Delicately Smashed to Pieces

•November 5, 2009 • 9 Comments

Love is a blindfolded fistfight in some sleazy alley at four a.m. when you are too tired to fight even though you’ve been taunting this bully your entire life. Love is the elevator music waiting room that you’ve been in, anticipating this fight – seething at this chance.

And the sound of fist and bone and skin smacking skin in a desperate attempt to spell-out some kind of violent sentence is the sounds of two bodies, two lives, and all the disparities you could imagine, colliding to begin a new symbiosis: a new relationship.

Some people go to church, I believe in you and I.

I implore you, paint me a picture of your screams?


My love,

I watch you sleep. (You know this and we joke about it because it is my guilty secret). But (in all truth): I watch you sleep because my exhaustion is no excuse to lose this moment. Yes, this one. Right now.

(You know this) Your eyes flutter in deep sleep, every now and then halfway opening because you see something more than I can understand.

When you are awake, you sometimes speak quietly (I banter about this with you when you are ready). But even when you are silent, I can feel you – clear across stadium rooms in the dead silent of a sleepy night and early morning. There is something magical about you that is not a trick, but simply because it is not a trick I am apprehensive because nobody, simply nobody has this kind of power without being mischievous.

And then the sun rises, and you are laying next to me. And hours later since our last words, you open your eyes and all I can do is exhale. And then, more than anything else, you are there. You. Are. Here.

Hi, you always say. Simply. Unobtrusively. As though there is no option for anything more complicated.

Your eyes are blue. But sometimes (I must confess) I mistake your kind of color for that composite of every color this universe has ever produced. Sometimes, in my delirium, (it is understandable when you are so many things to me, no?) I forget your name. Sometimes I forget your eye’s color (it is understandable when I have your whole body to look at, no?). Because, really, is there even a descriptor that is worthy of this kind of stamp?

Even cosmologists have missed galaxies when pondering the patterns in the mole-colored specks of life across your back.

Believe me,

I know:

Your eyes are Joy.

Your sounding symphony is Joy.


When, fucking when, did I cross that threshold between want and need?

And why didn’t anybody tell me that this would hurt?

Why didn’t anybody explain to me this ubiquitous vision – that love is lust’s rose petal decay? Love is sharp and thorny and colorless. This, when we color it red – the color of our blood.

Why didn’t anybody explain to me that Valentine was a martyr? And I am not even that great.

Luckily for me, I bleed this musical reddish, ruddish tone for her and my love, my girl, happens to adore these kinds of petals.


My love,

Do you not know that everything stands against us? Someday you are going to hate me and my name will not reverberate as music on the hills. And,

Do you not know that they are rooting us on in the same way that a triumph wavers back and forth between success and broken-nosed tragedy?

Yes, this is the same kind of black thoughts that I think in my lonely nights when you are too far from me and I can only find paranoid beliefs in the darkened idea that I have already called the vultures by screaming your name aloud to all, well before we’ve only begun.

(If they care at all) We are mostly entertainment. We are their dreamy, anticipated car crash. That train wreck. That fuselage explosion, that sinking ship on the atoll, that silver screen heart break catastrophe. We are waiting to happen. Yet, we are here, now. We are not waiting for anything at all.

You and I, are alive.

I said that I am not the poet that loves you in secrecy. I am the bard that shouts to the world: You are my girl. The one I love. And this, this is how I love you.

And then I pause, imploring your eyes to mine: I have crossed the threshold from want to need.

Terrify me.


I am all yours.


Love is gore. Love is homemade repairs on wounds that bleed, bloody.

Love is all the secrets that you never had the bravery to tell anybody, all bottled-up in the object of your affection.

Love is every kiss and affection and story and everything, absolutely every little thing, that you have saved from every lover before me.

Now! I implore you, tell me all your secrets…


My love,

You know that sometimes I fuck you. Most of the time, I don’t.

But really, what I want you to know is that always, absolutely always, I wish we had an audience. I want people to see what we are doing, how we are fucking. I want to model this kind of love. I want to exhibit my ferocity. I want to illustrate how a girl loses her breath all while begging for more. I want to show all my universe how I love, passionately, unabashedly, without pretense and without qualm for looking like a naked frog perched above you, squeezing everything I can out of your most perfect body.

Afterall, we painted this museum, together. Fucking, together. I want everybody to see this color collage.

Yes, yes, I know: we are still not very good at all of this. We are still learning. Your orgasms are the gold standard and I am still just a prospector.

