Cabbage: the Poem

December 6, 2011

I wake up to the smell of cabbage

I am sleeping on a giant cabbage leaf

The blue . . . no green . . now orange

Rib caged baby lion in a now current

Monster of coolness of sorts sorts the

Mail on his autumn leaves in Louisville

A cup of Earl Grey tea you fancy?

Fancy me? What did I do?

Where did I go?

Carpet cleaners are coming around noon.

Can they, would they spray me down with pink poison?

So, I can breathe again

Slim Gilliard would love the gibberish singing you screech

To me about fried ice cream and potato chips.

Alternatives? Drink snot and call me in the morning.

Call someone before you snuff it, off it, give up.

Please.

I’d like to catch up first.

Not save you. Live, learn and breathe with you.

You can go anytime just talk to me first.

Please

Something in the way she crowds around me

Grinds spines in the old chop shop

Aunt Dollien operated by herself

I should have, you should have

Helped her. Bloody mess it was.

Not she. 117-years-old and still

In charge. We listen and obey

She rides off into the distance towards the rising sun

Like the girl with no name in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western.

Bang Bang. You shot me down.

Bang Bang! I’m vested and not crying yet

Ready

To meet my Angels. Are you?

Powder blue suntan, flowering yellow hair,

Insects in your eyes, resting, not doing any harm

They need rest too, ya know.

Sink deep into an opiate coma with me

With him, with her, everybody sing

“All we need is Love”

The bed drops softly to accommodate

Our bodies.

“Everybody is just a little homosexual. Whether they like or not” Allan Ginsberg once sang through my departed allies.

The piss in your pants somehow comes off

As a romantic gesture. just not sure who or whom or me.

Romance, courting and foreplay have changed.

Piss, spit and a clean T-shirt is all we desire

Under the brown, dark chocolate brown, chair

That wiggles when I turn on Wagner.

Maybe it’s German. Jewish.

“You should burn it and find out.” Jack said to me

Wiping the cocaine off his Skrewdriver T-shirt.

Salute the master. Carry his bones to the crematory

Make sure he’s powdered. Maybe a nice face powder someday.

Bring your tired looking face back to life.

They call you “face job” ya know?

I call you love.

Is life worth the sadness, the happiness, the ups and downs?

Worth love? Worth death?

Worth money?

(pause and take a deep breath.)

Tuna. Grazed grazed 2 day old fish  marked down 58 percent.

Thank God for the rain or the smell would have turned on the perverts and scared the little girls.

Take me back to the thousand foot

Red tranquil trees hanging over my head

Terrifying peace as the sun goes down.

Dreams don’t have to die

Ya know?


Wicked Smile

August 16, 2011

The gray wired stem cell recedes as your infected fingers touch it.

Look at the first thing you hear and find the weak spot and torch it with your flame broiled tongue.

Lick it.

Tease me with your green-clouded carcass and my tight gray eyes loosen slightly enough to absorb your fantasy.

My fantasy.

A crowd gathers and gathers watching. Looking. Gazing.

At us. At you.

At me.

Your over qualified charms releases it’s grasp and backs off.

A clear candied sludge covers my smile. Your smile widens and you laugh wickedly. Wicked.

It’s my face. Whispering sweet nonsense. Mumbling my monstrous innocence. Crying for something I think you have.

I want.

Come here before you go. Sit on my jellyfish clammy lap and try not to fall off and run away.

From me.

Go now, dear lethargic lethal lover.

Go.


Dream Girl is my Guardian Angel

August 2, 2011

 

I haven’t been quite right for the past few days. I have never been quite right but the past few days my sleep and emotions have been a little screwed up. I have some vivid dreams quite frequently and even more vivid when I’m feeling screwier than usual. For about the last 6 months I’ve been having a girl I know appear at least 3 or 5 times a week.

 

In real life I barely know the girl. I know her from when I was going to the 12 step meetings. Beautiful young lady that I’d see once a week and maybe say hi to her now and then. I never had a conversation with her. Eventually, we friended on facebook because we have so many “friends” in common. Still didn’t talk. Once in a while I’ve looked at her profile but since she’s shown no interest in me I never made a big deal about her in my mind.

