, maybe they can work it out then. He would say these things on a daily basis, when he played his upright bass in that old man/big band at the Veteran’s Club up in Eagle Rock. He was jealous of you, and your sips of whiskey and wine when feeling “inspired” or taking a bath – he said “God, I wish I could do that. It must be so nice to be able to just enjoy a set amount”.
Tough as nails in the palms of Christ, he is. He still is, and will always be. He chanted for truth – so much of it that it would turn his life and experience on fire, burn down all the fear and blackness out of him, in little bits, day by day. He cat, a black stray called Needle, would sit on the couch and watch him play. He looked like a rock star with lifetimes to spare. His eyes told you this, even when he was not talking. When angry at him, M used to say “you look like a mean Indian!” because he would look at her, knowing all that wasn’t right, or true or the way it naturally should be, with those green Eagle Eyes. Standing with his sinewy, surfer’s arms crossed was the way he liked it best. Too much of everything, not enough of anything, those fields of fireflies fought inside of him. Simple, and with the beauty of every instant on the tip of his tongue and fingertips surrounding most every of his moves, he is always in some west coast café, my Mexican brother and Captain of the 7th Cavalry of Truth, playing the bass or reading a book or writing a brilliant set of words unlike anyone else could even be wired to do – exclaiming, when the machine has got you, swallowed you up, and made you its slave, it’s easy. It’s so easy. “Just turn the machine off”.
M. Lucia
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Delightful Moon
The OCD dreamer's sequence, the actions again, without number. Saturday, bright sunny, not too cold. Car engine off. Before - park, brake, windows up. Keys, wallet, unlock, lock. Check. Walk, list in pocket, or in brain space. This is 95% of our lives. This is not correct, or intended. Suddenly - the sky opens up (it was opening the whole time, but you finally looked up to see it). The billowy and smoky panels of blue cavort around each other, as the waves settle and flow with a mighty, but restrained weight. The soft, cool breeze blows through you, whipping you up and around in its central joke. The ground is hard, and difficult, but you smell dirt from the farm nearby, a wayward late winter fire or two, and see people, coming and going, some sitting at the pier, slowed down, like you have been. Feet cross cobblestone streets, the ones you pledged your love to, but wish you could change your perspective about now and again. When they say "it's not you, it's me", well, that's always the case. This place deserves you and you it, as you communicate and share intimacies with each corner as you see them every weekend, discovering something new or the same old arrangements of trees, cars, corners, planks of wood, all giving everything of themselves under varying intonations of sky and season, new hours, new discoveries. You wish You were different - not in the padlocked cell of weekend-hood, erranding, hiding, recharging yourself and in great and utter need of a different sort of sun shining onto your body, a softer, and heavier tasting sense of rain underneath your fingertips, along your limbs, a more well meaning and wordy wind in your hair, blowing your internal manifestations of melody around. Here, only different. Not just you. The one with the others - the one who sees the slope of their eyes, the shadows behind and up front of them, their strange and beautiful faces all, not taking or giving a damn thing to you, and that's ok. We are all holding that sky up, and making that sun shine, that wind blow. The blue-green inside the small waves supports us, keeps us from buckling over, without an ability to look into each other and smile at all that we see there. Suddenly, no bitter tastes, suddenly the fraction of time that you were alive, awake and vital moves past you and into someone else- your list, clutched in your pocket or head, feel again for your phone, tuck your keys into your wallet and comb back your wind blown hair, on the right side, just behind your ear. It's someone else's show now. But you forget, you can visit and re-write the script any old time you like. 5% is not right, not correct nor the way. Foreign music gleams from your stereo, in the darkness you hear a nose being blown, a cat scratching at invisible partners, and you shut off all the lights, and the television and the words which choke and haunt you with their mismatched, half truths...you listen to the deep blue, the wind and the rain against the windows, and take your place and part in its operatic and concentric circles across the water and into the dreams you will surely suffocate with your daily anxieties and repetitive imagery rather than this occasional grace which you hold down, while it forces its love into you like the best of wedding nights, your arms dead and heavy like rose petals when the rain stops, and the day clubs you about the head and neck some hours later, from that very same sky, which you won't look up towards again for far too long.
M. Lucia
M. Lucia
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Raise Plow
What a cunty week, indeed.
A cunt-lightful, cunt-centric absolute cunt fest.
From lying on your stomach because your Russian woman’s back went out,
discussing the finer points of pain management (“you have veddy good tolerance for pain”)
Speak it to me, lady. You don’t know the half of it.
I don’t like that she is not Rena, my good and trusted friend, who looks me in the eyes
while she works, talks of her lack of vacations, her son, her house she has to clean…
who hugs me every Christmas. What a job.
If my cunt had a hand maiden, would be she, telling me I wore that shirt she loves.
Pride in her work, in this Charnel House of cunt fiendishness, now also over-priced.
Only a precursor to today’s cuntly fare:
The clean, white doctor’s office, a maroon wrap robe
“Open to the front", she says – Really, cunt? (meant in the non-literal cunt way, of course.
I was going to wrap it round my arse, so he could go in from behind like everyone else seems to enjoy doing
with me without asking first.
I’d be insulted, but I kind of enjoy the pre-programmed belief in me).
and a tit fondling from a lisp-happy gay doctor who mini-semicircles around while looking off and talking about nothing much. Then the magic happens……
Quick, nearly painless (so much so one might think themselves not as quaint as they might have thought themselves), the words uttered about everything “looking fine” (I wouldn’t want that task, nor the list which determines if fine or no), and a comment about waxing recently since a noticed “redness”, forcing one in the stirrups to cringe slightly, made to feel vain, and utter “I did. I…forgot about this…appointment”. (Hard to say whether this upsets or amuses him or makes him appreciate the lengths to which I went to make it ok for him).
All done and the cunt fest complete for today, and possible for this week.
He kept looking back at me, with an almost smile, unexpected as if he almost (almost) enjoyed himself. I do believe he’ll tack up mine on a wall in his mind, and think good, fair, reasonable and positive thoughts about her.
Slightly vulnerable but mostly poked at, amble back down 8th avenue, and think that wasn’t so bad until, when stopping in at a corner store to look for something fair, one realizes the wetness has come,
And not in the way favoured. This was a foreign wetness, and too everything that is wrong, uncomfortable and not me.
Must have come a long way, I, and my cunt, all ripped up, sorted out, privatized and then let loose again. Feels like any other day.
Walking the main drag back, a sign bursts out yellow in the busy, crowded street: Raise Plow.
The laughter rises up from my cunt to the cunts around me, and says “Indeed”. Smile, rush, and cunt-ready for anything now.
M. Lucia
A cunt-lightful, cunt-centric absolute cunt fest.
From lying on your stomach because your Russian woman’s back went out,
discussing the finer points of pain management (“you have veddy good tolerance for pain”)
Speak it to me, lady. You don’t know the half of it.
I don’t like that she is not Rena, my good and trusted friend, who looks me in the eyes
while she works, talks of her lack of vacations, her son, her house she has to clean…
who hugs me every Christmas. What a job.
If my cunt had a hand maiden, would be she, telling me I wore that shirt she loves.
Pride in her work, in this Charnel House of cunt fiendishness, now also over-priced.
Only a precursor to today’s cuntly fare:
The clean, white doctor’s office, a maroon wrap robe
“Open to the front", she says – Really, cunt? (meant in the non-literal cunt way, of course.
I was going to wrap it round my arse, so he could go in from behind like everyone else seems to enjoy doing
with me without asking first.
I’d be insulted, but I kind of enjoy the pre-programmed belief in me).
and a tit fondling from a lisp-happy gay doctor who mini-semicircles around while looking off and talking about nothing much. Then the magic happens……
Quick, nearly painless (so much so one might think themselves not as quaint as they might have thought themselves), the words uttered about everything “looking fine” (I wouldn’t want that task, nor the list which determines if fine or no), and a comment about waxing recently since a noticed “redness”, forcing one in the stirrups to cringe slightly, made to feel vain, and utter “I did. I…forgot about this…appointment”. (Hard to say whether this upsets or amuses him or makes him appreciate the lengths to which I went to make it ok for him).
All done and the cunt fest complete for today, and possible for this week.
He kept looking back at me, with an almost smile, unexpected as if he almost (almost) enjoyed himself. I do believe he’ll tack up mine on a wall in his mind, and think good, fair, reasonable and positive thoughts about her.
