The R Word

Rape.

It’s very difficult for me to say that word.

I was raped.

Even more difficult for me to say that sentence.

I was raped, stalked and abused for three years.

Impossible for me to utter that sentence.

That is, until recently.

I have been working very hard with my therapist, although this issue has not been the topic of conversation for a long time. It’s almost as if it permeates everything.

I have a new friend whom I recently told the story. My therapist has encouraged me to practice saying it, practice releasing the story, so maybe eventually, it will float away, not hold its power over me.

I’m trying. It was easier this time.

I was raped. That’s why life isn’t a birthday party.

After the Hey Day

Hooker eyes at sunrise
Notice blood-shot
Punch bowl mistakes and price tagged dreams
TV assassination glory
Button up spine
How is normal processed?
            Check the bar code.
 
There’s dark bark to any rough tree
The greedy/heavenly ignore the seedy/melancholy
 
Sluts will be sluts
The always motive
 
Losing count of clock ticks
Cocktail napkin warnings
Soap box prophet calls the day,
Smoking away some shitty pain.

I Variable

Obviously
no luck
keeping girl friends

Short Skirt Syndrome

Girls

Who

Say cock

can count on

no one. remember…

Dramaturgical Skies Dawned

Deep pollution pounds, crows’ wings might,
fate’s the whipping boy, Giving up/crazy lies,
sounds are clouds Billows torn from the same
cloth as magenta and fire flies besides the horizon
line I gave you three tries. Steps away Learning
don’t extend the parastite propagandaist for any old
Tom Dick or Harry who crosses the hearth
Never trust a holy man

Church 14 by Eric Alder

Swallow As Gospel

While on
Scabrous loam

Grenade Pin
Drop everything abrade
To carry your pain

I will not give way
Gonfalon
Your cause
I will perch, a picklin’ insides
at the bottom of the archaic barrell
At the parting
Of the seas
chest high prayers to God
while pillaging the earth

Further down the road
Catch me, cavalier castaways
cavorting
In amaze of haze
I’m a masquerade without

proper parade

I don’t know why I do these things
Rouge rough cheeks

breakout cherries on beds of peach cells
Spindle pearl
In your fish net
Stalkings

Fleeting flouncing
Fleeing, then trouncing
Announcing
I don’t know why I do these things!

None of us do, dear…

Ram Bull

I’m sick of needing people, believing people, exploring theories, exploding mores, standing up for the weak, being abused, being addicted, being ugly, being a failure, being alone, being broke and broken, having been spoke to but never spoken, hiding in corners, hiding in a drawer, hiding behind fences, hiding behind lore, being comfortable with things transient in nature, caring what people think and do, caring what people think of me and do to/with/because/without/about me.
I can’t stop analyzing myself.
I can’t stop worrying about how I seem.
The next line I read could be the answer.
With the next words written, I could save myself.
Do you understand that pressure? I’m bench-pressing the weight of the world and if I drop anything, I die, my family dies, my life is smoke.
Smoke drifts and scatters.
I have no fortification I can grant.
I’m shouting, I’m screaming.
Nothing works.
I’m sedate, I’m silent.
Nothing works and everything hurts.
Spin me something, light it on fire and I’ll inhale and inhale.

Circling Birds

I’m really frightened of being alone. Especially at night. That’s when I wish I had that extra attention. And if it’s a man, looking to get off, that works. In fact, it’s a sure bet really. Isnt it? Not good for me. It’s good for me that it’s so much less. I don’t seem to have it in me anymore. That rush of knowing a new person, being pursued by a new person. I guess when you have a few bad outcomes under your belt, you aren’t as eager to go back. But then here I am. middle of the night lonely. And why does that type of lonely always settle in your pussy? If the pussy is happy, I’ll be happy.  My life is working really well with my love and Big Daddy. The medications are working. Some positive money stuff is approaching, hopefully. Sure, I’m smoking so much, its insane. And the eating. Dont forget the eating. The body aches, like a new injury every week. It’s so quiet. Sometimes the understanding is so close. Then, its gone again. (I’m scared I can’t write anymore because of my medication.) I told everyone is was a fluke. No one listened.  I am not a very good mom. I see a list a mile long of things I could be doing, giving them. I would rather die than have them think they aren’t worth every drop of my blood, every breath I take or word I write. They are everything. I hate being alone. Who needs these thoughts? Like, the sometimes man. Was that even real? Was that year of my life real? And Marian? Was she real? Is there a person out there with jewel eyes that really contains such a combination of whimsy and hard edge? I always make such bad fucking choices with abandonment, like being the risk taker is something enviable. I would give it immediately if it was worth getting. I wish I was 17 people and none of them did drugs to excess and ate to excess and hid from people and was lazy and cranky and short-tempered and slutty and glass wicked empty.  I wish I didn’t feel so fucking alone. I wish I didn’t question that a collection of molecules such as life even exists, I don’t want to care about which word is placed where and what should I wear and whats my next thing and whats my excuse and whats my rationalization and what more do I need, what reward do I demand, what price do I pay, what dowry do I come with? Can you see me wrestling with this part of myself? Or am I wrestling to beat the medication, my sickness, my demons so strong and engrained, God you could have at least made me beautiful since you made me so crazy, you could have at least made me successful in a career or a perfect mother or a social butterfly, but instead I’m just crazy. Its quiet. I have my fans, and my blankets and my babies sleeping tight in the other room. One has fine, blond hair and hazel eyes, the other, thick brown hair and brown eyes. There is milk for cereal and a bottle. My husband has more work lately, and he loves me. And I love him. I have Big Daddy. And I love him. I have my family, repaired friendships. Jesus Christ, where do I get off being such a sad sack? It’s this lingering, this nagging knowledge that what I have, others have more or better. It’s this feeling that I’m not where I belong. There is more I am supposed to be, or suppose to do. The wrong path, I don’t even recognize the planet I’m on. I’m an alien and I wandered into the wrong fucking place. But these are my babies, this is my life, stop this questioning for no reason. I can’t, what if there is something else I should be doing and I don’t do it and something terrible happens, I miss my boat, I die.

