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Keep it trashy
my thought, as I went sidewinding
along cracked sidewalks
in sunglasses, passing neighbors
I've never seen before
in an archetypal gathering
that made me crave beer, and sex
and rude cocky jokes,
backyard men,
in their trucks, with their looks,
for some minutes
I thought I wanted that
and kept walking
and wondering
what I wanted
feeling dark and anonymous
with a warm one beer buzz.
The bright, clanging language of men
the greasy, burnished, metallic thoughts
the rough, hot mechanics of their bodies
cooling,
like my loose jeans,
skimming my hips
dark indigo
marching into the night
stepping up stairs
in eventual tip-toes
disappearing in one swift motion
behind a tattered screen
awaiting dusk's
newest arrival.

Among the Things I Have, I'm Glad Scabies Isn't One of Them

However, I do have shingles. Which makes me soooooooo happy compared to the prospect of having to contend with fucking scabies. There was a scabies outbreak of sorts awhile back where I work (well, not directly where I work, but within the organization) so this was not an unfounded fear. Do you know what scabies are? Basically what happens is that scary little fucker pictured above burrows under your skin, lays eggs, makes you itch like crazy, etc. So last night as I lay in bed itching like mad, I'm thinking, "Is it scabies? Is it shingles? Is it scabies? Is it shingles?" As you can imagine, just thinking about a mite living under my skin was really getting under my skin.

Today at the walk-in clinic, the doctor walks in and says, "So you have a bump on your back?"
I say "Well, sort of. More like a rash. I just want you to tell me it's not scabies." He looks.
"It's not scabies."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You're positive."
"I'm positive. You have shingles."
"Good. Good."
He gives me a funny little wry look.
"All night I was thinking about mites burrowing into my skin. I couldn't go through that tonight. I hoped it was shingles, if it had to be something."
"I'm going to repeat it for you, so there is no doubt in your mind: YOU DO NOT HAVE SCABIES."
"Thank you."

So what are shingles? Well, if you ever had chicken pox, maybe someday you'll find out. Shingles are basically what happens when these little bits of latent chickenpox virus that are hanging out along your nerve paths decide they want to come to the surface of your skin and annoy you. They're supposed to hurt a lot, but in my case they just itch like hell. Hence my confusion relative to the scabies. The outbreak I have isn't major - a little patch about an inch wide on my back and then a handful of little dots along one side of my ribcage, dots following a nerve path. I just put pure peppermint oil on the spots, after reading that was a good treatment. It feels great! Smells nice, too.

Hate to say it, but I'm gonna get back to American Idol now...

Crickets are singing, trilling back and forth to each other, like a studio sound, stereo surround. I could dance across the thickest swath of the lawn and land like the pink ball from last week, or the blue ball from this week, and join them. Why it took what seemed forever for the wind or a child to claim them both I do not know. Have my feet lost their teenaged bravery?

This is a night like many others, and at this hour, the dampness has surely started to settle, the first shy kisses of dew slicking over each blade and each mound, the faintest breath, this hint of moisture doing nothing more than securing your grip. You begin to have a firm hold on this night. As it deepens you begin to slip, but just a little.

Crickets sing in the full sun, too, so why do we only hear them at night? If sitting across from you in the late afternoon I spoke quietly and lay my hand upon the table palm down, would you wonder what was hidden, would you imagine my quiet voice in the night?

Dusty

I'm sorta peripherally watching Gia starring Angelina Jolie. It's sorta peripherally interesting. Today I finished prepping my kitchen walls, so they are finally, finally, finally ready to paint. That's me after sanding plaster for about 5 hours. It's pretty scary but kind of cool when you click on it. The shower felt fucking great. Can't say the same for my back, shoulders, and arms. I wish I hadn't given all my Vicodin away. Fucking druggie friends. Sorry, that sounded harsh. Beer is pretty much my drug, that's all. I made a bottle of Vicodin last for almost a year, even sharing it with druggie friends. The last of it went quickly, unfortunately, and undeservedly. You might even say greedily. Fuck it.

I'll just drink some beer and take some Aleve and stretch out on the floor and daydream about painting my kitchen Tahitian Sunset or Key Largo (pink) or Moonlight or Fairy Wren or Soft Earth (gray). I haven't ruled out Duke Red or Kenswick Brown. If I'm lucky the cat will walk over my back for a few seconds. I wish I could train my cats to do that, walk on my back, like I used to do for my brother when I was little.

