Sunday, May 31, 2009

My Dora, Your Dora

This is true.
Is it?
Yes.
Why, because you say so?
Because I imagine it.
What's the real issue?
Why do you ask?
Because I see you are lame. (I awoke several weeks ago with a stiff neck. Over several more weeks this turned into intense and sustained pain in my right arm until the damn thing went numb, then limp and I couldn't work. Shooting dull nerve pain.)
I have a spell cast on me. I've let the spell in to work. To kill me even, if it can.
I see, so we can see how brave you are?
I guess. More how stupid but I like where you're going with that.
You'll understand just how stupid it is in time.
Why time? You always ask me for time. More fucking time. More fucking waiting.
Patience is your weakness. That and slow dull nerve pain. Lets not forget the sciatica.
You're forgetting fevers. Last year it was the plague of throat ulcers.
Yes the high temperatures to chill your active, stubborn, spongy mass. Rose my boy. My idiot child.
I've got a few more years of neurotransmitters in there. Fucker.
(silence)
You can't take it casual.
(silence)
fool.

Without much choice and no clear second option, I finally visit the clinic where the doctor report concern because no discernible trauma caused the pain and the intensity is visibly affecting my movement. "This is very troubling" I think were his words. There is brief discussion of MRI and repeated questions of nerve disease. Slow and painful death. I thought of Charlie, god bless his soul, in his chair as the life was choked out of his failing body by a cruel disease from a loving god.

The following day, on an agonizing early morning trip back to the clinic for expensive follow-up treatment the car radiator blew which caused it to seize up in the turn lane near a busy entrance ramp to the interstate. I put on the flashers (which malfunctioned), crawled to the nearby grassy knoll between ramp and traffic-choked highway and called triple a. A painful hour later help arrived and I spent the 500 bucks my mother had direct deposited from her own state of poverty to fix the fucking car instead of paying the incorrigible institution. I was literally moaning in the cab of the tow truck. The driver recommended yoga.

Back at the studio I lay again, in fear of travel, MRI, bad news, women, life, death, consciousness and total collapse. I canceled the lecture at work, holed up and planned for the end. Writhing pain. Acceptance. Then a friend hooked me up with clinical massage. The therapist released my seized trapezius (incredibly) and sent me on the mend. That night Buttercup came to town and treated the whole incident like a distraction. The next day, after behaving similar, I kicked her out of the studio in dramatic fashion, returned to my painful bed and haven't spoken with her since. I felt I made a solid decision.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

electronitch

what sort of story is this?
well, this is a story about... dreaming.
what's so damn important about that?
about dreaming?
yes.
from dreams come new blood. new ideas.
for what purpose?
safety, honor, pleasure. to elongate
the already soft and pliable mind.
fuck you.
fuck you, why?
silence.

hey babe.
hey.
where have you been?
out.
oh. (time) out?
you may not want to breed with me. right now i'm thinking you may not want that. here's why, i'm lame on my right side. my arm hangs limp. when it used to work it was strong but as it is right now it's limp and lame. this is it.
i'll still breed with you.
silence.

the world will find you in its cracks, sister, it flows down.
well, come up boy, earn me, have it.
silence. (time) be careful with your brother.
?

Thursday, May 7, 2009

April

I was shaving my balls in front of the mirror when I nicked the sack and winced. Put the clippers down and inspect, I thought, a bit aggravated at myself for slipping. Mental note: don't drink while shearing balls. The nick came on the shaft though where the hairs creep up. I tried waxing them once. Once was enough. I thought if I could maintain an erection long enough, a real hard one then the task would be easy. Turns out that shaving your own cock n balls just isn't that sexy, hence difficult to maintain a real hard erection. The skin is just too damn sensitive so I got the electric clippers out. I wanted to make a good impression on Buttercup, who I knew would appreciate the grooming. I looked down and thought of the ensuing scab, the bright red blood pooling to a drip. The natural world is the perception of order. Balls and order.

A friend recently asked, why do you feel compelled to write all this down? Why do you feel the need to put this all out there? 2 thoughts: One, Guilt - to confess my sins to the world. A recovering Catholic. Two, Relief - to share hidden realities so others don't suffer. Three, Art - because it is beautiful. A recovering Artist. But beautiful is tragic and we know by now oh Rom-ee-fuckin'-oh that tragedy plus beauty equals stupidity. Nothing less. Isn't that right Jenny? Plus that's three, not two dipshit. Don't call it out too quickly Rose, my boy. Bad man. Don't finger me too awfully.

Who? April. April's over.