Slightly vulnerable but mostly poked at, amble back down 8th avenue, and think that wasn’t so bad until, when stopping in at a corner store to look for something fair, one realizes the wetness has come,
And not in the way favoured. This was a foreign wetness, and too everything that is wrong, uncomfortable and not me.
Must have come a long way, I, and my cunt, all ripped up, sorted out, privatized and then let loose again. Feels like any other day.
Walking the main drag back, a sign bursts out yellow in the busy, crowded street: Raise Plow.
The laughter rises up from my cunt to the cunts around me, and says “Indeed”. Smile, rush, and cunt-ready for anything now.
M. Lucia
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
WALLFLOWER
Lumbago was a wallflower.
Ever since that first junior high school dance where he stared, in love, at Nancy Clark from across the room but refused to budge. She stared back at him, did Nancy, wishing, he thought, that he would just cross the room already. He knew she wanted him to--he was pretty sure. But what would he have done when he got there? The mystery, the indecision was all too much.
Even now he leaned against the wall while his partner Frank extracted teeth from Mr. Klinger the butcher with his fists. Klinger's eyes pleaded up at Lumbago from across the back room, reminding Lumbago imploringly of how many times his mother and grandmother had come into the store with Lumbago in tow, of the free slices of genoa Klinger would reach over the counter to the little version of him with his hairy, bloody hand. Lumbago leaned, not taking any sides. But he leaned not so much with a casual indifference as a nervous feeling of disorientation.
He always thought there was something he should be doing that no one had ever told him about. He blamed his mother. That response / feeling felt a little typical but really no less true for being trite so he let the case rest right there. "I blame my mother," and so, thus, she is to blame.
These kinds of things typically were two-man jobs, one way or another, and Frank always was a man of action, he liked to hit things and especially liked inflicting pain. Lumbago's wallflower 'act,' as it was thought of, also was not a-typical in their line and could therefore plausibly be thought of as indeed part of his 'act,' and not the pathological inability to commit that essentially it was, by their colleagues who knew how they worked or by the occasional impartial observers of these transactions, like Klinger's off-the-books Columbian stock boy who knew now, and would indeed know later, to keep his mouth shut. Frank and Lumbago are real good at the good cop / bad cop thing, they might say. Frank was the muscle and Lumbago the mysterious wall-leaning alternative to the lip-splitting punch in the face--the threat of something possibly worse.
Lumbago was pretty sure, that given chance or necessity, he wouldn't be able to just casually wail away on Klinger's face the way Frank did, slice of salami or no, but fortunately it had never been an issue yet. The one time he was called upon to do anything violent it had all happened so quickly and almost off-handedly, that he barely had time to think, change his mind or let his nature enter fully into it. They were in a bar, Frank and he, not even on any kind of business, just sitting in a 'family'-friendly dive in the Bronx at a table in the back, and Frank handed him a new Glock-17 he has just lifted from the pick-up of a Mexican contractor who was doing some weekend work building a new patio behind Frank's goumada's house in Merrick, when Sal the Chink ran into the back room right into Frank knocking him down, splitting his forehead on the black and white tile floor. The table was jostled and the safety was off, fucking typical of Frank, and the gun just went off hitting the Chink in the neck just like the police captain in the Godfather One. The Chink goes down on his knees right next to Frank and is gagging and pulling at his neck just like in the movie and Lumbago just involuntarily starts giggling amid the chorus of "Whatthefucks" and "Cocksuckers" kerthwanging around the room just simply not being able to get over how much the Chink now reminds him of Sterling Hayden. Thereafter he's just generally regarded widely, is Lumbago, as a stone cold killer. Of course it's all helped by the fact that the Chink, while not actually Chinese but Indian-Irish, was nevertheless almond-eyed and dark-skinned and therefore not "one of us", and was also a single man with no kids or family, and had actually been robbing the place and trying to run out the back where he was inadvertently shot in the neck. And Frank took it as Lumbago having his back and became from there his friend for life and more than happy thereafter to look the other way at whatever idiosyncrasies Lumbago might have exhibited if he ever had been called upon to do anything other than stand by the wall.
Klinger owed on a week of bets during a now-colossal NY Mets losing streak and had essentially doubled-down tragically betting against his beloved team just has David Wright suddenly got hot enough, with three homers that afternoon, to break a Met record for RBI in a seven-inning game (rain) in July, and carry the team to their first victory in the last 14 games. Frank wasn't from the neighborhood so he didn't know Klinger personally, had never gotten a free slice of anything hairy-handed across the counter and wouldn't have given a shit anyway. Lumbago though began to feel a little uneasy about it all. Memories of his mother and grandmother, the refrigerated meat smell of the shop, the sawdust reminding him of kindergarten vomit, and he began to vertigo around the room, Frank and Klinger telescoping away down a violent rabbit hole and only the Columbian staying in focus standing on the lip of funnel along with Lumbago and now what was he doing, pointing a gun? Maybe he had fired it already, it was hard to tell, but maybe that was why Lumbago's legs had gone soft beneath him, why he now saw the sawdust floor at close range, i.e. down there at the end of his nose. Why couldn't he move anymore? Now that he finally wanted to do more than just lay there...
Ever since that first junior high school dance where he stared, in love, at Nancy Clark from across the room but refused to budge. She stared back at him, did Nancy, wishing, he thought, that he would just cross the room already. He knew she wanted him to--he was pretty sure. But what would he have done when he got there? The mystery, the indecision was all too much.
Even now he leaned against the wall while his partner Frank extracted teeth from Mr. Klinger the butcher with his fists. Klinger's eyes pleaded up at Lumbago from across the back room, reminding Lumbago imploringly of how many times his mother and grandmother had come into the store with Lumbago in tow, of the free slices of genoa Klinger would reach over the counter to the little version of him with his hairy, bloody hand. Lumbago leaned, not taking any sides. But he leaned not so much with a casual indifference as a nervous feeling of disorientation.
He always thought there was something he should be doing that no one had ever told him about. He blamed his mother. That response / feeling felt a little typical but really no less true for being trite so he let the case rest right there. "I blame my mother," and so, thus, she is to blame.
These kinds of things typically were two-man jobs, one way or another, and Frank always was a man of action, he liked to hit things and especially liked inflicting pain. Lumbago's wallflower 'act,' as it was thought of, also was not a-typical in their line and could therefore plausibly be thought of as indeed part of his 'act,' and not the pathological inability to commit that essentially it was, by their colleagues who knew how they worked or by the occasional impartial observers of these transactions, like Klinger's off-the-books Columbian stock boy who knew now, and would indeed know later, to keep his mouth shut. Frank and Lumbago are real good at the good cop / bad cop thing, they might say. Frank was the muscle and Lumbago the mysterious wall-leaning alternative to the lip-splitting punch in the face--the threat of something possibly worse.
Lumbago was pretty sure, that given chance or necessity, he wouldn't be able to just casually wail away on Klinger's face the way Frank did, slice of salami or no, but fortunately it had never been an issue yet. The one time he was called upon to do anything violent it had all happened so quickly and almost off-handedly, that he barely had time to think, change his mind or let his nature enter fully into it. They were in a bar, Frank and he, not even on any kind of business, just sitting in a 'family'-friendly dive in the Bronx at a table in the back, and Frank handed him a new Glock-17 he has just lifted from the pick-up of a Mexican contractor who was doing some weekend work building a new patio behind Frank's goumada's house in Merrick, when Sal the Chink ran into the back room right into Frank knocking him down, splitting his forehead on the black and white tile floor. The table was jostled and the safety was off, fucking typical of Frank, and the gun just went off hitting the Chink in the neck just like the police captain in the Godfather One. The Chink goes down on his knees right next to Frank and is gagging and pulling at his neck just like in the movie and Lumbago just involuntarily starts giggling amid the chorus of "Whatthefucks" and "Cocksuckers" kerthwanging around the room just simply not being able to get over how much the Chink now reminds him of Sterling Hayden. Thereafter he's just generally regarded widely, is Lumbago, as a stone cold killer. Of course it's all helped by the fact that the Chink, while not actually Chinese but Indian-Irish, was nevertheless almond-eyed and dark-skinned and therefore not "one of us", and was also a single man with no kids or family, and had actually been robbing the place and trying to run out the back where he was inadvertently shot in the neck. And Frank took it as Lumbago having his back and became from there his friend for life and more than happy thereafter to look the other way at whatever idiosyncrasies Lumbago might have exhibited if he ever had been called upon to do anything other than stand by the wall.