Still, you tell me how I fill you up. You tell me how I feel inside of you. And I,

I can barely speak.

Still, I’m waiting for you to scream.






Love is every insecurity, amplified. Made public. Love is your every infirmity naked with the robe of secrecy laying on the floor before you, in this conversation. Love is looking at that robe when you are laying face down, knocked out, and all you can see is that red velvet, crushed – the totality of your vision.

Love is this kind of pure terror with small moments of complete ecstasy. Somehow this is the only arena in your life where, miraculously, the bliss outweighs the terror. That is, if this is not simply an addiction.

A habit.

A fix.

A want.

A need.

A rationale.

Tell me, again, the formula and equation that brought us here at all?


My love,

I want to feel your love more than know it. I want to hear your words more than listen to them. Like the hum of my father’s Corvette, I want to feel your presence more than I want to know that it is, in fact, a concrete existence in this world.

No, we did not come at this in orthodoxy. Instead, and for some twisted reason, we have arrived at this presence in a backhanded intoxication. For this was not our Catholic blessing – we were not born to be gifted this universal love. We were not promised fast rides and clear roads. We were only promised an opportunity at this fight,

This struggle.

This love.


My love,

I love the idea of you wearing my cum on your body and dripping out of your cunt hours later, in public.

And I love wearing your mouth’s scars on my neck, on my body like a rifle wound through the shoulder. I want everybody to know that I have fought to be here at all.

I am your warrior. I am fighting for you. Tooth and mouth and scar and blood and perfection at all.

You cried the other night before you fell asleep. When you rolled over in the morning I was a new man.

Your man: delicately smashed to pieces, standing tall.

I am Ardor.

•September 2, 2009 • 8 Comments

Ardor is the perfect record album and the most beautiful girl in the world, all in one magical night, in the same mystical moment in your life. Ardor is the foggy intersection where all the metaphors of your life run red lights in a strange downtown city that you’ve always dreamt of, but never had a name for. Ardor is that cosmic space where pure terror and beauty meets Joy.

Ardor is having no idea that when you kiss her for the first time, it will be the most perfect kiss you’ve ever had. Ardor is what comes after your terrible nervousness to kiss her at your car, subsides. Ardor is what comes after the painful shyness wears-off and instead of letting her walk away – you chase her across the street and, standing off the curb, you reach up and sink into her lips under a waxing midnight moon. Ardor is that moment when you pull your eyelids apart, enough to look at one another for the first time after that kiss. Ardor is all the words you don’t have in your throat. Ardor is that breathy moment of unbelief.

Ardor is many things.

However, I am fairly certain that LOVE finds its provenance somewhere around that time where you stumble away from the most-perfect first kiss, somehow knowing that the entire course of your life may have just, impossibly, changed – forever. But then again, I may be insane – temporarily or permanently. For I have been infected with love. You know: LOVE. In capital letters, bigger than cities, like it’s screaming at you.


This is the first time and, in the invisible dark she is laying below me, without any clothes on; naked, nude, and her ribcage is peeled back. It is so black that my vision has morphed into another sense altogether. In my desperate attempt to find her kiss, I let tiny little explosions of light lead me in to her holy lips. My chest is stinging like a heart attack. For this is that moment I have thought about; that moment before my body presses into hers, for the first time. Like the first kiss all over again. A body kiss.

When our lips meet, I can feel her squirming and writhing. Her legs kicking. In-between explosions of kisses, she says that she can’t breath. She tries to articulate more, but words need breath to breathe and she is handcuffed by her swollen lips. Our swollen hearts, so close together. As the intensity and frequency of our kisses escalate, I reach down, cupping her nipple for the first time, running my fingers up and over and down the curves of her lines. With my hand between her hips, I trace up and down her thighs. Instead of aiming for her wet heat, I reach all the down and below – to cup her ass with my hand. And, she has soaked the sheets below us.

My breath goes weak and so I cup my lips to hers and pull the little breath she has, all the way from her chest and into mine. Then, I lean in a little closer and with as much surface exposed as can be granted in our positions, our bodies touch. Alas, our hearts are that much closer to being aligned.


I have spent years, nay lifetimes, in the forests of my heart’s strings and my head, and my life. I have heard the aspens quake. I have met riparian vegetation in the dead stall of winter, trunks creaking and talking in their rub on one another. For years, I have tread invisible paths in the winds of winter. Then, in one instant: I came into a green clearing where the sounds stopped; summer was suddenly much clearer there and,

There she was. In ancient mythologies, The Fates were said to control the metaphorical destiny of all beings. The Fates are women. Of course they’re women. Out of the winter of my life and,

We are sitting on summer’s empty neon concrete patio. Maples quake above. Light streams in through the branches, washing the girl’s face in limbs and hands and fingers of watery illumination. And I kiss the forehead of the most beautiful girl in the world because anything more may break the spell that I have her under/that she has me under.

