concretekiss

Barreling through the darkest hours at 80, the seams in the road rock the car. It gallops in a rhythm. There are long stretches of no man’s land, a thin row of reflectors to guide you, they glow like stars. For moments it is hard to tell where the sky meets the road & dreamlike, you are driving along a constellation.


My mother kept me, despite suggestions from family members that she have me removed in utero or given away. She was 18. You read the musings of a rescued mutt.

Each mile into town is another memory. Each childhood name spoken, a stone lifted.
( O unconditional love )

Want new ink, but am unsure of what to get, exactly. I guess this is when tattoo addicts start getting bullshit cartoons, butterflies skullfucking loony toonz characters & their Chinese names in Sanskrit on the backs of their necks.
There is an intense scene in The Man w/ the Golden Arm, where Frank Sinatra, a heroin addict in withdrawal shoots water into his veins to get a placebo effect. I developed strong crushes on both my tattoo artists by the end of each sitting, intoxicated by the endorfins, giggling & giddy.
Do any of you have tattoos? where, what & why?

Coming home from a taxing work day, for the last 2 hours there were construction workers re-siding the apartments, clinging to the wall directly next to me, hammering violently. It was really nice. My skin feels prickly & stings. I could barf.

& Then earlier, I tried to post a poem in GP, but comments began veering into a Billy Collins debate (tip: quick way to incite drama in GP, mention Billy Motherfucking Collins. He's like Beetlejuice), so I got bummed out & deleted it.

& Then yesterday I commented to someone's entry in FoundPhotos & noticed the predictably hilarious procession of assheads who emerge from under their rocks to be snotty. I have to wonder what type of people these are. Those who meticulously read comments solely for the purpose of springboarding with an incendiary, aggressive or competitive one that will top those previous. Scouting for someone to disagree with, correct, stoke into an argument. To gain some badass status? Attention mongers. I rarely go into communities because of these kinds of people. Is it because they cannot gain attention any other way but through opposition?

Anyway, the charming little poem I found on my lunch break:
Mark Halliday's
( Refusal to Notice Beautiful Women )

& Then I learnt that this jerk named Riccioli from Bologna mapped out the dark spots on the moon in the 1600s. He named them Seas of various things. Among them, Seas of Rains, Moisture, Storms, Vapors. Thanks you Riccioli the Redundant. & now we have to live with it & say it in Latin to cover up the shame, because they also aren't even real seas!

& Then I'm having these problems with delayed anger
where in the moment I am too dumbfounded to respond, questioning my emotions, the stars, the month, the temperature, my daily water intake before I react. Pathetic. Then much like laughing last, I analyze some situation until yes, yes, it is feasible to feel anger aaaaand [release anger]. Always too late. What is the statute of limitations for validity of anger? Two days after? Minutes?

& Then a Yeti or Chuppacabra of some sort has shat upon my car.
F this Tuesday in the A, without permission.

Why don't you just pull yr SMILING fuckass right on out, TURBO. I was only TRYING to drive around here!

the outlandishness of my dreams suggests to me that i reign my imagination tightly in waking life. yet, my imagination in waking life is prodigal, invasive as ivy. it shakes hands with simple facts, spins them around like a lady's man, waits at the door with a polished apple. imagination is sometimes the bane of my existence. i can't watch the news.

during my "vacation" i found myself sitting lost in coffee shops, dawdling about bookstores thinking "so, this is it," having idealized the whole situation beforehand in turn strapping myself for disappointment. i do this often with parties, relationships, jobs, arriving jaded. & nothing is ever as horrible or spectacular as i’d previously envisioned. there is me before the party getting siked, choosing a dress, painting my eyes, "idealizing." there is me ho-hum at the party asking is this the right party? are we partying? where are the lap-dancers, chocolate unicorns & jake gyllenhaal? why is no one fucking on a pile of skulls? there is me after the party asking, did we "party down?"
but when i stay at home humping the dishwasher i know deep in my heart that everyone is having a better time somewhere else riding zebras over the tundra, jacked-up on opium, & when i show up they hide the good music, pull out the dradle & sit around looking like a bunch of dickasses.

tuesday a boy named Zack walked up to me, pressed his belly against my arm, pulled the scarf off of my hair & proceeded to clumsily lick my face. at 18months, he'd obviously mistaken me for a banana, but i knew too well this party tactic.
1 of my many failed new year resolutions was to officially ask a boy out as opposed to drunkenly grabbing one & much like Zack, aiming my face at his face. i guess it’s fortunate that i’ve never been clobbered with a dump truck as a result. next thing you know i'll have my head stuck in a lawn-chair yelling hep me, hellllp.

fuck you:
central processing unit
high road
guy who wouldn't sell me beer
sunshine
oprah
grateful dead
photos of mars
no turning lane on southfirst
girlscouts
whistling hobo
sanjaya
new leaf