One of The Nine Daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus
Texting is vexing and I’m tasting her hex
thrown in my mouth like how violence becomes sex.
Wrestling with decisions, to devour or protect?
As I try to shake her words and the intent they reflect.
Stalker, stalk her, swinging in a tree
Kay eye ell ell eye enn ME.
Connections in directions we don’t always see
in the face of temptation we fight,
fuck and flee.
Her walk is a sway like how trees bow and bend
delivering that look as she sharply intends
to mock the way animals attempt to be men
and her age betrays youth as it always has been.
Hedonist heeding this, clamoring for vision
feeding this, needing this, a delicate incision
opening the skin and bleeding sweet suspicion
as the walls tighten down ’round this secret prison.
Lulls in mood swings sometimes explode into great lapses of judgment. They also provide the clarity needed to laugh about all the little stuff that don’t mean nothin’ anyhow.
Milk chocolate bars, sweet potato chips, hours of football and over-produced Hollywood movies cranked as loud as the walls can handle, this sweet and weary body just spent three days in a blur of hiding out and saving dividends. Dodging streetwise savages and perfumed women of inebriation by holing up and battening down. Or more accurately, battening up while glazing my donut eyes over 72 hours of big screen television. Even if the bag of M&M’s is pushed over to the far corner of the table, it will inevitably be pilfered by my deviant fingers. Pastries, I love you. Dirty baked goods infiltrate my prurient inclinations. Peanut butter, caramel, nougat, I’m bound by evil while devouring my vile secrets behind drawn blinds, feeding my gnawing face-hole with decadent poisons until I weep with glee and shame. Crammed every piece of junk food not bolted down deep into my gullet until my stomach sat rotting and bloated with sugar, butter, sweet cream and animal fat. Wallowing in horrible splendor, I realized that living for a moment without visible restraint or apparent self-respect sometimes affords unexpected and delicious rewards.
3 days to wander off the radar and throw discipline over the ledge is a beautiful way to burn a weekend.
In my endorphin blast of rashness
I’m plagued with romance and past distractions
that make my twin’s knee-jerk reactions
come across as crass or maybe lacking tact.
My diction reveals my addiction
and predilection for vixens smitten
with the passion of what’s written
who are the same little monkeys still on my back.
the early needle gets the voice
to somehow stop the stammer
warm salty itch
with soft television
never knowing which
sun has set or risen
the early needle poised and moist
delivers us from clamor
camphor and precision
moments tally years
round porcelain prisons
hand of doom whose noose is hoist
rises quiet like a hammer
mother comfort’s rapt decisions
only turns to damn her.
“Too Much Is Never Enough” was a tagline in the ’80’s that MTV used and a ridiculous philosophy that has done me wrong for a good 20 years barring a few choice yarns here and there.
Moderation comes with wisdom or watching those close to you engulf themselves until they’re unrecognizable. Maintaining is a skill, a knack for approaching the line of degradation and destruction without losing footing, temptations are like fruit from city trees and when ripe and ready to eat, our flesh and teeth gnash for its sweet reward.
Like a steaming pie on a window sill or pan of fresh brownies from the oven, like a pair of silk thighs or a frothing mug of black ale. Sometimes what seems like sanctuary becomes a sanitarium and the only thing that divides a few whiskies on the way home from work from an all night bender with folks you’ll barely remember is that fourth glass of hooch.
Anyone who says that marijuana is “the gateway drug” should have a bottle of Old Crow crammed in places crows don’t go because I’ve wound up in far worse conditions because of drinkin’ than anything else because booze dresses up other vices in perfume and summer dresses so they look delicious and act carefree.
Then the regrets arrive in droves by daylight.
I used to teeter, not quite a teetotaler but I used to wander that fine line between sheer loneliness and a strange story in the morning. Nowadays my ability to moderate has kept me from drunk tanks and the clutches of angry husbands, honing my urban samurai’s skill of perpetual composure has saved me money, scars and god knows how many cars.
Though regardless of how slick I like to think I am, I knock on the wood of the bar because I know that some day that 4th drink with its devil horns and trident of beautiful misery might march down my gullet and give me a warm, wonderful throttling that involves much more glass tipping and less brain thinking which will inevitably lead to actions and reactions unconcerned with culpability or consequence.
Every smoker who used to smoke has a love affair with the past and thinks about lighting up every so often. In some cases such thoughts occur every single day apparently until the end of time.
The state of Oregon became a “non-smoking indoors or anywhere outside near a door, a school or hospital or dog or child” in 2009 and it’s been great for those who used to have to empty and clean ashtrays on a daily basis. It also lets people go out drinking and to not come home smelling like their clothes have been used to fan a brush fire of Camel Lights all night long.
When tooling around Portland I see throngs of people gathered on the streetsides and sidewalks, talking, watching, standing and smoking. As if the weather deemed it neccessary for people to be outside, as if it were a tropical country where everyone was in the street being seen because it was just too hot to do anything else. In countries and climates that are naturally warm, much of the population fill the streets so it’s a more of a communal society than many Western regions. Now the corners and barfronts in Portland look populated and celebratory. Regardless that those standing outside in droves have been kicked out because their habit has now become a nationwide stigma of poor health and decision, it’s nice to see folks always hanging out in front. (Smoking is still cool in my book. Not smart, but cool.)
On another note, if you’ve ever traveled through Salt Lake City or any other major airport where indoor glass cages with enormous vents that hang from the ceiling (like a toxic cleansing chamber if you’re wearing a yellow haz-mat suit) corral the smoking travelers, look inside and see their faces. Not really a happy bunch and I’ve often wondered if it was the traveling hours, the airline food, or the fact that they’re put on display behind nicotine stained windows to remind the rest of us how sad and lonely it is to smoke cigarettes. (Smoking is still cool. Absolute stupidest habit on earth, but still cool.)
Chocolata. Like dope or junk you pound into your veins or the pills you swallow with breakfast, like what you smoke and exhale or put into a glass with ice, chocolate is the savior of doldrums, that momentary friend that, with your eyes closed, can take you to dream states and foreign lands. While your mouth savors every delicate morsel of decadence, chocolate delivers you far from everything presently tangible. A place where for a few seconds nothing else matters except for the happy chemicals in your brain.
Throw in some peanut butter or ice cream and it’s all over.