September 16, 2014

Save Me If I Fall

I didn’t have a fridge for fifteen days or whatever but now I have one.  It’s buck naked on the inside.  I haven’t seen buck naked fridge guts in probably six years.  It feels like a new beginning. Like an empty house.  I feel like I’m going to ‘move in’ to my fridge.  OH THE POSSIBILITIES!  I want to rearrange things. Put things where they never were before.  Maybe I’ll put beer on the top shelf and maybe I’ll use the ‘luncheon meat drawer’ for salad dressings or butter.  Really ‘mix it up’.  But first I have to go grocery shopping.  All I have are canned goods and canned goods don’t need to be refrigerated. 

Ice is a luxury. 

When changing the standard placement of items in my fridge is ‘really mixing it up’ you can only imagine how exciting my life must be.


A nice person wrote a REALLY nice review of Billie the Bull, a chapbook the world forgot about before it had time to be remembered.


In a quieter house I walk around in faux-silk.  Perhaps nylon.  It's black. It cost ten dollars.  I can afford ten dollar babydolls and nine dollar sex toys.  It’s been hot in So. Cal.  Faux-silk babydoll hot.  Ponytail hot.  Buttcrack, underboob sweat hot.  I keep windows open at night, turn the fan on, toss and turn.  Heat is a nervous mother.


I wrote a ‘domestic themed’ ‘piece’ for Dogzplot.  You should read all of the pieces by all of the people. Really great stuff. And they are short. Fast. Fast.


I am not really ‘trying’ on this blog post right now.  I’m just typing like a fatso.  Probably wont even ‘edit’ it.  Im tired. This week has been “full”.

Helicopter noise.


When Chef Ramsay fucks me I want him to call me a stupid donkey, a fucking pig, a worthless cunt and a talentless piece of excrement and various other things that mean I am useless while he is totally getting off on all of my holes. 


The part where my heart is, is here.  It is on a Lazy Susan.  It spins to three plates.  The Chinese restaurant guy keeps filling up the Lazy Susan with all kinds of dishes and the Lazy Susan gets too full.  There are plates filled with every sort of dish; Peking Duck, potstickers, Mongolian Beef, Cashew Chicken, Turtle in Hot Pot, Chef Special Chow Mein, Chef Special Lo Mein, Garlic Green Beans, Ma Po Bean Curd, Lemon Chicken, Hot and Sour Soup, Sliced Pork with Bean Curd, Five Spice Pork, Duck Wang in Portugal Sauce, Twice-Cooked Hot Nutsack, Spicy Beef Turd, Fried Semen Cunt Dick, Orange Pork Chicken Beef Tofu, Secular Jewish African Spaniards, Dumb Dumplings in Curry Noodle Thai Chorizo Weightless Butthole Fuckoff…all stacked precarious.  All steaming and tipped.  A tower of food and it spins and stops, spins and stops and all the food wants to be eaten but the Lazy Susan is a bitch.  Probably because of all the years of being called ‘lazy’.  That’s not very nice.  Like this ‘analogy’.  It’s not very nice.  I don’t know what I mean. I just know that there is a beautiful photograph in my heart and it makes me feel like more than ive ever been and I don’t know what to do with that. And it’s a two-sided dagger without handles and there isn’t too much blood on the floor yet, but there’s some and it’s pretty and I want to touch it.



p.s. im a worthless human being.  Wanna be punch-fucked or pissed on fucked or both or some. Just kidding!  I love my dad and my dad loves me!!!



September 06, 2014

This Week: A Lesson In Discomfort

This week was supposed to be a ‘fresh start’ but it began by being a ‘rotten start’ because my fridge stopped working and all the things in the fridge melted and rotted and I had to throw them away soggy and wet.  It was like trashing dollar bills. 

Sadness.