We struggle to merely touch the exposed fronts of skin and try to breathe. We struggle against some unnameable, invisible torrent and complete indulgence; and the possibility of nights of sweaty, wet sex fading into the future of days. Because, It is there. This heat. This possibility. That this could happen. More than that, we both seem to know: there is a parallel between our sexuality and the reality of love. There is a correlation born in possibility. That when, come one, so too comes the other. In the least, they are related like twins separated by mere moments from the womb.

On the neon patio I order my last glass of wine for the night and I toast, silently, to The Fates and all the metaphors of the seasons and the light on her face. Then, the most beautiful girl in the world gently leans into me, with every fragility of our green love in full bloom between us and gently she tucks her fingers into my shirt – delicately brushing my chest with her knuckles and gentle hand. I kiss the girl on her forehead and with a light head full of thought, I tell myself: Be careful what you ask for, you just may get it.


Intimacy is an unnamable torrent which rarely has a voice and typically is an apparition in the rare conversations it does appear within. We have not had sex, yet. But, we have been passionately intimate. For seconds at a time: with our bodies, our limbs, our words and yes – our emotions. Mostly, with our emotions.

It has been gradual, a process, a climb, an ascent – towards climax. As though she is the best lover in the world, she is moving me closer and closer towards something illuminated. As though we are suited to be one another’s greatest lovers – everything, absolutely everything, has been wildly intimate.

The elements that we so often surpass to stand atop our ascent are all the little things that we have relished: learning how to hold her hand; tiny little kisses; sharing the vulnerable legs of our lives and some of the open wounds; her looking at me like in a way that I have never known, ever before.

We lay in her bed, clothes on. She is shy and turns away to undress herself. She keeps the sheet tucked under her as she lays on my chest, listening to my heart – nay my entire life – beat, because: These steps of intimacy take our breath away. Every little thing is alive with a meaning that we feel more than we know.


I am ardor. I am here. I am now. I am alive. I am blessed. I am love. I am The Provocateur. I am not. I am red lust. I am pure terror. I am joy. I am intoxicated. I am thrilled. I am me. I am here. I am not. I am there. I am with her. I am not. I am missing her. I am craving her. I am aching for her. I am kissing her behind my eyes. I am a little boy. I am the man I have worked to become. I am not. I am better with her inside me. I am thinking of her, right now. I am not listening to you. I am paralyzed. I am taken. I am mystified. I am drunk on her. I am blown away. I am falling for her. I am blown away. I am falling for her. I am. Falling. Blown away. Paralyzed. Alive. Love. Lust. Ardor. Close to her.


Draw a picture of the perfect girl.

List qualities. Traits. Idiosyncrasies. Possibilities.

Blink three times and then roll over into this moving picture: She is in your bed.

The girl with the coconut hair and the baby powder body has her arm over her head and is trying to sleep. The sun is coming up and you haven’t slept much since the light has come into the room because you only want to watch her and relish in the unbelief, the possibilities, the idiosyncrasies. When she wakes, you will lick her armpit and kiss her morning breath because you are certain that everything about her is perfect. When she wakes, you climb on top of her, delicately and sweetly because you do not want to disrupt the dream.

She touches your hips, cups your throbbing sex from way down underneath, and sighs as though she is in pain. She looks into your eyes as though she had been blind for her whole life, hitherto. You blink three times and the gentle morning touching and delicate smiles become pressing and kneading and prodding and hands move up to throats and the fury of everything you have built together is boiling and the sucking on the skin becomes biting and the playful clit becomes the soaking wet cunt fucking your finger and your hard cock drips with her juices and yours and you finally, finally, finally press your sex into hers and you flip her over and bite and suck on the back of her neck and you are sliding on her slick heat, sometimes pounding into her and her back is arched upward and she is looking back at you with her head raised and there is a hunger in her eyes like there is starvation in your soul and you sometimes stop the movement just so you can hear her shoot heavy, violent jets of breath out her nose and mouth and eyes and ears and still, despite your animal fervor and inability to think about anything else in your life with clarity or duration, still, you do not slide your sex inside hers, for this is as intimate as you can handle with your small grasp right of divinity now, and the day is coming and she has to leave soon and you already miss her anyways and can’t wait for the lovesickness and the sightings and comparisons of her everywhere, absolutely everywhere, because all you do is think about her all day long and the next day until you see her again and feel her lips for that first time, that time.

