Some Kinda Love, Some Kinda Hate

Look, its not like I cant get a good woman, I can and I have. I have found smoking hot vampire girls all over the fuckin world and I have given it to em good, real good, so good. Yes, I have walked where eagles dare and I have lived to tell it. I was just sitting here though, rubbing my muscular arms, when it occurred to me, "hey, when are you gonna settle down?" I mean, hell, Ive been spreading my evil seed from Jersey to Brussels for thirty something years, ya know? So, yeah, Iam lookin for someone who can settle down and be in a monogamous, committed, and admittedly evil relationship.

A little about me:
- I love to read! Favorites include The Necronomicon; Dante's Inferno; Dracula; Goethe; The Werewolf; Occult Roots of Naziism. You know, just various books on death and the anthropology of evil. Stuff most churches wouldn’t want you to know about.
- Gloves. It may sound strange, but its really cool. I got these gloves made for me that have metal over the knuckles. Someone messes with me, they get knocked right out!
- Music. This is a really big part of my life. I love everything from Black Flag to The Flight of the Valkyries. I enjoy early rockabilly, old school punk, heavy fuckin metal, opera, and even some rap music (my friends say it aint music, but what do they know?).
But hey, I am a regular guy, and I have a sweet side too. I love puppies! I also LOVE sweets! Cant get a fuckin nuff of em.

About you:
- Fuckin' hot.
- Down to fuck.
- Evil in the streets, eviler in the sheets.
- Fuckin' smokin' hot, and evil.
- Well read.

So yeah, if youre down to party, hit me up.

"G"

Such...

So yeah, it was pleasant enough fucking you although you never turned me on. I could never quite understand how you could have such perfect hair (so long, so soft, so reminiscent of my early teen crushes, light lowlights, fabulous in ponytail pulled tight from your forehead or curled and pressed on your thin and regal neck), such perfect breasts (overflowing c-cup, light pink fifty cent piece areola, and strong brown dimpled nipples, erect and proud), such a wonderful bottom (bell-shaped from any angle, tight, yet soft to the pinch, light brown like coffee with cream), strong athletic legs, plump lips, elegant latin nose, topped off by the deepest darkest brown eyes and forest-like expanse of black lashes.

And yet, you never turned me on.

It could have been the way those large lips steeled to the touch, preventing passionate make-out sessions unless plied with prose poetry or chavelas.

Perhaps it was hearing the daily, incessant shit-talking about all of your "best" friends at work, at different intervals implying or outright stating that they were obsessed and or stalking you. And then smiling in their faces and sending happy face messages through the wires.

Maybe it was because of all the times we made love to one another, and your version of passion was cradling my face in your small hands (unbelievably small, hands that were made for nothing if not playing piano), while whispering "te amo, mi amor, te amo", and biting down on your lower lip. Yet nothing else but the time I bent you over at that hotel in San Francisco, when we made love twice that night and again in the morning.

You were simply so cold.

And maybe, just maybe, I should have taken your frigid, whimpering, whispering, death-act of fucking for what you are.

Lifeless.

Desperately Seeking Nothing

There was once a man, similar to myself, just out of a terrifying, soul-crushing break-up, who posted a delightfully zany and remarkably charming ad on craigslist; he even attached his picture! And then, this gorgeous asian girl responded. She spoke of punk rock, metal, literature, and textiles. She also had an ass that spoke. Naturally, this man (who I do not know, just know of) thought "Well, isnt this somethin'?"Thinking it would blossom into something nice, you know "nice", he responded back and they saw one another a few times, had amazing sex, and were totally casual. Then, I hear tale, she stopped talking to him because she was getting back together with her ex, "stalker" boyfriend. Interesting, right? This man that I speak of, he found this out on facebook, the Philip Marlowe of cyberspace, yet inanimate.

So he said, "Aw, fuck it."

