HARD BLOW FOR A DAY JOB

(in memory of Eric, aka Free-K, who was the green-wielding magi of this tale. RIP)


MAGI:
Presents Of Mind, Something About Nothing

I: HARD BLOW FOR A DAY JOB
II: PARAPHERNALIA SATURNALIA!
III. NO REST FOR THE WICCAN…

I nailed her three ways from Sunday, and one way against nature—and all while wearing Friday’s pants. But the drive is not the destination, so let’s back up to the starting line, as I regale you with revulsion and/or revelation, moving forward in sideways jargon, to relate a three-fold tragicomedy of error and erroneous agnosis for you all…

***

Down and out, out and about, and about to have it out—wandering off and often wondering—some things are best revealed in passing, and even better still if they merely passed us by. The Death Angel must smell the blood once caked upon these doors, as He’s drifted past so often these last months, stopping only long enough to smile and wave or piss behind the porch.

But the scythe did taste its share of blood last year, by the death of opportunities, a romance, cherished friendships, and my job. It all came crashing down at once, and freedom never seemed so bittersweet. A strained but passionate relationship imploded in the worst possible way. Meanwhile, I was to find that several long-time comrades frequently spoke ill of me in swollen, bubonic proportions. And then, to finally flip the lid down on the shitter, I wandered into work one day—the best job that I’d ever had—and was informed that the entire staff was canned. I was broke and broken, with a mangled heart and an empty wallet…but a cabinet full of booze that I’d been stockpiling for months. This is to say that a broken heart feels less so when one's liver is slightly more destroyed. Six restless blurry weeks collapsed, and the present writer's liver would want to crawl out through his navel.

Boo hoo. Moving right along…

The first of the three Magi came, and drug(ged) me from my home. It would be the gift of gold, though little would I know. He had a fresh lead on a job; I went with him to apply. We made appointments for an interview, and I went back to my binge.

***

I’d been on an energy drink-and-Everclear bender, and it was truly wondrous nausea. You’re up for days, alert and semi-functional, but drunk enough to ruin countless lives. For weeks now, I’d been doing merely that, with emphasis upon the ruination of my own.

At 6am, I'd passed out, having been awake far longer than my pickled, addled braincells could recount. Two hours passed, and then…my father flung the door ajar, kicked me in the leg, and said, “I’ve been waiting in the car 30 minutes; your interview is in 20. Get the fuck up NOW.”

I was in panic mode—if not beyond—with every crust of countenance on stun. I hadn’t slept or likely bathed in days. I was still drunk as a Kennedy, and parched. I wore a ratty pair of old black jeans, a stained Nail Bunny longsleeve, and a scowl. My hair was tangled like the mangled webs of life itself…enough to hold an artbox full of pencils, a stapler, and the cat. I smelled like a goat, and looked like Hell—or at very least, whatever Hell is like for goats. And worst yet, all who stood in line that day for interviews were clean-cut, shaven, primped with every hair in place, and wearing suits or some such fancy dress. I was destined to be screwed.

I grumbled through my interview with morning breath and hate. By conversation’s end, my sober mind returned enough to realize just how fucked I likely was. I braced myself for failure…

Then they hired me on the spot, at a buck more than I asked for, and two more than my friend. Rasputin had a day job now—and glory be, because my booze was almost gone.

***

She was a fresh face on a rotten afternoon.

I'd been hired as the lead cook in a busy greasy spoon with crusty forks to match. Some sleazy, drunken wench approached my counter for some wings. "Make them hot as possible, but good."

"Are you sure you want to tell me that? I collect hot sauce," I said.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Look here, stud," she slurred, "I've worked in kitchens all my life. I grew up in the south. You're not going to impress me with that shit."

Determined now to foil her, I made fresh, evil wing sauce for her friend. He dipped a deep-fried pickle, and ran weeping for the john. She laughed with a most feminine malice, jotted down her phone number, and leaned in. "I think I'll stay and watch you work," she grinned.

***

Bustling on the line, I passed behind the fry cook with a plate. "Excuse me! Pardon me! Coming through!" She crinkled up her nose and scowled.

"You're cute, but I'd fire you. You should know better than this. You ALWAYS shout, 'Behind you!' Nothing else. It's universal kitchen code."

"Is that like the Universal Greeting from Transformers," I sneered.

"No, you dick. It's common, accepted protocol. If you're behind someone, you always--only--shout 'Behind you!'"

Her banter seemed irrelevant, but I somehow knew it'd mean something in time. I jotted the words "behind you" on a note.

"Listen to the lady," shouted our prep-guy. He then swept briskly past me, "Coming right behind you, with a knife!" Our prep-cook, Kelly, had been in jail; I shivered when I heard him shout out anything, much less that he was coming, or behind me, with a knife.

The girl would bark and bitch a bit at other things I did; finally, she winked and left--presumably for good.

Opportunity rarely knocks with such knockers opportune as hers; but alas it'd be tough titty in the end. Though we'd made a date, and texted back and forth, nothing quite so easy ever is. It seemed straight out of Dear Penthouse, but for every playboy out there, there's a hustler to be found.

Sometimes, it's better to suck it up than be sucked in. It was a hard blow for a day job; but I'd rather blow my chance than blow it off.



II


I had a date, seemingly, with destiny; but as always, I appeared to be stood up.

I was stalking only happiness, a brief respite from pain--but it seemed both of these things had a restraining order out; the light of hope had blocked my calls and stopped returning texts. The girl and I had plans to howl, but my ears heard only crickets, and the silence of the worlds beyond...or something melodramatic of the sort. Riddled with a sore arthritic knee, and a ribcage full of empty, I resigned myself to fate, and once again--as always--my resignation was refused.

Salvation, sometimes, finds you in the damndest places...

***

An old friend called newly out of the blue, seeking to sell me on the green.

My friend had long been urging that I reassess my methods, asserting that I’d dealt with pain all wrong. “Fuck these poisons,” he insisted, “what you need to do is smoke a little pot. And I don’t mean that bullshit frat boys smoke—I mean high grade, top-shelf herb.”

“I hate stoners,” I replied; “Tweakers and stoners are natural enemies.”

“It’s not about that,” he insisted; “just give this a chance—there are strains of marijuana almost as strong as LSD.”

I rolled my eyes; “I don’t believe that.”

“Dude,” he said, “I’ll prove it—let me smoke you up tonight.”

“Fine,” I sighed, and checked my phone for calls I knew would never come—“since I think I’ll have the evening to myself.”

(grumble-grumble-grumble)

And thus—braving winter winds and expired plates—the second Magi would arrive, not quite bearing frankincense…though the smell would likely be about the same. Indeed, it smelled like doom…utter imminent doom, and the failure of the last three generations.

He unraveled fragrant clusters--moist and multicolored--and began to pack a heaping bowl. He summarized his sermon from our call earlier that day: “How can you possibly think that downing a fifth of whiskey and a fistful of Vicodin everyday is somehow better for you than a little bit of pot in moderation?”

Ultimately he was right—but tonight was not a night for Right; tonight, it seemed, would be a night for Wrongs.

***

The place I have to go, sometimes, is a place you'd never want to be. I didn't want to be there then, and I wanted even less to see another share that space. It's like denying evolution whilst a lively chimp jerks off to the same porn.

