march 24th

I dreamt last night that I could fly. One of the best sentences in any language. I did. And it was different from the flying dreams I used to have as a child, even the best ones, because I knew the source of how to do it. I brought energy from the earth deep in through my calves and then used my mind to fly. And when others saw me and asked how, I showed them how.

dis guyyy

He said that women to him were like a mania. Infectants of the mind. That the simple shrug of one could reprogram his entire prerogative and change the complexion of what would have comfortably been an entire day. And he said to her maybe it wasn't just women, maybe that was unfair, maybe it was the whole enterprise of love.

Love, he thought that love, prolonged beyond the necessary-baby-making-4year-biological-contract was probably just an integral product for the powers-that-be to sell to people in conjunction with whatever it is that the powers-that-be may be selling the masses on all the time through out the course of human history. he told her,

baby just cuz you haven't destroyed me yet, doesn't mean I'm indestructible.

her and her

They liked all the same shit that they could tell no one else about. Teasing the delivery guy. Inviting the delivery guy inside themselves. Bringing the delivery guy close to climax then sending him back out onto his route. Only to invite him in again and finish it all in sweat and laughing glory. They liked watching each other come. She thought that she was prettier than her. She thought that she was prettier than her. But they were both pretty.

They told one another things that they didn't feel like telling everyone else. She would talk about this bad thing that happened to her once in a forest when she was young. She whispered about moments of her life heavily decorated with loss. She said that loss was like lazy Christmas lights that didn't come down until a couple months before they were to be strung back up. The other one said that while everyone else saw a carousel, she just saw the first thing that had ever trampled her. Then they held each other like shivering snow survivors and by morning were again like hot coals.

They went to Paris together. She knew a rich old man who liked to be treated like scum. He would give them his credit card and tell them to buy whatever they'd like but that was his only demand.  He wanted them to walk around his apartment ignoring him. He wanted them to berate him like a dog when they caught him in their panty drawer. He said all the neglect made him feel cared about. Quickly, they grew bored. Not just as part of the act. They grew bored and they left, burning everything they'd bought with his card in one of the palatial fireplaces. It was a fair way for all parties to say goodbye.

They were a hello. The way they kept speed together by travelling to remote island countries and living on ten bucks a day with dirty hair and clothes. It became a game, who could get dirtier. It never ceased to amaze them the attention they would still get from men and women alike. The pungent smell of filth would become a deep fuel. Then they'd stumble across a stream, watering hole, ocean and jump in. One afternoon it rained. They were on a motorscooter and after pulling it off to the side of the road began climbing up through jungle. She always trusted her intuition.

They arrived at pools of pristine jungle water clearer than anything ever before seen in the light. It was splendid the way it foretold places and experiences in this Universe that were waiting, are waiting, to be touched. Waiting to be recognized. Calling to us even as we sit and stare oblivious. And sometimes if lucky it helps to have a partner in crime. And sometimes if lucky we arrive at one of these places and moments in time where our souls get smacked and grabbed and awoken and told the significant secret that involves learning and knowing and adventuring as much as our human energy will allow and then more more more all these unexplored perfections are begging us to break down their doors. Everything we can portend, imagine, fail to grasp wants to become known.

They felt lucky to have known a moment in these forms together, their breasts touching beneath the enchanted waters and basic atomic fields equally grateful to briefly contain them like a painting in a museum with their ever blossoming hearts

words learned

I was merely a boy when they tore the skin from the body of life. Red, like Mars. They compared the matter beneath the epidermis to the color of that similar planet.

I have become obsessed with memory. I keep wanting to tend to it. But not live in it. There is a difference. They appear like stories now, the memories, and I do not want them to be forgotten or lost.

I was merely a boy when they lifted the giant man from the soils of Earth. Like a root vegetable, by his hair. I watched as they slayed the giant. Reports were scattered, but I know what I saw. They slayed the giant because it was opportune for simple glory. But I saw his eyes and they were kind.

I knock on wood. I am racked by worry. I get these crippling moments of worry. So I knock on wood. I breathe. I pray. I knock on wood.

I was merely a boy when I spied a naked woman washing her white dog in Eden. Its dirty fur worked through by her hands with soap and water. She knelt on her knees and it licked at her while she tended to the creature. I was behind a bush when her eyes found mine, her lips curled, locks of mane glowing.

I go on. The days become sweeter. The days are an undeniably ripe fruit. The days slow motion fall back to reveal night, like spread legs. Enter me, they say. Enter me say the nights. So I do. Worry. Gratitude. Uncertainty. Courage to leave behind the crepuscular sadness for brave treasure in the darkness.

