Phineas and Ferb
The winds are a blowin’ here, dust devils, baby, dust devils. Juniper branches smack against air, send a stupor-cloud of orange pollen attaching tentacle-pores into more nostrils than coke snorted through the entire 80’s.
But this is another story of flight. Not the kind jetting us over ridges to flatlands or blasting us through dreams.
I found him in a bar sucking down bottles of Bud. Skillful, pristine, wild-eyed. A potent mountain of a man. His legs carried their own legends, holding ground like landscapes. A beard that dared subterfuge, dismissed the septic-city-chit-chat shit, distorted egos. He was no stranger to an outhouse.
I sat down across from him. We studied each other. I said, “Let’s do it.” He nodded, propped his elbow on the table. I did the same. We clasped hands. My arm was shrub brush, his a giant evergreen. My face puffed up, his remained unrestrained.
He let me struggle a while, then swiftly took me down, let me go. I projectiled, soared through empty space. Just as my head was about to hit the bathroom door, someone opened it. I slid on to filthy linoleum.
Damn! Don’t ever pass up free flight from a mountain man.
Baby & Other Stories
yes, i am smoking this cigarette because i think its romantic. you win.
i'm smoking this cigarette because i'm forever unsure of what the fuck to do with my hands when they're not pressing hard into the taut skin on your upper arms and shoulders. i cried today in the pharmacy and no one noticed so i stole a nail polish, it was named 'bare bones' and its title did it justice. it doesn't matter, it's not important.
just everybody fuck off with your needs and your slow shaking heads. look me in the eyes. because all the people i used to know are all having babies and i just write poem after poem after poem about dead ones. today driving on route 212, this song came on that i knew, for sure, i had not heard for two whole years, two years ago, laying on a surgical bed covered in paper.
i was going faster than 55 miles per hour and the speed limit was 40.
i knew there was no god, lying there on that surgical bed, god would never speak this loudly. through how many realms of reality did that specific song have to pass through to find me there then? right there with the doctors hands all over me and the crackling paper.
i know what i wrote, when i wrote about it but the truth is i kept playing that song after it came on, i kept hitting backwards so it would go again, circles around to where it was before, so i hope to see you soon in some other form.
passing every road sign in the car today my throat was filled with hummingbirds that know to never stop moving, or else. "or else," they say to me. cop cars passed me by one by one but never pulled me over.
david foster wallace
Girls like me don’t go out on boats for fun. We work crew on our Uncle’s seiner. The fish smell doesn’t leave our skin till November. By then it’s almost time to go crabbing in on the coast.
This season we will stay home with the dogs. Wake up at 3 to make the coffee and hope that’s all the boys need to stay awake. If we find ourselves on a sailboat on a sunny day, it’s because some asshole wants a blow job. They’re all topsiders and corona with lime. We’re all flip flops and halter tops.
I’m only easy on a solo craft. Yellow kayak on Dabob Bay. The water is dead underneath but don’t tell the kids. I am 31 years old and I still have to be home in time for dinner.
Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self
On the night I get my first period, Momma takes me to the bathroom, sits me down. She runs the sink faucet until the water’s hot, holds my pajama bottoms beneath, scrubs with soap until the water’s pink, tells me what she calls, woman things. She says my body can have babies now, is getting ready to be a wife, mother when I’m older, but I must keep away from things that are not of God—the pill, because it won’t let the baby attach to the walls of the womb and it would die—abortions, because when the doctor scrapes the baby out, he cuts out all the things that make babies, too—pregnancy before I am married, because the baby would have a different blood type than me, die when it’s born. Momma scrubs hard as she talks, long after the water runs clean, looks down at the sink, her hands, herself in the mirror, but she never tells me how she knew these things.
He studied the images on his computer screen. Even when they pixilated and blurred, he knew it was Catherine he was watching. By now, they’d been dating for a couple weeks, but he’d been nursing a crush on her for months before that.
“Oh, baby…” she whispered.
He listened to her moans. The grunts of her ex-boyfriend, who he recognized from pictures. They whispered things to each other. He played this part again and listened, wanting to hear them so badly.
Hips gyrating forwards and back. Her toes curling one by one.
And just like every other time he watched, the video ended before the climax. The website suggested other clips of interest: cute gf riding, white girl on huge cock, hardcore interracial couple – all of which he’d already seen.
He opened another tab on Explorer and searched for the second half. He was supposed to call Catherine and invite her over, but there was always some other time, some time later. The video re-started and he clicked back, more than content with what he had. Even if to others it wasn’t much.
“Oooh… oh, baby.”
Kafka On the Shore
Death is a selfish act and that’s why everyone does it. You will have no excuse when you don’t. And you’ll think about this fact every time you’re finger fucked, with every grimy digit tunneling into your special wet. And you’ll think it’s pleasant, like a bleeding relief worth a few hundred dollars. And still raw from his touch, you’ll get home push that button again and again, while his friends sniff his fist and he thinks about nothing. If you light yourself on fire your mother will join a TV panel discussion. Her hair and make-up will be perfect. And the episode will win an Emmy, but you’ll still be the girl of his jack off nightmares. And forever you’re going to be special, so tangy, so green. Remember, you only get one first time. So try everything once, twice if we’re talking acid. And just like that song about how many times you were a lady, a bowling ball has the same number of fuckable holes.
A Soft Touch from The Acid House
Me and two buddies of mine, we heard from this guy in the neighborhood that a girl named Linda had pounds of pot stashed under her bed in a black suitcase. Now Linda, she was one of them goddam phone sex operators. So one night when she wasn’t home we broke into the house through an open window. We looked under the bed and didn’t find no black suitcase but there was a raggedy brown one. So we took it, went back to Tommy’s house thinking we were gonna get fucked up on all of that bud. Well, we went out to Tommy’s garage and decided to open the bag, but we didn’t find no pot, just battery operated dicks. Yeah, a bag full of dildos! Big ones, little ones, black ones, glass ones, all kinds. She even had one with a pull cord like a goddam lawn mower. So we decided to make two lines about five feet apart with some old can of red spray paint from the garage. We each picked a dildo, lined up all of the goddam things in a row. Then we turned them on and had a big ol’ race to see which one was the fastest.