Apex.

The words written,
have me feeling
sickly and un-smitten,
through the text,
be me sensing one
yellow-starred Apex,
“art”, or something,
special status – VIP
gums – bumping,
keep it sloppy,
your literary versions
parties with Pop Queens,
it almost hurt me,
be not for a sudden
void of curiosity,
two masters, one crown,
too many jars
full of HONEY to count,
volume’s up, open trunk
toes tapping
to your wordy junk,
speakers thumping,
I take the trash out at night
blood stops pumping,
and…..so here I go,
paddling my way
to be broken by the sea,
be it one born of saline,
or oceans of lies
it is my serpentine,
and I, its wiry chord,
whatever be it was
to my own accord,
do not folly to believe,
that my yellow star
takes you or your
so-called “poetry”,
in the least bit seriously.

Wild-West Slow Time.

On wild west slow time…
a few very cruel hours behind…
The clock ticks its tricks on mind,
a very specific,
Western-Pacific,
draw of the slowest kind…

On the way to Nowhere…
there’s a lag in the air…
the last to drag our asses there,
the entire Pacific Ocean,
rolls in stoner-slow-motion,
the very last to ring in a New Year…

So what might we expect?
besides anything but perfect?
hours wedged between the increments,
who were we to think,
that somehow, exceptionally,
hours throttling our thing weren’t subject?

So when it’s a problem that I…
want more than two words per reply…
when you’re sound asleep during my dinnertime,
we both should’ve seen,
this inevitable ending,
with the distance between your body and mine.

Heatstroke and Snow.

Imprisoned amidst the vastness of all things labyrinthine,
the backdrop to my own failed romantic meanderings,
the endless saga of a tale that I can’t stand reading,
a maze of pits and sinkholes designs a twisted serpentine…
my soul: sold to the devils hanging outside from the trees,
a bucket of pain in exchange for a lifetime on my knees,
behold that’s last year’s intel and it’s no surprise to me,
men come and go same as heatstroke and snow, apparently…
and in truth it’s no use to say it’s not fine in my mind,
it’s better that way: short and sweet, hello – goodbye,
you’ve seen my bare ass and smiling face for the last time,
boots on and laced, and I’ve already outpaced your front line.

Reclaim.

In this modernized, techno-tycoon day and age,
in which illumination shines from an LED console;
a robotic voice sounds disturbingly soothing to me,
the i-Appleseed: now a weed growing out of control.
data plans – print or scan –
my fucking attention span –
is well beyond over-full…
watch me start the Modern American Revolution,
by simply pulling out the Ethernet cord;
In this bullshit “civilized” Yankee culture,
in which you are either poor or filthy rich;
we stand in the sun all day, in line
to gladly pay the outstretched hand –
strip down for the Man –
and once again, here we stand…
watch us smile as we hand over our last dimes,
Divided from the government
united, we can reclaim the orchard again.

The Outside.

It’s time again –

to let Life win;

it’s time to

unimagine,

all of the notions

we’ve gradually let in –

to sprinkle our faces;

from faraway places,

locations that,

we’ve never been;

and never will–

despite such longing

that slowly kills,

every moment’s

gasps and thrills;

It’s time again –

throw the towel in;

time to newly

re-determine,

all of the ideas

importance lays in –

to weigh heavy, anchoring;

our ankles to the floors,

chopping doorknobs

off all the doors;

until no one or nothing –

can even see

you or me anymore.

Apex.

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

THWAP! THWAP! THWAPPP!

The words written,

have me feeling

sickly – un-smitten,

through the text,

be me sensing one

yellow-starred Apex,

“art”, or something,

special status – VIP

gums – bumping,

keep it sloppy,

your literary versions

parties with Pop Queens,

it almost hurt me,

be not for a sudden

void of curiosity,

two masters, one crown,

too many jars

full of HONEY to count,

volume’s up, open trunk

toes tapping

to your wordy junk,

speakers thumping,

I take the trash out at night

blood stops pumping,

and…..so here I go,

paddling my way

to be broken by the sea,

be it one born of saline,

or oceans of lies

it is my serpentine,

and I, its wiry chord,

whatever be it was

to my own accord,

do not fool yourself to believe,

that my yellow star

takes this seriously.