I watched him disintegrate before my very eyes—not literally, as I wasn’t quite that high just yet. But that was ultimately the point: he started before me, and as I watched him, I realized that I would be exactly where he was in only moments. I could measure just how fucked I was about to be by how fucked he just had been. And from the looks of things, I was indeed mightily fucked.

We began to talk philosophy, or as best I had determined at the time. He began with a “God is dead” rant, then meandered on an atheistic tweak. Soon, the conversation turned and churned to Eastern mystic themes in anime, and some incoherent blather about the “true meaning” of Invader Zim. Half-baked, I brought us back full circle—suddenly inspired by the mighty Zim: “God’s not dead,” I smugly quipped, “He’s advaaaaaaaaaaaaannced.”

Invader blood marches through my veins, like giant radioactive rubberpants. The pants command me.

Do not ignore my veins.

***

"Lo—I’m high! High n’ dry, and drowning on dry land!"
"I didn’t jack off; I jettisoned cargo!"
"Stems and seeds from the dub sack of infinity."

Those were things I'd scribbled on a page. My dear leaf-dealing friend took but a glance at it, then a far more concerned glare at me, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, dude, but you're fucked up. I think I need to leave. Go get some sleep!"

Tweaker, stoner, psychonaut...it all boils down to this: sleep is not among my many skills.

I listened to Gene Loves Jezebel until the cat blew chunks; only then could it be time for change...a change in stance or in perspective...a changing out of cashed-out bats, and a changing of my Discman---it was time to play some death metal for balance, as I steadily lost mine.

I knew better than to leave the house, though for some reason, I prepared as if I might. It was a Monday Rapture evening, and I’d tried to dress the part, as best I ever bother…kitschy skeleton gloves, a leather coat, some voodoobilly skull beads, whichever boots make me seem least Danzig dwarven, the pants least in need of Febreze, and—slumped across my furry slouching back—the least stained and tattered black thing that I own (apart from my damned soul). But the haze within and glaze without broadcasted like some Wumpscut-loving DJ that I was clearly going nowhere…not tonight. I was all gothed out with nowhere to go, undeniably cracked out, stoned as Stephen, tripping balls and over random objects, going nowhere fast, while time slowed to a crawl.

And then, terror knocked afresh at my front door.

My date had chose to join me, afterall.



III


Finally, it arrived—all that I had feared and yet adored: Third Pillar, Final Rung, Excluded Middle, the gift of Myrrh from wise-asses, the promise of a womb worth prying open just for parts. My "date" was here--the Rapture I'd given up on had arrived, though I myself remained bright shades of long-past-gone.

Constricted by the snaps and fastens of my apparel (and by “apparel,” I mean the now seemingly mere formality of pants), which embodied captivity to my rapidly expanding, liberated psyche (and by “liberated,” I mean “bat-shit crazy”), I loosened a button here and there, and opened up the door for the guest I’d given up on (and by “guest,” I would mean “victim”), who’d decided at the last moment that she’d drop in after all. (And by “drop in,” I mean “witness my brisk descent into the icy depths of madness.”)

I knew this would be bad; I knew it could be brutal. Her ass might grace my couch, and her arm may grace my shoulder, but her face would be on milk cartons some day. I struggled to maintain composure—fighting to control my every movement—and invited the poor, doomed, lovely creature in.

I found myself falling back on “comfort zone” behaviors, realizing that by pursuing my more basic urges and familiar desires, I could somewhat pull myself out of the hole that I was in—i.e., my base urge to score with this broad would subconsciously push me to more quickly sober up. If I could keep the crazy-talk out of my head just long enough…I could essentially lust my way back to partial sanity. At least it made sense at the time. Funny, that.

So I said to myself, “I will win this woman’s heart; I will do so, because her heart is behind her left breast—and thus by sheer default, the path to her heart involves feeling some tits.”

I’m not sure what I’d do with any woman's heart; but I know what to do with tits.

***

We settled on a zombie film—the girl and I inched closer…closer still…and cuddled on the couch. I felt warm and aglow, yet terrified within, because the screen seemed to be melting and the room moved ‘round in frames. I can’t let this TV melt, I thought; if the TV melts, my roommate will be mad.

It was like my first time trying ‘shrooms some years before: They did precious nothing for anxious hours, then finally, they kicked in when I had least expected. I was sitting on the back deck, on break at work with semi-friends and kitchen staff, who were at turns oblivious, bewildered, and amused. Every drop of sweat was Waterworld, except they came in on time and under budget. I would sweat and sweat and sweat, struggling to maintain; and as I bled that sweat, I felt as if my head may well be melting. And all that I could think was this: “I can't let them see my head melt…because as soon as they see my head melt, they’ll all know that I’m high.” Behold: "dumbass mundi"--the domus mundi of druggie logic, the LCD of LSD, as such.

And I couldn’t let this fucking TV melt. She’ll fucking know.

She rest her head upon my shoulder, as the evil priest in Gates Of Hell made a girl puke up her innards one-by-one, organ at a time, whilst her boyfriend sat beside her, screaming, paralyzed with fear and bleeding from the eyes. Ah…romance.

Then, my ladyfriend gently nuzzled me, and spoke.

“Dude…I’ve been wanting to ask this for awhile now: What the fucking fuck is up with the cheesy-ass skeleton gloves?”

My tongue ever shoveling the dirt upon my deepening tomb, bloodshot eyes would lock upon her increasingly puzzled gaze, as I mumbled, stammered, then gawked about the room at the magick only my koinos cosmos knew, before dilation met frustration, noisehairs-to-eyelashes, once again, as I replied: "I like the concept of adorning my outsides with my insides. I'm transcending my flesh-cage."
I then noticed a hole exposing skin and nail at the very index tip. I held it up, and continued digging, word by word: “And this…this is fucking awesome—think about it: now my outsides are peaking through my insides, which I’m wearing on the outside. Wow…fuck...fucking wow.”

"You're high, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

***

She wandered out to smoke, and I went to rummage aimlessly downstairs. She returned, and followed the sound of failure down the steps. I was playing with a shuriken, and dropping it on yearbook pics. She peeked over my shoulder and did a double-take. I'd been using a print-out of a pic from my ancient Bible College days as a bookmark. One of my roommates appeared to have used it as a target earlier.

She looked back and forth between the weirdo with the Skele-Gloves, and the well-groomed young idealist in the pic. "Is that...you?"

I paced around a bit and rambled a bizarre reply. "Have you ever seen the cartoon, Naruto? The American dub is awful, and mostly aimed at kids. But the Japanese is almost a different show, if you can find yourself a fansub on the web."

"You're losing me."

"OK, hear me out...There are all these villages filled with ninjas...like, the Hidden Leaf Village, or the Hidden Stone Village, or the Hidden Valley Ranch Village, and such. When a ninja gets cast out or goes AWOL, they put a scratch through the symbol on his headband, and label him as 'missing nin.'"

She cocked a brow, and nodded.

"I'm 'missing nin' from the Hidden Jesus Village," I said, and gave a shit-eating grin. It was the Shit-Eating Grin Of Enlightenment, but I'm pretty sure she didn't care.

"You went a long way for that one." She smiled, patting my head, and we both just let it go.

***

I stumbled into the bathroom, and must have been there for a while. My date peeked through the door, as I rummaged to and fro around the sink. “What in God's name are you looking for?”

