Tuesday Nov. 4, 2008 brought a bittersweet victory for those that revel in the diversity of the United States. While the country was able to break though racial barriers in order to elect the first African-American president, California, Florida and Arizona upheld measures against the gay community. This showed that tolerance and equality for those who are different from you are still a long way off.
In California, Proposition 8, the motion to ban gay marriage, passed with 52% vote. Where black people across the nation cast their ballots for Obama and crossed their fingers that others would join them to bring this historical triumph, 70% of them simultaneously voted against gays to keep their right to solidify their love.
Yes, I said it. I know that good amounts of black people are homophobic or so deep-rooted in the religion that they are not accepting of someone regardless of their sexuality. I am not trying to undermine the civil strides made by black people. I am just saying that the seven in ten African American yes’s compared to the five in ten white yes’s is an ironic note.
The Yes on 8 supporters argued that, religiously, marriage is defined as being between a man and a woman. They also argued that legal confirmation of same-sex unions would somehow cause socio-psychological damage to our children.
In a society where approximately 50% of heterosexual marriages end in divorce, I find it hard to believe that supporters of the measure are that concerned with the fate of the American family. It sounds more like a Christian elitist base for discrimination than a real concern for our children.
I say if you are so concerned with the sanctity of marriage as you see it and the way that we raise our children, then show a true respect for your beliefs: Stop getting divorced. It is disappointing to see people so fervently defend a position that they take for granted so easily.
It seems a very sad thing when the love of two people who have been committed for 21 years has to take the back burner to serial monogamists on marriage number three, shotgun weddings due to an unplanned pregnancy and those that marry for anything less than love.
December 1, 2008
hag bar
Venus’ Boudoir
The place I use to work doesn’t give and credit to the scenarios you see in the rap videos and movies. It’s not the pseudo-glam-bottle-service-no-sex-in-the-champagne-room-Vegas-mega club and it is not the sleazy-addict-ridden-blow-jobs-in-the-back-room-hag bar. With two pool tables and nine T.V.s of various sizes, it’s more of a sports bar and the topless women, no matter how old, are just icing on the cake.
The Mars to Venus interactions here are a silent acceptance of flaws. Delinquencies hide behind fake names and forged resumes. $10 and a cocktail can buy three minutes of ignorance of your shortcomings.
The Venus Lounge sits on the east side of Beach Boulevard nestled between two small used car dealerships. First-timers have said that they drive by the place twice a day and have never even noticed it. The nonintrusive presence of the building mimics the low-key vibe inside.
When I pulled into the parking lot, Bubba, our wall of a bouncer, was blocking an obviously furious man I didn’t recognize from Stevie, our regular sloppy-drunk pool shark. It was not even 9 p.m. and Stevie was already teetering on his legs. I stepped out of my car and could hear him belligerently slurring. I looked up at the moon and begged him to take it easy on me tonight.
I passed the threesome through the front door.
“Oww! Hey fellas, our favorite waitress just walked in.” Raul, the night shift DJ announced me, as always, like I was a Hollywood celebrity crossing a red-carpeted turn style. “Hey Star, looking extra sexy tonight.”
Raul was my favorite male in the building. On dead nights, we’d log onto Limewire and create a soundtrack for the evening. Our choices would show our age; Blackstreet, Guy, old school Prince and Maxwell. On nights like that, the nostalgia was all that got us through.
Red lights can hide almost all superficial flaws. Stretch marks, cellulite and blemishes, except in extreme cases, are hidden from the general public. Tonight was an exception.
Sadie didn’t anchor down her silver lame’ bikini top before she bolted off the stage. With an arm full of breasts, she clopped down the stairs through the kitchen to the dressing room. She didn’t make a round to collect her tips or return to sit with Carl to finish her Midori Sour.
I gave change for a rum and coke and then went to see what was wrong. As I stepped into the light, I heard Daisy’s Salvadorian accent.
