Cut loose your
noose and don
my leash. You can cuff me,
if you swallow
the key. We'll make it
a fun parlor trick; bound, you can
whip me, until I escape.
Bite marks and scratches, just
try and stop me. Honest,
I didn't mean to bruise your
gentle neck; your
inner submissive bleeds
through our feigned
rolls reversed.
Pealed masks, disrobed
and naked pale skin.
Rope tied to bedposts,
slipknots around your ankles and wrists—
such an innocent face,
such a dirty mind,
such a pretty little pervert.
Pinch me, I'll slap your ass;
leather clad dreams
of stormy moonless nights,
no headlights,
high speed and misty
steamed windows; of basements
and chains; flamable silk
and candle wax…
when pressed, still so clever:
you can't whisper "I love you,"
through the red ball;
there's no safety in words, after all
is done and said.
Dangerous lands lie beyond the borderline—
Show me.
Cut me again,
carve your name in my chest;
we belong together.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
untitled
The Bombmaker, Minesweeper,
and Drunk dance
around a circle
side by side by side.
Pressing their luck,
tempting claymore fates,
they want to see if
proof really is in dismemberment.
Meanwhile, the Butcher, Baker,
and Insurance Salesman
mourn the plain lesson:
a thousand ways to leave your lover;
and not one to bring them
back, again.
But, such is life
for Ghosts and Bedbugs
that lurk in shadows,
revealed only in sideways glances of
razor scars and lovebites,
bloodstained memories of what's
gone...
what exists only as pain
in abstentia.
Dream homes and cloud castles
left dark and decaying,
over-grown and in disrepair...
What is lost,
if it was only imaginary?
and Drunk dance
around a circle
side by side by side.
Pressing their luck,
tempting claymore fates,
they want to see if
proof really is in dismemberment.
Meanwhile, the Butcher, Baker,
and Insurance Salesman
mourn the plain lesson:
a thousand ways to leave your lover;
and not one to bring them
back, again.
But, such is life
for Ghosts and Bedbugs
that lurk in shadows,
revealed only in sideways glances of
razor scars and lovebites,
bloodstained memories of what's
gone...
what exists only as pain
in abstentia.
Dream homes and cloud castles
left dark and decaying,
over-grown and in disrepair...
What is lost,
if it was only imaginary?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Dear Daemon,
The letters I sent you this summer were all returned, unopened. They were marked as "undeliverable as addressed; unable to forward." Maybe you forgot to leave a forwarding address; you can be forgetful, at times. It still kind of stung at the time. I still have them. I also still have that pine cone, that name tag, and that candy cigarette box, among other maudlin trinkets. Sometimes, I wish I was less sentimental; it would make for less clutter, for sure.
I'll confess, you've been haunting my dreams, lately. I'm trying to let go; it's one of my unwritten resolutions for the year. I'm trying to keep my distance. It seems as though that's what you want (you certainly haven't indicated otherwise); and to be honest, I've got my own laundry list of shit to take care of, so it's probably best for me to focus on that—and by "that" I mean "myself;" a new way of thinking I'm still getting used to. But if my dreams are any indication of how I really feel at my core, I am still fiercely loyal to you, in spite of everything, or anything else. Things change, things stay the same. Before going on, though, I'd like to take a detour, briefly.
Is it just me, or does the phrase "let go" make you think of Val Kilmer? I honestly feel bad for the guy; honest, I do. He had a period of time when he was an A-lister. He was a Hollywood golden boy; with just cause, since he had actual talent. You can't teach comedic timing. People either have the gift naturally, or they don't; just watch "Real Genius," Kilmer has it. But, holy god! It's like everything he does, now, has the crust of B all over it. Even "Felon," in which he did a damn fine job, just wasn't quite up to Box Office standards (what ever the fuck that counts for now-a-days...). I mean, he was fucking Jim Morrison! I don't know the guy, so this is just conjecture, but now he's got the bloat of a drunk. It's sad, really. I used to wish that I had the blond hair and chiseled jaw that made him famous (and I'm sure got him laid, plenty); but now, I think, "fuck, I should start taking better care of myself, 'cause 27 ain't too far from 30, and I'm over half-way to 50."