I said, “The Bigger Thing, the Greater It, the Collosal That which I am a reflection of.”

“No you’re not," she huffed and puffed; "You’re stoned and staring at the goddamned mirror.”

I held a pocket mirror at an angle. “Look—now the reflection is a reflection, and it goes on ad infinitum. But we only think to look the one direction. It goes on further behind us, and we’re just another image in the chain. Our consciousness is just a reflection in itself, an echo of another distant voice.”

She shook her head, and turned to go. “Why can’t you just eat Cheetos and listen to Pink Floyd like normal stoned people?”

I ducked down, crept behind and then around her, then jumped up beside her, made some motion with my hand to remind her of the “missing nin” symbol, and—wild-eyed and aglow with madness—whispered, “Ninja!”

Or so I’m told... I probably did, and shall take it on faith. Odd that faith alone should at last be good enough for me. Perhaps, ultimately, Christendom merely needs more ninjas.

***

She seemed oddly amused by me, despite my Epic Fail. There was no way I was going to score; but there likewise wasn't any way that I would fail to try. No rest for the wiccan, don't you know...

At times, there was little but a frigid distance only crudely duct-taped over by the closeness of our limbs; and at other times, there was a sticky, sensual mammalian chemistry that overcame anything gone under…indeed, indeed…at lucid, lip-locked intervals there was smoke. Where there is smoke, there is fire… And where there is fire, there are primitive tools for roasting meat… And all that this could lead to was, “Bitch better cook a damn mean steak.” In retrospect, I can only recognize my skill at turning natural progressions into unnatural acts; perhaps I should have been a preacher afterall.

As opposed to the repulsion any sane man would expect, she seemed more disappointed that there wasn't dirty sex. “I don’t feel so good,” she groaned, and stretched out on the bed.

“You feel pretty awesome to me,” I grinned, and with stoned and wanton ballsiness, offered a massage only to fumble with her bra.

“Talk is cheap, bucko.”

I took the cue, as one might take a cue to rack 'em up and shoot. Each messy kiss a sloppy first as sloppy seconds became hazily-remembered moments, distinguished only by a tasteless coup-de-grace: I'd grabbed her by the hips, and mounted with a single lucky thrust. And it was there, balls-deep in hate-sex, that illumination came (although too soon). I smacked her ass, and yelled, "Behind you!"

Then I rolled over, and slept through the next day. In retrospect, I went a long way for that one, too.

***

And the moral of the story may only be that I ultimately have fewer morals than I do stories some nights; that sometimes illumination can be found in the desperate slippery inches between shouting when you’re behind someone, and the shout they’ll make thereafter; and that one should no more underestimate life—neither its capacity for pleasure, or for pain, or that weird grey space teeming with zombies, melting televisions, and ridiculous glow-in-the-dark stretchy-gloves—than one should underestimate an unknown drug.

Don’t let life see your head melt. It will know you’re high.


)+(

WRONGED SIDE OF THE BED

She only wants me when she’s drunk; I only want her when I’m sober—thank God I’m never sober anymore.

It was the last days of our last mistake, and we were both the other person’s last resort. Indeed—in fact, alas—months into our madness, her love was only like a prayer in that she never fucking listened either...and really, nor did I. At the end of our run, there would be no runner’s high; instead there would only be another high in lows…

She shall be known here as “Mary Moistpoison,” and elsewhere, some things likely far, far worse. Call her what you will; just try not to call her often, lest her curse be visited upon thee and thy household.

The girl can wreck a home like I can wreck a womb, and I pity any child that calls her womb a home.

Every cursed bastard seemed to want her; but sadly, I was the bastard cursed among all others seemingly to need her. And I certainly never wanted—and prayed I never needed—her to ever be "the one."

It was a fling that just kept flinging things upon me...seemingly romantic glares that stared back coldly from the depths of her abyss. I never thought I'd want to keep her, or anyone for that matter. I had dropped the dreaded "L bomb" to only three girls in my life, and only really meant it twice. This was just a wet hole in a dry season—right?—a torrential downpour, a sensual upswing…an oasis in an "oh" face, in some throbbing time of desolation. There could certainly never be another L-bomb from this grizzled cynic's lips… And when said cynic's lips touched hers again strange weeks ahead, that wretched frigid wench could never be dreaded Girl Three—feared in the prophetic sense like the Third and Final Antichrist, correct? And denial...it is still firmly in Egypt, is it not?

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know angst. I have a heart full of soul and a soul full of sin and the sort of things they hang men for down south.

Sometimes, one imagines that he or she is actually a good person who merely does bad things now and again; othertimes, it seems very much reversed—that one is, at blackened core, a considerably bad person who only occasionally fails at evil or, by some cruel and playful whim, does something right. And rarely have I been exactly confident as to whither side I've stood.

I’m well-meaning on occasion…depending on the meaning of “well,” and the occasion in question. My character can be summarized in one fell swoop: I lied my way into Bible College. Think about that one.

There are elements of my life I’m obviously not proud of, which occupy some strange nightmarish place between Fear & Loathing and Curb Your Enthusiasm. I’m not even a good anti-hero; I’m really just a prick. I'm selfish, irresponsible, and frequently insane—and this by my own standards. It’s not that there isn’t method in my madness; it’s simply that my madness frequently overwhelms my methodology.

This is all to say, of course, that there are reasons why I’m frequently alone.

After my first traumatic romance, I disconnected from the concept of it all. Over the course of the next few years, I’d discovered club scenes, drug scenes, and crime scenes. I never “dated” anyone, but rather, semi-drunkenly stumbled up a ladder of unremarkable vaginas, or had random flings with friends. Even then, I was never quite a seducer so much as I am simply an excellent salesman. My point is that, at my age, I face a strange dichotomy: I’ve racked up years of sexcapades, but have the actual dating habits of an awkward 9th grader.

I don’t really “date,” so much as I merely choose the form of my destroyer, Ghostbusters-style.

Alas, there is no love; there is only Zuul.

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know “dirty.”

I felt like a dirty old man, but then, as most dirty old men will tell you, the night is always young—though likely not as young as she was when we met. Truth be told, dating women my own age grows less fun by the year: Women my age are more like ogres—all they want is gold and babies.
But this girl was dynamic, euphoric, and eccentric all in arbitrary spurts—an utterly engaging, almost mystically-adorable little trainwreck with an equally adorable caboose, and the heaviest, most intensely overwhelming pheromones to ever drift my way—so much so, that I frequently found it difficult to concentrate in her presence. Irresistibly-unhinged, cold yet giggly—bipolar in her charm…and when the poles aligned, she had the sort of youthful smiles and knowing smirks, shy winks and evil laughter, which could nearly take ten years off of your face, and more yet off your hands. “Nice soul,” would say her rape-eyed gaze, “I think I’ll take it! Good Sir, bag ‘er up!”

My sister introduced her; I’d assumed them to be friends, though they had met mere moments prior at the club. My roommate—hereafter referred to as the Drunken Sage—hurriedly called dibs on her, as I already had a girl that night; still, I found this new arrival eerily curious. Despite luring her home into our basement grindhouse filth n’ film-room, the slurring Sage struck out; we all assumed this was the end.
Tense weeks rolled past, and the girl I’d gone to bed with was past-tense. Suddenly, as if on cue...manna from Hell: God sends quail, and the Devil sent a message, then a text. I hadn’t recalled getting her number…but I looked, and there it was. She’d even tracked me down online. She asked if anything was going on; and by evening’s end…there was. Little would I suspect that it would likewise be ongoing, in the maddening months to come before it all went down.