Klinger owed on a week of bets during a now-colossal NY Mets losing streak and had essentially doubled-down tragically betting against his beloved team just has David Wright suddenly got hot enough, with three homers that afternoon, to break a Met record for RBI in a seven-inning game (rain) in July, and carry the team to their first victory in the last 14 games. Frank wasn't from the neighborhood so he didn't know Klinger personally, had never gotten a free slice of anything hairy-handed across the counter and wouldn't have given a shit anyway. Lumbago though began to feel a little uneasy about it all. Memories of his mother and grandmother, the refrigerated meat smell of the shop, the sawdust reminding him of kindergarten vomit, and he began to vertigo around the room, Frank and Klinger telescoping away down a violent rabbit hole and only the Columbian staying in focus standing on the lip of funnel along with Lumbago and now what was he doing, pointing a gun? Maybe he had fired it already, it was hard to tell, but maybe that was why Lumbago's legs had gone soft beneath him, why he now saw the sawdust floor at close range, i.e. down there at the end of his nose. Why couldn't he move anymore? Now that he finally wanted to do more than just lay there...
Next Stop, Please.
I remember, back in the summer of 1999. I had just received a Masters Degree in Irish Theatre Studies from the Samuel Beckett Centre at Trinity College Dublin, Ireland. You bet I capitalize all that. The diploma hangs in my closest with the others, not framed, edged folded down, slightly bent and thumbtacks nipping me in the ass when I slip by the unscrupulously structured closet to grab some stockings and skivvies. A sort of crab walk is necessary, since this closet was designed and made by an idiot Polish Brooklynite who “knows” kitchens, but in designing the one in between the two apartments on my top floor of this precious building, flanked by Irish bar, brewery and winery, decided to place outlets smack in the middle of the opposing wall around the outside of the wide, galley style kitchen, about 4 feet up, in case a midget or some South American Indian type needed to plug in their deep fryer. In doing so, he also failed to include any on the wall which houses the large, grey granite counter top. My baby, I call it. I have had spreads on that thing that could choke a horse. Wine bottles like bowling pins, dips, breads, multitudes of meats, Croatian fests, Whole Legs of Lamb and roast beefs and chickens….pot lucks made by drunks who woke up the afternoon before but always delivered with meatballs and guitar shaped Ohio-influenced mountains of cheese and meat sculptures……cocktails, gins, cats crawling, my ass upon it, dishwasher rumbling remnants of the feasts, yes THAT countertop….no outlets. Across the kitchen (granted only about 3 feet but one would hope to maneuver themselves, party or no, without long cords stretched over ovens and gas stove tops), there are outlets on both sides of the stove. Each area of counter which houses these outlets is about the size of a large shoe box, ok a box of big, tall boots, but still, not exactly a workspace. He knows kitchens. Dumb Polack. I didn’t learn nearly enough from my electrician father, but he would be rolling in it to see how this man set up shop here. Though he would have loved the place all the same. What he did when it came to the bedroom closets was simpler, and less electrical. Because the bedrooms were small, he forced into the back left portion of each a closet which was the shape of a medium sized almost walk in closet. Except, you didn’t open folding doors and stretch your arms out wide. You opened a regular door and walked in, and the clothes and shelves were on your right, facing out. So you had to crab walk your way in, in order to face your things. I hate the feeling still of being in there every morning, myself shoved in the face of my many clothing choices, colours practically swimming up at me, never spending enough time at the back, where my collection of vintage dresses, pinup girl dresses and various flouncy and special things which I used to wear all the time, sit sadly now, only occasionally let out or snuck into a day’s wear. So I shimmy practically past the diplomas, bending the corners further with my shoulder and thumb tacks as said, saying good morning as my ass removes at least one per visit.
They exist there, hidden, not talked about unless someone asks why I love Ireland so much or why I talk about this film or book or why I have words to an impossible beast on my right scapula blade, at the centre of the labyrinth of Chartres, the ultimate Christian symbol, staring out at one and all, warning ‘keep away….unless you have the mettle to work your way around this maze, its corners flanked by scarabs and knotty Egyptian lotus leaves…’ “If you’re gonna try, go all the way” as Bukowski says to me every few days or so, looking back at me as I sit on the toilet at 2 or 3am, makeup running and feeling like I’m at an airport. Once the ticket’s bought, you’re already halfway there. He laughs that low, pickled moan at me as I stumble back to the bedroom, still drunk and dizzy sometimes, still moving my arms as if in the dream I’m having, still hoping to return to the orgy or the nightmare or the ecstatic vision of doubles and familiars which sheathe me as I climb back into the bed. The diplomas in the shadows of the darkened closet. When the summer of ‘99 hit, I was just after (see, this is one of those times when I use Irish speak. I’m not ashamed to do it. While there may be an inflection or a tone, I have never been one of those people who went over, spent some time, and came back with full Irish accent. If anything, I simply spoke lower, more humbly, less loud, though I only ever yell and speak crass when on whiskey or with my family – you had to shout to be heard at Holiday dinners, and we liked it just fine that way. Some boys in Belfast told me I wasn’t like any Americans they’d met, and I liked it just fine that way as well).
Therefore, I was just after doing two medical studies for money, which were simple, and looking back, not as scary as they seemed at the time. One was for a diabetes drug and the other for a birth control pill. Both were post being passed by the FDA (criminals and liars, all) and it was the side effects they were testing. I do think I may have gotten a sugar pill at least one of the two times….also, the first time included passing hours watching terrible action films in a room with the big and burly, most black male population, who had just been given a viagra like drug. You can guess how that went. No rapes occurred, but the looks in their eyes was beyond anything primitive. It was as if modern technology was baiting them and their impoverished cocks to fight-kill-maim-steal for it, removing all the sexuality and humanity and even animalistic quality out of the act. Manchurian candidates for fucking. That’s what they did to them, for those few hours. So, I go through these studies, and received said closet-hanging-thumbtack ass scraping diploma from the Samuel Beckett Centre of Trinity College Dublin, Ireland in the mail. I hadn’t been able to financially get back for the graduation, and wished I had stayed for another year. Maybe do a PhD. But I don’t think I had that in me at 23, if I even do now.
Greenpoint. That summer was so hot, and I had no A/C. Back room of front half of railroad apartment. Dorian cat, young and just off the streets, then working at the Barnes and Noble Union Square. The Fiction/Poetry section felt good to me, even though I had just received, you know, a Masters Degree. When I was moved to the 3rd floor sections, which included art, music and photography it was still ok, but it also featured self help and the months spent stocking and organizing and answering questions about the various self help piles of shit I waded through was probably responsible for my intense anti self help feelings of today. The reasons have changed, as have my experiences, and foundations of why and the references about “us”, the ones who hurt and grieve and need, but that set the tone for sure. Smelling baking cookies and coffee at the café, hearing the Cuban music of “Buena Vista Social Club” all summer long, intermingled with Roy Orbison, both wonderful but the first one I cannot listen to anymore, and the second I have forgotten was played then, so it’s brand new to me again and liquefied with new associations. Spalding Gray came to read once, and is now dead of suicide. So did an Irishman who read his book about growing up in a family of cops, and some other notables who have passed from my memory. But it was, on a scorching hot July day, I was getting off the bus in bright 4 o’clock sun, as I had worked the morning shift and was tired, my feet, my brain, my hopes and dreams. Unsure of so much. Nothing’s changed, it seems, just the players get moved around and my back hurts more. Bukowksi is laughing again at this, that laugh that one does when they’re midway sipping alcohol , their mouth practically in the rocks glass, and their shoulders shake up and down a little, their muffled laughter seeming even more rapacious and self contained that it’s underwater and bubbling up at you. That they can’t even stop drinking long enough to laugh at you in the open air.
