Apr 16 2013

how to make something weird- a cynical, working list for sam

 

 

use lots of make up- bonus points face paint

put something over your head/ face (bonus points make it big)

find something that it is agreed is not good and pretend to enjoy it

make something so simple people wonder what they are missing

make something sparkly

bright colors/ clashing patterns

everything the same color

robot noises/ robots

animals doing human things/ humans doing animal things

use aesthetics that are creepy /use fake blood

openly address death, rape or something else awful casually and without point

be repetitive

be repetitive

fluorescent colors

morbid obesity

morbid anorexia

patterns of speech slower or faster than what the norm- speech impediments/ foreign accents

wear something not shaped like your body

not enough/ too much clothing

too many of something. all the same thing.

vague tribalism

it comes out of the eyes

weird=things that are not at all sexy

 

to be continued..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Nov 28 2012

November 27,2012

Noir. A life of drinking cleaning fluid for breakfast never seemed so fluid. like waking up with your head in the football ice helmet. only ever being able to lift your head to waist level.

In the cafeteria the lunch lady was spiralling hair into the meat patties in the most secure ways. stove burners on stove burners waiting for heat rays.   like i had always suspected she had done for days.  complicity is all she asked for hairy burgers. the all knowing hair servers who grew the increasing fate with glee. And condiments for me.  All I had to do was eat her hair and I’d tell her what I believed.  And she’d tell me what she believed and we’d stand there talking dryly like a cut that never bleeds.

 

Mouths fell open, candy was spilled and crushed. I overheard two people talking about last night’s dreams. I guess I guess I guess. It doesn’t mean anything.  I maybe told someone about my dream. or maybe I ate a hamburger or made someone a hamburger I forget. it seemed the building was hexagonal , like the pentagon without a pointed point, outside lurkers smoked a joint- but smoking was hardly the seedy thing that it seemed. A lung full of broken dreams. A pant full of wet ice cream.  in the cafeteria is disappointment steamed.

i forced a smile and held the door, and traded and guffawed. next to me a purse was dropped and out spilled a note about a life lead flawed. But it’s no secret people were born not to be built sanded or sawed.  Our evolved parts are working out the glitches, its the reason we scream and cry and call each other bitches, and I can only write in a verse rhyming style reflecting the graceless day.  Trying simultaneously to forget and recapture the day.

 

308 words in ten minutes is the fate we call a fatal blow to all that’s in the poetry of stream of conciousness design.

The encroaching sigh of the heaviness of the universe seemed to push down on me at work.  I saw K. today and today once again I screamed. Passionately pleased with my displeasure. Two days since Sunday and again we’re together in a car and he’s listing that he wants to buy pinatas full of lightbulbs for the purpose of making our tasks pleasant. We finally ate dinner, and spit our souls on our food and stuffed them back into ourselves.  And we try to make eachother laugh and do, in the car- driving in a few circles and then say things that are just not funny.  We’ve been friends for too long. I think we’ll always be friends.

I called everyone all day and figured out that it was never going to be enough. I could stay on the phone all night.  I could stay on the phone forever until all we have left to talk about is conversations we had on the phone in the past. Until the topic of conversation dissipated into something we never knew what started it. Until our phone conversations became a bible for future generations, found in the pages of homeland security transcribed texts.  Until the words became their own thing not representative of any real life.  Until I didn’t have a body and the only thing left were my word vibrations spread out over outer space billions of miles apart.  But that would never happen, because of physics. I used to think it would though.  Then I heard about friction.

Oh friction? I heard that made good fiction and fiction makes for good mediation. for feelings and indirect contemplation, or for imagining a better or worse version of your own life.

There’s me. Lost in a fictional folly where I can only say the truth in the third person. Or a person who feels like they haven’t suffered enough to deserve anything.   No I don’t think anyone besides myself recognizes how good they have it. Or scientifically that goodness is necessarily true.  But science can make an act of drowning a pure method of mechanics and motion.  See how scientific you feel when you drown in the ocean.

“Sing blue silver” – Duran Duran wrote that.

