Saturday, July 30, 2011
My Me-ness Made Squeezy
I was born between a wringer and a treaty.
You know the type, they used them for torturing
the dirt out of things. Maybe that isn’t the right word.
Maybe objects d’art of seduction. Maybe trouser psychic.
I’ve decided to leave this space in a blank expanse.
This tells you I’m a great deal as just me as this person already.
As in I’m this person you don’t even already know too well to possess
the necessary lack of understanding to choose when saying no to sex
between saying “to you” or “with you”.
The fact that I inadvertently broke a treaty in saying so tells you more.
Sorry about that, treaty people. So sorry Treaty Man.
Feel free to stop converting your children at any time!
Personally, though, I don’t think simple tendernesses are healthy
snacks. I like eggs, they come from the ground, and everything
in the ground is beautiful…
until it’s seen by someone ugly.
Hats Again (and not the last of)
There was this awning once with a big rip right along the edge
and a man on the roof was working with heavy machinery
while the wheelchair children played right underneath him.
But I can be serious, too, when the situation calls for it.
I'm a collage. I’m made of sharp bits of refuse, I don’t profess to know each
bit or its ultimate purpose in me or tetanus risk, but there’s a plan on a sticky
somewhere, probably underground or in a safe deposit box in a satellite universe
bowling emporium west of the Sixgun Star, way way way up in outer space
where we’ll all be safe in love one day and without being able to give you a tongue
bath and the details simultaneously, let me assure you it's freaking awesome.*
*But I would say that. I've been on a diet of leaves and twigs found in the treads
of my shoes for a year.
I could tell you what I reach for in “those” moments, but maybe it's more fun to ask
that you guess with the blade swinging closer to your you know. It would be cool
if someone thought I were capable, but threatening is, for me, also a form of teaching.
I think of fear in the same chair I use when I think of chemistry while making up new
recipes for stew, the difference depends on your upbringing or the sun in your eyes
or a writ of something. Or something.
I also write.
I’m writing this now.
But now I’m writing something entirely other.
Even the color is not the same and your Glaucoma’s getting serious.
How well we function as a diorama of the battle of Frankenberry Ridge will depend
entirely on how willing you are to invert your belief system for me. Then we’ll
procreate, then we’ll see about twister. Which is what I am doing today.
But you are the cart and I am the horse and I hope you don’t think you can see
any specific long range possibilities in that relative positioning.
*I have a "doctor" in my name, but he isn’t fully paid off. I only use him on weekends
here and there but I only answer the phone when it doesn’t ring for at least two days
so there’s much to learn, like that and the ankle restraints, when my nurse is not around.
(which is, uh, never.)
I wish I could change it, because it's ridiculous, and I only did what I did because he called
me in airplane mode. I’m old enough to know what that means. I asked "Mr. Noodles" what
to do but his voice box wasn't available. But I can't say I didn’t enjoy the trip to Macroland, or even the bus ride back in the mask, and if that's a deal-breaker for you, well…
maybe someone just dodged a silver bullet.
I’m really resemblances
Some guy in the park just told me I look like someone someone might have loved once.
Once some guy in the park told me I looked like Princess Leia with my hair up (I didn't have the side burns then) but that's not really something I'm "good" at, is it?
Some guy in the park told me, yesterday, that I would meet some guy in the park
and he would tell me something wonderful about this city. I gave him my favorite hat.
The next guy that came by said I looked just like Princess Leia only a hat would make
the illusion complete. I have too many children. Most of their wheelchairs are painted
school bus yellow. I want them to feel driven to learn. I want them to beat their fathers.
For a long time, my stupider twin had a section of her skull reversed so people could tell
when it was time for spaghetti. She recently had it returned to its original orientation.
Now we don’t seem to have anything left to talk about.
Skill has a way of wearing you down. I’ve been living with a few things, as many as possible
men, though this is constantly changing. How can I be sure when I move back to the States after being in Lockdownia for five years that no one will have done anything without me?
