Archive | July, 2011

Nutsack Girl

28 Jul

She carried a bag of nuts with her wherever she went. One day I asked her about them and this is what she told me. “These are not your ordinary nuts. These nuts are hard to crack. Some are shaped oddly, some have a thick outer shell, some are slippery and well, you get the point. The fact is that these nuts are a lot like people and I carry this bag around to remind me of that. You have to have just the right tool and just the right technique to crack these nuts. If you don’t do it right, you stand a good chance of getting hurt. Or worse, hurting the tender meat that is sustenance inside the shell.”

Then she lit up a joint and I knew our conversation, at least the part that made sense was now over. “So here’s how it works, sis. Every day I take out one of these nuts and study it just like this.” She slid her long arm bronzed from daily exposure into the small opening she had created by pushing two fingers of each hand into the tiny hole drawn tight by a double drawstring at the top of the bag and gently massaged it open as if she were pulling back the red velvet curtains of a tiny stage. She never looked inside. Letting her arm relax, I could see her wrist and hand begin to writhe inside the bag like arachnid acid. She was getting off on the feeling of the nuts passing between her fingers as she grasped a bunch and let them fall or just let her hand pass underneath them, through them; sensing this one and that with only the deft touch of her left hand. The sound was quite entrancing from my end but that was not her gig. She loved to touch and she was good at it. She continued on like this for some time, letting out a squeal when her hand, which now seemed separated from the rest of her, found some tactile treasure and felt it necessary to share that pleasure with the brain. Her brain was now in a fog so deep it would take hours for her to come back up. She could still register pleasure and pain without the tedious business of thought to bog the whole mechanism down and this is exactly where she sought to be when she got high.

She touched something she liked. I gauged this from her reaction. Her body never lied when she was in this state. She could hide nothing. The tone was lazy this time and more like a moan that she maintained at a lower octave than the others as if to say, oh now this is the one. Then, lazily she threw her head back and with it the hair that had been shielding her face like blinders on a Thoroughbred about to race the Dubai World Cup. Her perfect face now flushed with excitement over the tiny nut she would remove from the bag and attempt to crack. There was a moment of sheer silliness when she realized she had gripped the thing so tightly that her fist made it impossible for her to get her hand out of the hole she had created earlier. She wasn’t tender this time. She pulled the bottom of the bag with her right hand and without loosening her grip, yanked her left fist out of the top, leaving a red mark around the base of her hand where it met her wrist. Why she didn’t just let the drawstring go slack, I didn’t think to wonder about then.

It was a Brazil nut. Nigger toes as dad used to call them. It makes us both cringe to think that there are people related to us who still talk this way. We raise our eyes  simultaneously, but there is no one here to correct or to be embarrassed of. “Brazil nuts only grow in virgin rainforests you know,” I didn’t know. “Not only that but there is only one bee – the bombardier bee – you know the really big one? The one that looks like a B-52? It could just swoop down and bomb your little insect town at any moment.” I know she’s really gone when she starts mixing perspectives like her colossal fondness for WWII aircraft and irrelevant penchant for calling my mons a little insect town, but she’s my sister and I love her. She goes on to tell me about the great coiled hood of the Brazil nut tree’s yellow flower which contains a sweet nectar unlike anything ever tasted by man and that this bomber B-52 bee is the only one with a tongue strong enough to lift the hood and long enough to navigate the coils. Sounds like a legendary invasion my little insect town could hold a parade for or name a street after. Brazil Nut Bee Lane. Yes, lane. Boulevard sounds too spacious and street well, that’s just plain trampy. Lane it is. BNB Lane people would affectionately call it – home of the sweet nectar of the yellow-flowered-Brazilian goddess; a narrow two-laner, recently-paved, smooth and relatively quiet. You wouldn’t want to drive a Cadillac down there though – it’s definitely Not a Thru Street and the three point turn would be a bitch.

