Virginity Is Worth Its Weight in Gold 02.01.99
11.30.03

Dylan Thomas may not trade poems for
ambition or brass, bravura, brew or balls but I have traded sex for
stories and stories for sex and anything for food—even
I know ambition isn’t worth shit. But I have
sold my hymen for two new-minted silver
dollars and once you know that, anything can be
measured out in metal currency.  ¶ 11:23 PM 0 comments

  Paint It Black It occurs to me today, black is a color not often
seen in nature, in dying things, sometimes, if they
manage to wither past the lengthy shades of
brown without rotting into oblivion. In charred
sticks, dotted with crumbling white ash, things
that have been through the fire and still exist.
Perhaps this is why black is the color of rebellion,
the unnatural color towards which punk
kids everywhere gravitate. I think of the
times my lover used in class, doing nothing but
drawing entire sheets of paper black.  ¶ 11:17 PM 0 comments

  Everybody Must Get Stoned The desire for pain or fear or love or
anger or betrayal or revenge or all. I
think of the Zen cliché, do not desire and
you will not be hurt. And its warmly
logical counterpart; desire and you will be
hurt. After I broke up with Aviva
I spent a year desiring not, hurting
not. Cold and alone. I encountered
Zen numerous times. I would rather hurt,
would rather feel. Ecstasy is the
warm counterpoint of Zen. Hurt and
learn, pain and knowledge. Facts for each
scar. Judge not, lest ye be judged.
I think everyone who judges aches
for firm god-given approval of their
own. Thus it would make sense that
only a godhead [godhood?] should make such a
double-edged promise. How many people
want a god who will not judge them?  ¶ 5:06 AM 0 comments

  The Seizured Color of Orgasm “What’s unnatural, I mean, are there things you can study?” A human context. A bowl of grape gravy on chocolate goose. Next Christmas I want to send everyone lavishly wrapped boxes of calcified elephant dung. Each crested with a single, gilded flea. I imagine what I would look like without hands, without a nose, eyes, toes, if I had two pinkies instead of a thumb, toes on my hands and fingers on my feet, six fingers on one hand and four on the other. Last night my lover tied me to the bed with four long strips of black lace and sucked my toes, lips, fingers, nipples, clitoris. I came and the paint purple taste of plums exploded through my mouth and eyes. I thought I smelled ripe tomatoes splatter on concrete. I saw endless flats of pastel pink and blue and tasted custards mixed with perfect hues corresponding to all the best colors of innocence his fingers tapped my collarbone and I heard synthesized piano chords. His moans in my mouth tasted like olive vinegar. I’m all yucky though, we just had sex I protested realizing he wanted to go down on me but he smiled elfin and said that just makes it kinkier and kissing him after my tongue slid crusts of milky taste and saltfruit from his lips I felt him penetrating me with fingers, tongue, closed my eyes to feel my mmm’s vibrating through my body, wondered how an actual vibrator would feel and blushed as, while I lay thinking he reached over and removed it from the nightstand. Everything was the seizured color of orgasm. I opened my desire-lidded eyes to watch the glow in the dark stars above my bed turn pink and flutter hotly down around me—one landed on my shoulder and I felt a second of perfect heat before it melted silver in my skin.
“The observation of some sort of pattern”  ¶ 4:19 AM 0 comments

