Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

Some may admire me, but only those who know me know that I'm truly evil in Love. Better to make them fear you than to run. Look, but don't touch. Always. You will be the one suffering. I am the villain. I am low and material. I write with voice. I write with forcing. "Don't love a man who loves dogs. They will want to command you." You chose right in running away. I am the dead God, the stag slain. I am July in Christmas. I commend this shrivelled masculinity to Amun-Ra. I am no brave, but the cowardice and taker of things that come easily. I am old now. I remember a time before I thought too much. When trees were green and I was worshipped. I have fallen. Permanently deposed. Seek not the light. There is no truth in't. Wave away from me, anemone. Woman's a distant eternity. The executioner's mask knows no face. Death is indeed like my phallus only a little death and a little on target. Death is a pinprick but only a little one...

He asked me this year again. If I would come down and be his queen. I think I will say no. Whenever I wander those caves, I am deluded that the darkness will be without end. Then I eat three seeds, give birth to myself, grow old and die. Seems like all within a week. What he doesn't know is that it's like that, too, up here. Even now that I am saying no. He lives in the caves of the West, by the sea. I wore seven veils the first time. It was the tradition of my tribe. I was always the foreigner in his house of worship. At the turn of time when it got warmer, they laid blankets of flowers at my feet on the walk back. They covered biers for their dead king at the same time, and I did not understand. All I was able to do was walk. Walk through the caves without illumination. We made love and it was a galaxy of void. I understood not. I understood not what he wanted from me in my youth, when we were so different. He will be dead soon. He still guffaws when he asks me....

I wandered into a grove of trees tonight. Just close enough to the road that I felt safe going alone; just far enough to step into the shadows. There was a pulse there. The strong, earthy hum of centuries, of a spirit far more vast than I. I understood then the rhythm of each day, how there are audible markers to greet us at the important steps, and the true bursting forth of the birdsong, if we lend an ear to it. As always, I was a foreigner in this cathedral. Darkness. Granular sound. When I put my hands to the ground, I feel the pulse of Science. But when I walked in front of a shadowy tree, I felt Presence. The Life that hums low, even when the blossoms are dead, the Life that spins and rejoices in the windy canyon of the Necropolis. So one is present in the other. So the Dead visit with a chuckling hello, amidst homey scents. Breeze and clouds wander in, to follow haunted, heated stillness. Is it a Grove of Error? Or Crossroads? Only glinting tricksters of the Otherworld know....

Jake wasn't working when they walked up. It was the older Indian man whom they said would take over the hotel once Jake's grandfather died. "312, please." "Someone's booked it tonight." "Anything else on the third floor?" "Um, sure...314." "Fine." She got the key and took Darlene by the arm. "Do you think it'll cool down by tomorrow?" Darlene was nervous. "I doubt it." They arrived at 314 and opened the door. The interior was much nicer than 312, a decadent secret that had been kept away. "Mind if I do a line?" "I don't allow my clients to get intoxicated in front of me, it's my policy." She'd begun setting up the target on the wall, near the telephone. Darlene had wandered in to the bathroom "I hope you're not doing anything like that?" She laughed. She'd refreshed her memory of knife-throwing all week in preparation for this...

I am quiet. In love with the Devil on a quiet night.  Our silence says so much more about us, doesn't it? The drips of our ellipsis. Communication is closed, and once again, I am shut out. It is always so. But you are never denied when you are in love with the eternal. That is why I dance with him, and consorted with him.  Mary Mary was in love with the Devil.  I saw Goody Mary with the Devil.  The chill came to me so. It is better than anything human because there is no ache. And no warmth like opium that makes us complacent. Only dull fear and constant, sharp want. I was in love with the Devil who kept me disabled and thirsty. I needed him because I needed him. It is too quiet on these dry evenings to hear him. That is because he is a virus in my blood. The shivers of tomorrow are redeemed. And now all whom I ever loved love him. He walked through each gate, like a door-to-door vacuum salesman, shook their hands and said...take my drugs. He can c...