To those that knew me, she seemed like an unlikely choice: entirely too young, unfathomably out of place, and though attractive, hardly my “type” at even second glance. Full-figured and a fraction taller, she had a curious combination of features, with her deep-set eyes, eternally-flared nostrils, long devilish grin, and this certain look of looking uncertain…a gaze that registered as either heartfelt or heartless, malevolent or maladroit, terrified or aroused—or maybe just a little bit of both.
She was awkward unto awe, aloof and yet alluring, bravely assertive with a perpetually-frightened stare…indifferent and disinterested—despite whatever interest that she stirred, or difference that she made. So graceless and indelicate in all her movements, it only seemed to make her strangely more endearing in my increasingly confounded eyes…
She slept haphazardly, as if recalling horrific crimescenes for a court: limbs sprawled in all directions, mouth agape, with her tongue slumped out the side…one tit hanging out, and one leg hanging halfway off the bed, her tattered fishnets snagging on my bedframe as she flipped and flopped—still dreaming—like a fish thrown in a boat. I was bizarrely smitten. Though she’d rolled over and across me throughout the night, she finally—accidentally—threw her arm across my chest and gradually slumped inward towards me; it wasn’t quite a snuggle, but it would do. And as I laid back, equal parts bemused/confused, I thought, “Oh bloody hell…why her? Oh fuck, I am so screwed…”

***

She was definitely a “project” girlfriend. She’d been hurt, misused, abused, and traumatized beyond reasonable articulation. She was frequently physically distant, and emotionally demanding; romantic sentiments were hard-earned, though we talked and laughed for hours daily. She was clinically bipolar, unmedicated, with tendencies toward dissociation—her opinions about any one thing or person could change wildly, based on her mood, or with whom the subject was discussed. It all required a savage patience few might have possessed. But I felt uniquely qualified—as if our unlikely pairing was somehow necessary… Yet, I remained unsure whether this was because she really needed “saving,” or rather because—a decade past that first and last disaster, the Alpha & Omega of doomed romance that forged so much of what I had become—I still desperately needed somebody to save. Truly, did she need the “salvation” of someone patient and devoted enough to care for her unconditionally…or (given my history) did I merely need the “redemption” of providing it?

Regardless, over the weeks and months that followed, I felt a certain vindication with every change I slowly saw in her, every blessed inch of progress—no matter how much grief it had entailed. Things were far from perfect; but it was that one rare perfect moment that eternally erased all others. The impossible had occurred, with every denizen of Hell a snowcone in their hands: some weird and troubled girl had unknowingly inspired a hardened, selfish, drunken, womanizing, ranting addict toward an equally weird and troubled attempt at being a fiercely determined romantic. I wasn’t very good at it; but it was something few before her had experienced from me.

Naturally, you know what must come next.

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know denial.

There is little more embarrassing than not knowing when to end things…except, perhaps, the failure to recognize when something has already ended.

Love is a cattlefield, and my sexlife needed way more cowbell. A relationship without sex is like working as a cook in a restaurant that doesn’t let you eat. My gal had cut me off of late, with some new excuse or strange “emergency” each night. I’d been patient in recent weeks, but my frustration was fully erect, and my edginess was showing through my jeans. She didn’t seem to want me; but neither did she want me gone, or with somebody else. But then again…a girl changes her mind like she changes out a tampon; and when she says she wants you, that only really means she wants you now. Tomorrow, a dog will bark, there will be clouds in the sky, and she’ll decide that she’d be happier with pads.

And when a woman says, “I think we should see other people,” know within your broken heart of hearts that she most surely has someone in mind…


My dearest Poison Girl always held a mighty Cock Harem of platonic manchild man-friends, mostly gay or swishing gently towards it. But lately, she’d come to spend most waking hours with her newest guy-pal, Jon. This one only looked gay …wire-limbed and fragile—100 pounds at best—with thick Costello glasses, gently receding hairline and this toothy leer that vaguely creeped me out. They’d become fast friends, she said, because he had many if not most of the same interests and qualities that I did…except he was “successful,” with a great job, nice apartment, and a car. He was also closer to her age, and somewhat more her “type,” which apparently consisted of nerdy effeminate concentration camp victims in faded indie-rock shirts, who look liked they hung out at the public library, pouring over crumpled issues of Nintendo Power, when not jerking off to Hentai in the stall.
This is to say, that something was afoot in the game at hand—and I knew up front who didn’t have my back.

There’s no such thing as a single woman, even if they’re only “married” to ideals. Most romance is only “storybook” if the story involves settling for the least of mankind’s evils in pursuit of life ambition, social validation, and hormonal dictates, in a book about Gynocracy, emasculation, death and bitter loss.
Companionship is always weighed against convenience. It has been my experience that many women will endure abusive relationships, loveless marriages, or date men who are ugly, stupid, assholes, jerks and worse, provided they are self-sufficient, able to kill spiders, and possess a decent-looking vehicle that runs. A man can look like Johnny Depp and fuck like Peter North, with dreams like Martin Luther King, a MENSA-level intellect, and a diamond-plated cock…but for God and Lemmy’s sake, man: you gotta have a car.

I was broke and carless, broken, careless; I never stood a chance. So when her birthday fell on the day right before payday (during the roughest month I’d had in many moons), and it became clear that my attempts to stockpile pocket change were more embarrassing than sweet, I half-expected to be changing the ol’ relationship status on MySpace any day.

“What do you want for your birthday?” I’d asked.
“I already have plans,” she would reply.
“Well, I was going to…”
“You were going to take me somewhere cheap because you have no money, and then guilt me into sex. I’m sorry; I have other plans. Jon wants to take me somewhere really cool and I said ‘yes.’ We can do something this weekend; I promise I’ll call you later.”

Waves of humiliation and defeat would come to wash across my flailing ego like a wounded puppy drowning in a lake. When she called the morning after, she would still be at his house. After letting it slip that she’d passed out in his bed, she went about pre-chastising me about being “possessive” if I “went jumping to conclusions.”

From stranglehold to cuckold, I was out cold in a dead heat. It spun loudly in my head, with so much adoration spinning wildly in its grave. I only had to think about it:

She’s having lunch with strangers; she’s outsourced our ‘together time’ to friends. She’s breaking dates and sleeping somewhere else. She’s hiding texts and dodging questions. She pulls away from kisses; she turns away in bed. She never plans for futures we could share. She still calls me her lifeline…but she’s cut all other cords. And now this final insult: her birthday wish involved my absence, and the presence of another man, with whom she spent the night. Meanwhile, I’ve slept alone for weeks, drifting off to dream of better, as my roommates loudly fuck. Things couldn’t be more obvious; I was clearly being mocked. The winners had stepped forward, and begun to gloat.

I guess this is ‘game over,’ then; I’ve lost.

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know desperation. I’ve come to know it Biblically, of late.

She is the sun in a horizon that I can’t see for the roof, the brightest star in a sky I’ll never find.

