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you check your phone periodically
wait in line at baskin-robbins at 2 in the morning
your parents used to make love in the shower
it’s a thought that’s crossed your mind
soon enough someone will check your potassium though

we follow attractive men to brooklyn
are open-minded
how many fathers…

The trouble with Jim was he looked at the world and could not look away. And when you never look away all your life, by the time you are thirteen you have done twenty years taking in the laundry of the world.

Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury (via

A beggar for the tender my heartseek

dusty boots and the ironist’s heartspeak

the ugly transfixed slap, the lamppost cuff

the dark eye-hole in the photo album page.

I want to scream it all away for you,

like the bears on the trails of my childhood

The Wendy-bird singing sun softly:

Peter Pan found his own shadow.

Drown How the Codfish



What comfort, kindness
Or trace of compassion,
Does he/he who was father,
Provider, brother/
Who is predator
Who is monster
Deserve? Why should he
Have a soft place to fall
Or be afforded peaceful
Sleep, free of demons
And fear? And, what dignity
Has he/he who steals innocence,
Leaving irreparable
Ruin?/ Do not ask for
My empathy, I have only
Contempt for such men,
And the instincts of
Cornered prey

A favorite pumpkin from last night’s walk.
(click for more detail)

Dream :

against my will, caged and forced
to marry a powerful Mexican Politico
with the smile of the Cheshire,
voice of a serpent buried in Sugar Bush

my dream-self screams in bird’s-eye
frail arms driving through a garaged
landfill of toys, ripping off doll parts
a curtain call of hair is all that can
cloak me against this but that, too

pulled, yanked over, they talk as if I’m
part of it, part of the garage, one of the
broken toys, cyclops-faced bear stuffings

Ah, yes, she still fighting?

She won’t even look at us.

she smiles me down, like she has caught
her first fish, all teeth and eye-glint

I knew there had been others.

her throat purrs upon me and
I hate her, deeper than I’ve ever hated
anything or pretended to ever have

Callous shocked energy, clenching a fist

This one just hasn’t quit screaming yet

I wake, and my eyes douse a small
flame of fey feeling, sat harbored and
long past

The Cheshire Dream

Those trains and their grieving sounds were lost forever between stations, not remembering where they had been, not guessing where they might go, exhaling their last pale breaths over the horizon, gone. So it was with all trains, ever.

Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (via
sterility:Fear of Death and Femininity1974 
In some respects, the use of sexual obsessions as a subject for literature resembles the use of a literary subject whose validity far fewer people would contest: religious obsessions. So compared, the familiar fact of pornography’s definite, aggressive impact upon its readers looks somewhat different. Its celebrated intention of sexually stimulating readers is really a species of proselytizing. Pornography that is serious literature aims to ‘excite’ in the same way that books which render an extreme form of religious experience aim to ‘convert.’

Susan Sontag
The Pornographic Imagination  (via