Monday, May 24, 2010

The backyard with piles of bricks and stones disarranged about the place according to a boy's will. His imagination dictating that this stone here must not be there where it is but there where his hand must take it.

The look in his eyes when he looks over the property in the ambitious afternoon. A girl's crying once interrupted the look of unstoppability. Her mother elevated her above the fray in her arms. In a long sigh she said that someone always cries.

He thought, how did that pretty girl get her mother to win the war for her. And without even using her hands. The boy built himself a shelter with the bricks and stones from the little girl. Above the doorway he wrote, you musn't cry.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

The girl burned to death in the fire

The girl burned to death in the fire. In her baptism by fire her will to live was tested and her pain was religious and in her final seconds she saw God's eyes that defied her in those seconds that were like minutes she let out a blood curdling growl that would freeze the blood of Genghis Khan. Her clothes burned off and her elegant graces defined in the light of the flames. Her wonderful skin charred. There she is now, her devil-anger gone and the house just simmering, the thing that happened that would make a devout monk jealous over and the music of the firemen and people and her body in the carbon of the wood and other materials as if it were never anything else like the bark of the tree in the songbird's song.

Before she died the girl in my arms. Her skin and her hair in the sunlight in my arms. Against the world that took from her what it wanted without giving back and exploited her kindness and moved about her too quickly like a pack of wolves that threatened to tear her away with it but couldn't in my arms. I said to her I will take you from this hour to the next like this like birds in flight like a house in a tornado. She without fear limp as a feather in my arms. This beauty created for me for the world to take from her and to appease my will. For me to save and for me to break. She a woman for it and me a man for it.

The red of that sunset that I saw from above the clouds. The sun encased in the horizon like a jewel, like a pearl peaking out from the oyster. War-clouds marching on beneath me to do battle in a hurricane-skirmish too far ahead to see. She was betrayed more than once. She cried after sex and I said go ahead and let it out. My love overabundant like a well overflowing. Something wrong with it. I ran my hand along her back and legs and arms that were for her and along the tender parts that were for me. Her cool skin that glistened. That belied the flames that came from within after all, that destroyed the love that soared for me and for you who aspired to have it, too.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

the unscarred soul

The unscarred soul offends her. Lethargy in her thin wrists in her twisted hips. The truly useless vagrant drunk throws how can she do this to herself in your face. This monument to distrust. This unfemale woman. The lovelessness of her ho-hum do-nothing swaying. Devil may care in her gaze but no masculine mystique in her low-hanging mother breasts and in her thin bones. This truly useless drunk from whom you want nothing. Who claims to want nothing from you.

The sight of a child repels her. Like a heretic at the sight of her God. The child's affabilities not endearing it to the woman. If she could get her hands on a child it she'd throw it in the fire. Her own wasted motherhood glaring back at her. Condemning her. Dooming her. She and her tramp friends coconspirators against the essence of a child. They warm their hands over the trash fire and worship unforgivable gods in the night.

Those that know her come in and out of her life. They have no clout with her but one. The devil comes to her in the hiding-dark of the night. His loving gaze her nourishing nectar. Every night she tells him the same story of the drunk ecstasy her lover now, her child now. They don't know the happiness I feel. He tells her that's all right. The woman-drunk wants nothing from you and chases the only ecstasy she knows. The unscarred soul offends her.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

They call it rape.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

So the man was in one of those strange moods and when him and his woman were about to run in from the rain he grabbed her and tackled her and after a while she played along it was one of those things and when they did go in she was all hot and ready and the foreplay was fine but when it came down to it the man couldn't get his dick up. So their relationship entered into another month of misery. The story of this man's life replete with such periods of sadness.

The man sneaks out to see movies when he can. When he watches a movie he's brought back to the place and time of a boy. He looks out from his world at adult life like a movie like everyone has a role like everyone knows what they're doing. Doesn't see the desperate and lonely lives. The man's disillusionment as he lays next to his wife. Sometimes he gets a boner in these moments but he doesn't want to bother her with it.

Friday, May 7, 2010

One time a woman said I'm the kind of man who would get into a car to kill himself. Nothing to do with the car. Just to have a place to sit and shoot myself. The earthworms in the dirt and the songs of birds vibrating in the air and the neatness of the garden. Soothing to me somehow. Like that in a woman which I pay a dear price to have. The world rotating. And the gears in the clockwork of all the working brains driving on. The instruments of their will do it what takes. But if the wind put a gun to my head, if it told me it was the Devil come to take my life I think I wouldn't mind. This old sperm donor sitting in the car going no where. His woman who knows him better than he knows himself comes in the garage and tells him to come inside and close the garage door. The children who disregard his presence wait at the table for their mother. If the wind put a gun to my head I think I would not mind.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

I figured out how I'm gonna get rich. I'm gonna seduce Alex Trebek. I'm gonna pin him down and suck his dick and I won't enjoy it very much but I'm gonna blow him into submission and he's gonna give me the key to the world.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

In the winter of the boy's twelfth year the man put his hand on the boy's shoulder as he looked out the window at the snow. Out there winter's full fury was coming on. The boy said he knew the snow would melt in spring time because by the summer there would be no more snow but at this time he could not believe it, such was winter's triumph that year. The man said that snowflake by snowflake the snow builds up to a considerable mass but the slow coming-on of the summer sun was enough to melt it all quickly away. But the next year the snowflakes will be back. He avowed their perseverance. How beautiful they are, each one unique, and how gently they lay down among the other flakes. To await the coming moisture, then congregate in a stream nearby to someday have another try. But don't think that you'll ever be so lucky.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

When a girl walks by I never fail to look at her sexy parts and the girl who sits in front never fails to notice me noticing. Whenever I look at a girl I think to myself how does she regard herself when she's naked in front of a man. Is she a bad little girl? Is she a woman who understands what her little woman-curves do? Is she in control, is she excited by the thought of losing control? The girl who sees me thinks what kind of man am I. She thinks how do I regard a girl naked in front of me. I would be lying to myself if I thought she hasn't figured me out better than I know myself. I want to smile at her and make a joke about our little conversations we have without talking but I'm regaled because she knows sometimes I'm a jerk who holds a girl's hands behind her back and sometimes I'm a coward who can't bring himself to dominate a woman. I walk with my confidences and my failures tattooed on my skin. I smile only in the light of woman's forgiveness. See my fragile ego in the sun? The cracks visible only to woman. This trying eggshell alligator. My sweat and effort against my man-blindedness.