Okay, hair patties and phone conversations before drowning in the ocean aside, today I watched as somebody died.  Oh and your first question is well is that literal. Because you always want to know.  Are you talking like embarrassment  or cars and snow?  Have you seen violence and what did it mean? Well there’s trouble in the streets in more than one way. But no, that’s not what I saw today.  As it turns out I’ve written as much as I feel like writing. So fishes who are bated keep biting.  And I’ll keep pretending that I’m writing fairy tales.

Sometimes all getting angry amounts to is stepping on poor defenceless snails.


Sep 19 2012

Cut off Your Arm

what do you mean? why would I watch movies when monsters call me on the phone all the time, with plaintive voices.  sounding like they are in horrible pain, and through their garbled messages i heard a cry for help that sounds like angry poetry. Fucking be or not be.  reality is the strange whirring sound you hear while falling down the stairs.  but my dearest she dare even fall down the stairs so gracefully, that it’s not fair. the famous underprivledged had it hard and the truth was so strange that it was unbelievable. but what’s fair. is there value to anything? once someone learned to enjoy lying on a rock and let the imagination drip from the bloody gaping hole in their head until it coagulated or they died. what’s a rock, except a thing to hit a person in the head with to bring forth the truth like falling down the bloody stairs.  when did the stairs get bloody and how did you fall if you hadn’t been hit with a rock? in the head? i could use the rest of the time before i pass out trying to figure out which came first the rock or the stairs, the stairs or the egg, the chicken or the rock , the blood or chicken,  but there is a strange time loop that keeps making me ask, WHO PUT THIS ROCK AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS AND HOW IS THAT FAIR?

SO I asked the monster on the phone? What are you wearing tonight? Oh um hum. what do you look like? oh yes? I know that person, that is myself? no that’s too easy.  and ha ah ha nothing is easy. I’m the monster and this is what I want is not the answer. Oh monster some people think you’re gross? that’s like being born a woman. in a way. How is that fair? No that’s not actually a problem, I can’t complain.  But problems are taller than monsters, so technically I can send my problems to beat you up. But monster you are a problem. Why don’t you go take a look at yourself and tell me what you’re wearing!

IN the southern hemisphere they actually worship satan and evil is good and good is evil and satan is beautiful and God is nasty. That’s what I learned in Science class. In the southern hemisphere you are a fairy monster and a friend to those awful people who think opposite of our ways, but SCIENCE class taught us that we made the maps- maps for us anyway, and in our own grand hemispherist ways that we are the ones facing upright while the rest of the people cling to the earth all day.

These things are both, great grand and grey. tell me, what’s fair to monsters anyway?  What’s fair to fairies anyway? Could we both think the same things on equinox days? three hundred sixty degrees is an acute angle for cutting off one’s own arm, in the case you find yourself in the woods, trapped under a rock. it is also close to our full circle number of days.

CUT OFF YOUR ARM

 

 

 


Jul 12 2012

oten oday

oten oday one of ten otens and from a long line of odays. he is a man i think of a dark shade of lavendar shadow reflecting the colors of an icecream truck. he heard the sound of the squirrels having sex in the trees, in the tender rain, even squirrels sound like they are having sex tenderly. oh woe is me, oten oday said, and some said oten o’day just might be me. but i say he’s a man that existed. in the way that strings can vibrate into anything. but also it was a real man.

ssssssssingular, the body of an irish what? irish no. this has nothing to do with ireland, he saw bodies all the time, and wondered if it was like a man to think about bodies so much. and like the gate of a man, without envy just a feeling of being outside oneself. bodies of the ocean, bodies of space, without life we are just our bodies and unanimated tool of the only magic energy made only by the first mover.

in the movies people switched bodies and learned to ride bikes that didn’t fit their size, comically they tried to reimagine their thinking. large bikes with huge front wheels and ladders to get to the top. and before there were bikes, and when there were horses mostly, and deep hills there were other kinds of otens and odays and all the way back to roman odysseous. all this these were all men, and man existed but no one with a mix of him.