I forgot what number bus it was. It went from the Bedford stop all the way down to Kingsland Avenue, where I lived. This pale, skinny little girl not much older than I was, gets off the bus and like a bullet, like a shot, like a bottle hitting the bar floor, a bird let loose from its cage (her body was holding something in, you could tell, behind the 2 or 3 people waiting in the front of the almost empty bus to get out at their upcoming stop, she wasn’t moving or fidgeting much but you could sense it in her, about to do……something), she hops down the steps to the street, waiting for the person in front of her to leave her enough space for her clearly planned exit, and a skip in her step leads to a brief, but walloped bounding for her next steps away from the bus as she yelled with all the anger and glory she could “I’m FINISHED with this BULLSHIT JOB and BULLSHIT PLACE and I'M GETTING THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Which was then followed by a strange sound, like a laugh born from a grief stricken cry, so breathy and garbled, that she didn’t have the chest concavity or mental capacity all at that moment to release it without it sounding – off. I followed her down, leaving her plenty of space, and smiled at her as she then slowed down her walk, but kept up with her same re-releasing and brand new, un-heard of energy down Greenpoint Avenue. I walked, slowly and with little gait of my own to give, and felt so downtrodden in that moment that I might as well have just laid down there and died. I think of her often, when I know this moment will ultimately come for me and now that I can see it, somewhat, it feels different. It’s as if I’ve been inviting in one droplet of that energy for years, one quick step sideways in my walk, one minute jolt in my shoulders when waiting to enter and exit a place, one more second of a gleam flashing across my eyes….so by the time it comes, I may just look exactly the same as I do now. My insides have been birthing this freedom for more years than I care to say. I’ll think of her again, when the time comes, and you may not see anything new about me, or excitable or happy on the surface, because it’s not something that brings any of that. It will make me myself again, at all times, places, with all people, and under all skies. And for that walk off the bus for the final ride home, tattered degrees in my arms, dysfunctional outlets and backwards closet in my house, and Irish words in my head, I’ll look for her on up ahead, and see what she’s up to now.
M. Lucia
They exist there, hidden, not talked about unless someone asks why I love Ireland so much or why I talk about this film or book or why I have words to an impossible beast on my right scapula blade, at the centre of the labyrinth of Chartres, the ultimate Christian symbol, staring out at one and all, warning ‘keep away….unless you have the mettle to work your way around this maze, its corners flanked by scarabs and knotty Egyptian lotus leaves…’ “If you’re gonna try, go all the way” as Bukowski says to me every few days or so, looking back at me as I sit on the toilet at 2 or 3am, makeup running and feeling like I’m at an airport. Once the ticket’s bought, you’re already halfway there. He laughs that low, pickled moan at me as I stumble back to the bedroom, still drunk and dizzy sometimes, still moving my arms as if in the dream I’m having, still hoping to return to the orgy or the nightmare or the ecstatic vision of doubles and familiars which sheathe me as I climb back into the bed. The diplomas in the shadows of the darkened closet. When the summer of ‘99 hit, I was just after (see, this is one of those times when I use Irish speak. I’m not ashamed to do it. While there may be an inflection or a tone, I have never been one of those people who went over, spent some time, and came back with full Irish accent. If anything, I simply spoke lower, more humbly, less loud, though I only ever yell and speak crass when on whiskey or with my family – you had to shout to be heard at Holiday dinners, and we liked it just fine that way. Some boys in Belfast told me I wasn’t like any Americans they’d met, and I liked it just fine that way as well).
Therefore, I was just after doing two medical studies for money, which were simple, and looking back, not as scary as they seemed at the time. One was for a diabetes drug and the other for a birth control pill. Both were post being passed by the FDA (criminals and liars, all) and it was the side effects they were testing. I do think I may have gotten a sugar pill at least one of the two times….also, the first time included passing hours watching terrible action films in a room with the big and burly, most black male population, who had just been given a viagra like drug. You can guess how that went. No rapes occurred, but the looks in their eyes was beyond anything primitive. It was as if modern technology was baiting them and their impoverished cocks to fight-kill-maim-steal for it, removing all the sexuality and humanity and even animalistic quality out of the act. Manchurian candidates for fucking. That’s what they did to them, for those few hours. So, I go through these studies, and received said closet-hanging-thumbtack ass scraping diploma from the Samuel Beckett Centre of Trinity College Dublin, Ireland in the mail. I hadn’t been able to financially get back for the graduation, and wished I had stayed for another year. Maybe do a PhD. But I don’t think I had that in me at 23, if I even do now.
Greenpoint. That summer was so hot, and I had no A/C. Back room of front half of railroad apartment. Dorian cat, young and just off the streets, then working at the Barnes and Noble Union Square. The Fiction/Poetry section felt good to me, even though I had just received, you know, a Masters Degree. When I was moved to the 3rd floor sections, which included art, music and photography it was still ok, but it also featured self help and the months spent stocking and organizing and answering questions about the various self help piles of shit I waded through was probably responsible for my intense anti self help feelings of today. The reasons have changed, as have my experiences, and foundations of why and the references about “us”, the ones who hurt and grieve and need, but that set the tone for sure. Smelling baking cookies and coffee at the café, hearing the Cuban music of “Buena Vista Social Club” all summer long, intermingled with Roy Orbison, both wonderful but the first one I cannot listen to anymore, and the second I have forgotten was played then, so it’s brand new to me again and liquefied with new associations. Spalding Gray came to read once, and is now dead of suicide. So did an Irishman who read his book about growing up in a family of cops, and some other notables who have passed from my memory. But it was, on a scorching hot July day, I was getting off the bus in bright 4 o’clock sun, as I had worked the morning shift and was tired, my feet, my brain, my hopes and dreams. Unsure of so much. Nothing’s changed, it seems, just the players get moved around and my back hurts more. Bukowksi is laughing again at this, that laugh that one does when they’re midway sipping alcohol , their mouth practically in the rocks glass, and their shoulders shake up and down a little, their muffled laughter seeming even more rapacious and self contained that it’s underwater and bubbling up at you. That they can’t even stop drinking long enough to laugh at you in the open air.
I forgot what number bus it was. It went from the Bedford stop all the way down to Kingsland Avenue, where I lived. This pale, skinny little girl not much older than I was, gets off the bus and like a bullet, like a shot, like a bottle hitting the bar floor, a bird let loose from its cage (her body was holding something in, you could tell, behind the 2 or 3 people waiting in the front of the almost empty bus to get out at their upcoming stop, she wasn’t moving or fidgeting much but you could sense it in her, about to do……something), she hops down the steps to the street, waiting for the person in front of her to leave her enough space for her clearly planned exit, and a skip in her step leads to a brief, but walloped bounding for her next steps away from the bus as she yelled with all the anger and glory she could “I’m FINISHED with this BULLSHIT JOB and BULLSHIT PLACE and I'M GETTING THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Which was then followed by a strange sound, like a laugh born from a grief stricken cry, so breathy and garbled, that she didn’t have the chest concavity or mental capacity all at that moment to release it without it sounding – off. I followed her down, leaving her plenty of space, and smiled at her as she then slowed down her walk, but kept up with her same re-releasing and brand new, un-heard of energy down Greenpoint Avenue. I walked, slowly and with little gait of my own to give, and felt so downtrodden in that moment that I might as well have just laid down there and died. I think of her often, when I know this moment will ultimately come for me and now that I can see it, somewhat, it feels different. It’s as if I’ve been inviting in one droplet of that energy for years, one quick step sideways in my walk, one minute jolt in my shoulders when waiting to enter and exit a place, one more second of a gleam flashing across my eyes….so by the time it comes, I may just look exactly the same as I do now. My insides have been birthing this freedom for more years than I care to say. I’ll think of her again, when the time comes, and you may not see anything new about me, or excitable or happy on the surface, because it’s not something that brings any of that. It will make me myself again, at all times, places, with all people, and under all skies. And for that walk off the bus for the final ride home, tattered degrees in my arms, dysfunctional outlets and backwards closet in my house, and Irish words in my head, I’ll look for her on up ahead, and see what she’s up to now.
M. Lucia
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Ode to Wicked Wanda
There once was a whore who lived on the outskirts of town.
Her name was Wicked Wanda, and she had a fair, but very incomplete number of teeth.
You know the sort. In her 40’s, looked just over 54, sunken eyes, on or was on drugs of some kind, but lived a fairly normal life in that Canadian maritime town on the coast.
She lived off the main drag, a small walk away as everything was there, and she looked like a dirty blond gypsy in her oversized, hippie skirts and ill (vs. loose) fitting shirts.
Didn’t look like a whore at all. But, though they all knew of her trade (which also included generous Canadian UI cheques and a house that was hers outright, how many Americans have that dream without debt, financial turnarounds and misgivings), no one judged her or spoke of her behind her back. Just to say who she was, laugh a little at her appearance, and name, but no more than they would anyone else in their eccentric little town.
This place still had old mining shafts left in the dense woods, clear running water which tasted of peppermint it was so virginal, couples who collected Sarsaparilla root at the base of certain trees, when one of them got out of another short term stint in jail, so they could fuck their brains out that and many afternoons to come. Lesbians, photographers, Indian protesters (of the dotted, Eastern sort), old, leather faced Canadian drunks who played pool and drank plural numbers of beer without adding an “s” to the word (as in, I drank 13 beer last night vs. 13 beers), and said things to you like “I just wanna say, I am ashamed at what we did to your people” and after you explained that you weren’t a First Nation/Indian/Native, he belched, and looked to the floor in thought, and said “no…..no, what we Did to your people, was not right”. No need to burst his bubble. They’re all like that there.