You don’t realize how vital your refrigerator is until you don’t have it.  It is where you get ice to cool your drinks and it is where you get cold, filtered water.  It is where you keep your produce and dairy items and meat items.  When you go work out and you come home sweaty and dying for some cool refreshment it is no bueno drinking a glass of cool tap water, let me tell you!.  It is like a kick in the balls.  I dare you to try it. Nobody will do this.  It’s the opposite of sanity. 

I tried to salvage some things like eggs, tortillas, bacon and beer (important) by putting them into a cooler with ice.  Outside of the beer, everything got really soggy and every time I ate an egg I wondered if I would get sick.  I googled things about “room-temperature freshness”.  I ate cans of soup for lunch but I only had two, so the other two days I scrambled some eggs with Spam.  I didn’t get sick, but I also didn’t have any ketchup or Sriracha to put on the concoction because those “died in the fire.” 

At work we have the “stairs of death.” They are made of marble and I always knew I would fall on them one day.  Thursday was that day.  “Luckily” I fell up the stairs and not down them.  My right knee took the brunt.  It has two areas of blackness now; the area under my knee has a fist sized bruise and on the top right of my knee there is a bruise that is deceptively small-shaped like an arrowhead.  The small-shaped bruise is the hurtiest.  Even when I was doing nothing it hurted.  Today it felts better.  I said ‘felts better’ on purpose. That’s not a typo.  I wanted to say it that way because I like how that sounds right now. Right at this moment.  “Felts better”

My work doesn’t have any ice packs.

Then, yesterday at 4:30 when I was at work I sat down at my desk and my pants split.  I heard a truly comical ‘pants ripping’ sound in tandem with me sitting on my chair.  I smiled.  I reached under my ass and felt my underwear-clad ass cheek. I smiled and sort of silently laughed to myself.  From what I could feel, my pants had ripped from the bottom of my right ass cheek, up alongside my right pants pocket, to almost the waistband of my jeans.  My officemate noticed my weird facial expression and started asking me “What?” What?!” and I told her and it became a ‘hubub’ and word spread about my humorous predicament and it was pretty funny if I do say so myself. 

I wrapped a spare sweater I keep at the office around my waist as soon as it turned five oclock.

I came home and the house was hot. This whole week it’s been hot.  It’s been an emotional week with lots of heart-turmoil for various things but mostly one thing.  It’s like my heart took up crossfit and now it’s all ‘brainwashed in the cult of crossfit’ and I’m like, ‘when did I sign up for this?!?!’ and my heart is all, ‘you were always enrolled but the classes didn’t start until mid-year’ and I’m like, ‘fuucckkk this sucks, but THESE ABS THO!”  So last night, when I came home, all I wanted for my sore kneeheart and hotsweat face and exposedasscheek was a super cold dark beer beverage.  I felt ‘owed’ this beverage.  I felt I ‘deserved’ such a beverage.  But in my current world, what you feel you should get and what you want is not exactly what you are going to get. 


And, as apropos, I didn’t.




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August 28, 2014

Come Pick Me Up

I look for you in the 140 characters.  You're usually always there.  A ticker-tape heartbeat visual pulse I can check to make sure you are breathing. I’m always checking. I’m like Santa. I’m like Santa Claus.

Ho

Ho

Ho

There are never enough words, are there?  I mean, there ARE enough words but none of them can bridge that gap, can they?  None of them are airplanes.  None of them true healers.  They are only Band AidsTM   Look, I will type words now:  face, hands, arms, tattoos, breath, blankets, gin, valet tickets, room service, surfboardt.  These words mean things and these words are beautiful but these words don’t do shit, Sherlock.  They just look back into brown eyes from this black screen and masturbate that tender heart for maybe one minute.  Two if I’m lucky.

Useless.