oten was a singular person, who travelling through life searching like a sea turtle. on the street where he lived there were these bricks that were old, but he thought so telling of the elegance of age and they rand from building and beneath the streets, between the small belches of paved road a tell tale sign of handily arranged austerity. durable antiquity, holding up “innovation”. If oten had the words to describe the feelings he was having he would have used these. i think.

oten’s features were monkeylike and he lived in a house that was part shack, and maybe part cardboard. oten as a child had a semi- perma stain of dirt around his arms and pokey ears. growing up he never had darlings or deers, but knew somewhere at some point people were trying to prevent animals from being sexual. “can’t they understand?” he thought. Can’t they understand- this is our sex and that’s their sex and why do we always want to make animals into us? he’d take himself into his hand and think of it as nature without moralizing. nature felt so undignified it seemed. nature has no stature he thought but not in those words, just in the unique differences between falling asleep with your hands sticky or standing up straight. man was capable of both.

surprising he thought, that somewhere there was a mate to the movie monster. and that the terrible could search leaving destruction as bread crumbs. his skin didn’t feel like crumbs but like a soft skin of a fish beached and trying out in the sun. when he felt it himself he tried to redistribute sensation imagining what it would be like to be touched by someone else?

why? probably for no other reason than he felt like he was living inside of his own brain, and at times there was a great grace to the mechanics of anything requiring repetitive motion. oten built a car.

from a kit like a model t-ford. “what if i could be cobbled?” he asked outloud to the barber he paid to shave his stubble. words too poetic for a man making hourly wage. fee for service days. “not like i street i mean, but by cobbled i mean contain and underlayer of the strength and beauty of age.” as if genetics ever really did such a thing.

Oten realized that lately he was being publicly sad. it felt like being a drunk being showered with pity and there was no fault of his own. He was just doing his thing, like he always did and barely saw the point to hide it. It wasn’t even a deep abiding sadness, just the loneliness of being socially transient. Meals alone, days alone. He wavered between admitting he wanted a wife and being ashamed it was a thing he ever needed. But at the friendly market near the produce the neighbors shook their heads and said “Hi Oten, what’s new with you?”. I am a mechanic I built a car, I work and come home and make dinner alone and imagine how I would place the settings on the table for my wife. Two long and gangly flowers from the side of the road in a jam jar. A sweet note beneath her plate because I know she will pick up her dishes to wash them once the dinner is over. And we’ll laugh. “Oh Darling, my thoughtful one, kiss me it will say”. They pat his back. “one day” they say Oten, “one say you’ll get all the good things that are coming to you.” But there was no wife. Even though he would be ok with the idea that it was just a lady and they never got married and maybe they just ate a hot dog in the park, nothing ever came for the weeks and months and years they said it would. “but you’re so special, you’re amazing you’re perfect.” Perfect for someone else, some other time, some other level of appreciation. Never in the paradigm of currentness.

If you hurt because it was meant to be. If it was hard it was because you were smart. if things were wrong people just didn’t know. There was nothing practical about the inevitable. the inevitable was the hard truth that had soft lines that no one could speak or put their arms around. Could be a hormone deficiency that kept Oten at a distance from the closeness? A hormone deficiency that would be brushed aside when everyone stood at his grave looking in the other direction saying offhandedly to no one “a good man died” remembering things that were memories of someone else all together.

Oten got a cat. A tiny demanding, destructive fay item. which relied on him. Whose presence made him the shades of sentience and made him realize that reason was a complex and altogether senseless thing. It longed to be held and unheld, fed and cleaned up after. And all these things it looked upon and watched with the same sterile face and a voice as tiny as a squeaking door. He waltzed her and sang “So this is love” in an bright and ageing kitchen alone. Realizing the truth. Oh you are special and amazing Oten. “So this is love between a man and his cat… a song and dance routine. If only I were to lick your head one time, you’d lick every thing in between” There are things out there with childbearing hips that could do me no harm he thought, an innocent ruffian who put pepper on his plate for the kitten to smell. Tiny name and paws and name and tiny songs which always degenerated into madness, the madness of climbing down a staircase into yourself and letting whatever things there out of the belfries like bats. Of course no matter what he said he didn’t really want to have sex with his cat. Though he toyed with the words out loud knowing it defied the state of pleasant sense that one maintained to keep in good company. “How is it,” he wondered, people who want to have sex with animals sometimes find each other? Or perverts who want pictures of kids? Where is that moment where you breach the most difficult space and finally admit what’s in your head?


