I didn’t think to use the restroom before starting this session due to my great eagerness to write. Writing, writing, writing, let us air all of our inequity, our passion, our lust, our dangerous thoughts and brooding, let bare the soft nipples of our naked anger to the stars blaring with ringing fire above! Bring forth the dripping swords, knives, and pole-arms, axes, blades and bayonets! Let them sway on hanging strings in the wind of our disposal, rippling along the laundry line from the north to the southern tip of the earth’s great angle!
I just want to fuck, stick my throbbing penis in a soft, wet vagina, feel outer walls of my pin prick squelch against the dolphin cry, yes! Out comes the balloon swelling with red iron, rusty bolts, a crude advertisement for manhood, paper cuts and leftover toenails! Stir fast the steaming pot with my greased metal pry, oil coats and dark mud sludge bubbling over cauldron’s of puss and orgasm! BLLLLLAAARRRRGGGHHHHHH.
Am I a monster for my appetite? Am I responsible for my feelings? Do I deal in double dealings?
That sounds nice because it rhymes. I am so physically tired but raging like a personal rock concert in my soul’s bed, the sex in me oozing out of my pores into my finger tips, making my head steam, my legs raw, and my face sag.
I called her, she didn’t pick up. Her voicemail box was full. Full of shit. What I want to say to her is this or any variation as such, in the following stanzas, Dare I write it here? If she read it, what would she say? How dare I judge my words before they reach the page. I’ll speak now, or forever hold my dick in my own hand, raw, exhausted, lonely.
"Hey, it’s Tobias- Yeah, hey! Hey, how’s it going? Um, yeah I’m calling because I felt bad that I missed your invited dress rehearsal due to my neck injury and- Yes, yes. My neck is fine- Oh no, nothing serious. I ended up canceling the doctor’s appointment (oh shit why did I say that I said I couldn’t be there because of the appointment) because…. I couldn’t even leave my bed! Ha, um yeah so anyway, yeah. I’ve also been out of town and wante- Yeah, I was in Maryland for an art photography project. It’s the Conversion of Paul story but set in 1970’s China. So I actually had to cut my hair. Ha, yeah I look like a little Chinese boy with a rickshaw (with a rickshaw, why did I say that? Is that funny?) Yeah, it was alright spent some time out there- Not what I was expecting at all. Anyway, I’d like to meet up with you, have dinner or just meet up somewhere and catch up! I want to hear about what’s been happening in your life, how the shows going and how your family is. Okay, cool. Are you free on- Okay, so Saturday… Hmm. Let me see… Ah, I’m not free, oh wait I could be free at around… 6-ish? 7:00PM? How does that sound? Yeah? Awesome! I look forward to seeing you again, oh. Okay, yeah, it’s it’s cool if um, who? Oh, yeah I’ve met ‘em before that’s cool. Yeah, oh okay I see. So you’ll be out already and then I’ll just, okay cool. Okay, bye. Yeah."
"You excite me. You have an unbridled sense of joy and serenity about you; no stormy gale or stern faced man could phase you out of a smile. With a look cheek-full, and the moon ever glimmering in the mirror of your eyes, you face the tragic journey of life’s loss. You bed with the stars at night, soaking in the sweet scent of night’s dark-rose hair, curling in feline femininity, ethereal, pulsing, inhale, exhale. You call the moon by name of which cannot be formed into words or be spoken with the feeble language of self-made kings. You beckon it near and it returns in full fashion, the sun’s cousin holding it’s gaze upon the quiet slope of your breasts, your tender tree shoot neck, the stone slab table of your arching mountain back. A dream startles your arms and flexes the fingers of your hands, then relaxes as quick as it arrived. Clasping your knees to the warmth of your celestial bosom, a clam shell closes over you and I can barely touch the thought of you breathing."
