This is the top of the house/The light is here/And luminescence sings/i can/it whispers
It creaks (the house)/I try/the window’s songs single pained/and I see all the insufferable beings underneath trying to figure out/”my light my light”
I built this house by myself/from woods of my father/on land my mother gave to me/(not my brothers/she killed herself before she died/and that she shared with
me)/I allow no one upstairs
This is really a widow’s balcony/this is really the sun/did you know the moon shines because of the sun?/my sheep look to the sun with joy
And lord/why do you give me such creatures/like window washers/like chimney sweeps/like psychiatrists/doctors who travel door to door/they knock and ask are you okay
(This house has no electrical wiring/I have no light switches/no light bulbs/no electricians visit me/but I make my own candles)
I see you looking out at the top of the house/and the fog crawls in/and sheep crawl in/and I crawl in clutching nothing but match sticks and my chest
Do you take my house/are you able to take care of my candles/(it takes work/there are many/you are alone/you have few arms/your legs are slow)
You hear a weeping/I see you looking for where it came/you get lost in the back peddling sounds/of footsteps and of cars/and of shopping bags and of rustling foliage in the wind/and of a beggar
But do you throw your pennies down/do you go down yourself and hand him some/you did not let me back upstairs into my widow’s balcony/(there seems to be another beggar inside the house/let me in)
I am a medium for degression (is that even a word?) and here I am left in there, so they say.
And yet no matter what they say I seem to feel no one else is there also. You can claim to be something more (and they always do, “I am something special” “I too have emotions that
most don’t have/ignore/repress) but no one is as special as I am. I take that with me: I am the most special person to myself, and never will I put anyone higher than myself again lest they fall from grace as they always do and then I seem to realize that I am alone at the top again.
When all along I’ve been at the top. I need not to remind myself but just remember through and throughout; you are alone like the lakes of spring in Portland(puddles), here and there, never touching (just kidding they touch) and I step through you gently because I fear getting my clothes splashed and wet.
But let me take my clothes off. Here. Better? Let me dance in the rains naked my and cock flops back and forth as I practice my movement of ritual springs. Alone of course and the rain is relentless and I’ll let no one do this with me because this is how I’ll develops my spirit and strength from bolstering my immunity for the cold and the wind and the wet. I don’t think I’ll catch anything I’ll die from out here, but who can say?
Gay night at the roller skate rink
You are older and I sit by and watch you dance alone in the roller skating rink. The music rolls around us and people roll around us and we roll around grabbing for invisible hope so we don’t falter.
But our lives quickly manifest themselves visibly in the vitriolic nature they truly are. Too busy cruising those who brushed on by that we only brushed a hand on each others back rather than grabbing on and holding each other up-right and tight. We were scared of those all around us (and let’s not hide this if we are to still talk in transparency because truth is all we used to get what we have) that we lost sight of what was really good around us.
Like the fact we are out together and there are new people around us and we forget to smile sometimes and that sucks.
But we have one last change at the bars after and I have one chance based on luck to get in (I am underaged).
The validity of our being is not contingent on social interactions however (please take note and do not forget). And where I was prepared to go to the bar if I could let’s not stall for me because I kept going. Much like roller skating: you stall you fall. I kept walking with my head held high after I kissed and hugged everyone their good-nights. You do not waste your night. I am not here to hold you, no coddling, no one but yourself.
And that is how I find myself and I walk into the night time mist and cool and I drag on my minty menthol cigarette and out of the light I found myself. This is me: a unicorn, an enigma to be seen and lost.
The smells from my armpits aren’t even mine. Those are the remnants of his deodorant that he puts under his own wings that I use when I spend the night and they are the scents that I linger on the most and I pull up my arms in bed and close my eyes and think if not his warm body against mine and his large arms touching my chest and his hard furry chest pounding against my back and his muscular legs wrapped around my own, then at least his smells will be what I can take with me.
I touched him a few times the last time I saw him and I may be hyperbolizing the level of intimacy we share (for I sucked his fat cock and it went no further to my dismay but let us not forget he played roughly with my piss slit to both of our pleasure).
And do I do the same for the thinner man in my life? Like how he touched my back gently and touched my uncut cock in awe and joy and despite being too warm at night he asked me if I were comfortable and proceeded to find a place of his own comfort that included my body and then begged for a kiss before dropping me off at home in the morning (and let us not forget how he choked and slapped me before in a completely sexual context).
This is where I am today but I moved away to see his reaction and he moved closer just to get anything. He loves it and I do too but when he peels my arms up and pins them down the smells that come out and those smells he lingers on are not my own. It is my secret and I’m afraid.