Sep 26 2011

Lessons on being nice

being nice is not just a thing you do because you want people to like you. people will like you no matter what. there’s a place for every kind of awful person in the world, so if you’re being nice to get people to like you you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. people will like you if you’re mean and talented, it will make them feel exclusive. people will like you if you’re mean and untalented, it will make them feel accepted for their faults. people will like you if you want to dress like an insane clown and sing about putting soda bottles between your ass cheeks. people will help you find drugs and get high when it’s your weekend to see your kids and people will help you bury a dead body after you murdered someone and maybe that kind of help is nice in a way too. A fallible kind of nice that breaks under the pressure of police attention. And once you’re in jail for murder people will answer ads for penpals on the internet and feel draw in to the sexual edge of your criminality. and sometimes the worse the crime the more letters you’ll get. like I said. there’s nothing important about being nice. (aka i’ve decided to study pre-law)

all of my teeth fall out to the tune of super mario brothers castle dungeon music.
bye teeth


Oct 14 2010

take me to a natural wonder

because naturally i’m wondering, i am forever wandering. and my heart says please be gone. let this moment end and move on to riding a donkey far into the canyon. take me to a natural wonder and let me fall into the depths of its beauty face first.

talking about ending, what ends as long as we’re here to be ending seems such a fad. sad farewell of our limited time.

if everything just felt like a knife blade across bare skin. if only i knew how to skin bears. if only hairs only grew faster than approximately .5 inches a month. if only i had remembered to pack a lunch. sometimes wanting is the only thing that helps me know i’m alive.

this dance- swinging arms and knees bent. let the world rock you from side to side. let the world rock your boat right over. then allow it to drown you in natural wonder. or wait until the family circle is a repeat. and little billy looks at the sunset saying “god shows the best reruns”.

i do not get heavily personally involved with such matters. when it comes to the subjects of evolution and bare legs. i couldn’t care less which words you use to describe my deteriorating state or the markers which i don’t make and if I had to breathe out- i’d do it long and hard in your face.

i can’t tell if it meant anything when my fingers intertwined with the bare tree branches as I attempted to pick them up. was the world holding on to me? it seemed unlikely, as i felt fairly untethered.

was that lame? oh i’m sorry i’m so naturally filled with indescribable error. wrongness at the very core of my being that defies scientific law and definition. and when the doctors find out, they’re going to send me into space orbit, it’s why i never go when i get sick. to the hospital i mean.

and only the coldness keeps my molecules at a safe distance, it’s why i lever snow. you’ll never know from which choice of unending moments fiercely fired upon on live television bank robberies, made a particular tree in front of a bank famous, when someone recognized that particular type of maple, and noted it’s unique qualities. america fell back in love with the modern tree. and did things to said tree unbecoming of a noble growing sentinel. because everybody loves to force things. natural forces included.

slow flowing water seems stifled but thickness. stagnant in stillness and latent with illness. somehow mosquitoes still seem to thrive.


Sep 23 2010

clemintine is my darling

oh can you breathe? here let me loosen the button on your collar?
oh can you see? say can you see?
this dawn’s early parking garage for the sunrise

hey will you tell me when all this hard work i put in will start feeling like action?
the acting will start feeling like realness?
this realness will start feeling like meaning?

and does it mean there are right answers to these questions if they put them on the SAT?

clementine is my darling.
dracula is my bride.
deep is my injury
as bold as my pride.

the lamest thing about me is i think that looking at the sky is something to do.
shhhh. hold that thought.