How can someone say this to another without being a total fucking creep? I’m in my fucking apartment alone, in an old hoody that I thought was so fucking cool because of it’s color scheme and the splattered black paint on the back, how fucking creepy do I seem to all the women I’ve ever had the pleasure of saying hello to? Why do my friends constantly pester me about my singleness, “Oh man, you can get any girl you want. You just want to be single.” “Nah, dude, girls drop their underwear when you sing man. You got mad game.” Who are these people to dictate and structure my manhood? You have no idea how my mind works or what I think of when I see a woman I admire. I admit, I can be choosy. But when I’m confronted with the sheer and real beauty of a woman who lives in Astoria, what is there more for me to do then give her a fucking call? Sending a text message is considered unromantic and casual. Using Facebook as a means to communicate is too accessible. I want to create an environment of exclusivity. BUT IT’S TAKES FUCKING TIME. We’re both busy people. She’s… I can’t read her. My friend said, in observing her, “She doesn’t seem like the type to want a relationship.” Whereas his boyfriend says, “She looks at you like she looks at the chicken wings.” She likes to eat. What can I say? FUCK I hate talking about my fucking problems… but isn’t that what this all is? Again, back to my initial ideas and ramblings. What did I say? The… the… the… uh… The oh my god he’s so academic in his writing, oh my god it’s so personal, fuck you. Yes. Airing out what needs to come out, what needs to be brought forth, what needs to be reckoned with. In our short, putrid existences, in a godless landscape filled with desert sand and cracking fingers, we’re all clawing at stone walls too high to climb, too hard to penetrate. This is exhausting me, I haven’t come to any conclusions. The conclusion is I need to pray and worship and not think so much about my singleness.
Jesus, for Christ’s Sake, was single. How the FUCK did he not FUCK all the hot women rubbing his feet with oil and confessing their dirtiest secrets to? How did he not just say, FUCK my calling and let’s FUCK? I could be stoned for saying this, if anyone read this, God forbid my mother ever EVER reads this, I could be stoned for this.
Take me to the truth. Lead me to the path of knowledge, where good thoughts permeate the dense clouded liquid of my mind. Set a place for me at the table of sex where I am united with another in pure ecstasy, heart, love, desire, lust, anger, hate, sorrow, ONE.
The wind howls as my back aches. The sun descends in it’s progressive rainbow curve, sprinkling the sky salmon, cedar bark, and glass. My apartment is empty as is the several mugs that dot my table, as is the imaginary horses’ stable, as is my heart with no one person to love. I suppose I’ll love the nothing that occupies that space; perhaps that space is God. Perhaps that empty nothing space is the self same space that occupied the world before it was formed, a void, a pale palette of infinite possibilities. The nothingness saw itself and in the miracle that is self-knowledge, it knew of it’s emptiness, knew of it’s identity as a being without a marker. This archaic lack, this pang of ancient desire gave birth the world. It sits in the part of my spine just above the pelvis where my delicacies are held, where my shit is held, where the body cleaves and folds in concealment, reveling in it’s inherent secrecy. My body groans, stutters with the moon, and feels it’s limitation. The weight of my boot’s soles create false ground for my feet to tread; they wake and say, “Where is the earth? How are you so high in the air and yet so far from the tip of the sky?” It’s a spear. It bends with the fury of angry hands, taut as an archer’s bow string, and yet in stillness, it is as smooth as river pebbles. It is a violent tool whirring in the dark charcoal ash pit of former fires. It is my pencil or my pen, the ink and the graphite mixing in volcanic mountain hearths, churning in a pot made of dragon’s bones and galaxies.
It’s been a while since I sat down to write. Forcing myself to do so, knowing that a dear friend is on the other side doing the same somehow makes the process more urgent, that it is not only the deep recessed self that is pressing me to again pick up the pen, but that an extension of myself in the form of another being who understands my pains, faults, and agonies is present in encouraging me as well.
It is the morning on a bright Friday in mid-March, curiously cold. I don’t like the cold. IT paralyzes my muscles. It stills my body then goads it to shiver. Shivering is the bodies last stand against the advances of the cold before death. In an effort to curb it’s silent assassins, my muscles and skin contract rapidly, generating as much heat as possible before the body runs out of energy and is forever stilled.
That is so fucking grim. Why am I so grim today? I suppose it’s the fact that I haven’t written since the beginning of this harsh, abusive winter that all of my contempt for it’s ancient wintry grasp is compounded into the introduction of a writing session in which I air all of the present and hidden sufferings. I need the touch of a body against my skin; an embrace, a kiss, a hold, a hug, something, anything to assuage the lonely existence of a singular floating cloud.
Clouds are globs of moisture ascended into the sky from the sun’s heat and rays. I feel very much like that; above the comings and goings of this hard faced neighborhood, scooting along and alone in the wind seeing everyone else’s joy happen beneath the shadow I cast. I feel very much alone which is an irony considering that what I do is precisely of and about the human existence. Film, theater, the arts; their goal is to capture life and put it in a space that can be seen and analyzed. It is a social, hermeneutic, and cathartic experience. But even after being apart of such happenings and events, the looming mortmain of solitary, muted whimpering expounds in a tiny room somewhere in the back of my head, half-way between my ears and an inch or two deep from the part of the spine that connects to the base of the skull.