DUH, Bambi…

How bad of a thing is it that the most therapeutic thing I can think of whenever I am in the company of my “therapist” is head-butting him until he’s totally unconscious?…like, unconscious for a long time?
I mean, I guess I know by now that he’s NOT necessarily holding a recording device behind his back with every greeting (my own paranoia), or staging a bust with the local psychiatric ward upon my arrival to his office (my own paranoia), or that he is going to “dump me” out of nowhere (my own abandonment issues), or that he is going to force me to sign a contract that holds me liable to see him every other day (my own commitment issues), or that his tiny, too-high-off-the-ground office is eventually gonna swallow me whole (my own agoraphobia and anxiety in enclosed spaces, especially with men). Lastly, I know by now that he poses no physical threat to me whatsoever, but it’s been eight years off and on with him already.
None of these things seem to be able to keep me from wanting to take a chunk out his face with my teeth upon him pointing something that should’ve been plainly obvious to me, in retrospect…I hate when he does that!
Any of my readers know about my longstanding Mommy issues, well – you know as much about them as I do, I should say…my Mom has been acting passive-aggressive again lately to me, and it hurts me when she does that, even still, somehow. Despite all I’ve learned and admitted and accepted – she still has the keen ability to just trample my heart in a very unique manner.
This morning, “Dr. Cluckenquack” said to me in a disgusted tone, “Why do you even allow her close enough to you to hurt you this way?”, as if he were asking me why I hadn’t worn rain boots to his office today (in the rain). I wanted to chop him in his throat right then and there for stating the apparent reality of the circumstance so plainly like that, but didn’t even respond in a snotty way when I stated: “She is my mother, she gave birth to me…she’s my Mom…”
I was spacing out already from the session’s emotionally painful content, so I don’t know why I was so passive in the moment but maybe that’s why…because when I got to work afterwards, I was fuming and super pissed for at least a good hour…wtf??? Therapy???

Evolutions…

“Take off your shirt, please…”

The Orphan’s handsome face begins to form a look of defiance, but suddenly reveals his sense of trust in me, as he eases his t-shirt up and over his head.

My eyes swell with tears and I am overtaken with pride for some ungodly reason…he has meat on his bones once more!!!

“Atta Boy, Rock Star!”

I punch him playfully in his washboard belly and wink blatantly up at his now-blushing, chiseled face.

“Why are you crying?” he is seriously wondering out loud at my over-expressiveness…

“Because I can so vividly recall what you looked like when you came back to live here…when I picked you up from the airport the second time…” my head is slowly shaking from side to side as I speak to him – looking him in his lighter colored eye (the left one). He’s been gone for a few days and I worry…but he always comes home and makes me feel stupid as hell for ever thinking he can’t handle himself.

 

Hang Up and Survive!!! – A Concession of First/Last “Dates” with “Young-Bucks”.

...LOVE ME SOME OLDER GUYS...

…LOVE ME SOME OLDER GUYS…

 

Tonight’s “I’m a Loser Blogging on a Friday Night” post is about my infatuation with older dudes; and the recent – and long overdue – understanding of why I indulge in it, to begin with.

My “thing” for grown men started when I was embarrassingly young: approximately sixteen years old. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was during that time that I became a regular on the “Cradle Robber’s” scene; and I never looked back in terms of the age range defining any love affair that I tangle myself up in (yes, the Ripper was eleven years my senior, too). For years, this has been an element of me that has been difficult to explain to others (ANY ONE of my brothers have an opinion about my “twisted taste in tails to chase” worth special mention on this particular subject), and it also subconsciously has always sort of alarmed (?) me, too… to some degree.

I mean, let’s face it: young, good-looking chicks who are popular with their peers and date older dudes typically are a few sandwiches short on that picnic, if you know what I mean…

It’s only been in the past year and a half or so, since my nephews have grown into little “men” and I hang out with my guy friends from school and stuff again more often, that the answer has finally come to me surrounding WHY ANY IDEA THAT I MIGHT ENTERTAIN REGARDING ROMANCE OR LOVE INCLUDES A MAN AT LEAST A DECADE OLDER THAN ME:

Because, his fucking “Smartphone” NEVER becomes my competition for this older gentleman’s full attention.