 

So, this girl I’ll call Carmella because I like that name, appears in many of my dreams and it doesn’t matter the theme or involvement. She’s played major parts where we have a relationship. She’s appeared as a background character at parties, meetings and moving dreams. We’ve been friends, lovers and just associates that wave or say hi. I can’t remember the details of the dreams just her appearances.

 

I did manage to remember the dream I woke up from this morning. Yes, I actually woke up in the morning again. I was a party with various people I’ve known for years. I was having a decent time and Carmella came up and whispered that it was time to leave in my ear and walked away. I kept talking to another friend for a few more minutes and she came back. She grabbed my arm and said let’s go. All I knew is that she was my ride in the dream. I woke up before we went anywhere. I woke up with the feeling that she was leading me somewhere safe. Or maybe she was leading me to wake up because I had things to do.

 

 

I don’t think about Carmella that often. She does kind of haunt me the day after I dream about her. Most of the time I haven’t analyzed her presence in my dreams. Today I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I think there is a reason. I’m not usually a dream analyzer or analyst but I’ve come to the conclusion that my dream girl is my guardian angel. She is protecting me somehow for some reason.

 

For a moment I thought about telling her about it but came to my senses pretty fast. Imagine a girl in her mid 20s getting a message telling her she stars in a guy in his mid 40s dreams a few times a week and it means something to him.

 

I’ll just keep to myself who she is and let her keep guarding me from whatever and enjoy my dreams.

 


Suck My Poem (reprise pt1)

August 1, 2011

Sleepless in New Jersey. Catatonic.

 

Careless. Reckless in my mind. My mind.

 

Count my fingers to pass time.

 

Count sheep at 2 in the afternoon.

 

I’d count my failures but there’s too many.

 

I’m ok.

 

You’re ok.

 

Stuper dooper.

 

Hands wander over my belly into my tight shorts.

 

Quick tug to make sure it’s there.

 

Light a cigarette. Ha. Always light a cigarette.

 

Sleep 10 hours straight then go out then come back and take a 3 hour nap and woke up 5 pm yesterday.

 

No sleep yet. Almost. Sort of. Kind of. Ya know? I know

 

Oh . . . I know.

 

Doze. Wake. No focus. No nothing nada.

 

Try to eat. My stomach is bloated from the water and anti stress tea I drank to make up for the coffee and / / /

 

Ever contemplate death mr Goodpeoples? Not me. Well, not by my own hand.

 

Sex is a foreign country. Relationships are memories so far buried it’s like I’m reading someone else’s story.

 

Not hard to understand myself but I always ask why am I like this? I know why. Sometimes I just won’t tell myself.

 

27 trips to the bathroom. Or was it 30?

 

My best thinking is when I am in the bathroom or on my way to the bathroom or on way back from the bathroom.

 

Pay my rent so I can try and sleep. Waiting. Still waiting. Wabbling.

 

Bullets of words blast through my my my my   . . . .  and hit you softly.

 

A parade of sweat falls everywhere. . . anywhere. I’m burning.

 

Tired.

 

Until.

 

What?


Today Again

July 28, 2011

Shit. It’s today again.

Lazy. Not so much. I sit. I lay. I spend the day trying to make my meets end or end meets or meats.

Pay bills. No money. Get money. Owe money. Pressure. Stress.

Mail. Social Security sent me 5 separate 10-page packets to fill out. Explain my disabilities. I tell them that the experience of filling out the forms triggers all of my disabilities. It’s true. I get almost halfway done and have already medicated myself with over the counter and prescriptions.

A night of watching Kevin Smith movies and eating the sheet of dried seaweed my roommate gave me. Wash it down with any liquid I can find to dehydrate and rehydrate me.

I create imaginary masterpieces to get the toxins out of me and into you.

Piss more toxins and negative energy away in the toilet every hour from drinking too much water all day. It’s good.

More pain. More anxiety. More pills. More time.

