Hair

The Very Marrow of The Scene

As if, Nowhere, as if, enduring Nowhere

The Figure (1151-1200)

Hip Girl, a fragment

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I stand in front of her now and tell her she looks great. She tells me I’m lying and I probably am. She’s wearing something that I wouldn’t imagine on anyone aside from my grandmother, and my grandmother doesn’t consider fashion something that she cares much about, caring more for fried chicken and waffles, though not in the combination that is fashionable with my friends.

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She tells me that I should take her seriously, because she is serious.

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I drink my drink and tell her I have no problem with her being serious since being serious is what she’s all about.

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So she keeps talking, brushing the hair from her eyes from time to time, making me think she needs a haircut that better suits her face.

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At some point, I tell her this and she looks at me like I was a leper with a palsy.

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“You’re not even paying attention,” she says, wiping her bangs from her eyes yet again.

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“Yes I am,” I say. “You’re just being stupid right now.”

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Total Eclipse of the Heart

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I had left right after the part of the party where the karaoke machine came out. I wasn’t feeling for a shameful display that night and so I snuck out while others were arguing about cords and the right places to put them. I first went to the fridge and stuck two beers into my purse, making sure they were the kind I could open on my own. I walked out the front door to the sound of someone ripping the shit out of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” which usually wasn’t attempted until much later in the proceedings.

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I knew I had made the right decision.

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Once outside and free on the street I went over to the park that was a few blocks away. I sat down on a bench and cracked open one of the beers in my purse. As I sat there, sipping in the dark and quiet, I noticed down on the lower part of the park, which was on a hill, that there was something writhing there. I sat up, squaring my eyes to focus.

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What it looked like to me was a couple fucking in the grass.

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I trained my ears in that general direction and caught moments of moan and relish. They looked bone white in the moonlight, almost as if they were two skeletons maneuvering their bones into a twine of togetherness.

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I took another sip of my beer. It tasted cheap, like I then felt.

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I felt my eyes water, dripping salty that cut the drabness of my tongue flattened by bad hops and bland. My tongue lapped up the mess I was in with a seriousness that I couldn’t be entirely sincere about now, but was then.

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A young guy in a hoodie and headphones came over and sat down next to me. He nodded at me and then sat there staring out at the grass before us, moving his head in a musical fashion.

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I took my hand and reached into my pants, toying with myself in a way that was both pleasant and incredibly depressing. I tried to make my finger dance to a similar beat that the boy next to me was listening to, totally ignorant of what it was that I was then doing.

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I wanted him to see me, but knew that I wouldn’t be able to come if he did see me doing what I did.

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The sounds from the grass below became louder, less timid, and I came at what I guessed was the climax of the song the boy next to me was listening to.

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It felt harsh and cruel and almost like I was raping myself.

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When I was done, I offered the boy next to me my last beer, by way of a thank you.

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The Pearl [thoughts from the oyster]

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Two tempers into the space of a train left willing and able to sit – becoming the blondish round that your hands hold dear. I am kinks without regret, but still hide my eyes when you look at me. This is nobody’s business but our own. The bear in honey-fur and Christmas lights lands lightly on the bed and promotes massage to make it less solid. I can’t be beaten, but have eaten plenty of the shards of your worry. You do well when you play like you’re not getting paid, exactly. The highway to my good place has all but gone out to California. Those friends as useful as trucks on the first of the month. Riding high above the noon sky with a man who hires his tropes like rope. Either side now, but look straight. You always get so heated up here. You come into my life and give me a blue river, a better you to you.

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Your Hair, the Tone, *this Bone

Your Body only insinuates the Distance, the Threat. What is it, that you give Away—[?] In my Mouth, you break it open, again & again. Thus, my Mouth, your Body, a berating of Hunger, in Tones tunneling inside, through the one Moan, unraveling. In the End, it drowns in Fingers, what is Clenched, your Hair, the Tone, *this Bone.

To Erase, what Holds, what Erodes

Desire is something you can’t see across, thus it becomes a Room for Brooding----------------àall over your Body, which is an Elegy: to Slap, to Meter, its Surface, to Consume-------------------àwhat is left of *this Reminding to Erase, what Holds, what Erodes

Sans Dîner

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ON THE TRAIN TODAY, THE MAN SHAKING & SMELLING IN TOO MUCH OF MY SPACE, REACHED OUT WITH A PALM FULL OF DIMES AND QUARTERS, AND TOLD US THAT HE HAD NOT EATEN FOR THREE WHOLE DAYS AND NOW SIMPLY WANTED ENOUGH FOR A MILKSHAKE FOR DINNER.

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THAT WAS ALL HE WAS ASKING FOR, A MILKSHAKE.

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I PUT MY HEAD DOWN, TRYING TO KEEP THE BAG FULL OF FOOD MY PARENTS HAD SENT ME EARLIER THIS WEEK AS A PRESENT HIDDEN UNDER THE SEAT.