The Alpha Obsidian

The Third Party

A Naked Trickster
A Transparent Snake
Play Peek-a-bo
Behind Adam’s Apple

Shelbi Lou’s

Click, swing. Click, swing. Peggy played “lady music” with her heels and hip sway. The neon sign for Shelbi Lou’s Strip Club didn’t officially start buzzing for an hour, but it was far from deserted. Women wandered through, sometimes in pairs, carrying big handbags clinking with makeup and car keys. Once her eyes had adjusted, Peggy moved towards the two gentlemen sitting at a table close to the stage. Each had cocktails in front of them despite the fact that it wasn’t yet noon. She squared her shoulders and strutted over to them.

“Mr. Donovan?” She extended her hand to the closest man. He took it and held her there, making no attempt to hide his scrutiny. With lecherous eyes, he looked at her skin, her nails and her muscle tone.

Mr. Donovan was wearing a gold dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal obscene chest hair nestling a charm on a gold chain. His black suit coat and pants appeared greasy, like his dark beard and shaggy, curly hair.

“Not bad.” Mr. Donovan didn’t address her, but rather turned to the other gentleman and gave his assessment. Peggy felt her ego start to smart, but ignored it, stepped back and casually struck a pose. Her heels gave her calves and ass prominence; lickable curves. The second man rose and approached her.

“Ms. Moss, right?” Another handshake, this one accompanied by a waft of cologne and a blinding white smile. The glint of a gold tooth made Mr. Lopez appear crafty and disingenuous. He wore a worn smoking jacket and yoga pants, a common uniform for the gay man living in orange juicy Florida.

“Yes.” She confirmed with a polite smile. He did his own assessment and upon completion, granted her another grin.

“Indeed. Well, be a dear, and show us…” He snapped his fingers at the DJ booth. Moments ago it was empty, but now a young punk in a backward baseball cap was half wearing headphones and flipping switches in the swivel chair.

The lights on the stage went on, bringing her back to the task at hand. A driving hard beat filled the space, bouncing off the walls with no resistance. She dropped her bag and coat where she stood. She let the music build her up, melt her tension and dictate the ebb and flow of her energy. A bluesy voice drenched in feedback was humming the listener into a sex coma.

Her legs felt very long to her and that was what she wanted. The strut came out again and up she went, in immediate possession of the stage. Both men watched closely, Donovan looking with hungry abandonment. She removed her first layer to the music, throwing her tight white shirt and short purple skirt to the imaginary audience. To the edge of the stage she went, turning her back to the men, then bending over. The mint green triangle of her panties caused Donovan to bark a lewd cheer. She met his glance through her own legs, eyes dark and beckoning. Two steps back to center stage and down she went in a split, bouncing to face both east and west with the flip of her light hair. She was making them think of what she was pounding on that stage.

Up again and finally to the pole. One leg, two legs around, head back, hair trailed on the finished floor. A heavy guitar solo joined the beat and silenced the singer as Peggy gyrated, dragging herself up and down, up and down. She lowered her back on the floor, crossing her ankles on the pole. Slowly she pulled her panties off and up, kicking them away with the toe of one high heel. Her heart was racing. It was all riding on this. Using the pole to get back to her feet, she popped the bra off, one cup at a time. She was showing it all.

She crawled back to the front of the stage on her hands and knees. Once there, she laid on her back again, hanging her head upside down off the edge. Her hair was a blonde waterful.

The music was tiring itself out. She snaked off the stage, still part of the act. She looked up to the DJ booth and saw next to it, a door. The door open and a very distinguished gentleman in an expensive suit stepped out to watch her. Bingo, she thought. The man looked at the DJ and made a circling motion with his hand, requesting a little more music. She laughed gleefully, now in front of Donovan. Spinning, she started grinding him. Her purse was steps away.

Her breathing was deliciously hard and so was Donovan, the proof pressing against her ass. Now was the time. The music ended, she walked to her purse. Another slow, sumptuous bending over, a smirk playing on her face. The she pulled the gun out and pointed it at the men next to the DJ.

“Pop.” She said, pulling the trigger and down he went. From backstage arose a scared wail from the other strippers, like a flock of blackbirds taking off. The fire alarm started to sound. Donovan and Lopez seemed utterly shocked, cowering on the floor under the table.

She blew smoke off the barrel of the gun. The DJ had his trembling hands up in the air as he stood next to the man who was no longer moving. Peggy giggled contentedly and grabbing her clothes, walked out the front door. She was overqualified for the job.