Even Wanda. She was in their very easy going (easy to be sure), patchwork quilt of misfits. And she wore it well. None too flashy, or overstated. Just like a small town girl, except she didn’t do it for free like the good girls.
On the bus, along the granite foundry highway, you think “what a good, honest woman doing good, honest work”.
Why were there no parades for Wicked Wanda? She certainly deserved one. Any good soldier boy will tell you, you can't have a war without a whore on the front lines, cheering you on. Skirt up between her legs and a gap-toothed smile on her face.
M. Lucia
Her name was Wicked Wanda, and she had a fair, but very incomplete number of teeth.
You know the sort. In her 40’s, looked just over 54, sunken eyes, on or was on drugs of some kind, but lived a fairly normal life in that Canadian maritime town on the coast.
She lived off the main drag, a small walk away as everything was there, and she looked like a dirty blond gypsy in her oversized, hippie skirts and ill (vs. loose) fitting shirts.
Didn’t look like a whore at all. But, though they all knew of her trade (which also included generous Canadian UI cheques and a house that was hers outright, how many Americans have that dream without debt, financial turnarounds and misgivings), no one judged her or spoke of her behind her back. Just to say who she was, laugh a little at her appearance, and name, but no more than they would anyone else in their eccentric little town.
This place still had old mining shafts left in the dense woods, clear running water which tasted of peppermint it was so virginal, couples who collected Sarsaparilla root at the base of certain trees, when one of them got out of another short term stint in jail, so they could fuck their brains out that and many afternoons to come. Lesbians, photographers, Indian protesters (of the dotted, Eastern sort), old, leather faced Canadian drunks who played pool and drank plural numbers of beer without adding an “s” to the word (as in, I drank 13 beer last night vs. 13 beers), and said things to you like “I just wanna say, I am ashamed at what we did to your people” and after you explained that you weren’t a First Nation/Indian/Native, he belched, and looked to the floor in thought, and said “no…..no, what we Did to your people, was not right”. No need to burst his bubble. They’re all like that there.
Even Wanda. She was in their very easy going (easy to be sure), patchwork quilt of misfits. And she wore it well. None too flashy, or overstated. Just like a small town girl, except she didn’t do it for free like the good girls.
On the bus, along the granite foundry highway, you think “what a good, honest woman doing good, honest work”.
Why were there no parades for Wicked Wanda? She certainly deserved one. Any good soldier boy will tell you, you can't have a war without a whore on the front lines, cheering you on. Skirt up between her legs and a gap-toothed smile on her face.
M. Lucia
MANDIBLE
The whole time I was on the phone with her I stared at a picture frame that hung askew. I thought for a moment about whether I was too obsessed with things being perfect all the time but then I thought maybe this was a good thing--noticing something wrong and then thinking about, and even having an moment of reflection to really consider, how best to fix it. In this way, I felt, I strived to make my world more perfect.
I saw on an episode of West Wing a discussion about the US dollar and a bit of Latin on there: "Annuit Coeptis" which means something like "He approves of our undertaking," "he" being God presumably. Oh, and the unfinished pyramid of course. We were a work in progress, she and I. I used to like to think that about us, a work in progress that is and one which "HE" approved of.
And then there's Zeno's paradox where in order to get from point A to point B you must first get to the point halfway between A and B and before you can get to the point halfway between the two you must first get to the point one-quarter of the way there and so on. So in order to get there, or anywhere, you must ultimately accomplish an infinite number of tasks first and which therefore means you'll never get there. But of course you do. I tried to explain this one to my sister oh, and also the one about the infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters? She thought they were both "stupid."
My point is that I used to think that she and I are like that paradox too. Small steps and maybe we don't there but we're going down the list of infinite tasks. Could we be like the monkeys too? Let me think about that one.
Anyways--I used to know a woman I was really attracted to and one day I noticed that she had this way of moving her tongue when she was thinking. And it wasn't an attractive tongue. Well, it didn't necessarily "UN-attract," by which I mean that I didn't really notice it (the tongue) until it started moving around. But once I started noticing it there was really no way to UN-notice it. And THEN it started to UN-attract. Up until that point I guess it was "attractive" strictly speaking because it did catch my attention; it did vie in all that moving around with her remarkable cleavage. But what really made it UN-attract was its odd squatness. I mean it did lay in there, in her mouth, the way other tongues did, horizontally, I guess for the most part. But from what I could see of it it gave the impression of being short and stocky. Like if it was able to get out of there and walk around you might find it wearing a bowler hat, say, and maybe have walrus-like whiskers on its generous cheeks. And it seemed pockmarked with white spots like it had been mucoused up by a thick full-fat glass of milk and not properly cleansed with a tongue-sucking swallow. And I guess it looked undone in spots. On top of all that it then it moved around weirdly while she was thinking so much so that by the time she said whatever she had to say I had checked out mentally.
Needless to say, one hopes, that relationship never went anywhere. Which brings us to the main point of this correspondence and all the past tenses w/r/t her (of the "me and her" / "she and I" / "US") there above. The frame straightening phone call was the last for us, filled with attempts to decode meanings and reasons which I granted to her (the attempts) since it's only fair and also because this is a bit of tough time for her. Her Dad just died, see. And generally she has not been one to really express herself in life. She's articulate but not given to fits of emotion which I've always been OK with. The articulate part was what mattered to me--the part where she said what she thought, which was what I cared about. The emotion just was something else, whether she had the proclivity for it or not, and in her case she did not and so be it. But alone in her kitchen, post-big-brother-calling-with-"real bad news"-from Pittsburgh-phone-call when she's sobbing (appropriately) in my arms and I'm getting the first good look at her really crying?
It was the sound. Not the way her mouth curled obscenely or the snot on my shirt or the way her running mascara suddenly reminded me of my mother's face that time long ago when I opened my own (long story) bedroom door on parental fellatio--none of that mattered. Honestly. It was just the sound she made. I respect her too much to describe it. I'll only say that I found it disturbing. And I decided then and there that I could not be with someone who made that sound. Or was capable of it.
Given an infinite number of her and an infinite number of me is there a scenario where it all just clicks? Like the sharp claws of a monkey typing Macbeth randomly on a typewriter?
At The Meat Market
The crucifixion of my right arse cheek in its good place hanging up on high,
just dangling sort of, like meat about to be feasted upon by the masses.
While I smile, without showing my teeth, as always
it's all in the curve of the corresponding right side of my mouth,
climbing up a rope to it being all in the eyes.
Happy as they cut into my buttock, and feed themselves heartily
remarking how tasty, how organic, home grown, how the farmers would love it.
The kind you need a sprinkle of salt and pepper on,
and a nice, open air bonfire with which to roast it - all natural.
No by-products.
I just nod my head as each one tastes and marches on.
Some drop their napkin,
some angrily gnaw at my ass,
some don't say thank you or even look at me.
Some think it's all for them and hover, while others are patiently waiting in line.
My meat market crucifixion - one nail, one plump tail
and me smiling my good smile as they cannibalize me.
This streak of pain down my leg, it's moving on out,
so the next time they come around wanting to eat,
well
the empty, old cross with a rusty nail, bent into a V (for Victory!)
will be all that's left of me.
They better learn to eat some other flesh instead.
M. Lucia
just dangling sort of, like meat about to be feasted upon by the masses.
While I smile, without showing my teeth, as always
it's all in the curve of the corresponding right side of my mouth,
climbing up a rope to it being all in the eyes.
Happy as they cut into my buttock, and feed themselves heartily
remarking how tasty, how organic, home grown, how the farmers would love it.
The kind you need a sprinkle of salt and pepper on,
and a nice, open air bonfire with which to roast it - all natural.
No by-products.
I just nod my head as each one tastes and marches on.
Some drop their napkin,
some angrily gnaw at my ass,
some don't say thank you or even look at me.
Some think it's all for them and hover, while others are patiently waiting in line.
My meat market crucifixion - one nail, one plump tail
and me smiling my good smile as they cannibalize me.
This streak of pain down my leg, it's moving on out,
so the next time they come around wanting to eat,
well
the empty, old cross with a rusty nail, bent into a V (for Victory!)
will be all that's left of me.
They better learn to eat some other flesh instead.
M. Lucia
Monday, February 28, 2011
The Fourth: Fruit or Flowers (Ideas or Symbols)
The Ides of March are back on their walk so silent they wrap me up at night
have their way with my brain
and shake my hand as they pack up their things again
just like last time.