In case you need a visual:
I'll confess, you've been haunting my dreams, lately. I'm trying to let go; it's one of my unwritten resolutions for the year. I'm trying to keep my distance. It seems as though that's what you want (you certainly haven't indicated otherwise); and to be honest, I've got my own laundry list of shit to take care of, so it's probably best for me to focus on that—and by "that" I mean "myself;" a new way of thinking I'm still getting used to. But if my dreams are any indication of how I really feel at my core, I am still fiercely loyal to you, in spite of everything, or anything else. Things change, things stay the same. Before going on, though, I'd like to take a detour, briefly.
Is it just me, or does the phrase "let go" make you think of Val Kilmer? I honestly feel bad for the guy; honest, I do. He had a period of time when he was an A-lister. He was a Hollywood golden boy; with just cause, since he had actual talent. You can't teach comedic timing. People either have the gift naturally, or they don't; just watch "Real Genius," Kilmer has it. But, holy god! It's like everything he does, now, has the crust of B all over it. Even "Felon," in which he did a damn fine job, just wasn't quite up to Box Office standards (what ever the fuck that counts for now-a-days...). I mean, he was fucking Jim Morrison! I don't know the guy, so this is just conjecture, but now he's got the bloat of a drunk. It's sad, really. I used to wish that I had the blond hair and chiseled jaw that made him famous (and I'm sure got him laid, plenty); but now, I think, "fuck, I should start taking better care of myself, 'cause 27 ain't too far from 30, and I'm over half-way to 50."
In case you need a visual:
from "Top Secret," circa '84
from "The Steam Experiment," circa '09
One last side note, "The Steam[ing pile] Experiment" is an awesomely bad movie, also starring Eric Roberts and Armand Assante. It's worth watching. Look at that cast! Don't pay to see it; but don't get caught not paying.
I drove to Goldsboro, recently. It was an interesting drive. The sun was out and bright, but snow was blowing—very odd. "Yield" covered the first half of the trip. This is definitely one of my favorite road trip albums. It's possibly my favorite Pearl Jam album; though ask me on any given day and that could range from "Ten" to "Backspacer." What can I say? I dig 'em. About the time I got to Selma on hwy 70, I put on "The Shepherd's Dog." It fit how I was feeling, driving back east for the first time in some five years. Something about the uneasy, or reluctant but unavoidable, relationship with Christianity, the very Carolina (in spite of Beam being from South Carolina) material, the wolf/sheepdog metaphor, and the overall tone that strikes a chord with me—did you see what I just did there? Thanks for hipping me to it.
I was driving to Goldsboro for my grandmother's birthday, but reached Princeton with plenty of time for a detour. Once I reached Goldsboro, almost from instinct, I took hwy 117 toward my childhood home on the 500 year flood line—the waters stopped yards from our front door. I know I've told you that before. My family and I were lucky, incredibly lucky. Floyd's flood did a number on the area.
I grew up on Croom Dr, the turd colored curve at the upper right corner is the
Neuse River.
Hurricane Dennis (not the one that hit the Gulf a month before your storm) had sat off the coast two weeks earlier, dumping rain for a couple of days. Having dealt with Fran, this was a boring storm—since school was canceled, my younger brother and I flew kites until they were more duct tape than plastic. Then came Floyd; which for being a cat 4 was pretty tame, but dumped over a foot of rain. This rain caused the usual day after flooding, but then subsided; until the folks in Raleigh to let out water from Falls Lake, which flowed east and added to the already saturated land. Hurricane Irene, shortly after, definitely did not help. That was in 1999, we left in 2001. At that time, even two years later, pretty much everything from Summerlin Dr to the river, that wasn't a trailer, was condemned by FEMA and left dilapidated and abandoned (they were mismanaging assholes back then, too...does that count for irony? calling oneself "emergency management" and sucking at that when emergencies happen?). That meant plenty of practice houses for Mar Mac Volunteer Fire Department.
My parents live in Rocky Mount, which is on the Tar River, also hit hard by the flooding from Floyd. Areas along that river were more densely populated, so the damage was more extensive; but these many years later, Rocky Mount, Greenville, and other areas show only a few waterlogged scars. What was neighborhoods of modular homes, in my childhood, remains barren. I'm not comparing; just sharing.