But as you also told me how you fought Jet Lee because your adoptive parents put you in martial art lessons as a child I could see you also wished those lies (those were lie I am not stupid) were true for your estranged now-adult daughter. And like how she gets fucked by some straight guy you asked me to fuck you and you asked for nothing more. I could see it in your eyes. My smile and smirk ate your soul. I scared you.
However it is understandable because you are the product of a time too sad and scared to be. You use words like venom against yourself as I walk around with such transparency to your horror most likely. Or embarrassment. I’m sure you are embarrassed for me. But I’m less embarrassed and more sad that I fucked a closeted trucker that looks like he could trek mountains as high as your self-esteem is low in the back of his truck as he screamed for more and harder and deeper. You’re pathetic and I’m sorry you don’t know any better.
We met online but I went to school with you and I’m sure of it and I’m sure everyone else did too.
An angel appeared to me,
Cloaked in smells of sex,
And sweat and rancidness,
And humanity unwashed
Of days and days.
I stared in awe,
Such basic baseness
And grandur in which I sat
When the angel spoke to me
“You who stares so deeply
Into my heart.
You are the sweetness
Of my lips and voice,
And of this world,
Oh how gentile
This being you are here
For just a bit
But time alone will tell.
Let you take a lifetime to say,
We knew you well,
For only time itself will tell;
And love may grow,
For all we know.”
And I was in front of the angel,
Frozen with desire
As he disrobed himself.
His clothing fell to the ground
And out gleamed lightness
And meadows of green
And flowers and lilies
And lilacs so smooth in scent
And rivers flowing gently
And clouds that drifted
From sight to out of sight
From one shape into others
And framed the sun
And blocked out the sun
And left those meadows
And flowers and trees
And water and breezes in darkness.
“You are love,”
Spoke the angel,
“You are literally love.
No one else is love,
There is no we in love,
There is no us in love.
You are the only kind of love,
Though you can share.”
Then rang the loudest of silence bells,
Oh how it beaconed forth
Us sinners and pious
In front of God,
His hand clutching his parting robe
And he then took off his clothes
And underneath laid nipples
And pussies and cocks
By succulent lips of angels
And hands grabbed and groped,
And felt around for more body
Who fuck each other tenderly
In whatever holes one could find,
I am love,
I am literally,
There is no other kind of love.
We are not love,
Us, does not exist in love.
I am love,
Though I can share.
Solitude, good companion, and greater an enemy:
Solitude must be a man.
Peace, I feel, without the comfort of another soul
Is a plight in which one struggles to create
A world populated, but for one’s sanity.
Loneliness, like God fears,
Inhibits one to love.
Loneliness, God I fear,
Much like pains of baggage.
I forgot my keys before leaving for work and my boyfriend doesn’t get off until later in the night and now I am stuck outside at night and it’s no fun like a hippie bon fire to celebrate the Winter Solstice I went to recently. There is no hard apple ciders or repetitive single-person conversations about vegan leather and there certainly isn’t enough clothes on my back this time, nor a fire to get close enough that I have to begin stripping to bare the heat though I was drunk and on mushrooms and fire was quite phallic and dangerous so I was okay with it.
But I’m not okay with my hands becoming numb and only wearing one shitty sweater that isn’t even a natural fiber let alone locally sourced, and the last time I was out in weather like this I woke up the next morning in my apartment hallway because I apparently passed out from the coolness of winter and that was only from a two block walk home. Tonight I have stood in the cold for forty minutes waiting for a bus and walked six blocks.
There was a homeless gay couple on the bus I noticed also. I imagine they got off the bus to go to a shelter to sleep and get food but it was really late at night and honestly I feel like no one would be there at that time to let them in and I can’t stop picturing the two wailing and crying because they can’t do another night out in the cold and no amount of cuddling or sex can warm anyone up when both people are cold and I don’t even think they could have sex because I’m pretty sure my asshole has frozen shut for the night so their’s must have also.
I guess I could have offered them a place to stay which I thought about because I forgot that I didn’t have my keys until I got back home but even in ignorance I froze up because I was scared of the two and the potential they bring and the responsibility that surrounds them and I’m sure my boyfriend would be comfortable with them around but would I feel comfortable with them around? What if they wanted to stay another night? What if they needed to stay another night? Is it in me to just let them go the next morning? Should I just let them go? Should I have given them matchsticks?
The fall leaves scattered about like little islands of the asphalt river and I hopped from one to the others on my bike as I went home from work and I focused my attention on my hands as I readjusted their chilled fingers in search of comfort. I woke up fifteen minutes before I had to leave for work this morning and spent fourteen of them looking for pants I could wear from the mess of clothes in the bedroom and the last one minute wondering if there is enough time for a bowl of cereal. By the time I was already a block away from my house I realized I had no earphones to which I could listen to music with and gave me nothing to phase out to which meant I have to focus on something else and I imagined how boring the trip home would be.