And you are terrified when she disappears because you may just be completely crazy.

And, in love.

And you want to give her your heart – but you wonder, quietly and with manic breath: have I already given it to her? Does my heart belong to her?


You are so insane about her and sick with love that you have conversations with your heart when the girl is away.

The strange thing is that your heart replies. Your heart says things like: In the musical 4/4 time of your life, I will skip one beat every measure when she is not around. This silence is where Joy is. This silence is the reminder that this is love. That this is grave. This is your caveat and your achtung! Achtung! Achtung! This is where all the metaphors of your life become real. The lessons, manifest. The blessing, a holy gift.

Each night before I pass into my sleep comas, I praise my heart for its odes and canons and the fight that has never dissipated in its musical pumping of my body’s blood. I picture myself, these days and nights, smiling – for my heart is a fucking poet at the touch of her.


•August 18, 2009 • 1 Comment

I wonder if you know that the idea of being raped comes, etymologically, from a sense of being under the influence of spiritual ecstasy. To be enraptured is to be carried away by this same kind of violence. This same kind of ecstasy. Some call it spiritual, others – prophetic. Perhaps, this is the most perfect kind of violence. The kind of violence you find Joy in.


There is no prescription for love. This finicky four letter word is the prescription, in and of itself. As terrifying as this may feel, it is truth – even before the boil, in the infant stages of love simmering, bubbling.

Shhh… you are skeptical when your chest has been opened, no?

I challenge you to walk away from the perfect girl, with the perfect skirt, the bloody peach shirt and the perfect eyes – that one who has intoxicated you and driven you to sweaty beliefs of how your life can look; and you will understand this truth – that she is love. That, this – and everything she says – is the provenance of love. That, you shouldn’t be afraid of saying this out-loud – however foolish or crippled you feel. However strange you look in that mirror of your own idealized life is only a minor reflection of how powerful the upside to your falling is at all.

When you walk away from her – the only remedy for your love sickness, the only remedy – is more of her. And you know this all the time she is sitting right there, in front of you.

I also challenge you to understand that, in speed comes power. For however fast this feeling has fallen over you, feel not foolish – for the power is only that much greater. And the responsibility…

Shh, just listen to her chatter. Autumn is coming…

When you can barely breathe, the only thing that will give you more breath at all is her. Her breath. Her words. Her utterance of the life that she wants to give and the force that she can impart. Nay, does impart. Does give.

Shh, just close your eyes. You will feel her shiver…

Begin this process that is, at once, yours and not yours at all – and you, the aetheist; you, the agnostic, will gain the understanding that maybe there is a God. Hallelujah, maybe there is something out there giving you breath, granting you life, affording you one last chance, giving you this crosswalk where the girl in the bloody peach shirt gaits across your lane (and she will only look back once)…

Guised by mystery and the guessing of whether or not you are standing on this ground at all, welcome – says the sign – you are falling in love. Whether or not this is the profound love that you constantly sing about – the tag line reads – is up to the cosmos, the reciprocal articulation of you into her and the courage that you will need to possess, from here on out.

From here, on out – look down and recognize this place you may have never really been – and then look up: this is that place. That crossroads. That place we have talked about so alone and in the dark of night.

From here, on out…


Shh… I know that it is also true that I can continue expounding upon these ideals – when, in fact, all I’m doing is creating nervous conversation – like I did all night long with her. Over dinner. Drinks. Her arm tucked in mine. Her scents wafting in and around us all like a cloak of invisibility along the lights of Broadway.

Tonight, it is true: I could barely breathe. To articulate one long-winded sentence required the might of all my infected body. Sometimes, at dinner, I even stood on my toes beneath the table.

The idea of love, the possibility of true, heartwrenching love may even make you fear lust. I know this only now – only tonight as I am terrified to broach that front: To engage in that glorious cacophonous symphony of finally, holy lord – please, alas: pressing my body into hers. Please. Press. My body. Into. Hers.

For to merely touch her thigh, just above the knee – is more than my body can bear. Tingling seems inappropriate and inexact, when, in fact, it is hilariously about the only sensation that my body has witnessed for over a week entirely, signaling the sure truth that this is more delicate than lust. Alas, love’s fragile arms trump the fiery heat of ravenous lust.

