Wednesday, September 24, 2014



The full experience was stupid.

So when we were all finally there, all but Beatrice at least, we had all but finished up the bagels and coffee in a cardboard box.

At first we were awkward or silent. Those of us who were awkward often brought up the topic of innovation and how much worth we were willing to bring.

Those of us who were silent just didn’t say anything at all. There was a man who gave a rather long-winded speech about innovation, using decades old technology and vocabulary – like a prairie where nothing but corn is grown.

We all nodded, and those of us who had some, took too long boring sips from the lip of our mugs. Beatrice finally showed up and headed straight for the bagel table, only to be disappointed to find the blueberry variety the only one that was left.

Another presentation spoke about the fact that things were not right in the world, that things needed to change. And the good news was that he held the answer to that sad fact in his pocket, presented to us all on a bright screen with the same face.

We all held in our own pockets, only without the lint and pathetic memories.
We were told of new innovations:  a way to connect to one another without even bothered having having to put our hands in our pockets; a way to pay for things with just a finger-pinch at best and only a touch at best:

A way to say hello and to fuck one another with one swipe, and to come just as fast, as if the swipe were something alongside our genitals, still flesh and stupid. This as a but to be buttered up and bred. Every change an angle in the country, always ready for a last minute beer and a cigarette only bought just when buying was real.

Were you there when the hypnotism of the last side of sides subsides and prays for something less willing than want? An unpleasant remark, marketed to a medium of all things that call for something – a kiss, a wander, a perfect glass of you. I’ve seen
the side of all the things that jiggle, evermore, like a black & blue blotch on the face.

In the years between dinner and me, I’ve always found the butter fell’d flat. He doesn’ know what his hand now does, unsalted surely (he was a chef once, so go figure) and the gutters in the rain only bloat back because they are filled and the former neighbors never bothered to share, or call, those things that are important.

Am I early? If the point is the point is pointless. No she can’t cut it off any longer, and by longer I mean her trail of bodily fluids. Late in the fall I had no money and don’t know the difference. A man of full wholesalers don’t do much to make the truth as a puritanical pure erotica; at this low wind the song sings like milk in a play-pool:  something that rains down down and washes us clean, healthy, hurt that no one else has bothered to hunt.

And so before the heavy, before the brave, before the many things that might make the slight boner be a better man. Thunderstorms of jiggling like a monkey jiggling the facts and making something out of a proper leaf and something proper out of the wait on him, where which, we spend an ungodly amount of time just to say hello in the drams of hello and goodbye and all the things that turn us into children, a pity.

I would put a word on a page and you wouldn’t read it. Where you went to play pool and pool fuck, dry off, speak of moods and not ins. The people are much better than the noise in my head, the noise that sails away like it was an asshole swipe. swab in, looking forward to the feeling of something less clinical, yet always clinical, the balance of all things beginning with a b, a thing put into another and let’s just see how it all goes about now.

In all of my fantasies of other men, there is always still there you, standing around just to say “that’s hot, that’s fuckin’ hot”. And like affection, alone/together, there are so many words for snow and so many blows begin again. The tart of betrayal, always unique, and always absurd, the things that are the basic betrayal of walking along, with someone else who eventually gives you head and twenty bucks for a cab.

But my father had a trouble but he’s a great guy. Or women who learned from the church & gave up in the grave of a Medium Brown Bag. In the event of a master of none, one doesn’t regularly enjoy the rich party a part of the harsh voices, listened to like men on the front of things, things that we have all ridden in all directions and still remain, stupid s, still wondering about gone like gone was never gone, just gone.