I remembered that father was always telling me to constantly look around when you are biking and to always be attentive as to be safe and how father was always telling me small tips like the ones characters would tell children in a stereotypical 60s sitcom though sometimes he would veer into more philosophical statements like the narration in The Twilight Zone if he were drunk enough. I thought that if the facts I was given as a child hold up to contemporary scrutiny then this is the kind of moment when one would get struck by a car.
So I slowed my pace, looked at my surroundings and listened. I saw nothing but power cables and the dreary dirge of songbirds as they swooped down at each other much like a high strung art opening at a local café where people’s ears exists in a space not safe from the judgment of those who believe that their system and structure is supreme to ones different when discussing black and white photographs of power cable. Immediately the homes I rode past reminded me of the giant suburban sprawls you see the characters in 60s sitcom living in. If the street was a river that brings forth the necessities of life then driveways that spring up are roots while all these homes sit still like plants that no one realizes is not much different from the weeds they hate; their colors were dull and looked just as pastel as the house before so none of them really stood out from each other. Each home laid dormant just far enough away from me behind the protective body of some bushes trimmed neatly that they were shrouded in some self-imposed misery like that one child you see in every playground that doesn’t realize he can dress himself.
My gaze grew tired as I neared a house that made me stop. A modern looking thing with more transparency than thick and opaque walls was erected at the end of one street. No maple trees grew to shelter it or were there any small cement statues to be seen anywhere in the front yard. The home was definitely a strange sight amongst the Americana austereness of the homes that seem to sprawl endlessly around it and it broke my meditative traveling and on the back side of the home in a bedroom I couldn’t see but was still equally exposed, with large glass windows like the front, laid a couple fucking furiously. In thrusting into the woman the man pulled out just too far and when he goes to quickly sink back in he found himself pushing deeper and deeper into her ass and she took it all quite well. He leaned down making deep growling and grunting sounds and he twisted her long hair around his hand and pulled on it which forced her to arch her head back so her head was in a closer proximity to his lips and she moaned in pleasure.
By the time he cumed in her I had already biked away because the lowering sun glared off the windows of the house and straight at my face like some bright aura of God you have to get away from. I move away from that house content with looking at the street, it’s coloration changing from the differences in the amount of use the street has seen from one block to another and it went lighter and darker and lighter again; how the tones changed from one to the other was almost as graceful as the way the house colors passed the edges of my eye with little flickers, but all in all it was like the color of my butt as it goes from cheek to hole to cheek as your tongue travels that cliff and cavern and then a pube gets stuck in your mouth like an unwanted weed but unlike a weed you just take it out and move on instead of complaining at the dining table like you are God because you are not God. You are not God. You are not God.
When I reached a second house too modern for it’s surroundings on my bike ride home though I couldn’t tell if I got lost and made my way back to the first one because all the houses around it were too similar just like how that house and the last gave me no distinctive marks to distinguish them by. I spun my head quickly towards the bright and glossy distraction and my bike skid on a pile of dead foliage which people call pretty only this time of the year and I fell and this house was different from the last because a different set of people were having sex in a different clean and austere bedroom and I had a seizure and I imagined those people having sex and they were fucking each other really hard and they liked each other a lot and I laid on the wet asphalt hitting my head against the curb like how his abdomen hit the other guy’s butt except that butt was not painted yellow.
Remember that tear, the hole, in your bedroom? And how you shoved your dick into me? Then how I clutched the bed sheets and my hair like how I clutched my chest on that fine evening on the streets of God knows where?
Sometimes there is a lack of strong will to stop over compensation, and sometimes in shorter times people rush in bed to finish, fucking mindlessly and panting like a dog on a warm day.
It’s called a quickie, and I never got my nipple sucked on.
The night is long however, and as I waited for you to get to your apartment I stared at the stars. I opened my eyes wider, to let in more of those celestial lights, tried to find the brightest one, but my eyes first went to a man-made satellite that seemed to perch itself overhead.
And I exhale, and a stream of smoke billows out of my mouth as I prepare to catch something more fresh then a pack of stale cigarettes. The Kool mint lingers on my tongue throughout the night, even as you wriggle yours in and out of my mouth. Some sort of fresh, I guess, like the cool mint of gum or mouthwash, like the jingle of a cat marching off in the dark distance as I lay on the blacktop of the complex parking lot, like the newness of the satellite glimmering down on us from above.
This is all I could remember after we awkwardly acknowledge how nice the sex was, and you show me out of your home, and I delete the traces of the two calls, thirteen texts, and contact info you left on my phone.
Sometimes a fresh start.