i’m coming back to you on the smell of autumn.
i’m messing with many long tangles of ropey gray string, that surround my consciousness, and winding them into thick and thin balls of hope

let me tell you what’s mystical.
mauve colored laundry hampers filled with tin foil and hamsters.
carpeted bathrooms with nautical themes.
jelly beans. dinner flavored jelly beans.
inflatable mischief. indian chief love, headdresses made of salad, waiting for dressing.
important lessons.

find your fortune.
just tell the dj to play your favorite tune

seahorse curses and clemintine marmelade.
boogie on down


Aug 24 2010

what’s poured

and who’s pouring, whose done things poorly, this is all a creation of your lack of knowledge
tell me who is poor
one thousand guesses with all perfect logic lined up like math,
and no way for a person to know without the test.
What’s tested, who is testing
Like amazing tree roots twined around the dirt we hold on to our time on earth, by winding around things
taking in things from the outside, absorbing,
still unsure why it ever has to stop.
you can access that which you have absorbed but it will never taste the same, like childhood formula,
amazing pets are babies that are forever young,
but after a while without the next amazing step, an owner comes to resent their stupidity and their dirty diapers
amazing grace, amazing graze,
we’ve only grazed and yet we scar from simple embraces,
and then we wear braces, thinking we know the way teeth need to grow.
small interconnected wires.
when you’re next to me my mind is blank with emotion, just admiring the structure of your face, and how it was formed in utero
thinking about your volume in between my measuring hands.
your blood poured into a skin, first soaked in like a sponge, and then grown around
you are flexible walls, with many gates,
you are moated and melting through each tragic moment
as much of a building to house other beings
your mom was tricked to bringing you into being, by all the little things that live inside of her
and your dad did the pouring
my mixed up friend,
their emotional ambitions ended at the mouth of science
and forked off like tributaries
into your arms, legs and rest
a small curling seed pod
what’s poured


Jul 7 2010

the jerk off artist

god.. when i was younger, i remember. a crayon called something with an m, mag, man manganese,  was there a crayon named manganese? or an element named Byzantium?  100% half truths as far as i’m concerned. rotten apple smell, dirty diamond canyon, covered in my own feral blood.  jolene had a stutter and her father worked for crayola, her brother’s name was rt and their dad worked at the crayola factory. i bought her a windchime for her birthday and she hung it up somewhere in the hallway. i think in the hallway. did her father make manganese crayons? angie was my best friend and our secret name for our mutual crush was byzantium, royal purple, and the byzantine empire, magical element?  byzanitum, aka, the long sinewy muscle tissue that comes apart, like a twizzler’s pull and peel when my flesh comes off of my bone.  or the core of swallowing hardly with a sore throat. meaning poured into tiny wax coated paper cups, seeping through to the table over night. who left the cups out. when i was a kid there were cups and a joke on one and an answer at the bottom. the joke was “why did the crayon stop at the paper cup?” or was it, “why was there a crayon” or was it “what was the crayon? was it manganese?” thanks garfield.  all of these special midnights mean that i’m friends with the moon.  i eat toast and tea with wolfman, but come sunrise my eyes are all bleary. and i’m left trying to count up the number of fine feathered feathers that come off of my pillow while i am asleep. permanent punishment for not knowing my place among dreams.  one destiny is said to have chosen out its own fortune cookies decades in advance, while creeping out while sleeping, and when you wake suddenly, you assure yourself that once in a while your fortune cookie will contain nothing but a blank slip of paper. this termite adventure was about wobbling wood weakened by the teeth on the grain.  what if we could? i would probably do something more ceremonial.  when i caught myself counting breathing i realized i was holding on to nothing but air.  rhinestone internet hotel. yankee fox trot graceland, jungleroom.  200% half truths.  no feeling but your own hand. stupid.

manganese crayon


Jan 13 2010

Would you like me to show you what I learned…

Author’s Note: This story was read on the evening of January 11 at a going away party in front of a room full of enthusiastic people under a different title which I think would have cause me to come up under unpleasant search terms.

