dripping sweet honey hands

Dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet
honey hands sweet honey hands dripping sweet honey hands dripping dripping sweet sweet
honey hands dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet
dripping sweet honey honey honey
dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet honey hands dripping
dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet honey hands dripping sweet honey honey dripping
honey hands dripping honey hands dripping honey honey
honey dripping
honey honey
honey
oh honey
oh honey
oh honey honey honey dripping sweet
honey dripping hands dripping sweet dripping honey
hands dripping dripping sweet honey



more of a performance piece

4th of July yields more than 4 selves

It's 102 degrees in the apartment. I'm drinking water out of a wine glass I picked up at Beringer vineyards, which, after the class of Lake County to which I've grown accustomed, tastes like grape juice and lye. I've ruined my tongue, and my pocket book, forever. Ah well. This Independence-day weekend was spent in San Francisco, elbowing down Fillmore for the annual jazz fest full of whining saxophones and middle-aged women with big hips and voices that treat each note as if it had a three-tone grace period. Did Indian food at Shalimar on Polk and California - cheap and tasty, and they didn't charge a corking fee. Rolled through Chinatown, downed one too many Presbyterians at Vesuvio. Eh, it had an alcoholic vibe to it (though need I specify this, as it is a bar?). Friend and I fed on the vibe, alliterating our arguments in reverence for the scene. Clandestine chemistry was in the air. We eyed the cigarette and candy girl, eyed eachother, eyed ourselves. Fun how bloated Jack Kerouac can make a person feel.
Earlier I taught James the joy of back-scratching and now I've ruined him. Made a spaghetti strainer-toting fool of him. Weekend highlights: purchased new underwear, successfully sold myself at a dinner party, saw an old friend and laughed and laughed. Weekend lowlights: Inadvertently ate American cheese, inadvertently ate a c-note in sustenance (scotch included).

I had a thought regarding self-reference and how unfathomably limiting it is to have only one singular pronoun with which to refer to ourselves. "I" does not distinguish between my Sunday self and my sugared self. My teenage self and my thirtyage self. "I" is too short to fit all my nuances, all my innuendo, too unstable for my backbreaking bag of mistakes and valiant efforts to reconcile. People are dragging around big rocks behind them. Boulders. Our mothers and our IQs and our addictions. Our pets make them smaller, deaths make them denser. They’re extensions of ourselves, like the skin tags on old ladies. They rise to the surface in hard lumps, some malignant, others pulchritudinous. But we all deserve to have more than one word to embody it all. How do we resolve this? I'm beginning to think that "I" have more in common with schizophrenics than "I" ever imagined.

Favorite word for the moment: transgressive

First blog and a poem

it happened in the bathroom

you picked a scab on my bed, you started bleeding
on my bed. it happened
in the bathroom,
in the watercloset next to my clothes closet
where the walls are green and the lamp chain is bluesea
shells from a bracelet from my baci.
You picked a scab and I was dabbing at the spot slowly,
it didn’t need to be so slow it was almost lacking utility, but
we were talking. You had a bit on your shirt,
you were concerned it would stain.
then we had a simple miscommunication, you and I
between words. A matter misinterpreted from my
lips to your lips and I explained myself slowly,
slower than I needed to, almost lacking utility, but
I explained my way slowly and our eyes caught in the mirror
like your nail caught on your scab and started it
bleeding. It’s not that I love you or am sorry you hurt yourself really, but
now I see those green walls and that bluesea
shell chain