This is the house I grew up in, '89-'01.
There used to be another tree to the left of the house, Fran took it.
A hedge used to run the perimeter of the front yard.
We beached the jon boat past this tree, closer to the house.
In the background is Dad's old garage.
It is literally more square footage than the house.
This is along Old Grantham Rd.
There used to be houses here.
The last little brick house, abandoned, but still standing.
Beyond those trees is the Neuse River.
To the right, off camera, is hwy 117.
I guess I've become accustomed to the rolling topography of Chapel Hill, because the absolute flat blankness of the land took me somewhat by surprise. The grey day didn't help to elevate the mood, either. It was sad to see what was a neighborhood reduced to the bare bones of streets leading to vacant plots. My little sister and Dad did this same tour a few days earlier, they had business on base (Seymour Johnson AFB) and so were in the area. She agreed, it was ugly and depressing.
With this sort of mood and enough time left in the sliding ETA I had given to do some more site seeing, I drove back up hwy 117, past Teasers—the strip-club I always dreamt of burning down, past the cemetery where the coffins floated out of their graves like in some soggy Rapture, past hwy 70, and kept driving.
With this sort of mood and enough time left in the sliding ETA I had given to do some more site seeing, I drove back up hwy 117, past Teasers—the strip-club I always dreamt of burning down, past the cemetery where the coffins floated out of their graves like in some soggy Rapture, past hwy 70, and kept driving.
Things change. 117 turns into I-795; this was news to me. I drove past Pikeville, past Fremont, but not quite to Wilson. Getting closer to the late arrival time, I got off of the highway and headed back south, toward Goldsboro. All the while the weather varied from bright sunshine to blowing flurries. The Paper Chase better suited my mood, so "Now You Are One of Us" played as the chain of cigarettes burned. Good times.
One of the things I've always loved about small town eastern North Carolina is that every town is the same. It's impossible to get lost; even if you try. Every town is the same. There's two highways that pass through each and every town (one north-south, the other east-west) and generally one main rail line. Whichever highway runs parallel with the train track, generally becomes that town's main street—generally, creatively called "Main Street." You know that you're getting close to town when you pass a flashing yellow intersection and the row houses run on the other side of the tracks. Did you ever read Maniac Magee? For all I cared about the northern setting, it could've been set in Goldsboro; racism and all. Maybe that's just every small town, anywhere, USA (Mellencamp, eat your bleeding heart out). I digress.
I was driving through Fremont, which happens to be the birthplace of Charles B Aycock, North Carolina's "Education Governor," also a bigot (putting it lightly), when my little sister called. The conversation was brief and I told her I'd be arriving soon; which I would be, but mainly I didn't want the Yankee in me to come out while on the phone with her. There was a line of brake lights in front of me, which I fucking hate, since that strange white stuff falling from the sky turns the fuckers around here into Chicken Little's, seizing their brains with dumb fear, blanking out the knowledge of how to drive—it snows at least once a year, mother fuckers, every fucking year; fucking christ, get your fucking heads out of your asses and fucking drive! (I know snow's a neat thing for you, I'm partial to it myself; but my uncle left to come down for my grandmother's birthday, literally, just before a blizzard blew through the area Mom and Dad's families lived; which Dad's family, except for my uncle and his family, left. Flurries and flakes ain't a big deal when your cousins are being buried by two feet or more—better them, than me.) Eventually, I got around the traffic and made it to my destination.
Sadly, neither of my brothers could make it; but it was a full house, none-the-less: my grandmother's cousin and his wife came down from Maryland (or Delaware? same fucking difference); a childhood friend of my aunt, from Philly, flew in; as previously mentioned, my uncle was there; and then the rest of us living here. After all of the initial greetings and such, my sister and I chatted. Out of nowhere, she brought up how that bitch Cunty Love killed Kurt, then how envious she is of my hair, then the fact of me turning 27 came up—to which I reassured her that I had to be famous before I could join that club. She's taking some absurd three or four studio classes; little masochist! I still think you would really like her, she's a pretty awesome young lady.
