Dorks

I remember when you found me in that sarcophagus. I was laying in it all decorated in tributes to the afterlife and on display in a museum. My heart was gone. My heart wasn't broken, it was just gone. My heart, it had been taken out during mummification and left on a table in a tomb, eventually misplaced or carried away by rodents.

I used to say the dumbest things to lovers. I was reading an old text conversation. And it made me glad I don't have that lover anymore.

Unrelated, this guy and this girl would video record their sex life together. They had this thing that they both liked. Some would call it entertaining ghosts but it was not. It was something that they both liked. She would paint a picture of them with her finger across space, it would become animate, and then they had to emulate the movements of her creations. When finally their room became an orgy swarm inhabited by enough of the spirit world, she'd ask him to climax on her, always in the same location on her skin. She said it turned her on leaving him on her skin for awhile.

Everyone always says a woman is the one who gives herself during sex because she is the one being entered and it makes so much sense with that logic but why then do I feel exhausted the next day while she gloats amongst me all powerfully, smiling, she is always smiling like an empress witnessing her man's kingdom in brilliant ruins.

I know of these underground tunnels. I know of caves. I followed a huge curvy installation around itself and wanted to be warped by its altering presence and scale. And one time I sat beneath a gigantic table with a girl and we remained like toddlers in their early twenties.

A needy man. There is nothing sadder than a needy man. No one likes a needy man. He arrives. Sits next to her without saying a word. Leans into her fingers on the keyboard. Stops the typing. No one likes a needy man I want to tell him.

And then I dance. I dance. I talk about dancing. I forget about everything and I dance. I woke up this morning feeling like this painting. Like, exalted. Like, I can't explain. My body felt so with me on this journey. My brain was like not problematic in any way, it just wanted me to be happy. It was a splendid way to begin.

what I miss about love

I miss her thigh. I miss it in my right hand. Left hand on the steering wheel and right hand on her thigh in the passenger seat. God damn there is nothing like driving somewhere with your woman's thigh in your hand. Sometimes her thigh would be in jeans and require a bit more effort in the squeeze. Other seasons it was bare beneath hiked up shorts and the true heat of her thigh would suggest all kinds of temptations in my hand and travel quick into my brain and I would have to pat it to hear that silly noise to slow down the fire. But sometimes that playful pat on her thigh would work in reverse and reveal a whole other world of teasing pattering sexiness that would drive us both nuts. I could tell by how her eyes would get all pleasant and slow and lazy. Damn. I miss running my right hand up and down her thigh and fingering all the cartlidge surrounding her knee bone. I miss pulling the car over because my hand kept moving from her knee to her thigh to her heart but stopped at the wetness in between her legs. And I'd be rubbing her and zigzagging all along the freeway and it wasn't as dangerous as texting and driving but it was loving and driving and dangerous in its own right. Her left thigh in my own right, my own right hand, while we headed home.

all the places we argued with smiles underneath

She said if you wanna go stargazing then stare at the sun. And I thought to myself boy she has a way with words. But I had a way with living things so I did. I stared at it, right at it, the sun.

And predictably I went blind.

But twenty years later my vision returned. Like that professor in the obituary today. Only, it didn't happen during cataract surgery, it happened one night while staring at the moon.

We were in a field on a blanket. She had been straddling me, climaxing, crippled with intensity, aching against gravity, relented, slowly lowering her torso down onto me like a descending cherry blossom. And I felt her bosom against my chest, could smell her melted skin and oil roused hair with all the energy of a heightened sense.

Then like that, I was no longer blind.

Penetrating the darkness and coming through a black pocket to another outside I arrived in a light whose radiation had worked the magic of time upon the barks of trees, blades of night grass, and her face held close to mine gasping for breath and emanating rosy hues from her skin.

My first sight, a sight reborn.

Her face. Her face, a closer glimpse of her face appeared interwoven within all this touch, sound, sightless love, far more beautiful than I ever remembered. 

Then outpouring tears streamed from animate ducts, alive eyes, and I could see hundreds of her through the droplets of mutual recognition that like a canvas background were decorating her ocean portrait there with all those trillions of stars dappling space as sparkling electrons shimmering at night to the ones, the one, you can stare straight at and into long after she has given you everything, including her final bow, as she goes on travelling at the speed of light.

casbah

i dreamt i brought my phone into the ocean so i woke up left it behind and swam in the ocean

The surfers in black wetsuits start to look like bobbing ants. Meditate on the sand long enough with eyes closed. Open em and the surfers look like black ants and the water becomes an explosion of color. A population of humanity hungering for the shores of an Earth. We are whiling away our days in fashion, freedom, interruptions of severe pain. Stagger from em. But some wounded animals get left behind by the herd, sure, but then some wounded animals adapt to their injuries and continue onward, soaking in the days. Every damn day is worthwhile.

hyperion 1wk ago

Beyond the crucifix telephone lines but before the blood moon you were coloring the sky azure while I was wearing Dodger blue and in the car today I whispered something to myself between labored inefficient breaths something about one day getting my remains delivered to the space station where an Italian astronaut woman could sail me in the proper direction on my way

the yeah yeah yeahs

I saw a fallen baby bird on the sidewalk. Commotion in the trees, it squealed, all fleshy. I heard the mother will reject it if you touch it. So I didn't. Blind and swimming against the inert current of concrete while I conducted a bad joke symphony in my head about things I wanted to one day say to a crowd, on my way to Ralphs.

All afternoon since I've felt like I could only get one good inhale out of fifteen attempts at breath.

caffeine madness

I've made a habit of quitting my habits. Those things that rush me into a single direction oblivious of my one true pulse. They were naught for naught. My vices taught me the difference between strong and weak. Even if the examples were skewed, chemically induced, cuz what isn't?

I was telling a story of ex-pats yesterday. Of being lost in the pitch black of an island. Her and I. Entering a tiny ex-pat bar improbably nestled there in that time of night. A bunch of fat white guys in football jerseys. I asked them for directions to a motel on the beach. And they were vague, cuz they only knew of resorts. At the door, on my way out, I turned and asked, "by the way, who won the Super Bowl today?"

Our car was chased by wild dogs. We drove it across a drawbridge to a castle exterior that turned out to be a bordello with no vacancy. We gave a woman standing on the side of the road a ride to somewhere that got us even more lost. We drove ourselves in circles past empty fortune telling booths. She refused to stay at the one available resort that reminded her of Vegas. So we went all the way back to the first place we were turned away from. But we found a different gate. And she went in and found us a room to stay. A simple room. And like carbon blindly replicating itself in a slurry of ocean swamp, our bodies recreated the beginnings of life, as tired as we were, alive.

"The Saints!" he shouted back