long term effects are not known

There was one like this.
some blog about movies, panties, music and cigarettes. Some shit about Friday nights and hair clips. It wasn't so much bragging but it was about fucking too. not like porn. not like just all memories either. I mean you didn't know if it happen yesterday or today. I think all the sex stuff was just to piss some people off though, I cant be sure.

It's like about hotel rooms and smoke and wine all over the page. It's the little things that count. It's what it means to you and not them that matters most. I know if you tried to figure it out (the words) it would just hurt your head. You'd just end up in tears. feeling sad about something you didn't do. something just short of obsession. something or someone you couldn't ever have. I'm not sure, but I think that's what all the writing was about.

People change though, I'll give you that. But you go back every once in awhile and he'll still be talking about the same shit. Missing the same fucked up girl. Spilling his heart all over the page like the worst country love song. I want to tell this guy , It will get better. but I know it won't. It's something to talk about and sometimes you just say things to hear how they sound. I get the idea I love you is just one of them.

The pictures aren't that good though. Not like here. fuck. the words aren't so great either. but what I admire is that he tries. He doesn't care if he gets any ones attention. not hers, not yours, not mine.

You see, there was one like this. A lot like this.

It is this.

your back roads.
they twisted and turned
it was a fine night.
the other night.
The next night.
tomorrow
night.

sex in dirty water

This is Florida and the heat gets to you. In the summer, the humidity sticks to your skin, it chokes you so you can hardly breathe. Growing up, my parents rarely turned on the A\C. When my Mom couldn't stand it any longer my Dad would argue, curse and complain and then give in. Look how much these kids are costing him was what he'd say. He would flick the switch on the thermostat and then the rattle and hum from the side of the house. Under my window. But still, it never dropped to any real comfortable level.

I spent nights, hot, laying on top of my sheets. Ceiling fan turning fast above my head. It made this terrible sound as if it was would drop down from the sky at any moment. I was afraid to sleep. Afraid I'd wake up in the morning with a missing arm or leg. dismemberment seemed worse than being hot. So I turned it off. I think that's when my insomnia started.

I liked summer vacations. I couldn't wait for school to end. We took a family trip every summer. I didn't care where. I just wanted to get away and be someplace else. new people, new things to see, smell and taste.
hotels. I liked them- especially. I was allowed to turn the a\c down as low as I wanted. Jump on the bed, swim all day in the pool.
I'd get back from swimming and open the door, that rush of cold air in my face, all over my body. My parents left a note saying they were out site-seeing. I got into my bed and under the covers. My skin burned from the sun, still wet and smelling of chlorine. Everything seemed so perfect. 2 months off before school started again. The t.v. was on. I liked the sound of the air conditioner mixed with the voices on the T.V. It was peaceful. I pulled the covers over my head. touching myself. I thought about girls, cars, halloween, the fourth of july and what we might have for dinner. *


I make no
apologies
for how I choose
to repair
what you
broke

Her room. It was fragrant: somebody else's house. It reminded me of coming home from vacation and walking in the door of my own house, and smelling it as if i was a stranger entering for the first time. I felt like a ghost who had come back, not to haunt, but merely to remember the world as it once was.

credits:

art by: art and ghosts

photo 3: lefthandedsweat

compliments make me lie to you

for instance, once I blurred the line between reality and dreaming. perhaps even between right and wrong , good and evil. I have these urges. we all do. my lucid dreaming becomes lucid thinking, then I wonder if it's a dream at all. when i wake up, if I wake up. will this be real? I ask myself, can I do this?. except I don't ask. I just do it.

how rare was it when her kiss could get me as drunk as wine. how rare was it that i could say or do whatever i wished to do to you. to her. and she took it. she liked it. she'd come to me for more. she wore scars like badges.
and the marks and bruises.
her boyfriend didn't notice.
but I was her boyfriend. i was supposed
to be.

sometimes my chemicals will mix with the right person and I don't act as i normally would. I don't stop when I am supposed to. when I should. when you think I won't- I will. when you should be careful what you wish for.
I do. i take more chances. not less. I don't feel safe or in control. I cut the ropes. I am not afraid to admit it. I fall, without nets. without protection. I won't use it. just me and my god. me and my luck.

i know instantly the pretty face, the smile, her curves, tits, hair, voice, hands, mouth. I know who can just fuck me right up. I know her. And I know she likes the things i say too. the dirty things.
If it would be rough. If it would be real or pretend and if it didn't matter. you know me. you should. this is real. I am you.
or I love you. I'm not sure which.

when it happen I was taking a course at the local community college. It's at night and we are only into the first week. After class we make the walk to our cars. under moonlight. under the glow of metal halide lamps. dull beaming light on the parking lot. She shouldn't have taken her time like she did. but I knew she wanted me to catch up. I knew she was waiting for me. And it's odd - these times like this. the times when you just aren't quite sure. because its late and you're tired. and you get under the dark sky and fucking moon is watching you and you stare back and feel small. you feel like time is slipping away.

she waited for me. her back against a creamy egg shell painted wall. against the building just before you are under the moon. just before you reach the grass, then black-top, then parked cars. My parked car, and hers. but you can see the sky and the moon from here, and the lights shining down on shale rock asphalt.