  SCRIB-REF--ClassGrowsDullThankYou Class grows dull and I decide to transvilliate into a
caterpillar, a shiny, slightly fuzzy violet caterpillar
with a dainty little row of delicate pink feet and
black antennae. My cocoon will be brilliantly
purple with small, black markings.
Ate ‘shrooms with Dan Saturday night. He tripped,
and of course, I didn’t. We actually ate
them, foul as they were, and I even drank a
couple huge glasses of orange juice
‘cause Dan said that would help. I don’t
know which was more disgusting. I was
hoping he’d want to go somewhere ‘cause
we’d talked about going to a carnival, but
he just wanted to kick back in my room
and listen to the music he’d brought over.
I’ve decided he’s boring. Damn it, I
want to date someone kinky! Someone
I can be friends with and hang out
with and be intimate with that doesn’t
want a harem, family, or cult, but that
I can also play around with safely, knowing
we’re both enjoying it. Someone that would
spank me if I ask them to or pull
my hair, what little there is left.
And who can also be comfortable enough
to be able to show me what they
want, what I can do to please them, and
who will know a lot and maybe be a little
formal or Old Guard, I don’t have a
problem kneeling, serving, using protocol,
in appropriate situations, but who
can also just kick back with a couple
friends to hang out and bullshit. Someone
I can be social with without their demenour
being so....so controlling that I seem to
be in an abusive relationship. I want
someone my friends can be friends with,
someone who’s okay with my sexuality, and is
at least a little older than me and
attractive. And healthy. And independant,
they don’t need to be rich or
anything, just able to pay for their own
meals and cigarettes, and have their own
place, or live with roommates, not parents.
Oh, and a sense of humour. Okay, yeah,
it’s a tall order. But I want it.
And if I can’t have that, I want a
nice summer day on the beach with friends,
with good clean E and pot brownies,
playing in the sand and sun water, just a
fun friends together sort of time. Either
or both those things would make an
excellent birthday gift, hint hint gods.
Thank You.  ¶ 5:42 AM 0 comments

  Random Lack of Violence I went out for lunch with Chuck today,
afterwards we went to a comic book store. I was
looking at some magazines and he walked by and
grinned and smacked my ass. I was a bit
shocked; he rarely shows me any affection.
And that is not the sort I expect in
public places. It took me a moment to
remember it was meant as affection, as a
friendly thing. It is still a kind of
audacity. I remembered when I went to NSA
and Jay and I were just friends, I walked
past him to get a drink of water, he was
sitting in the hall against the wall with
Collin and some kids and Jay reached up
and smacked my ass. “Now you’ve done it,”
Collin said, laughing. I kicked him hard.
And I couldn’t help wondering what Jay
might have thought if he’d seen Chuck
slap me, and how I let him. Not in a
jealous sort of way, but just in a contrast
of the two moments. What exactly has
changed? And if it had been Jay today, or
if Chuck was younger, would I have hit him
back? I have yet to detect any
traces of masochism in him, and I can
usually find them very quickly in men.  ¶ 5:38 AM 0 comments

  A Stiff-Necked People Oh, my neck still feels a little naked without my collar. Robin pulled it from me as he had said he would, breaking the clasp. No one shall ever wear it again. He is holding the prospect of a collar of consideration before Kassandra. I...sigh...I would not want that kind of responsibility for her. She is just, she is just so very young. So...naive. I can’t believe she asked him if she could call him ‘Daddy’!
Last Friday, or the Friday before, rather, was a photo party. I was on the chainfall, happily turning into a kite with pretty purple bows on my tail when I quite suddenly got most terribly dizzy-sick. I felt as if I was on the verge of fainting. I felt as I have not felt in years. I asked him to let me down, which he very quickly did. I had opened my eyes most abruptly, not being blindfolded, and that made it rather worse.
That Saturday I got put on the single cross and flogged oh beautifully. All the heavy thuddy ones that feel like a deep hard massage and I was blindfolded and leaning way far back into it. I saw me turn into bunches of things, lastly a little dragon with green scales, violet tipped, and a long scully [scurly? scudly?] tail and a snout and I could breathe fire and had little leathery wings and I flew around breathing fire on villages and the vampire gloves was a dragon-tongue licking me. And I realized that the reason dragons have those big round pot-bellies is ‘cause that’s where their growlies and fire-breathing comes from, is their tummy, so the big-rounder the tummy the more powerful it can be. It was way fun.  ¶ 5:34 AM 0 comments