I sleep peacefully.

Dreams are so much better than my life sometimes. I wake up disappointed and sweating. My bladder is full. I spend 5 minutes straight unloading.

Stumble in the hot house turning on every fan and I play with the thermostat.

Drink water and wait for my coffee. Cigarettes and water.

Shit. Today again.



The Artsy Girl – an Excerpt from my novel Yellow Socks

July 11, 2011

The Artsy Girl (as it originally appeared in Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan)

 

Living with Terry and Morton was a blast. They were both in their early thirties and I was in my late twenties. We are all artists in one way or another and we were all on the prowl for the ladies as we clumsily tried to pick them up at coffee shops, AA meetings, bars, art shows and anywhere else we thought that we could find our type.

 

Our types varied. Terry was obsessed with finding a “Vampire chick” or a “Goth Chick’. Ironically he dressed kind of standard 1988 in 1995. He had that bob cut hair. It was kind of long on the sides and real short in the back. Morton was after the “Rocker Chick Slut” or the “New Age Hippie chick.” He usually dressed the part either wearing his new age outfit or his Rock star clothes. He had long black died hair. As for me, I stood by with my usual requirements: any good-looking girl that actually liked me. We rarely found what we were looking for after obsessing day and night about these fantasy girls we would never have. We had fun in our bonding of failures with the ladies.

 

We all lived in a house that Terry owned in a town on the outskirts of Camden, NJ. It was a poor neighborhood and was becoming racially mixed. It was mostly poor minorities and white trash. The chances of ever seeing hot chicks that fit our tastes were next to impossible.

 

Then she appeared. A young girl of maybe seventeen walked by our house every day around 5:30 pm. She dressed a little on the “alternative” side. It was around the end of the grunge years and that’s when the poor neighborhoods usually take over a style is when the middle class is done with it. Always a step behind. Kind of like us. So Terry nicknamed her the “Artsy Girl” because he says she dresses artsy. It was a style that was once artsy but not now. The three of us became obsessed with her. Everyday at 5:30 one of us would call to the others “Artsy Girl!” and we’d all come running to the kitchen window to see her.

 

“Artsy Girl!” I said.

 

“Where?” Terry said.

 

“I don’t see her. Did I miss her?” Morton said.

 

“Stop fucking with us, man. This is the highlight of our day. We don’t need to be teased.” Terry said.

 

“Sorry. I just think that it’s funny that we all start salivating the minute someone rings the Artsy Girl bell.” I said.

 

She was cute in her little flowered dresses and her Doc Martins. She had medium length reddish brown hair and pretty brown eyes.

 

One day I was walking home from the train and I ended up walking home with her. She didn’t acknowledge ever seeing me before. Thank God. She didn’t know what a letch I was. Her name was Megan. She just got out of High School. She was going to start working at the local convenience store. I was going to hit on her then I realized that she was just a regular little girl. That’s ok but not for me. When we got to my house I felt sadness in her eyes that I was going home without hitting on her or asking her for her phone number. After getting to know her the thrill of the “Artsy Girl” vanished. I realized that I am not the letch I thought. She was too young and too inexperienced in life.

 

I still fucked with the roommates though. I still gave them the mating call of the Artsy Girl. They still kept a running. I never felt the same again.

Purchase your copy of Yellow Socks; Confessions of a Non-Don Juan here.


Nightmares and Dreams Video Experiment

July 9, 2011

Home.

Bed

Dream.

Smile. Dream.

Nightmare.

Fear.

Sexual delight

Frustration

Proactive


A POEM: Solutions & Survival

July 4, 2011

Back to the up all night and no sleep routine. It’s an old act I developed in high school or was it college? Not a stand-up comedy routine. Could be at this point because if I don’t laugh I’ll cry.

 

Cry. Soft whimpering cries. Loud screaming cries.

 

No dies. Not yet.

 

Tired wired eyes. I doze off then wake up. I wake up I doze off.

 

I tried to eat my worries last night and I couldn’t keep them down.

 

I’m hungry then I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. What can I do?