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NO ONE ELSE GAVE HIM A SECOND GLANCE, AND AS I LEFT AT MY STOP, SO DID HE, MOVING OVER TO THE NEXT CAR TO TRY HIS LOOK THERE.

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I SHOULD NOT TALK, NOT EATING DINNER THIS EVENING, OR EVEN PLANNING ON DOING SO.

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I ATE A FEW SPOONFULS OF PEANUT BUTTER AND CALLED IT GOOD.

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THIS IS WHAT THEY MEAN BY FREEDOM, I SUPPOSE.

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How Pretty to think it Is

Pain, a libretto

Young Happy Families

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Our new neighbors moved into the vacant O’Donnell house last week and are still receiving things in trucks, almost daily. Usually people tend to move in one large truck, something big enough to hold it all, and deliver it in one fell swoop. But this young family apparently is relying on friends and relatives who have pick-ups.

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It makes for a general nuisance on the street during prime hours of traffic. Or so says my husband.

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Each morning, before work, my husband looks out the window to the O’Donnell house across the street, sips some coffee, and says “happy young families don’t know what they’re in for”.

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He puts his coffee down and picks up the paper. I make toast.

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The new family has a baby and a young boy, probably 4 or 5 years old. The boy, I find, is usually found running around the front yard of the O’Donnell house, hiding from nothing behind bushes, lying facedown in the grass, over watering the plants with a hose. It is only Spring, so I assume that the boy isn’t yet school age, or he would be in school.

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And yet, I’m surprised at that since his mother is never around to watch him.

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Of course, decorating a new home does take its toll, but so does raising children I’d assume.

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Apparently the last truck to unload arrived yesterday early in the morning. It was an official delivery truck from the local Sears, delivering a brand new refrigerator. I observed them unload it, cautiously move it into the O’Donnell house through the garage. An hour later, I saw the deliverymen leave, without taking anything with them.

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I couldn’t imagine that this family was living without a working refrigerator for more than a week. But they seemed to be living off of bounces and smiles, so much so I could hardly imagine them resting enough to even eat.

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Later that day, after the husband had returned home, I noticed him bringing out the large box the refrigerator came in, laying it in the lawn, and taking a box cutter and creating a make-shift swinging door on the side.

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His son was standing there, clapping, waiting to be the first resident in this new home, already, apparently, bored with the new home of his that was the O’Donnell’s.

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Later that evening, while my husband and I sat down to a simple dinner I had prepared earlier, the boy was still playing inside the refrigerator box, having convinced his father to create a window with the same box-cutter that had created the door.

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He spent what I thought was a good hour simply sticking his head out of the window, looking around, retreating and repeating.

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“It’s a crime that they can just stick their trash in the yard like that,” my husband said, dousing his dish with ketchup.

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“This better not be an indication of how they’ll behave for the long run.”

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Later in the week, at dusk time, my husband and I were enjoying a glass of wine on our front porch, looking north towards the mountain.

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Across the street, at the O’Donnell house, the new residents came out, the wife carrying the baby, and began walking through the front yard, pointing.

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They were clearly making plans for new landscaping.

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The husband would point, and the wife would smile, clearly in love and in love with what her man was proposing.

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The older son went straight for the refrigerator box.

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I could only hope that what they were planning wouldn’t significantly change the look of the O’Donnell property. I had always been a fan of their choices in landscaping, and had felt the environment to bring a comfort to the neighborhood. My husband, agreeing for the most part, only disliked the Dogwood tree that had been planted at the edge, if only because it was never trimmed.

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We sat there, sipping our wine, sternly nodding at one another. The family across from us, at the O’Donnell’s, continued pointing, smiling. And when the sun set, went back inside the house, presumably to bed.

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Interrogatory

Men's Glossies

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i. Men speak in exhaustion like Lisa never did. Mental attitudes of gesture never spent; the silver line that keeps their tie together.

ii. Men conceptualize the daughters in men, walking through them and fantasizing their sons. It is about readiness for the flossy limits of twill and submitted.

iii. Men stand with a sexual rigidity built askance of the future. There is the natural truth and then the thought that seeds are planted and form attachments. I am being modern about it.

iv. Men lie about their tarnished whispers of sleep, holding pillows over their head to muffle the music of their nostrils. Others sleep less.

v. Men rouse and judge and regret; men sigh, in brief. Men fold their frailty into dresser drawers and then stand, jagging children into the shitter.