This story is dedicated to he who understands the intersection of  my love and medical science

My ex-girlfriend dropped out of medical school in the summer of 2003.  This was around the time she had gone from being my slutty friend to my girlfriend. We met at a bar earlier that year and as she explained to me, after I offered to buy her a drink that she had no real use for other people,  other than the obvious use of other people, I eyed her skeptically.  but still remained intrigued by her beauty.  She was like a mystical belly dancer, an old time silent movie film actress with smooth cat-like moves.

The longer I hung out with her, the more men she lured in and we ended up mired in late night/early morning desperate orgies. While Brazil droned on the television, I heard the smacking of love sounds of my friend below, I held on to a twenty year old by the back of the head  explaining, “like this”, pulling him in, his body stiff and awkward, his erection quick and over before I couldn’t even begin to explain mechanics and then a refusal to let him put his fingernails anywhere tender and holy to me.   A few of these sessions through several months in different towns with different men, a discussion in the car about dissatisfaction with the dudes, a bottle of wine and a campfire later, I had a girlfriend. And now she was dropping out of medical school.

And now I was crazy about her. Everything she did seems like a tender seduction and before I had been with her this had seemed tedious, something to laugh about with mutual friends, but now each little thing she did seemed like the promise of a rhythmic and warm closeness that had become our sex and her previously tedious advances seemed more loaded with promise, more personal.

At the department store, she’d go to the cosmetics counter and try out expensive moisturizers which promise they contain microscopic dust of diamonds and other precious things, she’d smooth them into her warm face and bid me to touch her, pulling my hand to her soft cheek, flirtatiously  teasing even the women behind the counter with her sensuality.

And now she was dropping out of medical school. We had been dating long distance while she attended two hours away. She’d come back weekends with news like, you know it’s ok to pee in the bathtub,  that its really not so unsanitary at all,  and I would reply that I even if that was true I wasn’t going to do it, and then she said ok but if you wanted to do it it would be fine.

The weekend I found out she was dropping out of medical school was like any other. She had always been moody, and it didn’t seem different than when she got to my house  late that she had been drunk and that when she managed to make it to the bed she folder herself over many times into a heap I could wrap myself around. I knew she didn’t really need me very much. The nature of her beauty meant that she broke down like this whenever and wherever she wanted and there was always someone there willing to wrap themselves around her. It was something I had resented about her before we were together, and even now I knew that her current breakdown had nothing to do with an academic failing, it had more to do with her complicated city social life of which I was voluntarily unaware, a state one might call ignorance for the sake of fooling one’s self.

She came in from the kitchen with a bottle of Jamison and a bowie knife, in only a loose faded t-shirt and some underwear, her hair tousled, her make up smudged, smelling perfectly of perfume and liquor.

“I quit everything”, she announced, “but more specifically I quit medical school. I learned something there that I want to show you” She handed me the bottle of liquor and  pushed me down on the bed, lifting my shirt, rubbing the warm half moon of the bottom of my belly with a gentle hand.

She put the knife on the night stand and took the bottle back from me, opening it, swigging it, returning me to a docile state, passing it along.

“The body”, she began, “is a beautiful and delicate tool of the mind.. a brilliant political struggle”

“Said the girl who just told me she quit  medical school”, I continued.

She tipped the bottle up to my lips, playfully kissing me in after each sip I took. Several more minutes passed silently sipping and close.

“The body… is a beautiful and delicate tool of the mind”

“Uh huh you  said that”, I responded flatly unimpressed and less than articulate as my thoughts seemed to move around me like a swarm of bees.  She again took a swig and then gently tipped the bottle into my mouth.

“The body is a beautiful and delicate tool of the mind”, she began again. I closed my eyes weary and waiting for her to finish this thought or to fall asleep which ever  came first, as I sank down into a long blink which turned into a prolonged resting of the eyes to stave off the swirling of my vision.

“An the reason I quit medicine is because medical procedures keep our world so tightly bound inside of us, that you would never know what your body has in there, what it’s capable of”

I felt her shift again for the bottle but I was convinced I’d wave off any further suggestions of drink. I was close to feeling utterly ill.

“Would you like me to show you what I learned in medical school?”