But not like last time.
Boom-Boom-Boom, all in three’s – dates follow themselves
as if to a Sadie Hawkins dance where retards wear mismatched clothes
and I’m not woken up from under the bleachers
when it’s my turn to become a retard.
John M is 43. They would have been married 49 years.
Then a reprieve. Then the double fantasy days, just before Spring.
Each year different.
First: Shock- disastrous, unheard of, sad to say the most abandoned, free sex you had
was around the nights your father died.
In his house, he told me that shooting star was my father.
There was not a drop of guilt on me about what we did after he said that.
Seems like decades ago. The fermented, last remnants of my late
childhood.
The first year after– came the first celebration. New home, new family of people,
I cooked everything I could muster from our family, youth and heritage.
He said my hair smelled like flowers and cooked meat, and how that comforted him
and reminded him of Pittsburgh, of home and his mother.
The things I did while that woman slept in the other room.
The second year after- that was the hardest.
Not quite past that first shock and awe, but far enough away that we were gone from our house.
Where he lived, built, dreamed and died (and where I saw and felt him on those nights after,
when I was there, second floor bedroom which I had badly painted for him,
looking over from bed across the bathroom and stairway of wood, and hallway
to the other bedroom. He was right there with us still)
And waking up at 3am nightly like the plague was on its way from down deep inside me
growing up root into my brain and setting up shop like quicksand.
I was not myself, and yet didn’t know how I had been before. That thing I lost –
it was ok that it was gone, but did something good leave too, or was something deeper
sprouting there, and I could see it yet. Blindfold barefoot sleepwalk through the back-
garden under the moon, little green stems curling around my ankles and toes.
Arms tied tight,
no end in sight of this, as I jumped across self created minefields.
So far away it all was.
A need to run away brought me back to the girl on the west coast who met him, stayed in that house,
loved him, and stood up drinking wine with us til the late hours……
She would always make him smile, and loved his Johnny Cash red and black
cowboy plaid shirt he wore far too often,
(I cried the day I went to the top of my bookshelf to smell it but it didn’t smell like him anymore.
It just smelled like an old, un-worn shirt).
As he regaled her about love, and friends, and being yourself no matter what others said,
and I ran to her to quell my pangs of year 2.
Champagne and wine in her back bedroom near the pool,
bandaged me and saw me through again.
Then year 3 – I had become myself again, not the one that had been a child. More food,
more love, more experience in the only home I ever felt I had in this godforsaken city.
I had wished he could have seen it. And still wish with every new face I recognize,
that he was around for a late night wine-soaked talking fest.
Change, and recumbent, drowning in soil
and fucked by the moon. New is now old, and joints and brain waves squeak.
Upon this comes year 4. Stealthily marching like good, starving men who have won the war,
and are on their way back home to us, their women.
What must it have been like in ancient times to fight for years, and decades some-
then, win or surrender, if alive and breathing still,
perhaps months or more to walk home, after the fact. Probably a pacifist by the time
you reached your door; no more energy for war stories, as you’ve told to each other
and yourself every step of the way back.
This is where we are, today.
The war, the trauma and blood, the brutal meanings, and shocking sites,
the drums of passion, and that which brought us up,
the rhetoric of all that we believed in, which lifted us high and took us to this place,
-him carrying me all day on his shoulders at the thanksgiving parade when I was five,
even though he was nearly 50 and it hurt his back so-
All of that colourful silk of homeland flag waving back to me,
reminds me
when it comes back again, in the quiet of 3am, awoke from dreams,
I might welcome it into my arms and a whisper.
The sort that tells secrets, that we’ve known to ourselves all along.
M. Lucia
have their way with my brain
and shake my hand as they pack up their things again
just like last time.
But not like last time.
Boom-Boom-Boom, all in three’s – dates follow themselves
as if to a Sadie Hawkins dance where retards wear mismatched clothes
and I’m not woken up from under the bleachers
when it’s my turn to become a retard.
John M is 43. They would have been married 49 years.
Then a reprieve. Then the double fantasy days, just before Spring.
Each year different.
First: Shock- disastrous, unheard of, sad to say the most abandoned, free sex you had
was around the nights your father died.
In his house, he told me that shooting star was my father.
There was not a drop of guilt on me about what we did after he said that.
Seems like decades ago. The fermented, last remnants of my late
childhood.
The first year after– came the first celebration. New home, new family of people,
I cooked everything I could muster from our family, youth and heritage.
He said my hair smelled like flowers and cooked meat, and how that comforted him
and reminded him of Pittsburgh, of home and his mother.
The things I did while that woman slept in the other room.
The second year after- that was the hardest.
Not quite past that first shock and awe, but far enough away that we were gone from our house.
Where he lived, built, dreamed and died (and where I saw and felt him on those nights after,
when I was there, second floor bedroom which I had badly painted for him,
looking over from bed across the bathroom and stairway of wood, and hallway
to the other bedroom. He was right there with us still)
And waking up at 3am nightly like the plague was on its way from down deep inside me
growing up root into my brain and setting up shop like quicksand.
I was not myself, and yet didn’t know how I had been before. That thing I lost –
it was ok that it was gone, but did something good leave too, or was something deeper
sprouting there, and I could see it yet. Blindfold barefoot sleepwalk through the back-
garden under the moon, little green stems curling around my ankles and toes.
Arms tied tight,
no end in sight of this, as I jumped across self created minefields.
So far away it all was.
A need to run away brought me back to the girl on the west coast who met him, stayed in that house,
loved him, and stood up drinking wine with us til the late hours……
She would always make him smile, and loved his Johnny Cash red and black
cowboy plaid shirt he wore far too often,
(I cried the day I went to the top of my bookshelf to smell it but it didn’t smell like him anymore.
It just smelled like an old, un-worn shirt).
As he regaled her about love, and friends, and being yourself no matter what others said,
and I ran to her to quell my pangs of year 2.
Champagne and wine in her back bedroom near the pool,
bandaged me and saw me through again.
Then year 3 – I had become myself again, not the one that had been a child. More food,
more love, more experience in the only home I ever felt I had in this godforsaken city.
I had wished he could have seen it. And still wish with every new face I recognize,
that he was around for a late night wine-soaked talking fest.
Change, and recumbent, drowning in soil
and fucked by the moon. New is now old, and joints and brain waves squeak.
Upon this comes year 4. Stealthily marching like good, starving men who have won the war,
and are on their way back home to us, their women.
What must it have been like in ancient times to fight for years, and decades some-
then, win or surrender, if alive and breathing still,
perhaps months or more to walk home, after the fact. Probably a pacifist by the time
you reached your door; no more energy for war stories, as you’ve told to each other
and yourself every step of the way back.
This is where we are, today.
The war, the trauma and blood, the brutal meanings, and shocking sites,
the drums of passion, and that which brought us up,
the rhetoric of all that we believed in, which lifted us high and took us to this place,
-him carrying me all day on his shoulders at the thanksgiving parade when I was five,
even though he was nearly 50 and it hurt his back so-
All of that colourful silk of homeland flag waving back to me,
reminds me
when it comes back again, in the quiet of 3am, awoke from dreams,
I might welcome it into my arms and a whisper.
The sort that tells secrets, that we’ve known to ourselves all along.
M. Lucia
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Solitaire
At the bottom of the cylinder lies our way up and over
the over that organizes itself into gas money, tickets torn off new dresses
the zeal of dragons tearing your throat out
but you only notice the last few drops on the floor,
which needs again to be polished
big bright red footprint turning in upon itself
telling you exactly where you are,
because the dim dying flicker of electric light
put you there.
The metallic sun drilling smiles across your faces
convinced that you are important, scrubbing
sponging, re-wiring yourself to accept
again and again the faulty underpinnings-
A house of cards is still just badly drawn figures
a king, a queen on a shiny laminated frame
biding time at the bottom right corner of this pre-packaged
cylinder. How it shines
how it reflects just what you told it to,
with your threats, delusions and insults.
That lacquered floor screaming up at you, begging you
to put it out of its misery:::
the blistering burns, the snake infested pond
waiting in the dullest darkness, its shadow your only hope.
Protecting you and offering up its terror so you stay just where
it wants you to be. You and you and you,
in control of so much. We are in control of nothing
except the way our arrow flies, or drives, or blackmails
or subscribes to words and ways and lives we conjure up.