“Ah, bebe, jou know that Gary ees an esshole. I done even know why he come in here.” She was trying her best. “I think he like to turture the woman. I think he get off on it.”
She caressed Sadie’s shoulders and kissed her forehead before turning it over to me. I nodded, and we switched posts. Daisy turned her ripe, glossy lips downward and stepped back out to the floor.
“What happened?”
Sadie is 42. She has four children and an ex-husband who somehow weasels his way back into her house periodically. He always takes and never gives. She is a grandmother with big fake boobs that she shows off to support her family of six and a half in the three-bedroom apartment she rents in Anaheim. I know this because I give her a ride home from time to time when she has had too much to drink.
“He called me a old hag.” She wailed, mascara bleeding down her face. “He said, ‘Nice tits, old hag’ and he didn’t tip me.”
Not sure if I was genuinely offended for the woman, I stormed out to the stage. The anger may have had more to do with that I knew I would inevitably be chauffeuring a very intoxicated Sadie 20 minutes out of my way and I had an exam in the morning.
“Look here, that’s the last time you insult these girls! Get up and get out!”
“She’s, like 70…”
“Then sit at the bar. You can not sit here, get a front row seat to her tits and then insult her and not tip. This is the tip rail.”
“Saggy ass tits….”
“Get out!” I had already prepped Bubba. He was standing six feet away, thick arms crossed, waiting. He hadn’t had any action since Stevie hustled that big guy last month.
In her book “Facing Codependency”, Pia Mellody suggests the disorder has five major symptoms. She states that codependents have difficulty with their levels of self-esteem, maintaining personal boundaries, taking adult responsibility for their needs, owning and, subsequently, expressing their personal reality.
“Look at that. Look at her.” I felt so bad, he looked so broken, spirit wise, that is. “She won’t even talk to me. She acts like she doesn’t even know me. Just ‘cause she changes her name she thinks I don’t know.”
The previous Wednesday, the day shift bartender’s name was Candy. Today when I came in I saw Chanel on the whiteboard and wondered who the new girl was. It turned out that, sometime between last Wednesday and this, that Candy had switched her name to Chanel. Also different this week was that she would not speak to her long time sugar daddy except for to take his drink order.
Carl was distraught, to say the least. In the coming weeks, he would find himself sitting, misty-eyed and shaking his head trying to understand how someone could be so cold. He had spent the forgoing two years giving “Candy” all that he could including diamonds, a brand new Mercedes SL 500 convertible, several rent payments, new boobs and an I-Phone. The most recent was a condominium, paid for in cash and put entirely in her name; her real name.
By some series of unfortunalities, in the time between the condo purchase and this particular night, poor Carl’s technology business went bankrupt and then he went bankrupt.
“Here you go, sweetie. Can I take your empty, love?” I set his bottle of Coor’s Light on the high table top.
“Girl, mm, mm.” he shook his head, “Don’t nobody take care of this old man like you. I don’t even gotta ask and you bring it right on time.” JD is our resident dirty, old man
I counted out the change for his twenty and handed it to him. “Keep it.” He always said to keep it, I knew this, but I kept up the illusion just to be cute.
“Who’s running this week, sweetie?”
JD bets on horse races. He had settled on me picking his ponies from the week’s race schedule because I’d refused to go with him to the track for weeks. He called me his good luck charm. I only picked a winner once.
I settled on a horse named Midnight Run. I picked him because I was 12 a.m. on the dot. I figured it was a convincing enough sign. I gave him a peck on his dark, leathery cheek, told him I’d be back when he was empty.
“You sure do make my wizzle sizzle.”
He shared this personal fact with me at least twice a shift. At least twice a shift, I acted as if he didn’t.
“Me and Seria work harder than anyone in this building.” I had a horrible habit of getting too mouthy with my manager, Robert, whom I truly believed had a major inferiority complex; the kind that comes from his girl beating him and forcing him to wear an apron. No control of anything outside of these walls.
