moment no. 33 1/3

Don't look now, but that monkey on your back's starting to get comfortable.

vice squad

wicked bad unvirtuous impatience.

i'll say she's not my fault, but the sentence barely comes to fruition before the truth slaps my tongue, insisting i retract (and clarify).

the extent to which you can blame the abused for pissing on the rug at the sight of a rubber hose . . . .

death to conditioning, life to envisioning: a call for re-visiting the quintessential experiential existence.

the tactile knowledge of what's been missing . . . .

Is still no excuse.

oh shit

. . . as if existing in that moment when you realize that skydiving actually means that you're jumping out of a goddamn plane.

and you're next.

melting

Two Kisses, left together on a warm Spring day in sun-spotted shade.

Unwrapped.

Perhaps on reserve, perhaps forgotten entirely, but nonetheless existing; at first separately, but as the day floats along, increasingly unified.

No mush, just double sweet.

headache medicine

"Won't someone CEASE that INFERNAL racket?!?!?"

I always love when they say that in the cartoons . . . or the old black and whites even . . . .

What do we have now, "SHUT, the FUCK, UP?"

Effective, but unnecessarily brazen, wouldn't you agree?

. . .

Tenderness in minute quantities begets obnoxious, hardened human (one could even argue sentient) beings.

Vulnerability begets tenderness . . . eventually anyway.

Tell me of vulnerability within oneself - as the journey promises to deliver, in small part at least, a unique interpretation of Divine cruelty: I will retract and re-state, stumbling along The Way. I will re-envision and clarify . . . I will arrive.

. . .

And the racket will cease. And the racket will cease. And the racket will cease. And the racket will cease. And the racket will cease. And the racket will cease. And the racket will cease. And the racket . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Capitol-ism

For the first time in my life, I'm actually proud to be an 'American.' I'll give you one guess as to why.

You got it, I'm sure.

But if you didn't, here you go: Obama.

This man, whose name alone defies so many ill-begotten conventions of this nation, has inspired a slew of people worldwide. He has single-handedly (in a sense anyway) brought together the old, young, black, white, gay, straight, fat, skinny, tall, short . . . and made us all give a damn, all at once.

I mean, come on. That's pretty impressive.

. . .

When I think back to the night that he was elected, I lose my mind all over again (and it feels phenomenal!).

The rejoicing . . . ! The elation! The collective ecstasy of a people who had finally allowed ourselves to be vulnerable again; to possess a dream that just barely kept an inconceivably cruel nightmare at bay.

We did it (Yes We Did!!!)!

And if you weren't here to cry and scream and dance and laugh and scream and cry that day, no worries! You still have a chance to phatten up your nostalgia bank on Tuesday the 20th.

Who cares where you're coming from, just come. Who cares that you'll have to miss work, just come. Who cares that you don't have a place to stay. . . .

You can stay with me. For free.

hand-made scars

I'm grateful that you're torn wide open.

There's something tangible there: a memory, a lesson . . . deep emotion. As the blood dries, I watch your metamorphosis with an illogical, idyllic curiosity. Knowing the progression of proper healing and acknowledging that I make no provisions for this propriety, I still cock my head to the side and furrow my brow as I watch you mutate, disfigure . . . cry for my compassion.

I feel great pain of course, but how else to know this pleasure?

Touching you, I shamefully delight in how wrong you become. In my mind I reach back to what I may have done for your betterment, and there it's revealed to me the distasteful possibility of being robbed of these moments.

:In the heights of obsession, I go so far as to search for where I may aggravate you most while causing the least regression.

. . .

Somewhat improbably, I would like for there to be an end, but please . . . not just yet.

Not just yet.

I'm not done.

You're so beautiful . . . .

Perhaps now you'll be with me for some time?

. . .

At some point I'll most likely ask you to leave.

teabag wisdom no. 786

If you want to make peace, you don't talk to your friends. You talk to your enemies.

Moshe Dayan

no sleep for the wicked

How peculiar to be privvy to a person's human being-ness for the very first time.

When I was younger, I don't believe my eyes were able to see in this way. Or perhaps rather, my mind was not quite ready to allow my eyes to see in this way. After all, there is a level of discomfort that accompanies a certain awareness.

I had never seen his eyes before. I had never taken him for a man. He's always been a caricature of sorts; an authority figure of a teddy bear and quite type-mimicry. But now he exists as I imagine he always has (by sheer definition): seams visible, potentially vulnerable . . . apart from all else, as a _______ .

What does he now notice looking at me? Where do I show age? Experience? Sexuality?

(Am I fair game?)

. . .

Once again dawn has arisen, only to find me thrashing about; still searching for a comfortable position in which to greet the night.