Monthly Archives: June 2009

Time to leave…

I am home. Back in Colorado in the house that used to feel so comfortable. The simple drive to the grocery store brings memories of laughter and frustration as I spent years cruising every inch of this town. Three years ago I couldn’t wait to escape, and I made few attempts to stifle my desire to get away. Even now, I go to school 800 miles away, spend my summers on the farthest coast, and make plans to not be in town during the long winter break. So, hell, I’ve been a bit too nostalgic for my own good in the last couple of days. As I cleaned out my shelves I came across a box of notes and cards from my younger days.

All of the notes from my older high school days are in a box- and glancing at them reminded me of beautiful people that I was lucky enough to spend considerable amounts of time with. As I read old stories of daily woes, I found myself searching for older notes and older interactions. Older insights into an old life. And I couldn’t find many. As I tried my best to think back to what may have happened to them, I remembered the day that I trashed them. My reasoning: It was time to grow up, move on, and buck this note-saving trend. I was going into ninth grade at the time. In retrospect, it did not serve as an attempt to grow up but rather a true extinction of my childhood crushes and romances. I implore you all, save everything that somebody takes the time to truly write to you. Delete your emails and messages- keep letters and notes. There is something truly beautiful in a handwritten piece that can bring joy to your heart and memories to your head.

Now, a twenty year-old, I find myself thinking of the people who I would like to see. If only briefly, who would I truly want to reconnect with. I was lucky enough to know a number of fantastic individuals; they have maintained their friendships with eachother and I have left indefinitely. I hope they all know that I wish them true happiness and success in whatever they pursue. Ya’ll are great people. Don’t forget it.

Thank you for who I have become by knowing you.

Death of Superman

Doomsday is a bullet to the head.
Doomsday is a fall and broken neck.
Doomsday is eschatological.
Doomsday is the horse from which you fall.
Doomsday is the time when cities burn.
Doomsday is the time before return.
Doomsday is the rise of Übermensch.
Doomsday is the death of Superman.

Wait, Bloomsday? I thought you said Doomsday. What the fuck is Bloomsday?

Saline Caoineadh

South by sound, she sailed along
where oceans moan and spread their wings.
A siryn’s call in canyon’s lost;
she cried a ghost to answer me
“I’m waiting. I’m wading.”

Her hellfire eyes parted waves;
a lighthouse lost in fog to die.
The crashing foam swallowed footsteps on the trail,
eroding echoed memories,
soft and fading past Connemara
where Cliffs can’t break her fall.

The morning sky creeps up the ledge,
running red with virgin blood.
Her tattered mast falls to driftwood on the sea,
a star bored keel-haul tragedy
wading in salt for water.

Wednesday Blendsday

I met a really odd person yesterday in a really odd way.

I also learned a really cool phrase.

I’ll start with the person.  I met this lady in a supermarket.  I was drunk.  Let’s step back.

So two friends from high school and I met up at a pizza place to start drinking.  We did it because beers are only a dollar there, which is a ridiculously low price and really just a dumb thing to offer to a guy like me.  It’s like offering a fat kid all-he-can-eat candy.  You know he won’t hold back at all, and in the end, he’s gonna wake up the next day feeling terrible.

But I digress.

We got there and ordered Miller High Lives [sp?], because we’re classy guys and when we’re not drinking champagne, we can at least drink The Champagne of Beers.  After we downed, ‘em though, we were rebutted on our second round – and told all we could buy were PBRs.

“What’s the deal?” I asked the lady at the counter.  “I can see Miller High Life at the bottom of the fridge!”

“Yeah,” she said.  “We have ‘em.  But we’re not selling them until we get rid of all the PBRs.  Sorry.”
”Well,” I said, “how many PBRs do you have left?”

“About a case and a half.”

Because I am me, I immediately took this as a challenge.

Fast forward three hours.  I’m still there in the pizza place with my two dumbass friends, and we’re ringed by empty cans.  The floor is wet because I’ve been shotgunning – yeah, I bite holes in cans while in the middle of a pizza place, what of it? – and we’re absolutely blotto.  But there’s only six PBRs left, we learn, so we race through two more apiece and celebrate our drinking success with – what else? – more drinking.