 

My body rejects my denial and forces me to think. Think. Think

 

I slept earlier yesterday after a panic attack. Anxiety attack. Anxiety went into cruise control and got into an accident with my insides and outsides. I was inside. Inside.

 

I slept yesterday. It was a dream. Not the sleep. It was dream to sleep. The day before I slept. Slept early. Awoke early.

 

Productive. Creative. Happy. Happy.

 

Today and last night and some other nights the pains in my face drove me to a painkiller. Kill the pain. Kill pain.

 

Kills pain. I can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. I dream of sleep. Dream sleep.

 

Remember the night owl I once was? I wanted to be? Proud to be?

No worries.

 

Worries. Problems. Dilemmas. Solutions.

Solutions.  Think. Think man, think. A Solution. Solutions.

 

Solution? Not there yet. Not sure I’m anywhere yet. Had one or two or three or more. Solutions. Each solution is kicked out of the way by a bigger worry. Bigger problem. Bigger dilemma.

 

I cry. I laugh. I get outraged. I am sensitive. Sensitive artist. Bah.. Starving artist. Bah..

 

I go away for a minute. Two maybe three. Minutes. I am surrounded by love and sex and fantasies I make up as they float through my dreams.

 

I get home to an empty fridge and a coffee table cluttered with reminders of my worries. I scramble for solutions. I do what I can to solve the worries, problems and dilemmas.

 

Productive. Creative. Happy?

 

Not sure. Doubt. Hope. In between.

 

Go forward. Move ahead. Back to the taxi. Whip it.

 

Maybe I will. Whip it. Whip it good.

 

I win even If I lose.

I survive. Survive.

 


Fetishes Part 5- Agalmatophilia: Dolls and Mannequins Fetish

June 28, 2011

 

Fetish. The psychological definition of a fetish is any object or non-genital part of the body that causes a habitual erotic response or fixation.

Paraphilia is a biomedical term used to describe sexual arousal to objects, situations, or individuals that are not part of normative stimulation and that may cause distress or serious problems for the paraphiliac or persons associated with him or her. A paraphilia involves sexual arousal and gratification towards sexual behavior that is atypical and extreme. –Wikipedia

This is part 5 in my weird fetish series. Click here for part 4, here for part 3, here for part 2 and here for part 1. Today it’s about Agalmatophilia.

Agalmatophilia is the sexual attraction to statues, dolls, mannequins and other inanimate objects resembling people. It’s a sexual arousal one gets from these objects. Agalmatophilia includes the actual sex act with a statue, doll, mannequin etc., non sexual encounters pretending they are real and converse with the objects, the fantasy of sexual and non-sexual relations, watching encounters between other people and the objects and between the objects themselves (like having Barbie fuck Ken), and some have the fantasy of the sexual pleasure form the idea of being transformed into the object itself. Agalmatophilia may also include Pygmalion’s (from the myth of Pygmalion), which is a love for one’s actual creation of a such objects mentioned above.

This one word covers a wide territory in this unusual yet semi-popular paraphilia. I think back to when I was an extremely horny teen and I bought a blow up doll named Candy. I wrote a story similar to my experience in my novel, Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan. I tried it out a few times and got bored so I guess I’m not an Agalmatophiliac. I did want to try out a Real Doll. You know the special $6.000 life size and life like women they make per order and how you want her. I don’t think I’d spend the money even if I had it. Maybe.

When I was a kid my biological family was worried that I might be gay (they were quite prejudice)  because I owned “dolls” as they called them. I called them action figures. I bought the Charlie’s Angels action figures and played with them. I was too young to think about actually having sex with them but I did undress them quite a bit. For a while I thought women were crotchless based on my “doll” experience.

I also have owned mannequins and dressed them up in pantyhose and sexy dresses. I had a few fantasies but it wasn’t overwhelming enough to do anything to the “object”. She was cute with no head. I made her one. Or two.

Ok maybe I am part Agalmatophiliac.. How about you?

Next up . . . . . Fetish number 6 . . .Whatever I find as interesting, repulsive or relatable.


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