I was merely a boy the day I awoke into the body of a man. How lovely. That I am here today, he noted.

the young horses

I want to be an old man. Not now. But someday. I want to spend my mornings working in a garden. I want to spend my afternoons at a cafe in a foreign city. And I want to indulge my memory like it's a spoiled grandchild. I'll think about the women. Every single detail I can remember. And the rest I will imagine to be a pleasurable fiction. At night, I will in all likelihood be sad. And that will be a perfectly paired wine to go with: Remembering the years of plump grapes. Squashed and,
fermented
and
you once told me
that it's all beautiful
and I agreed
cuz,
 you were beautiful.

Transmissions pt I

You are in such a rush for your own Universe darling. I implore you to begin with a Galaxy first. Hear me out. I simply would like to see if you are responsible enough to take care of your own Galaxy to start. You know Daddy will give you whatever you want. You know I will. But remember that time you wanted your own crater on the moon filled with all those space ponies? Should I remind you who got you the biggest available hole the moon still had to offer and those nearly endless hordes of majestic creatures my dear? The space ponies were so adorable cantering around that crater in mass and initially you thought so too and the lunar glow of your smile was so worth it but then you did quickly grow tired of the crater and them. Remember my dear? Not that money is an issue to Papa but it was indeed quite costly having to find adequate boarding for all of those ponies afterward.

I have never been one for lecturing. I am far too mild-mannered and concerned with living in the super-moment. Yet I do in this case urge caution. Why so? Well, I suppose I should tell you my dear that your own father did once own his own Universe. Yes, it was a long century ago but sometimes when I am alone in my greenhouse pod it feels like yesterday.

I began by soaking in the clusters. They captivated my attention. Then the icy comets and the way their tails sparkled in slow ellipses. Next I began mining metals from planets and space and they - do not get me wrong - turned out to be quite profitable to my amassed fortune. However, then the dark energy began to make itself evident. And I had to pay so much tax to the dark energy. I gave it a cut of my profits. I gave it a cut of my soul. Wow, have you ever bled for a slow weak entity whose structure is necessary for your very empire? It is quite confronting my darling, bleeding for that powerful weak entity. Oh, and then not to mention all the minor incidents like getting my super shuttle stuck in black holes and the waiting for tow shuttles and the feeling of melting and not moving at all and resorting to the meters for time because it was truly lost and never felt for - quite frankly I don't know - periods of what used to be discernible time.

To tell you the truth my dear, I have not felt time in quite some time. And very far from the many moons that speckle our giant super greenhouse pod like those adorable little constellations of freckles on the back of your shoulders--

Darling do not be embarrassed! You may be self-conscious of them but I love your freckles, they are an expression of the Super, a map of the Cosmos. My darling, anyway where was I---

Where was I---

A Calm Quiet Place To Self Destruct by Joshua Turek: an excerpt

George lights up at the notion of recognition. His wife sitting in the driver seat. Hands on the steering wheel but resolute and unmoving. Her face is wincing as much as the surgical procedures will allow. Her eyes letting tears release from ducts all too familiar with the sensation of crying. 

George's anxious outstretched hand arrives to a locked door and the sight of the closed window between him and Pamela. 

She still remains a salvation. The keeper of his identity. A living reflection of his actual life. Proof that despite the seemingly puny and public insignificance, privately, he was here.

"Pamela. You're still here. Thank God! Open the door, sweetie. Could you please open the door, sweetheart?"

"George, I hurt my right ankle. I don't know if I can drive, it might be too tender, but I have to leave you now or I never will!"

"Pamela, please! Can you please roll the window down?"

"You can't change my mind, George. I'm leaving. I'm leaving this marriage. I can't do this anymore, not one second more. It was hip and fun all those years ago when we got married against the grain despite the times or whatever but it feels so old-fashioned now and I grew up super-modern, George, I swear I did. I have to leave you now!"

She says all of this through the glass barrier. Her face pleading like George has never seen it plead before. He can not help but notice that there is something sexy in the desperation and also terribly sad, like the world didn't grow in the spring but instead withered inward during one enormous winter.

"Honey, I know! You don't have to say it. I understand now. I get it. I mean, it's not all palm trees and porno anymore, is it?"

"What? No."

"And love is a momentum more than anything."

Her eyes glimmer, something she recognizes.

"You said that, those were your words. And you were right. And it's weird, because somewhere along the way you get into a routine of living and suddenly the world begins feeling very small."

"As small as this minivan. No! Smaller..."

It is unsettling George, how he can see her and she him and yet because of this glass barrier and safely-sealed-from-the-elements physical encapsulation known as the white minivan, he can not touch with the bare tools of his own humanity, touch Pamela as if his life depended on it. Which, it, in a way, it does.