To this end, I have learned something more: Love is the doubling-over of lust on its knees.

Love is this kind of wind, when kicked-up with twice a ferocity.

Love is, Joy.


I have no story to tell. Only vignettes to attempt to articulate. For I am under a spell.

And this is exactly where my fear raises up, takes hold and screams over the shadows of my nighttime bed: here there is a blessing, and a curse.

For where love spins the highs into even higher bellows – up and above the city, spiraling taller than everything you ever interact with; it also drills the lows into those exact nightmares that you have dreamt of, and sometimes, felt….

Still, I am not going to stand there in that song which calls fear to my door. Afterall,

She has come back, from the east. And tonight, she came back to me – where I was doing nothing more than waiting for her. Where she could have gone anywhere and gone to anyone:

She came. Back. To me.

(to see if we were both crazy, or gloriously: not)


This is me: Out loud. On my knees.

This is my toast, glasses-raised – to this process at all.


For it is a certain and true fact that hearts can melt at different temperatures. In different light. For differing reasons and because of invisible broken paths.

In one sentence, the heart can snap. And never return. From the east, or west, or beneath your gaze.

So – the sign says – enjoy this all now. Feel the blessing in the fact that Joy is standing before you at all. That you can feel her. That you are afforded this luxury of enchantment. Of privilege.

Listen close, she has many things to say to you…


Herr Nietzsche said that where words leave off, the music begins. Here, he wrote, is the importance of music at all. And so I urge you, shh…

Nietzsche wrote to his sister that, in defense of his seemingly overuse of the “dash” – he said that this dash is where I can no longer write, or speak, I am indefensible to the sensibilities of nature, laughing at us for all our mindless chatter and overreach of sensibility. After the dash, Nietzsche said, is where the music picks up…

On a related note, perhaps one of the greatest pieces of western music is Herr Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The chorus to this symphony is possibly one of the greatest love songs ever written – to a girl, an idea; a feeling; a thing – the great, “Ode to Joy”. It is here I begin, and end:

Joy –

Sex as Suicide

•March 25, 2011 • 3 Comments

“Drunkenness … is temporary suicide.”
– Bertrand Russell

Of all the vices, I cannot think of one which is more violent than: sex – the perversion of sexuality.

Sex is ubiquitous. The addict, the afflicted, is hopeless in concocting an escape route. For to flee from the reigns of sexuality is to evade life.

Tits, asses, cunts and cocks: they’re everywhere. They are everything. They are the symbols of life and death and progress and ancestry and mortality and they are what breeds life itself.

Of all addicts, those afflicted by their sexuality and others’ is the trickiest. The strangest. Because,

For the addict: sexuality is not the drug. Life, and the loss of life therein, is.


Sex is one of the most violent of addictions because the taking of human life is the most violent act.

Remember: serial killers and other murderers have long incorporated sexual acts with their assaults.

Remember: acts of sexuality – sometimes as they are particularly yoked with love – can lead one to personal death: suicide.

Where Russell found temporary suicide in drunkenness, I have found my moments of suicide in sex.

Sex… is temporary suicide.

Even in my darkest hours: sex has been a violent reconquering of my own life. A reinvigoration. A reprise. A taste of what falling apart at the seams really feels like.

Alas, the most exhilarating of all drug cocktails to violently course through me: Where there is sex, there is death.


On the surface, sexuality is not something uncommon. It is not a prize, a blue ribbon – an anomaly. Really, what has been conquered is not anything to brag about: it is an impulse. A compulsion. Dogs do it. Chimps do it well, and often.

On the surface, sexuality is our base. Primal. It’s what our internal mechanism is here to do: spread the seed. Propagate the gene. Lengthen the line. Fold toward the future.

Under the surface, in that place where the nerves itch below the skin, sexuality is one of the most titillating endeavors to engage in. What’s more? Intoxicating it is. Pushed even further: Paralyzing. Deathly.

Sexuality is the greatest of all drugs because: it is free. For awhile…


“If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself but to put myself back together again. Suicide will be for me only one means of violently reconquering myself, of brutally invading my being, of anticipating the unpredictable approaches of God. By suicide, I reintroduce my design in nature; I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will.”
– Antonin Artaud

If you go up too high, you come crashing down low. Every addict knows this. The opposite of pure ecstasy is destruction. Nay, annihilation.

Annihilation of what? The self. The one entity we all believe we “have”. On the most desolate, broken and homeless streets – even then we don’t need any money to own this idea of “self”.