  Recess Reading The Story of O and I close the book, still smoking ‘cause it’s too hot and grey and wet out not to smoke – so wet drops of water like sky-sweat occasionally blop down on the paper. And I think about Tim at my house and his mouth biting mine and his hands and the softness of his sluffly hair and how his eyelashes kink at the end and sometimes it all feels very far away, is that really me, with the boyfriend who wakes to hold me, rubs the backs of my knees when I can’t sleep. Apparently ‘sepia’ is not an acceptable word. Dead roosters and near sexual images with the mother—I think that’s kind of strange—what is the psychology—what is the fear—it’s overwhelming to a mind that’s completely open—how do we survive those incidences?  ¶ 5:27 AM 0 comments

  Fail Better What do you want me to say
I might ask
my mother
if she were here
which she is not
regarding the unpicked carpet
the general lack of furniture
and men and silverware
or the ropy slack pile of denim
laundry
which the cats delight to piss in
and I would wave my hands vaguely
and shrug and mouth
some monosyllable
and she would leave for another
6 months, or so.  ¶ 3:59 AM 0 comments

  Spit or Swallow Swingsets have always reminded me of cages, the
way the bars go across and the shadows they cast
on the sand at 5:00 dusk, little kids run
through them....I am uncertain of my writing....
I wish I had a pencil....For reasons I
have never fully understood I find it easier to
write my thoughts in pencil. I am thinking of
the time Charles told me I had no passion.
I blinked and I think he thought I was
checking a response but I was considering,
in the slow flashes of clarity that come
sometimes in angry moments, in a way he
was right. I have swallowed my passion,
subdued submerged it in favor of outer
calm. I was passionate about theatre, and I
have placed that aside. I am passionately into
S/M which isn’t something I can share with
him. And always I am passionately angry.  ¶ 3:57 AM 0 comments

  Imagining Malaysia A girl with a blonde pageboy (are those back in
style now too?) struts in black capris, making
me a little less disappointed I never found a pair
I liked enough to buy. Someday I want to
paint my nails. Someday I want to wear a
pink dress, short with white stockings or
sandals, the flat soled leather kind I
wore as a little girl and a necklace of
faux seed pearls, the plastic kind you used to
get in clear bubbles from candy machines
outside supermarkets, the ones that cost
a quarter when I used them and now take
50 cents. I want to wear it with grainy
pink rouge and messy lipstick that comes in
little white applicators and melts if you
leave it in your pocket. I want to wear a
little padded purse over my right
shoulder and giggle in a shy
but sweet plump girl kind of way
whenever a boy looks at me too obviously or
too long. Sometimes I think half the
reason things never worked out between Aviva
and I is that I knew I could never
be her.  ¶ 3:37 AM 0 comments

  Lesbians on Ice “You said I am going to do something kind of gross
now to prove to you you’re not a lesbian.” You rubbed
gritty chunks of ice, six months old, against
labia, breathtakingly over clit and raw-tissue hole.
I did not think it gross, but I once went down on
a girl with ice in my mouth; it was beautiful.
Also uncertain. The memory probably didn’t
help your point but I said it anyway,
gaspingly admitted in glamour confession “I am not
a lesbian” though still I did not think it was true.
But the ice took place after you’d
whipped my breasts and thighs and vulnerable
cunt, not long enough, your patience was
wearing thin.  ¶ 3:29 AM 0 comments

  Another Substitute for Sober Days Walk to Brueger’s for lunch, walk past small weedy houses that look more interesting in the rain and today, alas, it was banally clear. I like to wander down among them in bad weather, imagine someone calling to me from one of the comfortable looking stucco porches, offering me a couple drags off a thick blunt, sticky, practically oozing resin through the heavy paper and trailing heady green smoke. Standing on a porch, smoking a cigarette and watching the rain, maybe with some light-skinned black guy looking not unlike Weldon, or maybe a dark, dark round-headed Cuban. Just standing there smoking a menthol in that kind of slow companionable silence. God I love to smoke. I cut back to quitting just so I can feel like I’m cheating when I have one. I don’t tell my boyfriend I love him ‘cause I don’t know yet if it’s really true, but in my head I think those words a lot—‘God knows I love the boy but why can’t I sleep with other people’—sentences like that.
Lines of coke, the taste in the back of my throat and the hum in the front of my head. Speed, more painful but less unpleasant tasting – the curious impetus it gives my tongue. I wouldn’t mind having a line or two before I try to tell this story. I’m not sure why I think about drugs like this, cigarettes, pot, amphetamines. Don’t use them all that often. Would likely think of them less if I used them more. Sometimes writing is another substitute.  ¶ 2:46 AM 0 comments