I’m exhausted deep inside, awake against my wish or will, by the rolling poison nervous surge of anxiety alone. Is tonight the night I’ve lost her, or has she been lost all along? Did she, in fact, have plans some night…or perhaps merely designs? Is she passed out in her own bed? Is she sharing it with someone else? And what else is she sharing—is someone getting something that I’m not? Is she saving up her best for something better-dressed…some suitor better suited for success? In the end, perhaps it’s that: less a fear of losing love, than of losing it to someone else. Was I just a last resort, or merely next at bat? I don’t care about the sex—we’re mammals; mammals fuck—but I’m consumed by the rejection it implies, the control so coldly stolen from my dreams...the failure left to simmer in my chest. It feels like something licking at your heart. Perhaps all’s fair in love and war; but it feels like theft and murder when you’re curling up alone…wringing out a broken promise, just to wake up on the wronged side of the bed.

I’ve lost a game I never knew we played; I’ve broken rules never agreed to, and angered her with words only implied between the lines—and worse yet, in a book I’ve never read.

Home is where the heart is, and I think we’ve got black mold.

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know dependency.

Even the monkeys on my back must live in constant terror of the demons in my head.

When we think about our lovers, we feel that warm, sweet glow…that gentle wash across the frontal lobe, swabbing out the angst and cobwebs from our otherwise lonely, desperate minds...a stubborn, willful, wanton brave euphoria…and yet…lurking behind the curtain of its comforts, there lie a certain paranoia of romance, an unsettling, deeply-nested morbid fear of losing the peace and happiness it brought—a special sort of panic, a need to know that we will always have our fix regardless of the breaks And what was this strange flickering within? That rising heat of comfort and excitement in the chest, a certain tweaker pitter-patter that I hadn’t felt since the haze of my sleepless, spun, and dope-addled Lost Weekend years of long before, wherein this feeling, glow, and confidence could be purchased by the gram. That was it, I thought: I know this feeling…dear Sweet Pickled Jesus, holy anamnesis—now I get it…I remember what this feels like now…I’m high.

The mind releases dopamines when we dwell upon romance. The urge that I must have this, keep this, salvage and maintain this…the panic and despair that rides even the faint hint of its loss…it’s a drug. It’s just a fucking drug. My mind was making opiates, keeping me docile and sedated, that Nature might have its way with me—in the name of procreation and the survival of our kind—and mold me to its will against my own.
I have plans and ambitions; I don’t want to settle down. But I remember those before me—young girls I’d met on crystal meth, renting out their sloppy ditches for another day that prolonged the inevitable, and kept their cold hearts numb; they had plans once, too. They wanted to be lawyers, doctors, wives to self-made men and senators, living in Barbie’s dream house with a dog. And there they were, drop-outs taking in-calls, club-rats in a cheesy scene, empty shells and blowjob queens. And we were nothing greater, outside those stray and restless evenings one would choose us to be king.

This isn’t real, I tell myself—it’s all just a mirage, a hormone-driven glamory, a pheromonal haze. It’s just another drug like any other—except this dope is mostly cooked in-house, by the pushers of our very glands. I must resist this. It isn’t real. It’s a drug…only a drug.

But like any other instance, I’m consumed by my addictions.

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know expectations.

Love, if it is real, is an all-consuming fire; and the best most lovers hope for is to leave this world a smoking husk.

That is, except for those of us without a car.

It's not that I'm afraid that love is “real,” so much as I'm afraid that it is likewise really not enough. It’s not that I can’t stop believing; the problem is that I can’t stop wanting to believe. I lose my faith rather religiously, it seems. Every refuge has its price, and every one of our “beliefs” contains a “lie.” But from sun up to pants-down, all we want is something to make us feel like…something, nothing more.

I mean, pending credit history and criminal background checks, of course.

Truly, what is romance but the synergy and symphony of two souls completely using one another, until we’re heart-beaten into one hot-blooded yet cold-hearted sweet-fleshed meat-machine—careswept with a molten core, making love and weaving dreams, creating distance with our closeness, assembling our alibis and manufacturing intent, forging artificial joy and only sometimes-artificial tears?*

*Offer not valid in Missouri. All applicants must meet minimum income requirements, and provide proof of insurance.
Have you been at your current residence for at least one year? Y__ N__
Are you legally entitled to work in the United States? Y__ N__
Are you at least 18 years of age or older? Y__ N__
Date available for employment? _____

Either love is real, but only lent at great and terrible cost, to those willing, thirsty, and desperate enough to face a maze of death and endless games, gambles and challenges that I am unable—by default and by design—to ever truly win, existing solely at the detriment of peace and hope…or love is merely chemical and fiction, a convenience of speech, a concession to the mysticism—incessant and unchallenged—inherent in our language: the metaphors we live by, the idioms that shape our thought, the anthems that proclaim unquestioned triumph, the lullabies the sirens sing to lull our minds and wills to sleep.

I’d rather be sucked off than sucked in…

But I took her in…I took it on. I took a shot, and caught a bullet in the chest.

***


I’m not sure about “love,” but I do know religion.

I haven’t believed in much of anything in years, but when I contemplate my attitude throughout this confusing time of seemingly new sensations, I realize I had very much fallen back upon the last model of affection I’d been taught…despite my general vehemence toward Christendom, I’d come to rely heavily upon its framework of unconditional love, unwarranted compassion, patience, forgiveness, etc., because it was familiar—the first and only model that I really understood. In retrospect, it only really hastened my damnation, and amplified the hellfire within.

Christianity is incompatible with the dynamics of modern romance: no “love” is ever unconditional, and forgiveness is seen as frailty, itself quite unforgivable—dependent on the cruelty of either gender’s whims. Think about it: Within the confines of Evangelical Christianity, forgiveness is the highest virtue. It is a beacon of “Christ-like” love, compassion, maturity, self-discipline, and strength. It is greeted with unfathomable respect.
For instance, let’s say the pastor’s wife disgraces him: she screws 37 scabies-ridden Eskimos while still wearing the flayed and bloody skin-suit of mangled number 38, before selling off her wedding ring for crack cocaine and a cool Colt 45; she then skewers the family dog alive above a flaming pyre crackling with the boiling blood-snaps of a hundred crisping fetuses—lightly-seasoned, and some still screaming; furthermore, these flailing fetid fetuses—resulting from the forced at-gunpoint couplings of 15-year-old Mongoloids with the weeping alto section of a largely forty-something Mormon choir—have all been forcibly aborted by her own blood/sweat/booze/puke/yak semen-encrusted hands, which still tremble from the thrill of all her fornications, scat-incest-and-snuff fixations, global Satanic child abuse, and Illuminati jack-off sessions…and with the filthiest, rustiest, most AIDS-ridden coat-hangers that liberal Jewish homosexuals working for the ACLU would sell her in the name of Allah, mighty Nyarlathotep, and Hillary.
She’s had a very full night, but hey now—who are we to judge? She claims to have repented—for even Christ was tempted, and we all have bouts of weakness now and then; Scripture dictates we forgive, and the apostle Paul himself wrote that “there are none righteous; no, not one.”
So what, now, happens should her poor, sweet pastor-husband forgive her of this “backsliding,” and perhaps welcome her back with open arms, a gentle, caring smile, and love unfailing, that she may walk as a new creation in Christ and sin no more? How does his faithful flock receive this choice? The man becomes an inspiration. He is a hero among mortals, selfless and strong enough to put his own emotions, needs, and pride behind him. He is respected for his saintly grace.

