Monday, October 24, 2011
I'm not sure what she looks like or how her skin would feel against mine. I wouldn't know her voice if I heard it, and her hair, black, blonde, or brown, is nothing that I've ever touched or held against my face. I don't know her name, and her existence, if real, is beyond anything that I've ever seen in this world. Kindness, love, understanding, fidelity, all traits of her character, and before now, they were traits that I couldn't recognize if they'd lay naked beside me in bed. I needed to be trained, broken down, molded into a man that could appreciate a woman like her. I had to be coaxed, prodded by the words, the touch, the scent of those that sought to imitate. And thankfully I've caught glimpses, oh yes, goddess flashes darting around the flesh corners of human loves. Maybe someday she'll appear before me, consider me worthy of her flesh and her soul, and by finally acknowledging her, maybe she'll stay.
It seems that if I profess my love, in not too vibrant of passage, the post is acceptable, endearing, and flattering to the object of my affection. If I dig deeper, explore the base instincts of a man lusting after a woman, and if I use words that our society has deemed vulgar, pornographic, and not meant for pleasant conversation, then I place myself as a rogue, a cad, a dishonorable man parading the descriptions of my affair like dirty magazines lined up on a squalid street corner newsstand. Either way, if it was myself, and my lover wrote how I traced the line of her back with a hand that was made to be held in prayer, how I kissed her with lips that had recently whispered the name of God, or how my eyes echoed and then cleansed the pain of her past mistakes, I would be just as flattered as if she said, "I've never been fucked like that before."
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Stumbling east coast fingers run their way down the creases in her skirt. She leans back, mouth open, glasses sitting next to the bed. She doesn't taste like your last partner--for one, she's younger and not male, for two, she's unfaithful and unattractive. Maybe that's too harsh, everyone's loved by their mother. You knew that this is where you'd be, and your last distraction, the old cock near the beach, was nothing but a stopping point for you to be someone else for a bit. besides that, you needed a beard, an excuse to lay the turn of your sexuality on.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
I'm not sure how he made his way through the front door, and the closets, they are also locked tight so he found no entry there. But the boy came in--crouched down, bony suntanned shoulders and blonde straggly hair. If I was to taste his skin I knew the flavor would be dried saltwater and formed plastic track. He crawled into the living room and sat Indian style on the long shag rug. I could hear him breathing, and then, the low sobs of the emotionally disturbed. I won't comfort him. I don't have what he wants. If I'm lucky he'll go in the back, jack-off, and fall asleep. Sometimes I hate myself for the self awakening that took place. He's a real fucker this kid, and he won't leave me alone.
Monday, October 17, 2011
I thought I was uncomfortable before they left--sitting, holding forth in the large chair, masking the hollowness within by using my loud voice, but when the door closed and the last acquaintance had shuffled out, the apartment became large and bright. I was turned into a cockroach--skuttling from room to room seeking shelter from the vigilant eyes of my unknowing landlord, but, I also turned into the eye of the master, watching myself as my ego looked for a place to hide--"You're beautiful, intelligent, charming, loving and patient, but you're not for me." she said, "And you're not for you either, because to you you're invisible and no one can love what they can't see and don't know exists."
Sunday, October 16, 2011
I love how the pot calls the kettle black and how the drunken monkey yells at the idiot in the mirror. So I shine, and in my reflection you see your faults. Your deeds, black as pitch. Your politics are the politics of a thief or a despoiler of the people. And you, on your high social horse rally cries of "Monster" and "Liar" as I try to live as I've been taught.
You looked much the same as the day I met you--worn levis hanging tight and low against your hips, a white t-shirt unsuccessfully hiding under a mohair sweater, faded beige topsiders, and a too-close-for-young-boys haircut. You were jumping over peat moss, leading me through the moors, towards a destination of safety that I was seeking somewhere up north. I'd abandoned the vehicle at a show. My ex-girlfriend was in prison visiting her on-again off-again romantic interest, and, for some reason I was scared; but you, you were laughing and following a road that you knew too well, laughing, and jumping, and holding out a hand, and you'd been dead for years.