Matchey

The bed smelled like dog and she made a sour face. Rolling his eyes and his body away from her, Pete caught sight of the lovely blue dress, in folds on the seat of his mother’s cast off living room chair. He felt his mind drift away, again enthralled with how her body had looked in the dress, and how he wanted to know the magic to get it off.  He stood up.

” You should probably take off. I have to get ready for work. I mean, if you want to shower or whatever, go for it but…” She had sat up and was packing up her phone charger and her bra into an over-sized purse. Her face screwed up, like he was insane.

” Your bed smells like dog, guy…” Her bare feet slapped on his floor. Pete felt himself stir. Once at the chair, she easily slid the dress over her head. It seemed to flow down her sides, a river carving her figure; a negative canyon.

She brought her hands under her hair to lift what had shyly tucked into the dress collar. The angles of her elbows once again caused a small movement in his boxers. He stuck out his ass a bit to move himself away from the cotton front.

“Ok, well, Pam…” He said, realizing almost right away that her name wasn’t Pam, but he didn’t make the effort to correct himself, perhaps hoping the slight would drive her out the door faster. She turned to face him and sat down in the chair, both she and it so oddly feminine in his ramshackle bedroom.

His sneakers were jauntily perched just underneath.

“Sam. ” She corrected him as she slid her hands down her legs. A pair of small white socks appeared suddenly from the deep caverns of her bag. She pointed her toes like a ballerina and rolled the socks to just past her slender ankles. Then, she started to put on his shoes.

“Sam, its been fun but….hey, those are mine.” She crossed her leg to tighten the laces of the sneaker, slowly moving the excess slack up to the top eyelet.

“What, these?” She smartly tied them in a bow, then doubled knotted it. She managed a flirty smile with just the corners of her flushed pink lips.

“Yes, those are mine.” He liked those shoes. They fit him really well. He didn’t even really have the money for more shoes, I mean, his mom wasn’t sending money anymore…

“I know, but I like them. They match my dress.” She flashed him another smile as she straightened up, both shoes now laced and snug, a lovely denouement to her luscious bare legs. Even the little peek of white sock was hot as all fuck. He laughed at this and felt more of his control seeping from the situation.

He was not letting some dress cost him his shoes. Some bitch in a dress…

“Okay but…” Pete felt himself cringe  at his own lack of respect for someone who he had well, just fucked for the sake of fucking. Her response was immediate. She sniffed his guilt on the wind and honed in on it.

“Were you gonna call me? You weren’t, right Pat?” She sat back and crossed her arms under her breasts, breasts he had just recent sucked. He was mad this was going south like this. He wanted to be back warm in bed, possibly rubbing one out to last nights escapades.

“It’s Pete.” He said. His tone was pissed off.

“Right, Pete. ” Her demeanor said it all. Suddenly he felt very exposed. “Were you?”

“Maybe I was gonna.” He responded weakly.

“You used me. I know your cousin Colette , you know. You were NOT gonna call me so I call bullshit.” She got up and grabbed her bag. “And you know what they say? Money talks but bullshit walks.”

Chuck Taylor All-Star High-Tops by Eric Alder

Slime Trail

you have
such a tendency
to poison the air

under the dome alone

some people are mirrors

you just dont want to look into

but hand me down
sunshine and I’ll start
flirting with goodbye
you cant nod into the sky

the giantest wake up

simultaneous sighting of
future past and present

its obvious you are dealing death
if I hate you, I hate myself
loitering slime trail
your failure never dries

just because you got right
and now cant get unwrong

there are bizarre shapes of survivors

A Sacred Start

I’m at the ten-year corner

snow booted bus yellow eel
sure-footed tire tug
drizzling seltzer flakes
vagued striped path to busy town

back seat no seat off limit street
starting to give lip to flip operators
hung up on sky stupid with grey nap

she no bigger than a postage stamp
zipped paralyzed furred trim

sacred heart house of Godly stone
she catches my attention, too small
too vulnerable I think eye sight side
catches a swift air crossing of herself
to bid the church respect

someone taught evil’s presence
AM reminder child’s God

lost headphones make for chatty patrons
no more changing clinking token bucket

The Death of Me

there is

no poetry

like real

life

The Best Picture I Ever Took

The Remains

The shootings in Connecticut leave me raw. She with the Blackish Brown Eyes is exactly 6. I can’t face that the parents dropped their kids off on a Friday and will now never see them alive again. It’s so unbearable. I have no reason more than others to hold on to that sadness, but it lingers. I pray and weep during the vigils and ceremonies.