I lifted the heavy lids of my eyes suspecting some anatomical display she had arranged to entice me. Instead as my sight slowly came around I was called upon to notice she was holding the knife in one hand and a carrot in the other.

“Put this in your mouth”, she said

“What? No!” I lamely fought her off both tired and ill “No,no,no”, was all I could conjure.

“I only want to make a little hole” she said playfully pokin gmy belly with the tip of a knife.

“You want to make a hole in my stomach?”

“Not in your stomach just in your skin, just to get inside”

“That sounds dangerous”

“But I can sew you back up, no problem”

“”I don’t want to do this, it sounds dumb”

“This is just like you, always cutting yourself off from a good experience. You let your fear get in the way of any interesting experience that you might have.”

This was the same lame excuse she used when I caught her frenching the taxi driver who drove her to my apartment building.  Her frustrated face bloomed red in the cheeks. She looked flushed with frustration, and flushed from the booze, her sweat mingling with the delicate scent of the expensive perfume she had shoplifted. She smelled good.

“How big of a hole?” I asked somewhat suspicious and not yet totally won over.

“Just something big enough for this”, she responded with vigor seeing her way in, holding up several coiled feet of clear quarter inch tubing, the kind you might find on an aquarium air pump.

Alright, I though.

“But why such  a big knife?”, I still hesitantly replied .

“We can get another one but this one has been properly cleaned”

“Ok”, I said and she leaned in and stretched my skin tight, putting the carrot into my mouth.

“MOk”, I mumbled with my teeth gritted around the carrot. She sat astride my legs, so that I would not kick, I held my balled fists under my clenched buttocks anxiously.

Then, quicker than I could resist she made a small jab and there was a slight hole in my skin from which blood began to pour.  The instant that it happened was a short quick explosion and now only a dull throb replied from the area she carefully pressed with a washcloth after wiping it with a cotton swab and some alcohol.

I had let the girl cut a hole in me. Possibly not even the worst on a list of the things she had done. She kept pressing down on the wound and switched off Brazil.

“I hope this is coming to some kind of point”, I responded. My faced burned hot and my head swam and I wanted to either just get with her or fall asleep at this point. And I was leaning toward the falling asleep end, despite the small hole in my abdomen.

That’s when she put the metal tip on the tube and plunged it inside of me, and I began my journey into this the kind of thing that is so hard to explain, as how do I ever explain an inexplicable experience? This thing that a pperson usually kept sleeping inside of them, in a place untouched memories at the root of your cells. In the instant that she touched me inside with the tube, in a spot I hadn’t even ever felt before, I was drawn to childhood memories of sickness, vomiting and bile, strawberry jello and the comfort of my mother. It was a little more than stirring, all I could bring myself to say was, “Wow, cool”. She responded by lifting her shirt, tearing at stitches and inserting the other end of the tube inside her. I was flooded with the feeling decidedly hers,  electric and flowery, fast, pounding and savage.

And this is how we continued through the night making small incisions and probing for these pockets of electric memory and feeling combined – all had great intensity but swung wildly between great joy and sadness, touching each the inside of the other.

At one point she had mentioned through labored breath, we could tap into the house and then removing the socket cover revealed a bright blue glow to which we could connect, revealing that which I thought was known and understood remained a wild electric mystery as we took turns feeling the silvery emotional history of the place where we lived.

In the final throws of our passionate exploration we made it as close to the base of the neck, tapping into long past kisses and scarves. The let down came, as we were unable to bring ourselves to tapping into the brain.

“Too dangerous”, she said, probing the tough thick skull with the knife.

“Oh but we could go under and up and around and over”

“Too dangerous”, She replied pushing me down, exhausted, falling into each others  arms, we slept sated  with the memories we had rung out of ourselves.

When I woke up, just a couple of hours later, we were sticky and stuck together a tube still emerging the top of my breast bone and penetrating her side, I slipped it out of me and placed it on the bed next to her and watched her sleep, so precious to see. She looked unfamiliar to me. I left my house to escape her, returned to comfort by the warmth of the familiar sun, my many wounds cracked and aching.