Those two High Lifes we had at the end of the binge were so damn sweet.  We earned ‘em.

Anyway, after finishing, one of the guys told us about a bar he knows uptown that has barbeque grills in the back.  They don’t have a kitchen, but they do have a pair of charcoal burners that they’ll let you fire up until eleven P.M. and cook up whatever you like.

Jackpot.

So on our way to the bar, we stopped at a Gristedes, and there I met – and offered to help carry bags for – a crazy-lookin’, vaguely stripper-lookin’, dyed-blond urban vagabond.  Whom, as it turns out, is a hooker, but a hypnotherapist with a big, pretty place on 3rd Avenue to boot.

Who knew?  Life in New York is crazy.

 

Oh, and the phrase?

 

Turgid horse penis.

‘Til Death Do Us Part

I wonder if in AD 53,
Nero and Claudia thought they could be
So out of love by AD 62
That Nero would find cause to execute
Claudia on their anniversary?

I wonder, too, in AD 68,
If Claudia was waiting at the Gate
As Nero came to join his former bride
After reciting verse to suicide
And if she knew it was again that date?

Their Eyes In

He and She are two lines, converging
to a point like sharks in steady motion:
always moving forward, never going back,
and never standing still until its end.

He and She are straight lines with nothing
but a steamy ninety-eight-point-six degrees
between them, keeping them apart,
separated by an ark until they reach the Point.

She is a solid line, at least 5B lead,
running parallel along the grid
without wavering, without a bend,
and inked to give her shadows,
character, emphasis and depth, while
the other lines perpendicule around her.

He is a dotted line, bisectual,
cutting squares in half, pointing straight
a-head like an arrow, dangerous and
pea-cocked by its fletchings.
A compound beau with pulleys
and gears that often miss the mark.

He and She are headed for a Vanishing Point,
To a collision, or towards a horizon line
where every building skews in a new direction
down slanted streets, slouching towards,
To end, or to continue on and on, anon.

He and She are headed towards a head,
forged by perspective. A trick of the eyes
and the I’s and lines, the lives and the lies,
manipulating space- and wasting -time
creating new dimensions to live in-
side by side, not content with length-by-height.

He and She are two lines, converging to a Point:
An ending, a forever, or flip-sides of a coin?

The best sex advice you’ll ever get

Here it is:

Approach sex with a paralyzing, crippling sense of dread and fear.  This, along with double-bagging condoms (latex ON TOP of lambskin – so you still feel like you’re not wearing a rubber, while wearing a rubber)* is your best defense** against STIs, unwanted pregnancy, charges, etc.

When you see your potential lover staring at you lustfully across the room, the best thing you can do is picture mentally all the ways you can fail at intercourse before you actually get there.  All the best athletes mentally picture their ideal performances before the whistle blows – why shouldn’t you do the same?

Here’s what happens after you have sex: shame.  An unyielding flow of shame coats your body like a thick layer of paint, and after that, you find yourself gasping for air and room to breathe.  Your limbs feel sticky, your whole body is hot, and no matter what, you just can’t seem to get enough space to relax.

Also, you’ll never pee quite right again.

Once it’s all over, you get to deny to your friends that it ever took place, dread that your parents and relatives may find out what you’ve once done, and hope to God that your penis won’t fall off*** like Charles Dickens always implied it might.

Now, go have some fun!

 

* If you’re a girl, naturally, insist that the guy wear the latex INSIDE the lambskin one.  If he refuses, and you reach an impasse – great!  Now you have a great excuse not to have to have sex.

** This is not to be construed as legal advice.  Nor is it the advice of a qualified black-belt in ass-kicking, who might suggest mace, pepper spray, a switchblade, a .22, a .38, a .44, or noticeable, macropurulent herpes sores about the face, lips, cheek, nose, neck and chest areas.

*** Or, if you’re a girl, that your vagina will blacken and your soul will become a dark, black pit, and Jesus will never save you.  Amen.