Procreation Nation

28 Jul

His tribe taunts me
flaunting the American dream
like a six-pack picket fence
His body tempts me
into accidental procreation
He wants to plant his seed
He wants me to give him a legacy
but I’m wise to the tricks of this
modern day snake oil salesman
He’s selling lies
I serve his potion with wine
in twelve matching crystal glasses
and my dinner party
goes off splendidly
though the slide show on the tv screen
is of someone else’s family
and the soundtrack is rather awkwardly playing
music that someone will say they like but never hear again.

Someone will hum a note or two
absent-mindedly, later that night or the next day
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point – post lobotomy.

Someone may well be awoken
and say quietly some thing equally important
before busying themselves into remission-
staving off the bestial cohabitation
of body and soul for yet another day.

Some one may thank you.
Some one may shake your hand.
Someone may touch you.
But they all affect you.

In the end, only the tribe remains
temptation exists for a reason
and evolution is not just a theory
if you don’t believe me
take a trip to the National History Museum.

The seed is always planted
whether in your womb
or the next.

Someone will get it.
Some one will experience pain
and finally understand
if only for a moment
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point – for all eternity.


Readme.txt (in case of death)

28 Jul

on Tuesday, January 27, 2009 at 7:45pm

I wrote this four years ago when I “upgraded” to CS2. It still applies today with the simple substitution of the word DELL for ADOBE. BTW, I LOVE Windows Vista, especially when the automatic updater installs a blue screen. I don’t have the energy to write a whole new one for Dell after 12 hours on and off the phone with their “tech support” AKA people who tell you how to reboot your computer 17 different ways and use a simple system restore function for days on end, but believe me, it would be a KILLER.

If you are reading this letter and I am dead, please forward it to the proper authorities.


Dear Authorities:

Please follow these simple directions to determine the responsible parties punishible for my utimely and painful death.

1. Call 1-206-675-6307 if you think it was ADOBE® Illustrator that brought my mortal days to an end.
A. Press 2 because you do not have a support plan already in place.
B. Press 2 again since this is obviously not an installation issue – rather the opposite as I have now been permanently “uninstalled” from life.
C. Press 1 if you tried to solve the mystery yourself by accessing ADOBE’s® incrediby useful (if you are an ADOBE® tech) website before calling this number.


2. Call 1-206-675-6311 if you believe it was ADOBE® InDesign that eventually did me “in”.

3. If you suspect that ADOBE® Photoshop was the specific cause of my demise, dial 1-206-675-6303 and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE’S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.

4. It may be that you have surmised the entire ADOBE® Creative Suite 2 has conspired to snuf me out. If this is the case, dial 1-206-756-6330, follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE’S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE and be sure to reference Case #171650945 or have the serial number handy.

5. Wait two hours for an e-mail response to your long-distance telephone inquiry.

6. When you are sure nothing is coming by e-mail, go back to the website and search the document numbers you jotted down as the tech muttered them under his breath.

7. Watch your back, they may be coming for you next.



God bless the U.S.A. and Dell

Protected: Just Another Tuesday

23 Jul

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Looking Back

22 Jul

Looking back

At a picture I just saw

Of you

And she, and she

Seemed so far away

So distant

And it wasn’t just the angle

Of the lens or your proximity

To the camera

Though you did loom large

In the foreground.

And you overlooking

Not only the snow-draped

Sunset of the painted desert

But the whole of it

The here, the now

And the what ifs.

Even the space between you

Knowing what I know now

Seems in transition

In flux

And the bonding so like the

Flat palms she pressed decidedly

Upon her thighs

And the curve of her waist

So delicate, yet strong.

You have deemed her fearless

But let’s not forget

That we are all human.

Pedestals are unworthy

Of living flesh; alabaster

Or otherwise.

I see decades of happiness

Knowing now what you knew then

Looking down upon her

And the vast expanse

Of other, not so knowable miracles.

Painted Desert

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