All my past obsessions fit in five recyclable boxes and two order of protection cases. Now that I’m the nest itself, people keep giving me bits of foil, gum wrappers, undigested meat, like I’m the one who dropped in from a cloaking hoverer. Or flubbed the hand-off on fourth and goal.
So I need an extra box or two. I just told a cat to go to hell. Can cats even hear? In space?
What else? I think I have a nice singing voice. Like a wheel of original cheese hand tainted
by shirtless mastodons while a Belgian girl called Minimal Telecast cuts herself with a personal tank then I get told I am a lovely kisser.
But everyone gets to judge for themselves, don't they?
The first is the one you always forget the nicest
According to the staff at the coffee shop where I like to write “I’ll Drink Anything” on the stall
dividers, the first thing people notice about me is how "animated" my face is. They told me when it's slow it looks like a face going really slow and when they take turns watching me
suck on my iced coffee stirrer they become a groupthink strobe light. Apparently I get a cartoon nosejob from everything I see.
A book is a gift for Everett Sloane
“Welcome home, Mister Kane!” Well...any book with arrows that go, "look HERE, stupid" is okay by me. I tend to like the ethical stuff. Or "Wait, isn't this illegal? You have to stand in front of it to get why it's mind-blowing." Really, it's better as a story. Tortured girl received by a bunch of nineteen year-olds. Predictable. If you don't love old guys playing darts on bikes, or funny as fuck peep shows, I will give you your money back. Really.
I’ll watch television until they stop showing it. But I kind of don't want to talk about music in a roomful of dudes, that feels like a sucker's game or a math headache that stops your heart on flute. Like requiems when they bust out.* I've been reading a lot about concepts, and how these concepts are shit. It's for work.
*Wow to the prophecy, not to the fact that I just used YouTube as a verb.
Six dates of curing bacon
After some nervous mail from men, I feel compelled to say the list below is only meant to lower a roman shade, to fake you into thinking Extreme Dating is not some hobby of mine.
It's why I bought these steel gags from a comic shop in Saliva.
1. See Who Finishes First Date. Kind of like Bone-in Flight Club or Nipples, Italian Style.
2. Weird Foot Robbery Date. We steal each other’s feet in Chinatown. Similar to Antidepressant Roulette, but with massages. And in Chinatown. I would do the abnormal with you, but if someone else made me laugh, I would do it with them.
3. The Books Are a Bus Without Brakes! Date. This is a trick where you pick five books you think your date would steal like feet with the built-in expectation you'll be in separate cells. Only applies if the chemistry section is the only section not being mopped. Hilarity or etcetera ensues, etc.
4. The OH GOD WHY MUST I GET SHY NOW? Date.
5. The Nude First Date Date. We color in coloring books and drink hot chocolate. Technically, this date does not belong on the list.
6. The Sushi Date. This date is a euphemistic bowl of gazpacho with or without an idiot.
Most pleasant dates are idiotically themed, but dinner is nice and it’s too hot to eat anyone else, maybe Barry White or one of the Smith Brothers, who I’d happily eat again. But really, I'll eat pretty much anyone. Except Chow Yun Fat in a bun. A friend had him once, and said it was wack.
7. The Iced Coffee Transfusion Date. It makes up 97 percent of the blood stream already, so what's another emergency between strangers? Preferably in the best park in New York. Although I can be talked into going to the other one. I’ll meet you there now, I’m already here, how’s your day looking? Can you see a park from where you wish you were at?
Now change it into a party with hats. Now take your hat off.
I can see the party you’re thinking I’m thinking of
Right now? I'm thinking about throwing a Party in Iran. And the 2011 Arab Spring Break Uprising Gone Wild in my Netflix queue. Uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria and so forth. I'm thinking a lot about “uprisings”. And, of course, so forth.
In a different part of my brain I'm Venus. I’m mulling over two really interesting parades. Then I’m a critical patient. Then a racist sex pervert in exile. Cuz I get high on modernist arcs. Then I’ve gone totally primitive, savage, intellectual, modern. Like having lives as a second career. Like rejecting all beauty as Nico. Now I am about to be running. Now you are. I’m standing still in quotes, but you’re still pointed at the wrong park. Everything that doesn’t
happen doesn’t happen for a reason.