In all, that rush, that push, that pull of sex – is escape. Like heroin, cocaine, alcohol – this adventure is about the loss of self. For just as a heroin high enables the user the ability to disappear from the day, so too does sex enable the junkie to retract from ultimate responsibility. Presence. Life.

Implicit in the act of sex – in its wailing arms and pounding torsos and eyes rolled back into the head – is the picture of: pure, acceptable violence. Sex is violent. Not always – but it can be.

And like the addict of other substances, the violence need not affect anybody else – sexuality’s violence can be silent. Masochistic. Sexuality in this form can be that kind of annihilation of the object we all value more than anything else: our “self”.

To this end: maybe the perversion of sexuality is a safe manner of suicide. A non-lethal destruction. A way to crash, to fall, to leap, to die – if even just for a minute. Just maybe, sex is a kind of reanimation of the self that keeps that glass floor from giving way.

Maybe sex is as close as we come to death in this life.

Drunk, Dumb.

•June 25, 2009 • 8 Comments

I have become so discontented at my prospects for love, that I’ve drawn away from lust. As though I’m a characture portrait artist, I’ve begun working in reverse. Maybe even erasing some of those Casanova superheroes that I’ve always silently imagined. And the women that accompany those ideals at all.

And then, there you are: wearing the perfect dress. You are black hair with musky eyes. Latin skin. Sex is rocketing from your pores. We are sitting over perfect cocktails, the sun falling to our ancient west and your sense of flirtation has pushed me beyond love – to that place of ultimate, primitive provocation. Of those virtues which were long born before me.

More than you know, this table between us has a circumference larger than Pi. Bigger than all the mathematics you were ever taught.

(I infer this, but don’t speak the animal for you to hear.)

Quickly the heat rises and your explanation of a man’s ultimate liquid all over your body is more than intoxication. More than this moment put together in allegory.

(I infer this, but only later will speak about the most provocative of natures we all share.)

And I nod, because I know where you’re going. I know where you’ve been. This kind of sophistication I adore. And ache for. And for several intermittent moments, I even mistake it all for love and something bigger than you and me.

And then, the idea of sophistication dissipates as that watery liquid over me. And I am embarrassed for believing in you at all.


My friend describes somebody like you as, “Sex-on-a-stick”. And while that phrase alone titillates, what I will learn later is not so intriguing.

For months now, which feel like lifetimes, I have pushed away from these interactions.

For my soul – I know, that fucking place where the light meets the dark; where we all toss and turn in the night – is not satisfied by your provocations. By your large and small grandstands of fashion and strutting and posing.

My friend talks about it as, “the power of skirt”. She says that she and her sisters, as women, have so much more to give. To flirt with. To titillate with. Simply because of the skirt and the sophistications around exhibitionism. And while I believe that my sophistications are robust… I fall flat here. I become retarded. I flirt with you. And then,

I drop to my knees.

As though something greater is before me.

And even as you tickle that Grand Marnier down your thigh for me to lick, I feel like a fool…


And so, you with your smoky eyes, your heightened sexuality for all the world to see, ask me to come to your place.

A few moments in and we are at that station which topples the insophisticates over. And I assure us both that alcohol makes us do daring things. Still, you ask me to take off my clothes and I soon after am naked, before you – and more than that, I am naked before any questioning ideology that has ever provoked me. I am more than naked, I am blind. And,

I feel cheap.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like a whore. You, my slut. The dirtiest thing that I could ever place my entire sexuality inside of. Within my haste, I am thrilled that you exalt in the land of rubbery protection.

Because I don’t trust you.

I don’t trust that small thing inside of me – which is out and in public, being honest. Being earnest. Reverberating in life’s silent exclaims.


Fuck you, cheap sexuality.

Fuck you, everything that pulls me into that stupid place of want and desire – just because I know what you’re wearing underneath.

For the fact that you have spoken any of this to me at all cheapens anything you have to give.

But I, stupid boy, climb into your bed – drunk and dumb and beyond myself.

And while you are the greatest flirt I have ever known, I am embarrassed by the progression of our intimacy.

You play your games and really, I’m willing to see how far you will go.

To my disbelief, you go all the way to fall down, back to the bed, legs spread-open – as though you are some kind of missionary. This when you are nothing more than the collection of chemicals in your head.

You are evolution. A species’ invisible, slow progression. You are reproduction. You are pregnant women and menstruation and gynecologists and everything remedial about sexuality. You are rote.

My cock is not excited. My tongue, bored by your sense of kiss.

You are the worst lover I have ever known.