I can type words all day.  And I will.  And I do.  I will toss these words around like drunks tossing midgets at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day.  I will connect words together and add some punctuation.  I will hit the space bar and the enter key a multitude of times.  I might even use a few emoticons.  You know, to add “flavor” and “personality.”  I try to be a charmer.  I will sign my name. Maybe some exes and ohs. I will type in an email address that will auto-fill because my gmail knows where I send most things.  I will hit send and I will refresh until I get bold back.  Then I will do it all again.

Useless.

Distance is a bitch and a fuckface.  My life is its twin sister.  Try to help someone who lives so many miles away by typing words.  It’s hysterical.  It’s a fucking joke.

But I will do my best because I can’t not do it. 


I will do my best because I have to.






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August 21, 2014

Life Raft

I will say his name: Hoops McGee.  His name out loud.  Some call him Bowman.  These are the words I can identify.  I call him Pops.  I’ve called him pops since I got here.  I needed a touchstone. He’s not my dad.  He’s who I go to when I am shattering.

You’d go to him too if you needed like I need.  He’s got a light.  This morning a young white man asked for inspiration, or at least I thought that’s what he said, or maybe I pretended, so I gave him Hoops.  I said, “Find yourself a bow-legged black man wearing a red t-shirt and jeans, brown suspenders, bright yellow headphones.  See this black man bopping down the sidewalk, lost in music.  There is your inspiration.”  There is Hoops.

I talk with Pops while he’s barbequing.  He stands over the sizzle and sputter, one elbow pointed, hand on his waist the other hand poking with his prongs, keeping the charred men in line.  Despite the overwhelming heat, he only sweats just enough.  I keep waiting for the sweat to cross over, flood his face like a girl who can’t hold back her tears any longer but it never comes to pass.

Bowman pokes and listens, pokes and listens.  He never says anything until I am finished even though the tale is redundant and crazy.  I can’t see his eyes through his sunglasses and I like it that way.  I like talking into the meat-smell and smoke.

“This place,” I say.  “This place is not where I came from and it’s not where I thought I was going and now that I’m here, I’m so lost.”

This is when Hoops nods.  Says, Mmm hmmm.

“I was walking along the road, the same road I’ve always walked.  Walked that road for 33 years or more, then BAPOW!!!  I end up here.”  I change the sound word every time and yell it loud and every time Pops jumps, laughs.

“Pops, I don’t know what ‘here’ is.  It’s the best place I’ve ever been, Pops, but it’s also the worst.  It’s upside down backwards and slanted. There’s the pain that comes up in the night, there’s the other pains that stab in the daytime. I’m not sure how everything works, how to get by… but its pure joy seeps into every pore in me!  How can that be, Pops?  How can a place be the greatest and the awfullest at the same time?”

Bowman stabs a roasty chunk, lifts it towards his face, tilts his head, puts it back.

I hang my head for a little, thinking of what I’m going to say next even though I know exactly what I’m going to say.

“I don’t know how to get out of here, Pops.  First of all, there’s no way in Hell I can go back.  This place is everything I’ve ever wanted, even with the hurt.  How can I go back after I’ve lived in such a Heaven?  I’d rather rip my soul away.  I can’t go forward because I don’t know the way; it’s that labyrinth, you know, the one past the mill that lays across Mount Truth, the one with the Poison Dragons. I’m scared I won’t make it, that I won’t get out alive.  But I can’t stay here, it’s killing me!”

Pops starts flipping the meat.  This is always the part where he flips the meat and this is always the part where I start crying.

“I don’t know what to do, Pops.”

That’s when Hoops puts down his prongs, takes off his sunglasses and dips his head just enough to make some of the sweat droplets join together to make big ones that then go sliding down his brown skin.  That’s when he tells me what he always tells me.  It has the same lingering beats, the same cadence and pause.  It feels thick with wisdom.  Pops delivers it to me like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so and maybe he has.  I’m not sure.

I keep hoping that one day I’ll finally be able to understand their language and Pops’ words will all make sense and I’ll know what I should do.  But right now it’s all gibberish. 