US. A – (Star Spangle My Clit)

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/; lawyers left alone and as such soldier on in ways that foam at the corner of eruptive bloat; this timid sense of loss like a face in the mirror alone; pushing back the goan to a shit you not elitist align; bottom of the stairs like a pool of blackout our own puddle left alone as if it were a wretch; schooled sensibility like a flat foos fucked whatnot; arms as huddled as the FDC; let’s call an appropriate ban on banished bullshit a ban against itself; tall told the what the flat fate of gibberish left like a jumping up, grabbing, ultimatum bent; gravel down and heads pressed and all aligned like a bear bent; oil, smells, loveliness left alone; - a ferocious distinction that few find deliverable; barely, wheat, what calls itself a staffing sentiment, the timing of two wars along the last of what we are allowed; and allowed as such as a breech on the public front like a tip of a dick that doesn’t have the guts to stay hard; a better strategy is enough alone a high handed institution by package along; piss over moaning over the cradle; the other twin standing there expelling spit like so much fuck; she shifts shit to one side and as such is a voting issue; talk the frontal truth enough to split the spine of those who disagree; two courts of camp infused with trouble; my man spittle stroking the surface of a date-fuckers lips, framed by the pubic bush of his wife left at home; I feel the bond of his spatula spanking like who’s playing; the boy died of natural causes; left-leaning liberals fagging up for Foucault but saying they only suck dick for cash; boys : dry out my thighs << strike down in the right armpit of the armored whore >> pimping limpid young fleshpod against the behind of a club-footed fucker-soldier; whores counting their dime bags and being unable to go past ten; the boy whores can make it to eleven; shades of puncture and puss rising even after managing to meet the quarterly forecast; << star spangle my clit, officer >> the wonk with the loud honk says to the one with the club stuck up her cunt like a hard black member, only a game in the eyes of the player << quick, quick and grind my bones to dust and bury me up to my muff for all to see, to be planted deep as your seed and see me spurt >> and as such a matter of jury left to quandary when left alone – in a room with state-paid sandwiches and flat Dixie cups of soda

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//; tell the priest I want all my money; there’s now way in hell he has a girlfriend : he talks a big game full of fistfuls of labias flipped through like thin paper; this person isn’t a person kicking & laughing into the light : torn from the flesh-mound of principle and discipline; dick in fist like the tight buttocks of youth; genitals in knots and slipping the boys pants right off; drawing hands, rising bloody & ripping the glans tip off, thrown in the corner : it’s uselessness now deemed excessive and curtailing; buttoning droughts on the floor of the motel room : the bookie’s dead : gum-trummeled cigarette butt end bloody with chomp and hiss; he signs his letters and lets them go; seals the envelope with smacks of shit; sends them off with laughter extolling out of his ass, trumped with a personal seasoning of I-Love-You; pressed down on necks of the recipient, holding wet in the base of their pants; seven-trillion testicles flopping like hippos in tutus; fuck all that says so, she’s never gonna balk; anonymous means being a mouse; eyes reddening behind blind lenses glossed over with Vaseline; cuticle black finger oil : some kind of compliment; free seats at lunch of all-you-can-lick ass buffets of shit-stained beef cheek pancakes and bloat; these mean men mean business and don’t you forget it; hot entrails wrapped around the wrists of their whores while their wives suffer with zinc washes and sickly children with bald heads; men talon-fuck the mice around them, each one split open like a soft walnut; cocks cutting fingernails into garbage cans while the man on the floor below screams into the hallway like a wild maimed monkey; a pillar of the roll-down gait, the monkey’s drunk on malt liquor; beneath the groping around the lad’s fist lies tranquil on the belly of the by who calls himself his girlfriend yet the cock always gets in the way of this declaration of dependence, waving in the face of the lad like a flag of surrender; the lad has gone black and is not going back (he means shoes here, noticeably); he’s the best dressed person here : Italian shoes bought in LA that left him $600 short on rent : but no matter : his adulterous parents have plenty of guilt and cash in their pockets to buy a home in Malibu on the beach and with enough bedrooms for a full weekender bathhouse, enough space for public and private encounters : the kind his parents taught him about; he changes his name to Madison just to make it all happen; the Avenues are where the cherry picking happens : popping and bleeding all across the East 50s; he splits the difference on each coast for when the mood fits : two twins kept in a rimmed vessel on the UES while the boybitch on the beach fucks fine in the water; licking salty flimsy jissom off his fingers later, he stands there tall and proud, daring anyone to say a word

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///; person says waa; person says waa-waa; person says waa-waa-wooooool; the person on the inside is stuck, punching walls like rocky, gravelly flesh stink; one hand grabbing balls of fluid, squeezing and causing cramps; the other hand pinching the poor gal with the straight-perm, forcing her to fall down stairs at any chance she gets; a member wedge of driller tongues; bagged backwards against a tight fist, person punches as a prisoner punches fellow convicts but it’s the only one here; bent over and around and licking its own ass for the last time; person doesn’t know this, but it’s true : that’s not just an expression, you can tell the priest; ginger bloodhead ; hunting floor ; dick retracted frigid and fucking its own ; bending brands of enclaves ; good ahead ; drill your way in and let’s call it a day

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Howrel

Baby-Steps

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______________________((puppy)

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________________________________((unvisited)

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_____________________________________________((mild good)

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___________________________((stage)

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___________________________________((coldly)

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____________________________________________((bare breasted)

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________________________________(ithic)²

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^{________________________________________________________________}(couch-stopped)

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__________________________________________________(trellis gained)

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