But in this world—that ball beyond their Bible’s bubble—if a man were to forgive his cheating or neglectful girlfriend, he is seen as weak, sniveling, and passive. Should she leave and he pursues her, he is a shit-stained doormat, to be trod upon and snidely dissed. The girl neither loves nor respects him for the grace he has extended. Rather, it becomes an invitation for more and greater levels of abuse. And the greatest of these evils, ever-increasing liberties, and soon-to-be-unceasing future horrors will be this: that he shall somehow believe he is appreciated, needed, or loved back.

I had come to consider that I was both smitten and smote—doomed to adore some plump n’ buxom archetype of old Hosea’s wife, in some smirking celestial punishment for all I’d done to womankind thus far. I couldn’t let this go. If I’d finally found my heart, now it was high time to find my balls.

Bitch was going down—that’s all there was to it. I’d tried twice that month to leave her…but a tear, a wink, that smile, a seemingly heartfelt apology, with cold and concessionary apologetic intercourse to follow…I fell for these routinely as if falling piss-drunk down a well. This time, I would dismiss the miss of duties in the comfort of my safe-haven of then—namely, I would drag the hag to Dante’s, a club wherein I felt hometeam advantage. The Crüxshadows would be playing there on Monday—or at least they’d be pretending to, whilst their gangly singer lip-synched and hopped about with bike lights on his arms. Truly, what was more appropriate than ending my sham of a relationship and closing out my faith in the Noble Lie of “love,” than to do so at the beginning of some sham of a goth show wherein the band closes out the place with the Noble Lie it’s live?

***


It was settled, though I veered closer to “un”: It was a transitional state of shock, and I was merely succubusted in the end. I was only panty-wasted from the start. I had clearly mistaken a good time and the random swish of dopamines for this mystical L-word ideal…she was utterly aloof, distant, frigid, and clearly cheating on me…and I was going to confront and break it off with her at Dante’s, during the Crüxshadows’ fiasco. This whole endeavor made me feel like I was 14 again, breaking up with that Erickson girl on the bus. I felt almost embarrassed. Afterall…the only thing more embarrassing than not knowing when to end things, or not noticing when something is already gone, is a grown man acting like he’s never had his heart ripped out before, or like he’s the only one it’s ever happened to…

Before we left that night, I psyched myself up in the mirror: I’m a fucking adult, and she’s a fucking child. I’ll get over it. So what?—Not everything works out; not everything that sparks is meant to be. It’s time to cut my losses, and move on. This was never who I was. This was never truly real. The only chemistry between us came in capsule form. I’m not even that attracted to her. She’s a backwards giggling harpy, a wretched post-teen sociopath who is incapable of genuine affection without sustained self-interest, or endless years of therapy. She never truly cared about me. The instant that I see her, I’ll be so consumed with righteous indignation that any lingering attraction or possible regrets will seem like little more than pissdrops on crotchwhiskers. I can stop acting like a neurotic High School kid now—this is going to be a fucking piece of cake. This is ridiculous. What could possibly go wrong with this?

I turned back at my reflection. “Yeah,” I muttered, “a total 9th Grade level…”


TO BE CONTINUED…


)+(

ARTIFICIAL LIGHT

or "CERVIX WITH A SMILE"

I nailed her once out of curiousity, and twice for flinching. I needed sexual healing—and indeed, her love was like bad medicine, and she gave me medicine head. It was like a money-shot heard 'round the world, and all-too-often, by my roommates.

Sorry, guys.

She was a sweet girl, and with few regrets of our time ill-spent together, brief though it thankfully was—indeed, it was cervix with a smile. But something was amiss about the Ms. I couldn't put my finger on it, though I'd had my fingers in it several times. Perhaps this was the problem, in the end...

It was friendly fire from the meat rifle. You should never use your friends as sex toys.

Women have all the best toys, of course, and always have. I worked in a porn shop; it's the second lesson you learn (the first being, Use the bathroom next door…). Men's sex toys are never cool; they're fragile and expensive like a real woman, but they smell terrible, and no matter how much you spent or how good it looks, you're still a sad little man who comes home to a cold rubber hole.

That musky lube n' latex smell always stuck with me, long after I quit the shop. Cold and clinical—sterile yet filthy—it's like a quivering little dentist's office hunched down on all fours.

Eventually, this goes somewhere.

Ah yes…that night, that wretched night…

***

There was food and drink, and drink, and drink. And then, later, we drank.

She was a good friend, though she stood outside the circle; and like all who stand outside of circles, there was a high risk of possession. But low inhibitions love high risks, and to seek a higher love some nights is just to say you seek a higher proof. Some friends of mine desired her; but it was I, Rasputin, who appeared to hold the mantle—dusty though it was, and cluttered with denial. I sort of knew, but didn't want to. I wasn't sure I wanted her; I wasn't sure I didn't. I only knew I wanted something soon.

She was mourning the loss of a long-term fling and a short-term buzz like a widow at the wake… Well, I thought, there's only one way to console a widow, right? Weaving the last frayed threads of courage into a hangman's rope of utter ballsiness, I pondered my odds, ogled her curves, and took my best shot at my worst idea.

***

Score one for Rasputin, and a couch that might not ever be the same. If walls could talk, they'd just console the floor; the poor thing had an awful night. And yet the further I went, the closer I got to realizing just how bad this could turn out. In seeking an out, I pleaded no contest and no condom; but I was not about to get off quite so easy (or rather not get off, as such)—she came prepared, and I would either let her down or lay her down right then.

It was no longer my conquest; rather, it became hers. When the good get going, the bad get going at it really good. But with every awkward fondle and averted gaze, even the silent language of our pores and glands began to hint that this was not a good idea. Something about her pheromones threw me off.

It took forever to pick up on her signals. She made zero noise, and never moved unless I physically moved her limbs for her. I constantly positioned her like a doll, aiming for a response of any sort, and eventually a freckle for a target. When she came, it was like a shy and blushing Hentai chick—no sound, no shake, no motion…then an odd little grunt followed by a fine filmy trickle from the bunnyhole. The first time out, I didn't notice—I'd assumed I was a failure, until she finally pulled away, and breathless, said, "Last one." Sure enough, there was a small mess and the musk of her unsettling pheromones.

It felt so petty to even notice, yet something waiting out the whiskey deep within whispered and insisted that it all had meaning still. I almost lost interest; there was something weird, familiar about that scent. I shrugged it off, and took my turn. The condom ripped; she offered up another. I don't recall the brand, but Lemmy help me, I'll never buy it. They were cheap, tight, and desensitizing. The spermicide smelled like bile and melting plastic, like someone had been trying to eat Tupperware and heaved. I was about twenty thrusts to payday when it hit me…it wasn't just her offbeat chemistry, or some Third World spermicide—on any other night, I'd never care. It was a combination of things, a conspiracy of tactile discontentment…sight, sound, smell, and taste…an alien sensation, like I wasn't meant to be there. Bah…whiner.

I finally placed the scent as the friction stirred it up…that sterile-but-dirty, sickly clinical hospital smell: she smelled just like a sex toy, an artificial vagina.

Combined with her silence, limp passivity and lack of natural response, I felt more so then than ever like I was viciously screwing a blow-up doll.