I come in to work very upset about gun laws. Thus enters the man from Southie. He was a cop at one time; he has no problem with guns. As far as I know, he might still have one.

I know better than to start the discussion. Gun believers are the worst in their temerity, in my opinion. And peace is such a simple concept to understand, not so simple to achieve.

And yet, I do. I do start the discussion because earlier another father of two I know says he has a gun. Locked up, of course, rendering it totally useless in the case of a break-in. But his willingness just to possess one angers me. He does not hear my argument as logic. I back off and let go of the fight. The man from Southie, like always, gets my wrath.

I start to get angry when he insists on the freedom to bear arms. He won’t tell me why…why does he believe it? Why does he want to carry and keep what are only devices of death and destruction as an option for people in a society without proper care for their mentally ill? He becomes angry.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you.” And he walks away without giving me my answer. I decide to hate him. He has no reason, and I am right and now he is an instrument of death in my spoiled, little girl mind. I hate him because I’m scared and he has made himself a target, the poster child for the pro-gun movement.

He always takes the brunt of a woman’s anger, swallows it, turns it into something hard and hurtful inside his stomach, worrying himself into stomach ailments and sleep disorders. He can’t seem to apply his lackadaisical attitude in life to the female population, you can see how he craves love, routine, understanding.

I would worship him if he asked me. But that’s another story. So this is our relationship; I’m a little girl, he is the father yearning for his daughter. How we sip each others empty and digest what we need from it.

We aren’t talking. He is in his cube and I in mine. Three cubes from him, someone starts banging on the shelf over their computer. She is choking. I laugh at the ruckus at first, thinking its just typical acting out. Then frantic tones mumble thru my ear phones. I do the Alex P. Keaton chair slide to look; our coworker is not breathing. And the man from Southie is performing the Heimlich on the choking woman. He is perfectly calm and willing to try to save her life, regardless of if he can’t, regardless of a what a huge failure it would be if he COULDN’T save her.

That’s what he does, he steps up. That’s how he is a man. that’s how he is a DOMINANT man. And that is how he is Boston…

Triadic Self

i find myself here again. and fault myself for that.
i know i gone and fucked up again. i fall and all. i crash.
i am aiming for the bottom when I go back to the top.
and start again.
old habits. old friends.
my flaws, like rabbits
darting behind solid objects. i lack progress.
its obvious and true. without starting again.
i disgust my next false start. again and again.
doom. till. death? get busy living and making decisions
accruing debt and getting wet. confront the month
on each bloody turn. get it right. get it now.
is this the same lonely rock in the same puddly spot light?
possibly under a romantic lampost prostrate on a lumpish dias?
my victim doll cutie lips
non-protecting bystander lint dervish silent pretty girl
abuser i am monument to pain verbally sensitive
controlling none

i’m willing to pay for relief

The Only Card You Need

Approaching, hoofbeats.
Journey fascination, da dum da dum.
Omega flip…

School House Rules

There got to be a

rhythm to these things in life. don’t you think? Times when what you feel is lucid, but obscure.

you fall from height to hit soft pillow

you climb a mountain to pursue a valley

there is no fear, know this and packs on backs on the way to the next clear thing.

Nevermind, what was the last clear thing…

mothers milk with crocodile

orange rind mind smile

set the table, braid the bread

or maybe just go instead.

possibly henchmen

smell elephant

on a rotating spit of unlit hickory pit,

I said not it. no room for fools.

that dont know school house rules.

Some Understanding

Why didn’t I trust her more? That’s what my mom asked me today. Shocked when I reveal I have PTSD. Angry that I won’t look at her, you can’t be perfect! Have I ever expressed any disappointment in you?

Even then I was tap dancing, doesn’t she get that? I so wanted to be the wonderful thing in her life. I wanted to make up for my dad and all his faults and abuses. I would be great. not only great, I’d be the best and it wouldn’t be for nothing. Do you understand that? It wouldn’t be for nothing if I was something.

Perfect people don’t get raped. Once raped, forever ruined, broken, busted, disgusting, damaged, broken, violated, pussy pussy pussy, did I mention broken? Why didn’t he insist I tell him? Why didn’t my dad DEMAND I tell him? Why didn’t he go out and defend me like he did my brother? Why didn’t he fucking realize my need? How that left me all alone?

Fuck you. I didn’t tell you fucking people because you’d never understand. No one can, so whats the point in talkin’…