Pops hugs me with a dad’s strength and I walk away feeling a little bit better and I hold on to that little bit better for as long as it takes which isn’t very long and that’s why I go back the next day and the next day and the next thinking, today will be the day it’ll all make sense and I’ll know exactly what I should do.  But until that time, I’m going to hold on to the heaven through the pain because it’s worth it.  It’s my life raft.



August 09, 2014

The Game

Baker hid under the coffee table.  Contorted himself into a small oval.  Destiny didn’t find him until last but when she did it took him seven minutes to get out of there.  The coffee table wasn’t big enough to hold two large pizzas let alone cover a beast like Baker, but it did and we were astounded. 

“He’s missing some bones,” Hank said. 

“Obvs,” said Destiny.

Nobody helped him.  We were all too busy laughing while filming his struggle.

“This shit’s going on my YouTube,” Destiny said.

I got found first so it was my turn, pissed because it was a dent against my record.  I went into the bathroom, counted to 33, I left the light off; it made the transition into the black hotel room pain free.  Dark to dark.  Easy on the eyes.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

I could hear giggles and scrambling.  I let it waft and settle before I went out.

I crept quiet in my socks, impressed at their silence.  One room harboring four adults hiding in the darkness should give off more sound than what was lacking around me.  But this was the game.  This was how we played it.

I saw Destiny first; this bulbous shadow lying across the top of the small couch.  I filed the knowledge, she was It last time. I wanted to get Baker.  He was getting too good.

Instead I kicked Hank.  He was lying behind the drapes. 

“Mother FUCK Ashley!  That was my dick!”

“I didn’t mean it, Hank! I was just checking the dang drapes!”

“You need to kiss it, make it better.”  I could hear his smile in the darkness.  I could see it too; his green eyes glinting all mischievous-like, his little snaggle-tooth peeking out from his lips like a scout.

Hank was a total baby, especially when it game to the game.

He crawled out from under the drapes careful not to let the light in.  We got the side of the hotel where the sign was.  A bright flashy, announcement of where we were staying.  We had requested a room on the other side of the hotel, but we were late arrivals and there was nothing available. Bad luck.  For the game, anyway.

I tip-toed around until I found Baker, lying under the pillows at the top of the bed.  Then I got Destiny who then boasted about her great hiding place on top of the couch.  I didn’t tell her she was the first one I spotted. I let the sad girl have her moment.  She was our worst player.

We put the lights up and drank a little more, laughed a little more at Baker under the coffee table.

“Okay,” Hank asked, “ready?”

We put our drinks down and stood while he got himself into the bathroom and closed the door, shutting the lights before the slam.

While we’d been drinking I’d been eyeing a place next to the closet.  Baker had his black duffle on this little luggage stand and I figured I could bend myself around it, rainbow-like, and blend into it, morphed.  So, that’s where I went as soon as the door closed.  I didn’t follow the others.  I had a record to keep.

The scrambling was quiet this time.  No giggles from Destiny, no lumbering creaks and clunks from Baker.  This round felt serious.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

The bathroom door opened loud and I kept my breathing at barely.  My spot was in the annex to the left of the door, in the small entryway.  If he chose to search there first, I could be toast. 

Luckily, he went right.  A bigger space meant more hiding places.  Hank had the worst strategy.

Of course he found Destiny first.  She had tucked herself onto a chair.  Sitting there like some sort of Golden Retriever. He found Baker next but it was after a long while wherein Hank must’ve hit his shin against a couple things from the sound of his yelps and cussing.  I’d find out afterwards that Baker had Spiderman-wedged himself up the wall-corner, one foot balanced on top of a small end table.  This spot and the coffee table would go down as part of the game’s history.  We’d talk about it in the years to come, and then later at Baker’s funeral.  Shaking our heads with laughter, eyes wet with tears.

Hank found me last.  When his hands caressed the arc of my back in the dark, I kept still.  I wanted him to do it again. 


He did.


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