The expert witches run out of town by the locals;
don't try to formulate their brew. It's not for amateurs,
like you. Polish, grind, chatter away the silence of seconds-
that's all we're good for. Giving up before we start
is the greatest card trick that deck of ugly royals
ever dreamed up. Papercuts down our backs, ruled
over by the absolute longitudes of our fears.
Circle back again, I think you missed a spot.
M. Lucia
the over that organizes itself into gas money, tickets torn off new dresses
the zeal of dragons tearing your throat out
but you only notice the last few drops on the floor,
which needs again to be polished
big bright red footprint turning in upon itself
telling you exactly where you are,
because the dim dying flicker of electric light
put you there.
The metallic sun drilling smiles across your faces
convinced that you are important, scrubbing
sponging, re-wiring yourself to accept
again and again the faulty underpinnings-
A house of cards is still just badly drawn figures
a king, a queen on a shiny laminated frame
biding time at the bottom right corner of this pre-packaged
cylinder. How it shines
how it reflects just what you told it to,
with your threats, delusions and insults.
That lacquered floor screaming up at you, begging you
to put it out of its misery:::
the blistering burns, the snake infested pond
waiting in the dullest darkness, its shadow your only hope.
Protecting you and offering up its terror so you stay just where
it wants you to be. You and you and you,
in control of so much. We are in control of nothing
except the way our arrow flies, or drives, or blackmails
or subscribes to words and ways and lives we conjure up.
The expert witches run out of town by the locals;
don't try to formulate their brew. It's not for amateurs,
like you. Polish, grind, chatter away the silence of seconds-
that's all we're good for. Giving up before we start
is the greatest card trick that deck of ugly royals
ever dreamed up. Papercuts down our backs, ruled
over by the absolute longitudes of our fears.
Circle back again, I think you missed a spot.
M. Lucia
Ohio State Prison - Part 1 - Saint Francesca of Frankincense
Frankincense. Smelled like the inside of a church. She never much cared for the rules of the whole thing. Confessing every little thing that might have been wrong, then hail marying it all back to a clean slate. Like eating your own tail, digging yourself into the hole, kicking yourself out of it again, that sloping bed of dirt always there, waiting for you, warm as a mother but dirty and empty too. Why confess to them anyway. Them and their secret families, gambling addictions and little altar boys, mouths all sewn together into a patchwork vestment. But the vestments got her hot, if on one of the younger priests. Cassocks, some might say was a dress, but when the set of priests not much older than her older brother came walking down the halls, smelling of books and bourbon, she'd watch the black smooth fabric just above sweeping the floor and wonder if they were still men underneath all that. What were they trying to hide out from, still and sound in their long black capes. They looked like aristocrats from those novels they learned about in high school. Their eyes darting from something she could not see, the keen air they kept close behind them as they went.
She wasn't telling them anything, not in school when she was busy tearing up her plaid skirt to let them know just how she worshipped at the altar of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. The Holy Three was mainly useful when it was shouted out by an unscrupulous superior, when taking the Lord's name in vain was the only time he served any purpose to her. Now, here, in jail, it wasn't any different. Francesca worked her ass off in here, sewing torn vestments for the chapel services and dusting the minimal of statues that the prison chapel had to offer. There was no incense in here, not sure the reason, perhaps it would incite the women to something. It always turned her on. Just like she said, the rules and regulations were never high up on her list of favourite things, but the rituals were like time slowed down into something. Life outside of the mass was boring, happening in real time, murky colours and dull voices not saying or breathing anything particularly useful or of interest to Francesca. But time stopped when those young priests would speak in Latin, the silky sound of their cassocks drifting past her as they went, swinging smokey smells of Frankincense. The flickering candles, just like those which alighted near her swinging legs just now, made what happened around those moments like being caught inside those statues, with no one looking in on you.
Before her life shred into the many separate and chaotic directions it did, before she fucked up royally as her mother would say, and got herself locked up in here, and certainly before she gave into those experiences which called her name and decided it was her place, that dirt bed practically holding up a sign for her to just lie down, without penance and without any hope of ever digging herself out again, Francesca used to read books about Jesus' crucifixion. She was obsessive about it. She read about all the things they did to him - the thorns, the humiliation, the hot sun bearing down on the cracks in his sweaty skin, burning alive up there by Choice. That part she couldn't bear to think about. It made her cry sometimes, to think of him up there, all alone in the world. Maybe that's why she loved being in churches so much - being in this prison chapel any chance she got, the sense of sanctity caught underneath her fingernails as she dug them harder into the back of his neck. This was all part of the ritual too, wasn't it. On the outside, she ended up fucking her big, fat and ugly landlord to keep her mother in that apartment, and all the schemes and ideas he had, and the others, always making her do all the hard work, and take the fall when it came around checking beds at night. It was fine. It got her in here, and her ability to sew and clean (and probably her Italian name, what did these fucking fools know of anything - they wouldn't know a transubstantiation if the wine/blood and host/flesh came up and bit them in the ass). Just like he bit her back from behind her right now.
This was the ultimate ritual happening in the dark of the two only cheap candles (electric flicker of course, so people like Francesca couldn't burn it down to the ground and end the blatant miseries of all those other so called lives in there). Frankie might have the warden, but she found herself one prison priest who happened to like girls and not slender little fags like Frankie. Late afternoon, but it was indeed dark in there. Closed so the floors could be polished, and she was being fucked left right and center, just like the good catholic that she was. Reading psalms, placing bets on the number of bite marks and bruises from his priestly hands that she'd be hiding when back in the mix with those other sorrowful bitches, herself shining out among them, a saint among men and women, not like those cold, frigid statues who looked down on us all with half open eyes, needing dusting in their ears, not even bearing of cunts. Her cunt was the saintliest part of her, the one part which didn't make mistakes and give into circumstance and find new ways of losing. She felt particularly like Mary Magdalen, the so called whore, who Jesus loved the most (who stayed there at his feet, he hanging there extended over his bed of dirt, the one they made for him), she felt like double M Mary when the rosary of this visiting priest dangling clean into her mouth, the body of Jesus the Lord drowning in between her pliable lips as she bit down hard on the nails which kept him in his place....his hidden cock dipping into the holy waters between her legs, on the chapel floor, slippery and shiny and freshly buffed, just like every Friday afternoon.
Going to confession was never as transformative as all this. The nearby cheap folding chairs making the slightest knocking noise as he forced himself deeper into her, Jesus in her mouth, his priestly foot soldier's cock making short work of the holiest unspoken words being etched along the walls of her cunt, the sanctimonious halls which shudder and shook, like those evil cities of Sodom and Gomorrah must have when the big, mean God of old stamped them out. He'd fuck every sin clean out of her, and she'd be saintly, just like she always wanted to be. Who'd have thought she would have found that in this place. Second hand bibles shifting in their secondhand, movable pews. They weren't allowed frankincense in here, which Francesca had mentioned before. But, as he licked the back slope of her neck and came inside her from behind, his hair tickling her just behind her right ear - Francesca could swear she smelled the smoky, comforting smell of frankincense wafting a halo around her fuck knotted hair with reverence and respect for all of her sacrifices, from the start until now. It felt and smelled like books she couldn't make out the words to and would never read, her scabbed knees left kneeling on the liquid shine of the chapel wood floor. While she moaned her best cry for Jesus and took in a good, long breath of his Kingdom, as it came with all the imperfect glory it could muster. She had exactly 14 minutes to get back to the cell block.
M. Lucia
She wasn't telling them anything, not in school when she was busy tearing up her plaid skirt to let them know just how she worshipped at the altar of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. The Holy Three was mainly useful when it was shouted out by an unscrupulous superior, when taking the Lord's name in vain was the only time he served any purpose to her. Now, here, in jail, it wasn't any different. Francesca worked her ass off in here, sewing torn vestments for the chapel services and dusting the minimal of statues that the prison chapel had to offer. There was no incense in here, not sure the reason, perhaps it would incite the women to something. It always turned her on. Just like she said, the rules and regulations were never high up on her list of favourite things, but the rituals were like time slowed down into something. Life outside of the mass was boring, happening in real time, murky colours and dull voices not saying or breathing anything particularly useful or of interest to Francesca. But time stopped when those young priests would speak in Latin, the silky sound of their cassocks drifting past her as they went, swinging smokey smells of Frankincense. The flickering candles, just like those which alighted near her swinging legs just now, made what happened around those moments like being caught inside those statues, with no one looking in on you.