Where can I get a chimpanzee butler?
O! The times I’ve had on my watch
I was a thirteen year old named Jenny Xacto Knife. Then I was French
with spigots, draining my perfume to sell outside the will call at the annual
Grand Antithesis. Every time I read this phrase, that Loverboy song pops
into my head.
I can't be the only one experiencing this.
Then we came to the final oyster
I started Biting Hotdog Yoga in earnest this past January, and to my surprise, I'm really enjoying my lunches these summer months. But critics are definitely right: Biting Hotdog
can get really rank. More often than not, the studio smells like an old man's bitten hotdog.
Not that I would know.
Sometimes, when I am procrastinating, I look at profiles and mark men as 'favorites,' with genius notes like, "He's cute." But when the system asks if I want to share the information, I say no, because well, you know. And then I wonder if men are doing the same thing on their computers, and whether I'm on their lists, and if so, how we will ever meet, since neither of us will initiate contact with the other, and how that is a bit sad. Sad like a clown on Sunday morning. Or puppies in POW camps. Or me on the most romantic bench in the park alone with my hotdog, reeking of decomposition and Aqua Velva.
But then I go back to wondering what it would be like to be in Destiny's Child.
I’m looking for the answers to the questions you’ve already eaten
So, what am I looking for in a man? That’s a question.
So is who killed Buckwheat. One you can look up online. The other you’ll just have to ask
the morning after when it’s too late to not already have paid for the privilege of your
continuing ignorance. If you’d like to say hello, I suppose now would be the time, before
I’ve thought of the only possible answer.
Or it’s an idiot.
Youth of nation say, “Shout this semaphore, gasbag!”
You'd like to say hello, Anyway. And you believe that’s really my name.
And I suppose you think I'm cute, because that's how we sort the field hands
from the eggs they’re torturing out of the ground, right? The workers from
the queens, National Socialist Poultry Council board members from Nifty
Tube Sock Trick Practitioners, Inc. employee of the century, Orville Wilbur Edison Bell
the Second. The gatekeepers from their jobs.
Note: Okay, after a weak looking suit I made in Photoshop, I changed my entire fashion
statement to, “I have a dream.” I’m trying to expand my color palette. Stripes make
everything look either fatter or less fat, right? I’m sticking with putting myself in spots.
Next I need to add a caveat.
If the purpose of a note in a bottle is to let me know about your enormous predicament,
or how desensualized you became after the closed head injury, and/or your objective is
that farmhouse eight clicks east along the border of Free Range and Canadian Ham,
or you want to move to a phone , live in it and become our own contacts together.
or Siberia is only a sex position you read about in Premature Cart Fancier’s Monthly,
meet me in any park at dusk and I’ll waste my last best kiss helping you get into my flesh without the trouble of a surface encounter. There have been some I’ve bloviated but
I’ve seen that and I'm not feeling that. Likewise, if you have the words "failed to recognize disc" tattooed on any part of yourself, you've got the wrong tentative woman. And that's not because I’m the wrong tentative woman. It’s because I can't be dishwasher safe. And because I was burned in a cradle warehouse fire. It's really, though, because I won't be exercising for at least six weeks, and that is a quality no one can get around, except maybe your wife.
So, and to recap, and in conclusion, and summing up, and recorroborating the evidence,
and reiterating, and rehitting the high spots, and reviewing the troops until they’re ready
to go into labor as brain detached as a sunset by Max Factor: I like talking surgeons to death, I like strangers eating me out of house and friends eating me outside of the group home, and I love getting email delivered by hand, but the only kind of sex I like (and boys I like it with)
is otherwise impossible to be reattached until cryogenics has advanced significantly.
Individuals I choose to meet, and dig eggs with, and give email handiwork to in person?
I have to say no to your exceptional skill at clearing me of my bar.
I’m glad my car has anti-stop brakes.