It was a good time—good company, good food, good conversations, what more could you want? The dinner conversation between Mom, my sister, the cousin's wife, and I was interesting. She's a pretty neat lady, you would like her. She gave my little sister pointers on being a professional artist, and the general conversation we had ranged from her experiences (like what it was like to do digital graphic design when computers were just starting to be used) to intellectual property to anthropology to linguistics to metaphysics to theology and gardening.
After dinner and cake and such, we took lots and lots and lots and (jesus, are we done, yet?) lots and lots of pictures; then they sang "Happy Birthday" to me; then we called my cousin in New Jersey to sing "Happy Birthday" to her, since it was her actual birthday; and then after long lingering goodbye's, we all parted ways.
More went on, but I've rambled enough. The drive back was pretty exhausting. The snow was done, but the wind blew my S10 all over the damn interstate; NPR was entertaining, though, minus the "Jared Lee Loughner" every fifteen minutes, or so. When I got back, as with many times during the day, I wanted to share all of this with you—things stay the same; but, like I said, New Year's resolutions and what not.
I do hope this new year has been kind to you, thus far. I hope the kids are doing well.
Take care,
Mailer
I was driving through Fremont, which happens to be the birthplace of Charles B Aycock, North Carolina's "Education Governor," also a bigot (putting it lightly), when my little sister called. The conversation was brief and I told her I'd be arriving soon; which I would be, but mainly I didn't want the Yankee in me to come out while on the phone with her. There was a line of brake lights in front of me, which I fucking hate, since that strange white stuff falling from the sky turns the fuckers around here into Chicken Little's, seizing their brains with dumb fear, blanking out the knowledge of how to drive—it snows at least once a year, mother fuckers, every fucking year; fucking christ, get your fucking heads out of your asses and fucking drive! (I know snow's a neat thing for you, I'm partial to it myself; but my uncle left to come down for my grandmother's birthday, literally, just before a blizzard blew through the area Mom and Dad's families lived; which Dad's family, except for my uncle and his family, left. Flurries and flakes ain't a big deal when your cousins are being buried by two feet or more—better them, than me.) Eventually, I got around the traffic and made it to my destination.
Sadly, neither of my brothers could make it; but it was a full house, none-the-less: my grandmother's cousin and his wife came down from Maryland (or Delaware? same fucking difference); a childhood friend of my aunt, from Philly, flew in; as previously mentioned, my uncle was there; and then the rest of us living here. After all of the initial greetings and such, my sister and I chatted. Out of nowhere, she brought up how that bitch Cunty Love killed Kurt, then how envious she is of my hair, then the fact of me turning 27 came up—to which I reassured her that I had to be famous before I could join that club. She's taking some absurd three or four studio classes; little masochist! I still think you would really like her, she's a pretty awesome young lady.
It was a good time—good company, good food, good conversations, what more could you want? The dinner conversation between Mom, my sister, the cousin's wife, and I was interesting. She's a pretty neat lady, you would like her. She gave my little sister pointers on being a professional artist, and the general conversation we had ranged from her experiences (like what it was like to do digital graphic design when computers were just starting to be used) to intellectual property to anthropology to linguistics to metaphysics to theology and gardening.
After dinner and cake and such, we took lots and lots and lots and (jesus, are we done, yet?) lots and lots of pictures; then they sang "Happy Birthday" to me; then we called my cousin in New Jersey to sing "Happy Birthday" to her, since it was her actual birthday; and then after long lingering goodbye's, we all parted ways.
More went on, but I've rambled enough. The drive back was pretty exhausting. The snow was done, but the wind blew my S10 all over the damn interstate; NPR was entertaining, though, minus the "Jared Lee Loughner" every fifteen minutes, or so. When I got back, as with many times during the day, I wanted to share all of this with you—things stay the same; but, like I said, New Year's resolutions and what not.
I do hope this new year has been kind to you, thus far. I hope the kids are doing well.
Take care,
Mailer
Friday, January 07, 2011
Saturday, January 01, 2011
i'm a juvenile
I recognize that I make mistakes.
I'd cliff dive,
an apathetic and self-disregarding swan,
held to a breathless, nailbiting
flawless entry, barely a ripple,
into a swimming pool of sorrow;
but who am I to demand your attention?
I'm a parody, myself...
still licking the sting from a relationship,
barely the length of a fling.