Before her life shred into the many separate and chaotic directions it did, before she fucked up royally as her mother would say, and got herself locked up in here, and certainly before she gave into those experiences which called her name and decided it was her place, that dirt bed practically holding up a sign for her to just lie down, without penance and without any hope of ever digging herself out again, Francesca used to read books about Jesus' crucifixion. She was obsessive about it. She read about all the things they did to him - the thorns, the humiliation, the hot sun bearing down on the cracks in his sweaty skin, burning alive up there by Choice. That part she couldn't bear to think about. It made her cry sometimes, to think of him up there, all alone in the world. Maybe that's why she loved being in churches so much - being in this prison chapel any chance she got, the sense of sanctity caught underneath her fingernails as she dug them harder into the back of his neck. This was all part of the ritual too, wasn't it. On the outside, she ended up fucking her big, fat and ugly landlord to keep her mother in that apartment, and all the schemes and ideas he had, and the others, always making her do all the hard work, and take the fall when it came around checking beds at night. It was fine. It got her in here, and her ability to sew and clean (and probably her Italian name, what did these fucking fools know of anything - they wouldn't know a transubstantiation if the wine/blood and host/flesh came up and bit them in the ass). Just like he bit her back from behind her right now.
This was the ultimate ritual happening in the dark of the two only cheap candles (electric flicker of course, so people like Francesca couldn't burn it down to the ground and end the blatant miseries of all those other so called lives in there). Frankie might have the warden, but she found herself one prison priest who happened to like girls and not slender little fags like Frankie. Late afternoon, but it was indeed dark in there. Closed so the floors could be polished, and she was being fucked left right and center, just like the good catholic that she was. Reading psalms, placing bets on the number of bite marks and bruises from his priestly hands that she'd be hiding when back in the mix with those other sorrowful bitches, herself shining out among them, a saint among men and women, not like those cold, frigid statues who looked down on us all with half open eyes, needing dusting in their ears, not even bearing of cunts. Her cunt was the saintliest part of her, the one part which didn't make mistakes and give into circumstance and find new ways of losing. She felt particularly like Mary Magdalen, the so called whore, who Jesus loved the most (who stayed there at his feet, he hanging there extended over his bed of dirt, the one they made for him), she felt like double M Mary when the rosary of this visiting priest dangling clean into her mouth, the body of Jesus the Lord drowning in between her pliable lips as she bit down hard on the nails which kept him in his place....his hidden cock dipping into the holy waters between her legs, on the chapel floor, slippery and shiny and freshly buffed, just like every Friday afternoon.
Going to confession was never as transformative as all this. The nearby cheap folding chairs making the slightest knocking noise as he forced himself deeper into her, Jesus in her mouth, his priestly foot soldier's cock making short work of the holiest unspoken words being etched along the walls of her cunt, the sanctimonious halls which shudder and shook, like those evil cities of Sodom and Gomorrah must have when the big, mean God of old stamped them out. He'd fuck every sin clean out of her, and she'd be saintly, just like she always wanted to be. Who'd have thought she would have found that in this place. Second hand bibles shifting in their secondhand, movable pews. They weren't allowed frankincense in here, which Francesca had mentioned before. But, as he licked the back slope of her neck and came inside her from behind, his hair tickling her just behind her right ear - Francesca could swear she smelled the smoky, comforting smell of frankincense wafting a halo around her fuck knotted hair with reverence and respect for all of her sacrifices, from the start until now. It felt and smelled like books she couldn't make out the words to and would never read, her scabbed knees left kneeling on the liquid shine of the chapel wood floor. While she moaned her best cry for Jesus and took in a good, long breath of his Kingdom, as it came with all the imperfect glory it could muster.
M. Lucia
It's not even midnight yet and
I've just enjoyed a creme brulee.
It's a specialty of the house
don't you know and
I don't mean to pry but
what do you intend to do with that
rapier wit, that yellow heart that quarrel, that quandry?
It remains to be seen.
I've just ordered another creme brulee.
Funny thing that French upon french
all for want of a fine dessert finished fine
in the end by the end of a kitchen torch.
And that in itself, such a thing to be had
in the commonest of public rooms such a weapon
of low regard and high purpose to be the imbiblicled
verse in a high-flame poem.
I've just enjoyed a creme brulee.
Goodnight, oh good night.
I've just enjoyed a creme brulee.
It's a specialty of the house
don't you know and
I don't mean to pry but
what do you intend to do with that
rapier wit, that yellow heart that quarrel, that quandry?
It remains to be seen.
I've just ordered another creme brulee.
Funny thing that French upon french
all for want of a fine dessert finished fine
in the end by the end of a kitchen torch.
And that in itself, such a thing to be had
in the commonest of public rooms such a weapon
of low regard and high purpose to be the imbiblicled
verse in a high-flame poem.
I've just enjoyed a creme brulee.
Goodnight, oh good night.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Guest Speaker
One flaming torch with a purple handle
two happy faces with oranges sandals
three white doves, you are the ones I love...
two happy faces with oranges sandals
three white doves, you are the ones I love...
Friday, February 25, 2011
CHET, TWIT
So I was brushing the bourbon off my teeth last night, prior to taking my tea and heading to bed. I noticed out the powder room window that my neighbor was still in his garage, despite the hour. What's he doing now? I thought. Then the music started again--I could hear it through the double-pane windows, across the breadth of our two yards and through his metal garage doors. He's always in there with the reggae music and its ugly jungle rhythms! And I never know what they're singing about with those accents (which sound fake by the way) but it sounds vaguely, I don't know, insubordinate? They always seem to want retribution of some sort but you know how those type are, always complaining about what they DON'T have and not focusing on what they do. And I never understood why a white man like him, my neighbor that is, would listen to the reggae and get all mixed up with people who apparently "have shot the sheriff." I was flossing so hard from anger I was making my gums bleed. I could see him through one of his cloudy and greasy garage door windows and I think I saw him 'taking a toke' I think they call it--toking on a marijuana cigarette. I saw once in a movie a man making a marijuana cigarette for himself and at some point it involved him licking the paper with his tongue which just seems unsanitary at a minimum but surely not something done by a polite person, not that any of the dirty people toking the cigarette afterwards seemed either polite nor seemed to care about this other dirty man's saliva. I wondered if he was in there, my neighbor that is, with someone else licking his papers and sharing his drugs with him and listening to his nasty music. While exfoliating I was able to keep one eye out through the venetians and I suddenly saw my neighbor's 13 year old son exit the rear door of their house. I saw him cross the driveway and peek into the window at my neighbor, his father. It was only then that I realized that the boy was completely naked - not even shoes. Naked and fully erect, and I'm not talking about his posture, as far as I could tell through the double-pane windows, and across the breadth of our two yards. He then turned the corner of the garage (13 year old et. al. if you know what I mean) and disappeared into the darker areas of their yard, presumably out by the swing set, the younger of the two neighbor children seemed to spend a lot of time on. What is wrong with these people? I thought. I applied some apple-compote moisturizer and did my gargle with grain alcohol and rainwater. When I turned out the light I noticed orange flames on the walls of the powder room. Looking out the window again there was a light from behind MY garage this time. Cinching the belt of the Spa Comfort bathrobe I swiped from the Four Zebras resort in Djibouti, I exited the back door of my home and immediately came face to face with a massive raccoon ransacking my trash cans. I bared my teeth at him and made a sound that approximated the goggle-gobble of a wild turkey which I had just read is the best method for chasing raccoons without engaging them since they could be dangerous and rabid and who needs rabies when one is holding tickets for a flight next week to Thailand and a weekend of eastern delicacies, if you know what I mean, and I sure hope you do because I'm not going to explain it--no sir, not in a millions years. The raccoon lumbered his big caboose off my trash and shuffled down the driveway towards the woods across the street. He'd be back I thought. I walked across the wet spring grass not caring that my Prada slippers were dampening and craned my neck tentatively around the side of the garage. I immediately felt the heat of what my eyes had not yet had the opportunity to completely focus on nor my brain the chance to process mentally. There seemed to be gigantic circle of flames like at a circus lion show only at least 30 feet in diameter, and as I gazed through the circle of fire there was some optical illusion that made it seem like there was nothingness beyond. Not white or black, just nothingness. Suddenly the 13 year old knocked me to my knees running past and did what looked like one of those flop leaps the Olympiads do when clearing the high jump bar, and as he did so, since he was facing me, he stuck both middle fingers up at me which along with the third finger he was sporting made for quite a humiliating display, especially since the knees of my pajamas were now completely soaked through and would have to be laundered, again. As he leaped through the circle of fire it vanished along with him leaving me on my knees in the dark. I heard the reggae get suddenly louder as my neighbor was yelling though the now open side door of his garage. "Hey Chet, what're you doing back there?"
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