Yesterday I had three encounters with three animals. Well, actually, let me revise that sentence. Yesterday I had encounters with animals, a majority of which were actual animals, one of which I read about. The other inhabits my body as if it were a stable. They are permitted to come and go depending on the room I’m in or if the location allows their presence to be activated.
I headed over to the gym to practice my footwork, my back sidekick, and my cross. I warmed up alternating wide pushups, squats, and jumping jacks to get the blood flowing and the adrenaline primed. I look at myself in the mirror as I did this. I watch my calf muscles pulse, my thighs bulge and shrink, my ponytail flipped forward in homage to traditional samurai, bounce up and down. Would my hair do that if I were to make love to a woman? Would my muscles contract and pulse the same way? My breathing is heavy, bandaged and recovering from the bounty of cigarettes I had to smoke for a recent character I played in a short film. I wonder what character I play in real life, if this desire to learn the martial form is a desire to find manhood in me considering that I don’t find it in a voracious sex life. I step over to the bag, armor my hands with my gloves, and here he comes. He’s vicious; he doesn’t hold a punch back but he winces if he doesn’t line up his arm correctly with the opponent. Gritting his teeth, grunting, spit peppers the floor and his hands with every offensive move or defensive bob and weave. His skin is armored, tree bark and tar coat his shoulders. spikes protrude from knuckles and grow as the intensity escalates. Hook, cross, hook, back side kick. Cork-screw, cork-screw, bob, catch, cross, hook, hook, back kick, back kick, back kick. His lungs scream for air, saliva drips from his canines. His shins are swords severing the limbs of all who oppose, who point and jeer, who jest, who make him fucking annoyed. Five kicks in a row, rest breathe, five more kicks in a row, harder, harder. On the last and final kick, the bag is split perfectly down the center, it’s filling sprays around the floor, leaking downwards in clumps, exploding in a tornado of dust and ash. Steam rises from his back, and feet. His knees, iron kettle balls stamp and crush the remains of his opponent. The rattle of the chain the bag hangs from sounds like those I’ve shackled around my own wrists and ankles. What can be done to release this sexual tension, the angst of a single man’s island paradise, alone, afraid, and hungry for a woman’s tenderness? He leaves after a few seconds of respite; I don’t have a name for him. All that I know is he is born from me. He comes and goes when the time is appropriate, when I want him there.
Walking to the Beanery on Graham, I picked up a National Geographic magazine to enjoy. In my adolescent years, which I don’t think I’ve quite been released from, I would pour over the publication. The pictures astounded me, the travel, the history, the archeology, the lives of so many people that were much more interesting than mine. I would masturbate to the tribal photos or anytime a breast was shone in a photo series.
Komodo dragons are fucking scary and fucking huge and fucking beastly as shit. They fuck shit up with their venom, their sprinting; they are fucking dragons.
The article kept calling them dragons which, in reading it, made me feel so empowered. That’s what explorers in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds saw. They saw dragons who “breathed fire,” the venom of which “burned” the victims preventing blood clotting, bleeding out those fortunate enough to feel their embracing bite. In Indonesia the local residents think of them like pesky dogs like New Yorkers think of pigeons. A woman shooed one away with a broom. She was bitten but she was taken to the hospital and she was fine. That is ridiculous. I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Brooklyn, NY on Graham Avenue wearing my pants littered with holes, Dad’s checkered polo, and a woman’s denim jacket and two park rangers were ambushed by a Komodo dragon in their kitchen. That’s fucking sorcery and magic. The photos in that series were portraits or wide-angle shots of the Komodo Monitor lizard. How is my struggle for companionship at all related to this fucking ancient beast?
The local residents venerate the animal killing a goat and eating only half. The other is offered to the sprinting reptilian gods who tear flesh from bone, who destroy life to sate life, who are thought of as dogs.
Outside of the dojo was a black labrador corgi mix whimpering and crying after it’s master left it outside to introduce his friend to the gym. I stayed with it on the steps because it was irresistible and I like to think of myself as a dog whisperer, a man capable of God’s simple task to care for the other existences in his world. He paced back and forth within the confined space delineated by his leash wrapped around the staircase railing. It’s cry beckoned me to cry as well, and so I did in mimicry as well as sympathy. I petted him, raked my fingers in his mane, held it’s cheeks in my palms. I left after he stopped making noises and he was fine.