***

One man's daughter is another man's disappointment. But then, Need is a harsh mistress; and when staring face to busoms, nose to nipples with a word made flesh that spells relief, release, and nobody's fault but mine, anybody's tune can change, anybody's life can become a Lynyrd Skynyrd lyric, and this bird you'll never change—happy as a lark until the vultures gather 'round, to see who stumbles naked from your room.

One day, you awake to the smothering falseness of the world around you. It was Wednesday; I was due. "Reality is what you get away with," I said; and some nights, I get away with far too much. One day, the Veil of Maya lifts, and you realize it's as filthy as all your other linens in the pile.

It's all a distraction; it's all a diversion…a Black Iron Prison, and every Need and Want about you just the spear of a centurion.

***

I knew what I needed, and gave her what she wanted, until I needed her not to want it anymore. I had second thoughts going in, and a third thought going down…

I don't generally fuck people I like; it's better if I feel like they deserve the abuse. Hunger says I need to shoot the lamb; the Will to Eat says, "She's a dirty, dirty lamb. Aim for the head." Love is the Law; Fire at Will.

She basked in a brevity of afterglow and a heaviness of sweat. I basked in the metaphors around me, bitter esoterica with the smells and tastes of all I didn't need. Huddled in a murky, sunless room, bathed in flickers of artificial light, a lasting ick and lingering swishes of another successful failure, I was fingering the stitches that held a deeper wound together, with a blaring of the stereo and a bottle full of sleep.

Sometimes, it's fucking great to be alive; and sometimes, only "sometimes" is enough. Suicide is only cowardice if you do it in your sleep. Again, I insist within, that I'm prolonging the inevitable. Tonight, we'll say I'm referring just to sleep. Sleep, like death, is something that we often resist merely out of habit, and frequently out of formality.

It's an artificial peace. Even when the mornings fall on afternoons…the aches, the dread, the throbbing head…the calls that never cease… imminent alarms blaring out imminent doom.

***

I sent her on her way. We'd reconvene sporadically throughout the week, but I found myself needing greater and greater levels of intoxication to make it through. I didn't want to hurt her feelings; but she'd gone from a good friend to a slinky, writhing mess of all and everything I didn't want. I found myself erect out of sheer courtesy and awake out of sheer nuisance. "Not tonight," I'll say. She'll pout and cock an eyebrow, "Headache?" "No," I'd reply, "Liver failure."

I sip the caramel-colored hemlock more evenings than I should, but I've always known the truth from hype—be it "wise spirits" this, "spiritual drink" that, or "love by candlelight and triple-barrel distillation"…the truth is that no bottle of booze in existence—regardless of malt, price range, or reputation among other inebriates—has ever been, nor ever will be, a "wise liquor," a "spiritual drink," any "worker of love," or anything apart from an alcoholic pipe dream…a "bourbon legend." I've said it oft before, and even still I only sometimes listen: The piss-ant, when pissed on, does not become more "ant." Thus, no drunken man, upon further drinking, has ever become more "man." However, some have compared favorably with the aforementioned ant.

Artificial colors, artificial flavors—every word but "80 proof" is just a hollow lie. It says "very rare" on the label, but they had a thousand bottles on the shelf. At least as many empties clink across the bedroom floor. "Imported," but it's made in Tennessee… "Premium," but it's seven bucks a fifth…

It's an artificial confidence, to quench the coward's thirst…to lend an artificial joy, to all our joyless toys and worse.

***

Hormones, pheromones, erogenous zones and grating tones…sometimes you're better off waking up alone. I'll bemoan waking alone…bitch n' moan, bitch n' moan…and yet I wouldn't let her sleep with me. I gave her what she wanted, took the minimum I needed, and sent her on her way.

At the end of the day, I would be a notch on her bedpost disguised as a notch on mine. I don't believe in "love" so much as psychosis-driven affection. I've often posited that there is no "good" or "evil," only actions with consequences—some favorable, some not. I likewise contend that there is no "love," but rather, desire with tenacity—some desires being more tenacious and enduring than others, like syphilis without all the brain hemorrhaging.

Love shall light our way like lamps of burning human fat…
But it's an artificial light. (Nero's lanterns burning bright)
Beyond the old heave ho, it only heaves with old(er) hat.

***

She made life seem less empty for a time; but the void that cuts upon her absence expresses only that it was merely a distraction. But from what? The faith I don't have? The hope I can't see? The gods I can't hear? The penultimate truth I can never fully know? I don't need to go out and find myself; I'm not out there. I'm right here, awake with only increments more angst than any other godless morning after, mourning afternoon. I won't find myself in anyone's beliefs. I'm not lost; I just did something I wish I hadn't—the key is that I know. And the Tree of Knowledge bore fruit tasting of Sunday's satin undies on a Tuesday afternoon, with a scent of bitter loss and inexpensive mall perfume. It's not quite paradise lost; still I shall slither back from Eden, having done the Devil's work.

Religion is no less a distraction. Most religions and philosophies, myths and metaphors we live by or live against, are like crumpled-up old sailor's maps…street guides before the age of GPS: the map is not the territory, and no map can ever show you the exact locale of every shark or giant squid at every time—hell, even in this day and age, 95% of our ocean's unexplored. No road map tells you what the traffic's like, or if the cops are out in force tonight, or if some neighbor's drooling offspring is playing ball out in the street. The menu is not the meal; and no menu's gonna tell you if the cook teabagged your food.

I don't buy into absolutes, though my disbelief is couched in absolutist terms. No shepherd's scroll or tribal legend, no hero myth or Channeled Regent, is ever there to warn you when the walls come tumbling down. That's not to say that one can't dodge a bullet now and then, living by the book or heeding words of old…but it is to say that those books, those words, won't tell you the location of every gunman, garden snake, and gloryhole. You have to think for yourself, and be prepared for sudden stops, or giant squid, or cock hairs in your food.

And sometimes, you have to be prepared to accept that you're a lecherous alcoholic who ruins countless friendships with his penis. Oh, wait—nevermind; I found some Vicodin. Carry on.

Be it love or faith… kisses, cock or codeine…it's all diversionary. It's an artificial hope, bathed in artificial light. But truly, these are artificial times.

There's a raven at my door, and Old Crow in my glass; let's shed a (tiny) artificial tear, and let it pass…

)+(

ROMEO ISCARIOT

June 30th, 2007

The dream is dead, but my loins are purring. My eyes are tired, but my mind is swimming. I don't know what I am here for anymore. But then I saw her standing there…and God be praised, even as He is betrayed.

And it came to pass that upon coming, I would come to pass on for countless twitching hours a great and terrible Peace I felt from her name and my ignorance: it was that I knew her name, and it was Jezebel; and that I knew nothing else at all about her, other than she did not know me, either. Great and terrible indeed was this piece of Peace, and of ass--it was a piece that passes all understanding.

I knew not her faith or creed, yet knew the name of every god she called for when she screamed. And so it was, that God knew the number of hairs upon her head; and that I would know the number and location of every birthmark, and the shapes that each would make when squeezed from an infinity of angles. And as I ravaged as reprobate the image of God among the Godless, I swiftly and with Heaven's hellfire would eat the flesh of a perfect sacrifice--as the lips of the devoted shook and shivered from the gift of tongues… It was here that nipples were erect and temples were defiled, where dreams and visions of pale steeds and scarlet whores gave sight to the blind and bound, and soothing aloe to the handcuffed... Where the erect Elect took up their cross as handmaidens took off their clothes… Where the knees of those who knelt were ground to thin stigmata while the master gnawed on any ears that were to hear, all that I would whisper here--sweet nothings, precious else and the lonely now. For, by grace, the Lonely Now was yesterday.