I'd cliff dive,
an apathetic and self-disregarding swan,
held to a breathless, nailbiting
flawless entry, barely a ripple,
into a swimming pool of sorrow;
but who am I to demand your attention?
I'm a parody, myself...
still licking the sting from a relationship,
barely the length of a fling.
I'll Consider Chanting Lojong on the Next Day I Try to Live
Reinterpreting experience,
I take it with a sense of irony, that
from the fantastic symphony of
stardust
chaos
and nothingness,
and through the noise of everything else,
on this planet, just big enough,
our paths crossed in separate cars
on the interstate,
and finally met in a rest stop from hells
held tangential and private.
It was simply Karma—
a cosmic accident of probability.
Even with proximity,
passion was in the periphery.
Then things got fuzzy,
as they tend to...
it's only entropy.
I suppose I lost my head,
my tongue slipped, I
got wrapped around your finger,
got swept away...
got caught making eye contact.
I stared too long and fell into recognitions
of someplace nice,
of land and tide...
So what if we're all just
pushing pulling
breaking like waves?
Who came up with Love?
A cynic's mirror questions
a romantic's faith
in pretty laced lies,
St. Hallmark mockery,
chocolate-coated fixed idea,
wilted flower delusion,
white dressed utopic double-talk,
trite metaphor courting ritual,
ceremonially aggrandized body functions;
Or is Love something more?
More than gimmicks and games,
more than power struggle and egos?
Diplomacy is a tricky endeavor
with razor bated breath,
blades out for the slow dance
at the knife party—
to be vulnerable is to show belly,
offer your throat.
What ever the reward,
the risk is body and soul;
just ask Fitzgerald.
All life is just a progression toward,
then a regression from, one phrase—
"I love you."
waves breaking waves breaking waves
dissonant and harmonious.
Perpetual in the peripheral eternal,
fleeting in the moment.
With a boat's lulling rock drowsiness,
time slowed when I ran my fingers through your hair.
Was I just wasting your time?
I was head over heels
over zealous; I blinked and you slipped
through my smothering hands.
interference pops cracks
a misconnection of static
breaking up
until at arms length blank eternity returns.
Still, through the black night, the
frigid violent waters,
the Siren's song pierces
with entrancing brilliance,
"How do you lose what's never found?"
I take it with a sense of irony, that
from the fantastic symphony of
stardust
chaos
and nothingness,
and through the noise of everything else,
on this planet, just big enough,
our paths crossed in separate cars
on the interstate,
and finally met in a rest stop from hells
held tangential and private.
It was simply Karma—
a cosmic accident of probability.
Even with proximity,
passion was in the periphery.
Then things got fuzzy,
as they tend to...
it's only entropy.
I suppose I lost my head,
my tongue slipped, I
got wrapped around your finger,
got swept away...
got caught making eye contact.
I stared too long and fell into recognitions
of someplace nice,
of land and tide...
So what if we're all just
pushing pulling
breaking like waves?
Who came up with Love?
A cynic's mirror questions
a romantic's faith
in pretty laced lies,
St. Hallmark mockery,
chocolate-coated fixed idea,
wilted flower delusion,
white dressed utopic double-talk,
trite metaphor courting ritual,
ceremonially aggrandized body functions;
Or is Love something more?
More than gimmicks and games,
more than power struggle and egos?
Diplomacy is a tricky endeavor
with razor bated breath,
blades out for the slow dance
at the knife party—
to be vulnerable is to show belly,
offer your throat.
What ever the reward,
the risk is body and soul;
just ask Fitzgerald.
All life is just a progression toward,
then a regression from, one phrase—
"I love you."
waves breaking waves breaking waves
dissonant and harmonious.
Perpetual in the peripheral eternal,
fleeting in the moment.
With a boat's lulling rock drowsiness,
time slowed when I ran my fingers through your hair.
Was I just wasting your time?
I was head over heels
over zealous; I blinked and you slipped
through my smothering hands.
interference pops cracks
a misconnection of static
breaking up
until at arms length blank eternity returns.
Still, through the black night, the
frigid violent waters,
the Siren's song pierces
with entrancing brilliance,
"How do you lose what's never found?"