Friday, December 14, 2012

Everyone is a masturbator and nothing they know is true.

Monday, November 5, 2012

What your lips are really for. What your tongue is for.
What is it for.
It's not for tasting.
What your earlobes are for.
Not for earrings?
Is it for biting?
How did you know.
I know you.
You know me.
Yes. You are not as complicated as you think.
You say you are passionate but you are simple. Like cave man.
Cave men can be passionate.
That's not what I mean.
What do you mean.
I mean you are acting. You have fantasies.
I am not genuine.
No, you are genuine but you have fantasies also. Stupid fantasies.

Friday, July 13, 2012

The woman who passes the cafe, with her heavy breasts and her airy sunday dress, told me the story with her eyes of her yearning for an affair.
She reads the books. 
Her husband leaves her alone to her fantasies. In her resentment for being left alone she indulges in fantasies of passion and intrigue. 
She says to herself, I just want to have an affair. She sits with her sex in the city friends and tells them, I just want to have an affair. 
She will look back at her life in a time when she is not beautiful enough for men to hang from her breasts by their lips. She will look back at her novels of fantasies and be at peace with her lack of affairs.
When she passes the cafe she looks for a young man's eyes. 

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

The bees crawl on the glass. Their will indecipherable and divine, they operate in a different sphere, they are agents of the sublime.

The Tajik

The Tajik walked to the small Uzbek town. It was twilight. His red moccasins that carry dirt from China to Uzbekistan, his oversized rucksack. In it he carries homemade instruments for sharpening any type of blade, some of his own invention and some copies of what he'd seen used elsewhere.

He finds the woman's home.

The knives displayed on a cloth on the table. He used simple scissors to sharpen them - both sides at once. The boy watched him from behind his mother's leg. Her rugged face, her crisp beauty. She reheats meat and potatoes for him on the stove. She sent the boy off to bed. The Tajik put down the knife and stood behind the woman. He placed his hands on her hips. He inhaled the back of her neck. No, she said. He goes back to the knives.

When he finished sharpening her knives she watched him eat. His graying beard. His dark mongoloid face. How silney he must be to carry around all those tools, she thought.

He finished his food and nodded at her. He sat with his hands on his knees. He waits for her to come near. She wont look him in the eyes. It is the same feeling as last year. He brings her closer. He lifts her shirt and presses his face against her belly. He remembers how she likes to be screwed.

The next morning he is on his way to the town center where the people expect him. They have laid their knives out in preparation for the Tajik who comes once a year to sharpen every knife in the village. He smiles at seeing the old faces. They speak a different language, they speak in smiles and nods. He and the woman fought in the morning. She claimed that the food and board was payment enough and she owed him not a cent for the blade work. How can I argue, he thought looking at her face. It reminded him that although men have always done as he told them, women are a different story. But why are they a different story. He kicks at the dirt and says to himself, you hated them once, you know.

He stops outside of the village.

The travails of his life. All the times he was robbed before he took to robbing travelers to break even. The face of the young man who died at his hands. The boy's earnestness, his eyes which were not quite cold. The Tajik kneeled at his grave for the rest of that day and made camp nearby when the sun set. He owed the boy no eulogy but he contemplated at his grave a while. When it came to him to keep on going he left the grave of the boy who made such a convincing impression of a killer. A body can't know what hunger will make it do.

The Tajik stands there at a point between where he came from and where he's going. He looks up at the sun that will berate the desert long after he is dead, to which his life's journey holds no significance, his life itself being a series of trips across mountains and deserts and valleys to reach people who have something to trade for his one useful skill. The moments of what he allows himself to call love that after all dot his life's journey. If his death will come at his own hand or the hand of another's. It can not be any other way. It must be at your own hand. You never know when the mood will strike you.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

A man once walked into a pride of lions in a conquering mood.
In a time when humans existed in the margin left to them by the lions. In a time when power was gotten with force. They lived in the shadows and ate leftovers and were not separated from the lions. They were peers. When their escaping methods failed them and they found themselves eye to eye with a lion, the human's life was in that moment measured by degrees of a lion's mercy.
A man once walked out from the shadows in a conquering mood.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

My Brooklyn know-nothings
My hairy counterparts who
You wouldn't think have a soul
To go home to at night
Who do not even have to say it -
I would rather make love all day

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Men whos faces were contorted over time with their tortured lives into something you cannot even look at. Something truly ugly. They walk, lanterns swinging, along the railroad tracks to what ramshackle dwellings they after all afford. The inner world of their dwelling places look onto them, their regard for what they call a family, the families' regard for the men. Nobody is grateful. Not a moment of tenderness in their day.