Now, if I were him (and I am not, mind you), I would write out a comprehensive list of requirements for the next female he plans on "giving it to". The list for the females:

- Do you have any diseases? Because, you know, I am a fan of my penis and do not want to lose it.
- Are you a liar? I do not mean exaggerating one bra size up, or using hyperbole in the correct context, but rather sleeping with people, being a cheater, etc. Now, remember, its very important youre honest with yourself to begin with.
- Are you morbidly obese? Is it a medical condition? No? Then put down that fucking burrito.
- Republican, conservative, libertarian? Commonly refer to Mexicans as wetbacks? Blacks as niggers? Go masturbate to Bill O'reilly.
- Enjoy The Misfits? (bonus points for telling me the only legitimate era of Misfits)
- Enjoy doing drugs? If you are over 21 and you still do drugs, you are either an addict by now, or fucking stupid. Think about it.
- Enjoy drinking beer? Sweet!
- You may not be jealous. Not even a bit. Completely a waste of time.
- You should be fit, and you should be hot, because I am, and thats fair.

Also, if I fuck you the first night I meet you, chances are we arent "relationship" material.

Kisses.

pop culture

yeah, pop culture, yeah yeah yeah. but i dont really ruminate on pop culture. not really my lane. no, really.

yes, i live in the internet, and every day i read byron crawford, dallas penn, jeff weiss, and illseeds rumors. combat jack has been killing it as of late as well. now, this being said, i often comment on what THEY write, and therein lay my ruminations on pop culture.

what the fucks a pop culture? why are we so obsessed with the actions of others? i understand that we have always had an obsession with the actions of others -- from trying to hear the neighbors argument, to barber shop chisme, to lying about getting to third base, to this horrid and face-meltingly insidious time of "reality" programming and perez hilton (ever shat while puking?).

is our collective obsession growing, or is this simply a reflection of how quickly we are able to send and receive information? is it both? opinions?

homecoming

Room blank and white and brown with peeling paint and stacks of miscellaneous books and magazines, five students remain fixed into their punishment, unable to detach themselves from in house suspension, all because of blue jeans or classroom disruptions or gang affiliated attire or truancy or cracking wise, while regretting not missing class but missing class time with friends and enemies alike.

Across campus in a room ten by ten square foot prison cell sits an ever-widening woman who has let herself widen through engagement and the knowledge that she has broken so many hearts. She either cares or she does not, but so she widens. Across the mans hand he sees four white hairs, visible only to him now, and the man feels that they must have been there for quite some time, hiding until exactly the right moment to show him their age. The man wonders why they chose this strange homecoming to lay bare and shining in the light.

So many have approached the man to offer words of sympathy, and hugs but none of them seem very sincere, the words, the hugs falling face forward and head bent as if to say yes we are down too your problems concern us only in that they make us think of our own. They sigh and hug and smile and walk on after making photo copies.

Thank you, says the man, and turns to find portable B-5.

this heat

out this window are pink trumpets and fat bees. it is the retirement house my parents have built and have yet to retire in, substitute teaching and heading up a non-profit for immobile geriatrics. as we were driving back from the pool, nestled in a haunted and tetanus inducing "resort", my daughter says to me, "dad, it's so wavy." yes, the curving mountain roads overlooking the algae cloaked lake, and the lazy bands of heat drifting up from them; both wavy.

i know why the bees move so slow. they are not just pregnant with the pink fruit of flowers. this heat. it's this heat! as olive oil warms it slides out of the bottle, it skates across the rink of the pan. olive oil is not a living thing, and unlike olive oil, this heat moves me real slow, as if wearing three shirts and two pairs of slacks, waiting for the bus by roadside at 7am for school in the upper penisula of michigan; every move feels very deliberate. the bee flies very deliberately.

everyone in this house is asleep: daughter, mother, sister. not everyone. i am not asleep. i am sitting in a black leather chair, watching my bright fingernails walk across a sparkling set of keys, neck hairs air-conditioned and erect, two panes of glass a formidable foe to this heat, smiling as i watch these fat, lazy bees slowly dance from one pink flower to the next and casually stealing fruit.

what i have studied

Have studied: smoking, burnt urethane upon pebbled pavement, glorious thrash with grimace and skin-loss while sweating under Florida sun; losing face on Italian Florentine cobble, each cobble a curb, not enough ollies for rescue, miniature car careening around corners as drunk as an 18 year old American whore, dig cobble from palms, left leg fever pump toward the Duomo; a champion of steel, risen above, 18 feet of death, no helmet, amongst young trees and ancient pubs, this hulking steel beast, one foot on deck, two feet on deck, over edge and plummet to flat, not feeling arms while driving back to Shefford;