None-the-less, I was no push over, especially for some skeezy strip club manager. He had cut our shifts and gave away my bread-and-butter Friday night shift to some new comer he thought he had a chance to bed.
With school starting up in two weeks there was no way that a Monday, Wednesday and Saturday (daytime mind you) schedule would be lucrative enough for my time.
Venus festers a kaleidoscope of dysfunctional relationships. The dark anonymity breeds this disease. Men come to play out fantasies not possible in the real world. Women come to pretend that they have the control in their lives they desperately lack.
I quit without giving notice.
The place I use to work doesn’t give and credit to the scenarios you see in the rap videos and movies. It’s not the pseudo-glam-bottle-service-no-sex-in-the-champagne-room-Vegas-mega club and it is not the sleazy-addict-ridden-blow-jobs-in-the-back-room-hag bar. With two pool tables and nine T.V.s of various sizes, it’s more of a sports bar and the topless women, no matter how old, are just icing on the cake.
The Mars to Venus interactions here are a silent acceptance of flaws. Delinquencies hide behind fake names and forged resumes. $10 and a cocktail can buy three minutes of ignorance of your shortcomings.
The Venus Lounge sits on the east side of Beach Boulevard nestled between two small used car dealerships. First-timers have said that they drive by the place twice a day and have never even noticed it. The nonintrusive presence of the building mimics the low-key vibe inside.
When I pulled into the parking lot, Bubba, our wall of a bouncer, was blocking an obviously furious man I didn’t recognize from Stevie, our regular sloppy-drunk pool shark. It was not even 9 p.m. and Stevie was already teetering on his legs. I stepped out of my car and could hear him belligerently slurring. I looked up at the moon and begged him to take it easy on me tonight.
I passed the threesome through the front door.
“Oww! Hey fellas, our favorite waitress just walked in.” Raul, the night shift DJ announced me, as always, like I was a Hollywood celebrity crossing a red-carpeted turn style. “Hey Star, looking extra sexy tonight.”
Raul was my favorite male in the building. On dead nights, we’d log onto Limewire and create a soundtrack for the evening. Our choices would show our age; Blackstreet, Guy, old school Prince and Maxwell. On nights like that, the nostalgia was all that got us through.
Red lights can hide almost all superficial flaws. Stretch marks, cellulite and blemishes, except in extreme cases, are hidden from the general public. Tonight was an exception.
Sadie didn’t anchor down her silver lame’ bikini top before she bolted off the stage. With an arm full of breasts, she clopped down the stairs through the kitchen to the dressing room. She didn’t make a round to collect her tips or return to sit with Carl to finish her Midori Sour.
I gave change for a rum and coke and then went to see what was wrong. As I stepped into the light, I heard Daisy’s Salvadorian accent.
“Ah, bebe, jou know that Gary ees an esshole. I done even know why he come in here.” She was trying her best. “I think he like to turture the woman. I think he get off on it.”
She caressed Sadie’s shoulders and kissed her forehead before turning it over to me. I nodded, and we switched posts. Daisy turned her ripe, glossy lips downward and stepped back out to the floor.
“What happened?”
Sadie is 42. She has four children and an ex-husband who somehow weasels his way back into her house periodically. He always takes and never gives. She is a grandmother with big fake boobs that she shows off to support her family of six and a half in the three-bedroom apartment she rents in Anaheim. I know this because I give her a ride home from time to time when she has had too much to drink.
“He called me a old hag.” She wailed, mascara bleeding down her face. “He said, ‘Nice tits, old hag’ and he didn’t tip me.”
Not sure if I was genuinely offended for the woman, I stormed out to the stage. The anger may have had more to do with that I knew I would inevitably be chauffeuring a very intoxicated Sadie 20 minutes out of my way and I had an exam in the morning.
“Look here, that’s the last time you insult these girls! Get up and get out!”
“She’s, like 70…”
“Then sit at the bar. You can not sit here, get a front row seat to her tits and then insult her and not tip. This is the tip rail.”