  Table Be Covered 04.24.00
01.09.04

[ ]

I imagine a kitchen, bright/softly lighted and warm,
with a magic pantry that will always be full of
all kinds of yummy food which will always cook
just right and never go spoiled/bad or buggy
and the dishes will always wash themselves, and I
can eat whatever I want whenever I want
without getting sick or fat—the food will all
be there just for me, specially just for me so
that I can eat any of it and no one will get mad,
and also it will always instantly automatically
replenish itself. And if I want to, I have only
to wish just a little and open the
oven and it will have fresh warm bread and meat
all perfect and ready for me, and nothing will
ever choke me – I will never have to be
hungry or sick.  ¶ 3:34 AM 0 comments

  This Is How You Will Know Me by letters, by a long series of
forwarded fantasies,
by a cable, an SOS, a wish
I am still formulating
you will know me by the fact
I never call
the name I will never know
to call you by
by the way I use cautions
to avoid saying good-bye
by the way I swagger slow
across the street when cars are waiting
by the lines on my arms and in
my speech--borrowed and remade and
unreturned


I hope you make me squirmy when you
stare.
I hope you disapprove of me and
the careless life I lead leading
me astray
I hope you don't mind I love
The Cure when jacking off
I hope you listen to music I've
never heard of.
I hope to meet you
I hope I know you
I hope you want to know mw
I hope we exist  ¶ 2:58 AM 0 comments

  Fuck What to Do 01.20.2005
11.15.2003


Fuck you. Fuck Yours Truly, fuck your alter egos, fuck Langston Hughes, and fuck every fantasy figure you've ever secretly yearned or fantasized to become. Fuck your fantasies, fuck your desires. Fuck your face in the previously unshattered room, fuck your staged suicide. Fuck your cigarettes, medi-pills and drugs. Fuck your six-foot mouth-blown green glass bong. Fuck your pretensions, fuck your fans, fuck your security guards and fuck the cops. For good measure fuck your road manager, too. Fuck your mama, papa, baby brother and the record company that owns your DNA. Fuck your agent. Fuck every DJ that's ever scorned your name. Fuck your past present and future fuck. Fuck your emotions, your apathy delight and third-rate psychotropicly engineered desire. Fuck your need to breathe. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck the millions who've heard your voice in malls and pre-installed car radios. Fuck your record albums, fuck your art. Fuck you curling-iron hair and fuck your heart. Fuck your blood and your fists and your raggy-ass toe-poking socks. Fuck all your dreams. Fuck your anger, fuck your apologies. Fuck your resentment rage guilt and denouement. Fuck resolution. Fuck your conscience and small voice fucking your head. Why the fuck are you listening to me? Fuck your voices. Fuck your insanity. Fuck your hallucinations, desperation, Fuck your ennui. Fuck your French pretensions, fuck your sentiments. Fuck sense and sensibility. Fuck me. Fuck your cluttered thoughts and spinning mind. Fuck your downward spiral. Fuck your bandages and doled-out sympathy. Fuck commiseration, consolation and fuck your paperback vocabulary. Fuck your pirated porn, your hijacked emoticons, your pusillanimous proselytizing psychology. Fuck your nobility, your self-denial. Fuck your better half, your darker side, fuck your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Fuck your patriotism. Fuck your president. Fuck your voting system, your toll-booths and freeways fuck your enlightenment democracy. Fuck your caring. Fuck your hope, fuck your faith flickering God in a dark world. Fuck your opinions prejudices and doubt. Fuck you and your listening to me. I'm not going to tell you what to do. Your expectations are telling you what to do.  ¶ 2:27 AM 0 comments