On my way home to the apartment, walking past the local car repair refurbish joint, the dog of that establishment greeted me with an old look while it laced it’s mark at the base of the no parking zone sign. The bags of rubble and exhaust it carried under it’s eyes were as dark as dejected car tires. His collar was rubber and dotted with spikes. It’s shoulder and chest muscles bulked and flexed under it’s blackened coat. It approached me. I widened my stance and stiffened my legs, offering my hand as sacrifice, staring deep into it’s aging eyes. The mechanic in the garage sweating under his black beanie and Carhartt work jacket, paused his phone conversation, “He’s friendly.” I patted him hard on the back and side, kneaded my hands into the body of this formidable chunk of a dog. He didn’t seem to mind. I scratched a section just above it’s right ear and he cocked his head telling me to continue. I smiled at the mechanic then barked as I left for home. My hand was blackened by the encounter; I arrived home and washed my hands with soap. I thought to myself as I was loosening the dirt from my fingers, I wonder what disease I would contract, what infection I would take if I were to masturbate right here, right now with this hand.
I wouldn’t take you there, there or there; I wouldn’t even touch you I’d let your image, float as soggy balloon Sundays do until the day drops drips out from underneath us flying deeper, soaring, soaring until nothingness I’d speak of you in hushed wind tones, Let the fire of you burn my fingers Forcing me to pat the flame down To calm night’s mystic fury
I was taken by the sea today Walking along it’s sandy beach, it swallowed me whole with it’s gaping foam teeth, groping hands Enticed by blue-stone waves and water claps My feet were shoe-less Touching the primordial paring knife Of the world’s birth
Yellow is the color of my urine not my nationality (ethnicity?) or the face you see with the ponytail kicking air and meditating in the public park with a fan and a sword
My eyes are slits cut with sharpened metal from years of eating rawhide bone marrow in the soups of wintry slumps cooked slow The soup is yellow so I guess it makes me yellow too But I’m not a color, I’m a sound The wind rising in a tempest temple Jade made, young green sparrow Palm blasts and fists of marble pillars
But I’ll slow down I’m not the aggressor It’s just, being transcontinental I feel the pressure; the soft beckoning of distant home
China, this place I’ve read in books and seen in the faces of my kin I eat it’s earth and water in the form of dumplings, noodles Ginger roots soaking in rice porridge and tea leaves Fish eye lens of dinner time bones cleaned and sucked
Is food where I find you? When I’m lost and bound at the feet in the brackish waters of New York City streets This place wears me out and I wear metal plates War armor, carved turtle shell, tacky jade trinkets Suckling pig, pricked and roasting on an open flame
China chipped, porcelain bricks belly bursting is this the sickness that persists in the mind of a man far gone, gone far from familiarity Where is my family? Stuck in a postcard, Smiling so tightly those wrinkles became permanent Crows feet dot his face and his stern looks commands my action Rinse and deplete
I’m lost, oh so lost in this sea of words and women Women I don’t know, women who look and think Slick stink, smooth baby flesh-eyed, pink He’s raw, he’s young, his penis is done The man with three pillars? A dream for this young one.
My knuckles are mountains, my hands the plains The soil churns and breaks, red paint from blooded tensions I call attention, ten-hut, this is the message Left corkscrew, right hook at a downwards angle at the jaw, The snap back rivals that of your snap cap, slapped back Slide step back uppercut, straight blast, backfist curve out You don’t want them to hit you, create angles Open up your enemy, if he resists, react at his command He goes for a cross? Parry, ‘pock,’ return to sender And there he goes descending…
The reader’s take cues from the writer. If the writer is hesitant, the reader will hesitate. If the writer stops short before a plunge, the reader won’t jump. We, the writers give permission to the reader to feel.
If we don’t go a thousand miles deep into the darkest parts of our own experience, humanity will stop, progress will end and limbs will be severed.
We as the writer are modern interpreters of all texts and things we’ve accrued over our life experience thus far. It is our duty as the writer to read and write constantly.
(N.) ‘mee-turn To do a me-turn is to drag a conversation back to the irresistible subject of …yourself. Usage: As the Rotary Club speaker began telling the story of the year he’d spent among a tribe of pygmies, after crashing his one-engine plane in a Central African rainforest, an audience member executed a shameless me-turn, loudly interrupting the speaker to interject that he himself had never been in a plane, never traveled abroad, and did not trust foreigners.
The trashman finds the head of a doll the child was small she ruled them all they played in her home, her garden, her dome and left soon and quiet the child alone where is our toy, the dolly, your friend? disposed of and broken, her folly her end