In Follet's Eye of the Needle there was hot sex between a spy and a housewife. Then, when she finds him out she slams the window on his fingers and there is tons of blood. In fact, he loses a finger. I don't know if he really would have killed her, but it seemed like he was going to. The feeling was: he was the best sex she ever had.
He suggested that we simultaneously existed in a film version of ourselves. In this version we were paid to kill one another. Life, after life, he said. He was never going to love me, that farmer.
Q: Who made the other half of the baby I saw floating in the corridorof the mansion-on-tour? Q: Who made us and unmade us? A: you. A: you.
In first grade Jean-Pierre had perfectly straight dark bangs and he was smart in everything where I was only smartest at reading. When he looked at me I felt drumming hearts in my hands and feet. He hardly ever did look at me.
In high school he was in my Russian class and he got to go on the class trip to St. Petersburg but I didn't because there wasn't any money. I dreamed of getting to know him in Moscow.
(a leftover dream)
They were Gemini-twined, they were hay-blond, I mean honey, Honey. It was sad, like childhood. I laid in wait to see them pass. I wanted them to ask me to go with them, but this never happened. The blood flowing through their Siamese canal was the color of that sound.
-- June grasshoppers, outside a window in a house that a ghost burned down in '76
There are many lovers I might have taken. I haven't even met all of them yet. I'm married now and have vowed to have only the one. Besides, I once took a lover just because I enjoyed watching a shopping cart rattle across a snowy parking lot. That one ended badly.
You know the score, you, at one point say: I'm done. That was enough for a whole life's worth. Yes, but how will you die now? There is a slipping scarlet chord. It lashes as a broken animal that will shit, then expire. It undoes my mouth into a pile of broken letters.
in & out of language (this life)
I think the words "best" and "friend" are like a sweet little cage we lower over someone. We put soft pillows down and heaps of colorful blankets, provide snacks, music and windows. In the cage we say loving things and understand exactly. But later, that love becomes a razor and it wants to cut the others from you. That love becomes a poison working slow to siphon you. That love writes letters, makes phone calls, weeps, saying: mine mine mine mine mine mine mine.
I get paid to describe pain. It is what I do. When I tell you this, in my most sultry voice, yes, you say, true. Fuck you for buying into the myth & fuck you for needing to keep it that way.
Sometimes when everyone puts their palms out to compare lines she has to look away. No matter where she goes, her lifeline is always the longest one.
Don't complain, my mother says, you choose this life, you choose this polygamist life.
Lately I've started to dream of leaving. Of going to the grocery store and never coming back. Sensing this you say, remember family is the most important thing and you are part of this family and we will always be a family, forever, even in heaven.
If they are stupid, I can't fuck them. If they are mean, I can't fuck them. If they are greedy, I can't fuck them. If they are ignorant, I can't fuck them. If they are drunk, I can fuck them. If they are undeveloped-with-potential I can fuck them. If they are high, I can fuck them. If they are funny, I can fuck them. If they are overweight I can fuck them. If they are good kissers, I can fuck them. If they are lunatics, I can fuck them. If they are flirtatious, poor, wealthy, of different ethnic background, or smell a little odd, and so on, I can fuck them.
Anyways, some people can hide their meanness until after.
I was there, even then – in the arch of her back that spring afternoon. I was in a hospital, bleeding, but I was there.
A friend gave me a picture of a man with his long penis tied in a knot. I kept it in my kitchen junk drawer and every time I saw it I liked to think about the man tying his penis up like that and then posing for a photo. I've known so many others basically afflicted in the same way.
The pornographic man says to the pornographic woman: with your whole body. And she does, I mean with her whole body.
Her body becomes the middle part of a butterfly, stuck in a curve. Everything, at this angle, is at a slight curve. And thus corresponds. At the utmost top of the lilt, what happens? What is there.
I postulate: historical figures.
Porn is haunted with historical figures. They roam those paper thin rooms their figures cutting paths between the porn voice banter. They are looking for the history books so they can slide in and go back to sleep again.
Here is a woman pretending not to know that the "dance try-outs" are for an all nude review. But she and the judge can "work something out." She's a teen who needs cash & all around them, the translucent men of Ponce de Leon marching through, and then the conquistador himself. He has an exhausted look on his face. At this point he has discerned there is no fountain of youth.
Trolls were ugly because they had warts, many hairs in the wrong places, outsized body parts. They were ugly because their voices were graveled or furred. They were ugly because they wanted to harm us when we crossed the bridge.
Would the man have killed the woman? It did seem like he was going to. Would she have preferred to die?
Well, it is never easy loving a spy, a man of espionage. He must always change so that he will not be caught.
There is a song about using your pussy like a tractor pull. I've done this before, and sometimes without meaning to.
You have said this to me. Except you didn't say tractor pull,you said tractor beam. And every time you said it I imagined a green John Deere tractor in a Delta cotton field, at night, with a light on its hood the size of the sort one associates with a lighthouse. The light, so big that the tractor can barely proceed. It is not an enjoyable image, but one of suffering. Watching something strain to carry something that is so very large.
In all the pictures of the Virgin Mary after the Ascension she looks serene and calm. I think some integral part of her was killed off in that union.
Some part of her would have to be removed to fit all that God.
Actually, I have had sex with God (this is not a lie).
He shot through me and a flower bloomed out of my mouth, then fell to the floor and broke like a pane of glass.
I would say that he was completely there, but also distant. I would say that his love was impersonal, but thorough.
I would say God is definitely into sex, and in a regular guy kind of way.
After, he got dressed and said he had to go back to work. In that moment He reminded me of Jim for this is what Jim would do. Honestly, I was a little bit surprised by this.
I don't feel disappointed, but I don't know what it is I actually feel. I feel like a look I would sometimes see on my grandmother's face. I miss her.
Before her see-through body stood and walked away from her regular body she told me: teeth, ghosts communicate to us through our teeth.
When you grit them to the maw, when you bear them down, you can feel them --tapping out the code.