I stared at the chips of paint peeling from the wall, the color underneath. I tried to see through her. A stranger. We had never spoke. Just eyes. Just chemicals. Just me watching her in class, her watching me. I walked over, put down my back-pack, pressed her against the wall and kissed her. she let me.
and this was one of those moments when I didn't think is she married? is this a dream? because if it's not you can't do this. Will she scream?, will she kick me?, will she try to run?.

her arms were around my neck, her legs spread slightly apart.
she kissed me back. her tongue, and her lips, and her mouth.
I don't know how long we stayed like that. but i tried not to breathe. tried not to come up for air. Her eyes were closed. I wondered if she thought- had she opened them, would she wake up. find herself at home, alone in her bed or next to him. 3 a.m.
would she wonder how i got there. in her dream. how i became her ghost.

but now, caught in the moment. caught in the half light between moving pictures, and sounds.
I heard nothing. between our bodies and the heat. my heart racing. she felt it. in my chest. something real. and It stopped.
It just stopped.

credits-
photo1: missmillieclaire
dalaiharm
make-up by cloe
photo2: found at http://www.ellf.ru/
photo3: Orevivre

photo4: found on tumblr

No pictures

there was blood on the white tile floor. smeared along the base-board- up the wall. I thought.. Oh no...and wondered if it was the rain cloud. Friday. this bad luck. the 13th. how does one get to believe in such things?
I arrived to work and there was glass from the front office door everywhere. exploded by a brick that lay near by. We have an alarm. it was still armed. Don't ask me how that happens. Glass and blood on the floor. Don't ask me why it's worth it. I know things are tough out there. I'm not blind. the sense of doom in the air with the gas prices and all the other shit. you can feel it. I know 4 people who have been robbed in the last month. people who have jobs and are trying to make money. to get by. Blood.Good it hurt a little. If it's worth it. It should. It does.
now what's missing?. secretary doesn't have a computer or monitor any longer. drawer open. no more stamps either. no boom-box to listen to her country music, no little desk fan that used to blow on her face, no company cell-phone. But the chinese lucky-cat I put up on the counter for good-luck is still there. You don't fuck with luck-cat. He saw who did it. cursed is what i say. if you believe in such things.
nothing taken from my office or anything from the warehouse. a smash and grab.
Do I consider myself lucky? Is this what I do?.
It is what I do. Everything that happens to me is the best possible thing that can happen to me.
I've practiced living that for months now. For the rest of my life. The blood, a little revenge.

Police came, dusted for prints. Door is ply-wood for now. Glass is on order. Security sensors added. Clean the floor. clean the stains. everything keeps going. everyone keeps going. I keep going. I keep dreaming. I keep waking up.
Everyday. Coming back for more.
coming for you.

art by:
1. Mike Egan
2. James Jean

girls guns glory

her hair in braids.
the way she talked to me,
with all her sayings.
shaking it out. shaking her hair out.
spilling over me, baby
you and
her and I
with the twisty tied lies. all of it didn't matter.

loved the way you said my name. the way you wouldn't say it.
how you still think it.
the way you flicked your ashes. stuck out your tongue.
how you didn't talk to much, or to little.
there are plenty more pretty girls.
sad faced
broken,
happy
to this summer
of discontent.
this is what I always say. .
but you are mine. that's everything. that was like

everything.

I wake up. it's quarter to three in the morning and she isn't next to me. I become shadow, when you tell me to let it go. words when you give me the lines. Everything is different. It's always different. the music, the writing, the weather, the price of gasoline, the diamond rings, the bottles drank, the night, the moon.

the hole. the void. the river of doubt.

denial.

It's easy, everyone can do it.

when it's right in front of me. when its in my grasp and my claws have sunk in. i taste it. I have tasted it. the trickle.

the drop of

every moment.

