Thursday, June 16, 2011
My Shrink Says Hers Went Up Like a Dream
I want a man who isn’t afraid to circle me
on a form. There’s a line through the trees, jerk it
or make me a better offer or thank you for looking.
A tribe can migrate only so far without sticks
and a proven method. You can’t count on anything
to combust when you need it to. Not these days, nope.
Tents are hard to put up. Don’t you find that it’s hard
when you’re trying to put up a tent? I do. I think tents
are really hard. I’d rather do almost anything than have
genital measles in a tent. Tents fucking suck, man.
Look, all I’m trying to say here so you know who I am
and where I’m coming from is that I’m passionate
about a lot of things and putting up tents is one of them.
I have the desire. I have the moxy. I have the instructions.
Why can’t the tent just behave predictably like in the diagram?
They make these diagrams in China or India or Ohio.
How am I supposed to work with that? I want it to work,
really. I’ve been trying to deal with this tent thing for years
but I can’t get past some emotional or physical blockage or maybe
I’m just too nice. It’s like tents don’t want anything to do with me.
I have friends who have had the same tent for, like, fifteen,
twenty years without ever having a problem. That’s the kind
of tent I’m looking for. The one perfect tent for me. I believe
it’s possible and I have the anger necessary to make this work.
If you can relate then maybe we belong in a tent together?
I just got out of a tent I was in for almost ten years. Today, I started
leaning on angry looking Spaniards. shh. Last month, I took up salting
peoples’ wounds. I salivate too easily. I keep a single snail in my boot
(metaphorically speaking), and cook upwards of a billion meals a minute.
I can survive without astrologers, storm troopers, or fruitarian death squads…on occasion.
I collect new ideas and weave them into things you can use to make your life more bearable. If you want to woo me, try feeding me to rock stars. I’m a sort of thoroughbred savant, ridden hard and put up wet until I corrected my altitude.
All fascinating ideas make me drivel; fantasies about the future of rock stars I’ve not been flown through yet. But am I the fog or the instruments? A rock star’s dog might develop a complex formula for flying me blind without my ever knowing it. The formula might save millions of lives he could then go and snuff on TV. All when he could have flown over the bank in the first place! Flying through fog is safer than you think. Flying on instruments is a skill like playing Smoke on the Water. A dog that gifted can still elevate me just by sending adipose roadies with apologetic powders I can reinterpret as something someone with a chord and no columnar makeup might even (not possibly) remember.
Just scattergun all those imaginary adoring vibes my way. Are you ready, open and available for bar mitzvahs on zero notice? Break out in arrested bumps at the suggestion of a deeply loving and committed term of zero distance conjunctiva? Do you step up to the plate when things start to get foodier? You love intellectual pursuits, murder, and the Ohio Arts. The orders are immaterial, you died in the charts then were freed to make live infant mandalas for a system of deforestation of the mind.
If you’re mine you learn everything from the dead. Bellini once said, “The only slang worth its weight in one night stands is the slang you create yourself while creating yourself killing things.” Extra decorations if you pretend to understand the ramifications of negation of the self in the pursuit of a series of perpetually more accessible rungs. There’s booty at the bottom of the well, are you my Dear Liza Everyman? Unsure of your place in the KOA/KKK regulations as to what may be gunned or released?
Sidenote: I have a full head matte black nictitating hood that makes almost anything probable.
You have a deep affinity for integrity, and honesty. You have earned the privilege of deep connection in relationship.
This is incomprehensible code I will now translate for the benefit of anyone whose cardiac chart is written on voice of a generation replica stationary:
You look sporty in floods. You once swept a woman off her feet by swinging a knockoff Thai explorer at the weak spot not yet on her knee. You have impressed yourself mightily by sloshing through the miasma with your metalflake face intact. You are a stone cold testifier and fruit doesn’t even stick to your crewcut. You spell self declared giants when they need smack breaks. The title of your autobio is Fizzle Slovenia: My Life as a One Horse Pump. There’s a microscopic flaw in your mintage, makes you worth ten to twenty percent of anything under two cents’ face value. You are a mandala, a picture of something intended to be swept away and replaced by itself when it feels like it. You are dead, in a way, but not too dead and mine in the senses that you bought my patent on sand babies and because you feel like it.
The Thrills That Gives Me the Joys:
What gives me the joys?
Women who get vanished in small towns.
A woman called up by a visual error.
Comfortable raunch in the workplace.
The new biopsy bra by Vicky.
A by the numbers oil of HIM as a bottle of notes on a lee shore.
The hammer and pegs a failed hippie might wear.
The reversal of the inverse color of nothing.
Walking while texting.
Texting while eating.
Eating while walking on your text.
Talking over text being read while I’m eating.
And it comes out here.
Articulating the trumpet in my jeans.
Practical mechanics applied to my innermost desires and being
harmlessly incapable of sluttiness except in the strictest sense.
Sensual things in liquid suspension.
Sex in the wake of an undisclosed agreement.
(Sex is the car you want, a dog is the car you get.)
There’s no place I wouldn’t take you, (including wakes, assassinations in the country, other assignments in the country, driving to the country to the farmer's markets to gather herbs and take them home to the country, gardening in the nude, gardening in the new police state, on top of a jagged spicerack, while cooking you or for you, while exercising my franchise to elect to read the same outside as inside, in the middle of the decomposition of my childhood Babar, destroying tents for special occasions, before, during and after ice shopping, into a blanked field as art)
I do it all for you:
Intellectual things you can think about in a tent.
New ideas for tent design.
Chasing intellectual ideas about how to design better, more efficient portable camping shelters. Learning some things then forgetting them so we can learn them again together then forget them while practicing tantric his and her tent sex at opposite ends of the galaxy in tents.
Becoming all new and debuting unchanged this weekend.
Learning to let go and teaching it to my tent.
Taking courses in tent management.
I possess the purity of knowledge of a canvas enclosure whose sole
intention is to keep my destiny from cluttering up my view.
For you I will blow a former arrested rock star.
Only for you will I imitate engagement with the word.
In my desire to please you I will initiate leaden silences.
Rock stars who go in for thinking make me nuts in the jeans.
As a favor to our future I will pretend not to notice that
I’m thinking again.
I’ll embrace good conversation until you speak.
I like being close to another, but you’ll certainly have to suffice until the semester is over
and the bus with the airbrushed plaid skull fragment comes to ride me. it hasn’t happened yet.
But companionship is like a companionway on a ship: too narrow for more than one to enjoy,
too low for anything meatless, too airless to care much what it fills with as the forward
compartment sinks below the horizon in your Space Needle sno-globe.
I don’t know about you but I’m feeling really connected! Feels like I’m loving some
form of organism that looks hot in airbrushed plaid Bermudas and flip flops.
And you? Are you feeling that I’m making someone feel as loved as I am? Feeling
like I am, and having secured a part in the chorus of Unchain the Morning Senseless,
I’m reminded of the story of Georgette, and the spot the largest one was tied to.
Having said that, with that said, at the end of the day, and going for it.
Dreaming of one more gold star reacharound with that mini-dicked eschatological Ziz
in the footnote.
The tent in my beckoning throat…the fading of the appointment’s relevance…
the braised panda we had on that first unforgettable mystery cruise to Domino’s…
how the butler’s kilt never fully relaxed…contributing to a grittier sense of the whole.
How like the air the air seems.