Only tomorrow breached, as fortitude can know. No one truly understands until they are in it. No one really gets it. The worst they say is losing a child. I cannot speak in that conversation. I cannot speak. My mouth will open but the chords will not vibrate. There is nothing now. Only ain before the conscious shift into another universe. Contracted before expanded into extraterrestrial unwinding helix. We will get through, but don't understand why you would deign to be here, really. Your consciousness has proven itself. There is too much carnage and drool at the end of the day. This is not about love. It is about being human. We have interlaced with each other already. Simple particle affinity. My feelings for you can be explained by a formula. Names and faces in each breath. We are devoted to the truth. We feel it, we do not just speak it. I am not noble or good. There is no time to repent for my sins anymore. I have spoken too long and too loudly now, and I am old. You have l...

I am going to get my hands in the dirt and it will all be glorious and my knuckles, they may freeze. The page may run out and I may have the horror of a new blank one. The words may very truly run out. My love may be mistrusted, my intentions and ego may be speared. Let them be so. It doesn’t matter. I wish for my joy about things to be resurrected. I feel that my body has been pushed and that there is no longer any time to be lazy. I want to work every day to do these sword tricks, as I said that I would. My friend sews lovelier and lovelier things. It is nighttime and a full moon. Let the creativity manifest. Let the joy ring out before there is no time to do so anymore. Let the writings write themselves. Let these side businesses have the proper care and attention. I know that more people are getting to know me. I know that I am a multitalented artist. I know that these moments have to be taken in the smallest pieces, and that is frustrating to me. Something beautiful just flowed ou...

So I walk the curving path, like a catwalk. Naked, but with a heavy coat over. One breast bared towards the city as rebellion against the searchlights. There is nothing more exciting than the thudding blades endeavoring to catch me. Warm my hands in January winter, for all I have is this wool coat. I spent last night with my lover. My lover is the city. Nearly three decades after establishing my point of origin here, I am back in your arms. Send me your buses, your bright lights, your bums, your police helicopters. I want to kiss soot-covered angels and ten-minute rockstars. Los Angeles, i'm yours. My love was yours, from the first. I am a refugee from my modest beginnings, from my suburban serfdom. You are still warm and restless after the sun goes down. I press on in tribute. I fuck my neighbor as myself, to stay alive. Dog eat dog. We are a city of the Most Important One. My hands twist in agony of broke, broke, flat broke coffee shop loiterings. Exhaust is my fresh air. The sup...

So I have spent all week fixated on the wrong kind of man. All that matters is that he is a type, I suppose. These failures are long and delicious. I am becoming a type too. That friend. Never go for the one who is available, for they might have an open heart and love you and actually want to be with you. We are so cruel to ourselves. Things have been stripped down, sold, removed removed removed and yet always somehow a mess seems to pop up in its place. A mass of a mess. Always different every week. I wait for the road to turn on its own, for a break to be cut, but it then appears that I am the one doing all the steering. I didn't want it to be that way, because then all the blame is on me. As it has always been in a system where we get to call the shots. I am wise and worse the wear. I just want a soft hand, to touch someone from behind the cellophane and to have my sounds heard, but it is nothing but muffled and I have been tricked into fear again. I hate that love is always a d...

I sit here in the time of breakage. It's called a breakup because it's broken. All you knew before is wonderfully, profoundly, sweetly broken. It's not going to revert back. You have punished the evildoers under your sword, you refuse to take prisoners and there are going to be more dead bodies. You are not on a fucking crusade for yourself. You are on a crusade for the womb within, that light of consciousness of others that wraps around our shoulders more and more as womanhood ripens on into the summer of things we never expected and into bodily metamorphoses they never warned us about. You are going to cry. You are going to laugh. You are going to sweat it out, bleed it out. There will be days when you can't contain it all. There will be brilliant lights and strikings to the ground and worldviews razed, over and over again. Oh love, these are the end times. You will have creative miscarriages. You will hemorrhage money. You will lose control of the car. You will get t...