And sometimes, I need to be reminded why I can never get attached. Such pleasures of the flesh and those beneath the chest...creature comforts, comforted creatures...damsels in distress, undressed; paradise by dashboard fright. It all makes you write stupid things. At the end of the night, it was a fleeting glimmer of hope, and an epic smear across the sheets. In the end, I am unredeemable; I'm not even worth ten cents in Minnesota. I am resigned to fate, or fatality.

But still...Love just sits there, gawking at you…peering creepily through the blinds.

Bah. It probably has bugs in it, anyway.


)+(

PILLOW TALK & BLANKET AMNESTY

May 28, 2007

God is love when you're getting laid...but love is dead when you're out of smokes.

Nothing emphasizes one's own ugliness like meeting a truly beautiful person. And there is nothing like meeting someone truly wonderful to make you realize what an utterly horrible human being you are. There is nothing like encountering a winning combination to help you realize your losing odds. There is nothing like encountering all you might ever want to realize all you'll never have or find.

You look, and then you lust...and you think of all the awful, perverse and wondrous things you'd like to do to her...the way (or ways) you might molest her every inch and crevice, orifice, and tender bits--lick and nibble, bite and fuck, slap, manhandle, screw, defile her every goddamned cell...nail her very DNA into the floorboards until it dripped and slithered with the very primordial ooze from wence it came, and you came on.

And then Conscience attacks...it says, "You know, they arrest people for that." Or worse--yes, worst of all, it says: "You know, she does have parents..."

And so you stop. You pause, reflect...regret. And then you dream anew...and look, and lust, all over again. "Fuck it," you say.

"Sure, she has a mother. So did the steak I ate today. So did the eggs I had for breakfast--they had a mother. In fact, not only did those eggs have a mother, but I took that mother, plucked it, skinned it, breaded and deep-fried it. Fuck it. Fuck its mother. Fuck it all to hell. We all have mothers. We also all have needs."

And the way things really are...the elephant in our living rooms, shitting its collosal elephant shits upon our mouse-sized dreams...this is how it truly is...this is what we are reduced to: that we close our eyes upon fondling what we have, that we might imagine it is what we want. We shall penetrate our hideous conquests, drunken, eyes wide shut and stomach churning at the very touch and every passing scent...and dream we're making love to all we'll never have. Truly I ask, is ignorance really bliss? Because bliss never resembles what we wake to in the morning, yet ignorance still follows through the day. We're screwed if we do; we're screwed if we don't. And some of us are screwed because we never did, and likely never will.

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A DAY IN THE LIFE OF NIGHT

May 8, 2007

***transcribed from some bar napkins I scribbled on, some restless fuzzy nights ago***

The weird, the wild, the drunk and smoky...you can't pub-crawl with any meaning unless the emphasis be upon the crawl itself. Learn to crawl before you walk, I say: because seven Irish Car Bombs down the mad and winding road, walking isn't quite all that it was.

Learn to enjoy the crawl, live to love--yea, love to live--the crusty floor you crawl upon; you'll be stretched out, strung out, curled upon its granite before long. Learn to love your neighbor, in that sense.

A pack of Pall Malls to offer up to dear ol'/dead ol' Vonnegut--either to celebrate his life and gift, or gloat upon another liberal gone, either/or like Kierkegaard and just as foreign, if anything is ever truly such: this was all I needed at the moment. Live in the moment.

Love the crawl, love the granite looming ever-near. Live and love the moment.

I suckled that smoke like your mother's sweaty teat. Short breaths, long drags, smoke rings, cancer nuzzled like a lover... "I've never seen anyone enjoy a cigarette like that," the bartender remarked, as I smoked the unfiltered Coughin' Nails to the nub like a joint until it singed my thumb.

"Cigarettes?" I said, "I hardly care. I never really liked them." And then I lit another.

I'm living, drinking, smoking in the moment, in the now. The cigarettes just share that sacred space. I don't enjoy the cigarettes; I enjoy the moment. And next I'll have another double-whiskey, and play some sloppy pool with my limping, leering friend. I'll enjoy it even though I know I'll lose. And then I shall hit upon some random bar slut, whomever might be left or wobbly, whose freckles aren't quite cancerous. Maybe I'll get a hummer in the stall. It isn't quite a honeymoon, but it's pickled drooling refuge for the moments that it lasts. And it's real, unlike the number that I'll give her. Fuck 'er, fuck it all; it's not about tomorrow. Tomorrow is not now. Love the moment, love the now; love the freckles that aren't quite cancer. Love it all, and how.

Some drunken redneck will want to fight; he'll smell like sweat and failure. I'll get caught checking out some girl's behind, because I will not see the mirror. I'll eat some things I shouldn't; the girl may or may not be on that list.

It takes a special sort of Zen to find the beauty in the ugliness in every breath and step I take, lest the next be taken from me. It's a special sort of eyes. Hindsight is 20/20, but I'm down to just one contact, and I've had it in for months. But maybe life is better that way--viewed through a milky, floating lens. At least it is right now.

The gang--those warriors left still standing or not currently vomiting--will gather when all is done, and the Crawl is now just rough slumps against time...stop-sell time, last call for alcohol, and first crack at tomorrow's headache. We'll laugh and do illegal things. The room will move in frames and tracers. Philosophy will soak the air. "It's like...it's the thing," someone will say, "It's everything." In the morning, it's a joke; but I'm sure it will seem quite meaningful at the time. But the best things in life are such, no doubt--deep for a time, and deeply weird forever. The best jokes start out as parables, no?

I'll smoke another Pall Mall, maybe three; I still don't care for cigarettes--and I'll hate them in the morn, but I'm fresh out of cigars. We'll toast one up for Vonnegut again, and talk about Ice-Nine, though some will just pretend to get the joke, and wander, rolling, stoned, into another room. I won't see them again, but they were my best friends in the world. At least they were right then. Someone wants to watch a movie, but they'll pass out on the couch.

Fuck 'em. Fuck it all. Sleep is death. But with every passing movement, dying doesn't seem so bad. Death is just another way of life. I'd pass out sooner, but the cat's left a surprise for me. Every pussy mocks me, even that. Live in the moment, love the moment, yeah...but some moments are easier loved than others by night's end. Still, I'll live it just the same.

Maybe all of that will happen; maybe it already did. Maybe none of it will happen. But I'll still wind up in bed; and the swearwords, I assure you, are the same.

As I nod and drift and cough a bit, fighting back the nausea of the night, losing my gaze as if my very astral form into the ceiling fan whirring above the bed, I'll think but for a moment, Is there something more than this? Surely, there is something more--if not beyond the shell of flesh, if not beyond the silent sky...at least beyond the ceiling fan, I guess.

Of course--and like all fate--it finds me. As I roll and scratch my friendly bits, I'll feel a crunch beneath the sheet. An issue of Blue Blood or some such goth chick porn awaits, perhaps--battered by age and the crusts of countless dead. Ah, something more indeed!

"Thank you, Lord," I'll say within, and jerk myself to sleep.

Amen.

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