(And now I see and hear and smell your kind everywhere. Everywhere.)

For while you bark at the world around you to coddle you, to caress you, to tease you, to learn how to give you an orgasm, to be a good lover, an attentive lover – you are the furthest thing from a learned student.


Shh, I have a secret: I come on your face when you’re not looking. You are the filthiest thing I have ever known and I tell you this under my breath when you are not listening (I don’t want to hear your response, really – your girlie, nervous giggle). Because in this dark place with you roaming behind my eyes – for a moment: You are the biggest thing in my life. And then,

I orgasm. And,

My fantasy of you dies a violent death.

Then, finally: You are the most remote of my addiction and reality, at all. You are gone. Away from me, like a fly, buzzing towards death.


In front of your smoky eyes, down wind from your perfume, we talk about the most provocative facets of your being. The biggest secrets. We peel back the paint in the darkest of your corners. We share entire lifetimes in short hours. And I am lead to this place of belief. Of faith. That you will carry me in the same way that I carry you.

But no, in the drunk darkness of your bedroom and its corners, I am lead to a place where I come to know the biggest flirt as the worst lover I have ever taken.

Several years ago and those girls that were willing to speak their dirtiest, darkest fantasies and recollections to me, were the most provocative. The bravest. And for a long while, that pushed me to understand my communications in the most intimate manners. But now,

I am laying in your bed and I feel disgusted: that I am actually dreaming. That I am actually sleeping. That I am worn-out and need a place to sleep at all. Because,

You are no friend of mine, sexuality.

And more than that, you are less interesting in my contemporaries than any book I have ever read.

Certainly, most people grimace at the idea of pornography. They state that it is not interesting. Not really even sexy. Not provocative. They say,

It’s rote. It’s the median. It’s not even interesting.

And so I say: all of these women, all of these interactions – are pornographic.

And I, am a pornographer. By association.

In the mountainous landscape of life, I am but a carver of one cave. One valley. One riverbed. And you, nothing more than wet crease. That decayed den.


I find confessions intriguing. And so,

Where you are but one orgasm, one small fantasy that recedes into the backfold of the ambition of life, I am a fool for believing that you have any faculty to deliver the true gems of real discovery.

And so, I have reached for the heavens – toward love, but only found myself receding away from lust. Because of the ultimate disgust – where I am looking at you, my sexuality – in a black dress with smoky eyes, I am bored.

There is nothing intriguing here.

I am safer alone.

I am safer as both, the hunter and gatherer. The only thing that I can rely upon, at all.

Fuck you sexuality.

Fuck you titillation.

Fuck you, boring girls that I continually meet.

For where lust overwhelms, love is about the only the constant that makes sense.

Show me your light.


•May 11, 2009 • 6 Comments

I am with furious with the world and let my night lead me to your bed of ashes and cigarette smoke.

I follow you down the hallway into your hollow room. With each step the light lowers and my hunger for pummeling something near me just to watch it fall rises in delight. Just because you are near, I measure my fist in relation to your back, your spine, your head, your nose. I want to make you fall if only because you are a woman and, because of that, you are also the representation of my sadistic contempt.

I am hissing with this hunger.

When we were on the couch, you thought I was giving you pleasure. You thought I was fingering your cunt. You though I was tickling your clit. But I was doing little more than stealing as much as I could and measuring your lifeforce through your cunt with my fist and my fury.

As we crawl onto your bed, I am thinking about pounding you through the bed. I am thinking about fucking your legs back until they snap.

My fury is so blind and invisible I can not even speak its first syllable.

Then, we kiss

And somehow that black veil raises its hell from my eyes. It is then that I realize I came only to be touched. That, this is all I needed: to be touched. That, this is all I have wanted: to be touched.

In my fury, I have forgotten about the simplicity of a hand on my chest, measuring my heart’s loping gait. Or fingers laced in mine and engorged lips on my bicep.


There is something perverse about confessions.

I have had to confess many things in my life. As a deviant youth, I was afforded lifetimes of experience because of my libraries of transgressions and subsequent confessions. Even as an adult, I’ve hosted symposiums full of simple confessions alike.

There always was, as there is to this day – a peculiar rush that floods my body, when the time comes to confess. To be even more honest, I have learned that as I am speaking my confession, I am typically only eyeing the threshold instead of hearing what I am actually confessing – that threshold which immediately changes upon the utterance of the confession. This threshold is that delicate place where the blood leaves the body. This is where the music dies. This is the beginning of the sense of complete loss. Profound dread. This line where everything changes, this is what I crave in confession.