I'm not in for changing to much. but things change and you can't do much about it. the heart changes and I'm not sure if I can do this much longer. Or my Job. it's slow. everything is slow out there. in construction, which is what i do. it's feast or famine. when everything is on the line and it's on you. when there is nothing left there to be had. there is other stuff. things i can do. money is everywhere. hustle and jive and bullshit your way to it. I can do that. It's just you get used to certain things. certain someones and somethings. my dog isn't there anymore. he was a good friend. she used to be friendly too. when it's over lovers aren't your friends. and your friends. they aren't your friends. after that
there is me.

art: Brian Viveros

photo 2: dirtycupcake
photo 3: pinkluv

The sweetest taboo

yes. pancakes. I tell her pancakes for sure. breakfast is her thing. I stay in bed. warm and listening to soft alt country music. sun coming through the window. summer days. slow. summery smells and humidity. the a/c clicks on and the air is cool the hum. the hum of switches and fuses.

I hear clicks and clanks in the kitchen. I imagine she wears an apron. tussled hair. dripping pancake batter. it sizzles and pops. blue-berry. maple syrup. i can almost taste them.

she comes into the room with lemonade. fresh squeezed. she says. but i know it's crystal lite. I ask if she used three lemons or four. I ask what she wants to do today and she climbs on top of me.

the beach, or thrift stores, food shopping, doing the lawn, watching t.v., book stores, comic shops, surfing, driving, going in the pool, bbq, holding hands, making-out, Frisbee, drumming, kung-fu, parks, .......... summer is hot and slow and I don't want to do anything, say anything, write anything. I like music, books and breezes. I like the ocean. not sharks. I like the way jellyfish look drifting toward the sunlight. almost invisible. sometimes i wish I were.
invisible.
I am sleepy. reality bores me. I like her voice, and her hands and her fixin breakfast.



photo5: its-kitsch

in the ditch

we laid together
talking about the stars, talking about summers when our parents would take us camping.
she told me about the boys she met along the way, and I told her stories about girls. kisses, stars, arcades, night-swimming, churches, carnivals. how everyone seemed friendlier than in our own home-towns. how she used to count the days until school started again, and how I didn't.

her parents dragged her out west to camp out in Texas, Utah, Arizona.
I went to Carolina, Virginia, and Rhode Island. those highways, and back-roads, pork n beans, sleeping bags, rivers, mountains, and streams. flat tires, southern drawls, country music fading in and out of radio static.

I said we should go somewhere. right now!. we should take our sleeping bags and let's hop in my truck.
and she said, yeah, with the g.p.s, mp3 players, bbq, wifi, hifi, beer, wine, and fishing poles. Then drive right up to the hotel and.......she's kinda funny
sometimes.

and then touching me, through the darkness
saving me the trouble of hiding
my insecurities,
she tells me I'm pretty, feels for my bruised knuckles-(another story). my hands are warm. then she asks,
"have you ever gotten your hands dirty?"
I reached out, touching her throat.
is this dirty
enough.

she enjoys the smell of smoke. camp- fire. the way her Dad made her hot-dogs. overcooked and a little black. just how she liked them. now she doesn't even eat meat. but they make those vegetarian ones. I try to make them the same. she says to me..."make them how i like Daddy.

I tell her about the lake I used to swim in. There was a rope-swing. I'd climb high using the wood pegs someone had nailed into the tree. Then swing out and drop into the murky water. I was afraid of alligators. would one be waiting for me on the bottom?. waiting to sink those teeth in into my flesh. thrash me around , tear me open, pull me under. I thought of all this while still in the air. waiting for the fall. willing myself to freeze time so I'd be suspended above the water. I thought about not letting go of the rope. Knowing if i did that, I'd swing back and hit the tree real hard. The other kids waiting a turn would laugh and call me names. I'd hit the tree with a thud and just slide down with my breath knocked out of me. Id fall into the shallow bank of dirty water anyway. I know. because I saw it happen to another kid. what was i more afraid of?. what the hell are we all afraid of? being laughed at or being bitten in half by a gator.

what you have to do is, find out on your own that the fall isn't so bad. sometime- you just have to. you hit the water and feel that rush. how it's cool and tingly on your skin. for however long it lasts. it's worth it. like that first sip of an ice cold beer. like playing hank williams after your girl-friend dumps you. it might hurt you a little bit, but in the end it's worth it.
is it? you have to let go off the rope and hope for the best. every-one is watching. you get the big splash and the sink to near bottom. It could be spectacular. It could be tragic. regardless. odds are you don't die. not yet. It's harder than you think to die. broken hearts don't kill you, being a fool, mistakes. on the outside, at least. you are okay.
you know how I dream of tornadoes?
sometimes,
I dream about alligators too.

1. art:
Mike Egan
photos:
2.heliumglow
3. unknown
4.cloud-room