It's hard to write when Angelina Jolie is getting beat up by drug dealers and is close to death. Which isn't to say this movie is compelling, but she has one of those faces you sort of have to look at, regardless of the context. Ok, the movie is over, and it was Ok.

I'm glad I don't have the Vicodin. Shit's really bad for your liver in combination with alcohol anyway. Lord knows I can't abide by liver damage. At this point I'm just thinking out loud. Music. That's what I need. Music and darkness. Actually, maybe I need silence. Silence and a candle. Silence and a candle and another beer.

Exhaustion

I sit.
I sigh.
I stare.
I slouch.
I succumb.
It's slippery
a slowing slope
sliding effortlessly
into my ankles bruised
mysteriously, like a prank
tendons tensing as if to be played
like a broken violin in some person's attic.
All work and no play, as they say
makes for a dull so-and-so
so I put down my tools
so to free my hands
then carelessly
with aching
ligaments
I loosely
balance
a beer.
Nice.

Clean

I drank the last of your scotch.
Though it's been months now,
still there is a burn
spreading delicately
intricately
over my tongue
malty and cool from beer,
so complex
that's why it's your drink,
right? To match your complexity.
Right.
So fyi the bottle's going to recycling,
it won't be kept as trophy or souvenir,
its presence an afterthought
as I made way for beautiful things.
A few drops of your scotch,
triumphantly presented,
safe, wasn't it,
to let your careless vices flourish here,
for a time,
hiding, making sly admissions
wooden omissions.
I won't say the things
I could say
I don't want to embarass you,
even to friends,
besides
it's enough for you to know
that I could.

To Be of Use

The perhaps unhealthy obsession with Smog continues. Below are the lyrics to a song that cycled through my head last night at Home Depot, as I cried hotly and darkly and confusedly in the bathroom. And who did I cry for? It wasn't just me. He was happy, perhaps manically so, and this made my own sadness so much worse, because I knew it was a matter of time - minutes - hours - before the ax fell, and the seeming strength and display of support would crumble and turn on me. And of course, and indeed, it did.

Grabbing the Glock out of the bedside table, "Is this what it takes? Is this what I have to do? Is this what you want?"

My adrenalin not so much as registering the tiniest spike. "Put it away."

My window at home was left open, anyway. The cats needed food, maybe. I needed my tears, my screams, my talking to no-one. Blessed by the effort, I slept.


Most of my fantasies are of
Making someone else come
Most of my fantasies are of
To be of use
To be of some hard
Simple
Undeniable use

Like a spindle
Like a candle
Like a horseshoe
Like a corkscrew

To be of use
To be of use

Most of my fantasies are of
Making someone else come
On a horse
Over palms laid
On the threshold
On the coming day

Coming day
Coming day come

Perseverance

I'm beginning to agree with some of my friends that I'm slightly out of my mind in undertaking this kitchen walls project. It is simply taking foreeeeeeeevvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrr. And ever and ever and ever. Walls are primed. Started skimcoating tonight. Fuck. Fuckin' A. Jesus Christ and Goddamn, as one of our clients at work always likes to say at the end of every other sentence.

After struggling mightily for a few painstaking hours tonight, the verdict is clear:

1. Skimcoating with plaster is a pain in the ass.
2. I def need more tools, tools I was hoping to avoid spending more money on, like that corner thingie and that rocking thingie and a sanding block thingie on a pole.

Jesus Christ and Goddamn. I know - I know I am testing myself through this whole process, I'm just not 100% clear on why. All I can say is that when it's all said and done, I'm taking myself out to dinner to a fancy fucking restaurant in a fancy fucking dress and heels etc.

And that's it for tonight. Lame, I know. Gotta rest sometime.

Walls

This is the shit I have been dealing with in my kitchen, in case you thought I was kidding. I'm so tired of it, though I am almost ready to prime the fuckers (the walls) and then, obviously, do some plastering. I'm completely wiped out as I write this. I scrubbed the walls for about 4 hours tonight, and I can't do a lick more. You'd think 4 hours would equal a lot of wall that's ready to be primed, but you would be wrong. I will never undertake such a thing as this again until I OWN the house I'm working on. I'm glad I'm doing this project, don't get me wrong. I just don't have the energy I wish I had, part of that is due to my muscular condition. I just want to be done, goddammit, and when it comes to asking for help, I'm terrible at it.

I want to write more, but I'm about to collapse.