This threshold, this change, this confession is the perfect act of violence.

Red death.

Black birth.


We are drunk and spring is supposed to be arriving any day. The sound of your laugh in the complete silence above the rustling of sheets and clothing being peeled off our aging bodies, is sweet – as though it is somehow transformed. Titillated by the hands of something unnamable…

We talk about Latin lovers. Minutes later and we are touching, prodding at our now naked bodies and I remember what my Latin lover showed me. And I want to share it with you. But, I stop in half-motion and lay back into the bed. For there are some things which need their secrecy and shade to grow.

Maybe this is only an excuse – for the truth is that I don’t want to share anything with you. This is not about giving everything to you. This is about stealing a little for my self.

Certainly, you have your ideas about who I am and who came into your bed at all. This when you don’t see the invisible thresholds of the most selfish man in the universe and everything that I have lost, been raped of, and left behind out of stupid ignorance.


Once we begin touching – really touching, the black storm drains from the strangest of places: from behind my knees, the crook of my elbow. And quickly, my fury dissipates as we crawl into one another, naked and locked in some perfect human puzzle.

It is then that I realize that sometimes this is all I really need: to be touched. Skin-on-skin.

I do not whimper, but a tear streams from my eye and rolls off the far side, away from you.


When you wrap your body around me and take me all the way inside, I am stunned at the sensations that flood my body. It’s as though I have jumped into the shocking frigidity of some great, unnamable ocean. Your touch is wholly new and I can feel you in every vacant space between my fingers.

For a moment I think about the bliss that has invaded me so violently. We push and pull at our symphony of want and restraint and boundaries and everything stolen from our lives as you writhe and gyrate while I am sucking your juices from you. Like a thief, I am pulling life from you. Juice, from you.

Your legs squeeze my ears, blinding me. Alas, the magic trick is complete. You don’t know me and I know nothing about you except for this tattoo which circles your stomach and that empty place where you were once able to give birth.


In the morning you tell me to come inside you.

Where love is the most selfish emotion that we own, I can think of nothing more violent. I can think of no greater gesture, to come inside you – as if my come is my scream and the sound of our bodies pounding furiously together is all the applause we will ever receive. So, I fuck you longer. Harder.

I watch your stomach rise and fall, the muscles flexing and flinching, polished as though you were bred for this. As though you were bread for my hunger. Meat for my table. Lessons for my life. Sustenance for my growth. A knife for my death and a grave for my rotting.


More than likely, I hate you. I despise everything about you. If not now, soon. I will – hate you – soon. In the morning, you make lamb sausage and scrambled eggs and coffee and we eat this at your dining room table. But it is snowing outside and I begin to seethe again.

But you cannot see this. This darkness. Where I am burnt. Nobody has seen this. For I have confessed much, in front of courts and classrooms of eyes and ears – but not one person has ever come to this conclusion. Not one person has ever even slipped with mention of this feeling that drives the pounding of this meat, the devouring of this nasty emotion. I have walked for years to stand here, for this confession:

In that same way that a narcissist possesses a dark side of inadequacy beneath – I too hate so much around me in that same way that makes me punch every mirror I pass.

I have pointed and fingered and fucked full of blame those that wear their anger on their beard like a unfinished meal – all when:

In the slushy remains of winter, where spring and green should be – there is only sloppy snow. A cold day. And my confession that I am the angriest man I know.

The Most Selfish Man in the Universe

•May 11, 2009 • 2 Comments

There once was a man who cried and wept and yelped and decreed: All I do, I do for you. This man, naked under his crimson robe, was incessant in his pleas. He said things like: I want only the best for you. Anything less is unacceptable.

The man bellowed things like:

I cannot live without you. With you, I am stronger.

When not howling and heaving, the man uttered phrases like:

It pains me when you are away. I miss you when you are not around. I do not know what to do with myself even when you are near.

The man sometimes sobbed in song. He would say:

When you hurt, I ache in pain. When you fall, I tumble from the cliffs of Dover.

Where this man initially reveled in the joy of a beginning and a the provenance of relationship and the triumph of the human spirit, he now only sat with his arms crossed, crying and mumbling about his lack of breath. His dearth of life. The futility in living at all. This man, sucked every good molecule from every living being around him.

This man went by the name of the first human plague, the first fit of evolution into this advanced mammalian state. This man, went by the name of the most selfish of all emotions. This man’s name was worst possible combination of any four letters.

This man’s name was Love.