“Saggy ass tits….”
“Get out!” I had already prepped Bubba. He was standing six feet away, thick arms crossed, waiting. He hadn’t had any action since Stevie hustled that big guy last month.
In her book “Facing Codependency”, Pia Mellody suggests the disorder has five major symptoms. She states that codependents have difficulty with their levels of self-esteem, maintaining personal boundaries, taking adult responsibility for their needs, owning and, subsequently, expressing their personal reality.
“Look at that. Look at her.” I felt so bad, he looked so broken, spirit wise, that is. “She won’t even talk to me. She acts like she doesn’t even know me. Just ‘cause she changes her name she thinks I don’t know.”
The previous Wednesday, the day shift bartender’s name was Candy. Today when I came in I saw Chanel on the whiteboard and wondered who the new girl was. It turned out that, sometime between last Wednesday and this, that Candy had switched her name to Chanel. Also different this week was that she would not speak to her long time sugar daddy except for to take his drink order.
Carl was distraught, to say the least. In the coming weeks, he would find himself sitting, misty-eyed and shaking his head trying to understand how someone could be so cold. He had spent the forgoing two years giving “Candy” all that he could including diamonds, a brand new Mercedes SL 500 convertible, several rent payments, new boobs and an I-Phone. The most recent was a condominium, paid for in cash and put entirely in her name; her real name.
By some series of unfortunalities, in the time between the condo purchase and this particular night, poor Carl’s technology business went bankrupt and then he went bankrupt.
“Here you go, sweetie. Can I take your empty, love?” I set his bottle of Coor’s Light on the high table top.
“Girl, mm, mm.” he shook his head, “Don’t nobody take care of this old man like you. I don’t even gotta ask and you bring it right on time.” JD is our resident dirty, old man
I counted out the change for his twenty and handed it to him. “Keep it.” He always said to keep it, I knew this, but I kept up the illusion just to be cute.
“Who’s running this week, sweetie?”
JD bets on horse races. He had settled on me picking his ponies from the week’s race schedule because I’d refused to go with him to the track for weeks. He called me his good luck charm. I only picked a winner once.
I settled on a horse named Midnight Run. I picked him because I was 12 a.m. on the dot. I figured it was a convincing enough sign. I gave him a peck on his dark, leathery cheek, told him I’d be back when he was empty.
“You sure do make my wizzle sizzle.”
He shared this personal fact with me at least twice a shift. At least twice a shift, I acted as if he didn’t.
“Me and Seria work harder than anyone in this building.” I had a horrible habit of getting too mouthy with my manager, Robert, whom I truly believed had a major inferiority complex; the kind that comes from his girl beating him and forcing him to wear an apron. No control of anything outside of these walls.
None-the-less, I was no push over, especially for some skeezy strip club manager. He had cut our shifts and gave away my bread-and-butter Friday night shift to some new comer he thought he had a chance to bed.
With school starting up in two weeks there was no way that a Monday, Wednesday and Saturday (daytime mind you) schedule would be lucrative enough for my time.
Venus festers a kaleidoscope of dysfunctional relationships. The dark anonymity breeds this disease. Men come to play out fantasies not possible in the real world. Women come to pretend that they have the control in their lives they desperately lack.
I quit without giving notice.
September 14, 2008
The Problem at Hand
This particular subject requires a brief background to avoid vagueness and to understand where my dilemma was. It is no secret in my family that my relationship with my father has for years been a rickety roller coaster. This is not an I-hate-my-father-he-ruined-my-life issue, just a rockiness that has remained in place because there are too many road blocks along our path of communication to get the pavement all smoothed out.
My stepmother doesn’t much care for my father’s children. She uses us as a reason to pick fights with my father even though none of us have been in the house for at least eight years. Access to my father has been difficult with her in the picture; we have to go through her personally if we want to visit, any help we may need from my father she must first approve and the answer is most always no. My father just wants to have peace within his family and requests that we give that woman far more consideration than we think she deserves. We do because we love our father.
With that said my stepmother for whatever reason would unload onto me her woes of being married to my father; his inattentiveness, he’s never home, she swears he’s cheating, she’s got one foot out the door,… I lent my ear feeling that I was doing my duty in keeping peace. I think she felt I would commiserate with her because of my own shaky relationship with the man in our lives. Really, I found her whiney. But I listened and tried to offer sound advice and insight because I’ve known him much longer.
A few years ago my stepmother finally caught my father at least almost cheating. She walked in on him sending an e-mail to another woman signed “Love you”. She later broke the codes on his computer and attained access to his messaging accounts and found more evidence of his infidelity. I say ‘finally’ because it is also no secret that my father cannot resist a beautiful woman. I have been in a few awkward situations where, at the least, I knew that ‘this’ woman was entirely too close to my father, but I said nothing.
I was the last to know about this incident, had my siblings told me about I may have been able to avoid being in this position altogether. So, I went to visit and was having wine with my stepmother, as usual, and we were halfway through bottle number two, as usual. She told me about the computer incident and then said that she had been told many times by close friends that he was unfaithful.
I wear everything on my face, especially when intoxicated; my stepmother looked at me and asked, “What do you know?” I took a pause, in that pause I considered the havoc she had wrought on my family and that she had been talking about leaving for five years by then. I considered that she is not happy and that she was making my father unhappy. “Tell me”, she said firmly. With that I spilled the beans about a particular time that I caught my father kissing another woman and said that there were other times that the contact was questionable.
I’m still not quite sure what the biggest drive to tell her was. Was it that I wanted her gone? Or was it simply her stern tone of voice? I am big on making informed decisions that had much to do with it.
In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth shut. I never thought that she would tell my father what I said, we had always spoke in confidence before, and she had stated that she would never tell him what his friends said of him because it would hurt him. But she told him what I said, probably because it would hurt him.
My stepmother doesn’t much care for my father’s children. She uses us as a reason to pick fights with my father even though none of us have been in the house for at least eight years. Access to my father has been difficult with her in the picture; we have to go through her personally if we want to visit, any help we may need from my father she must first approve and the answer is most always no. My father just wants to have peace within his family and requests that we give that woman far more consideration than we think she deserves. We do because we love our father.
With that said my stepmother for whatever reason would unload onto me her woes of being married to my father; his inattentiveness, he’s never home, she swears he’s cheating, she’s got one foot out the door,… I lent my ear feeling that I was doing my duty in keeping peace. I think she felt I would commiserate with her because of my own shaky relationship with the man in our lives. Really, I found her whiney. But I listened and tried to offer sound advice and insight because I’ve known him much longer.
A few years ago my stepmother finally caught my father at least almost cheating. She walked in on him sending an e-mail to another woman signed “Love you”. She later broke the codes on his computer and attained access to his messaging accounts and found more evidence of his infidelity. I say ‘finally’ because it is also no secret that my father cannot resist a beautiful woman. I have been in a few awkward situations where, at the least, I knew that ‘this’ woman was entirely too close to my father, but I said nothing.
I was the last to know about this incident, had my siblings told me about I may have been able to avoid being in this position altogether. So, I went to visit and was having wine with my stepmother, as usual, and we were halfway through bottle number two, as usual. She told me about the computer incident and then said that she had been told many times by close friends that he was unfaithful.
I wear everything on my face, especially when intoxicated; my stepmother looked at me and asked, “What do you know?” I took a pause, in that pause I considered the havoc she had wrought on my family and that she had been talking about leaving for five years by then. I considered that she is not happy and that she was making my father unhappy. “Tell me”, she said firmly. With that I spilled the beans about a particular time that I caught my father kissing another woman and said that there were other times that the contact was questionable.
I’m still not quite sure what the biggest drive to tell her was. Was it that I wanted her gone? Or was it simply her stern tone of voice? I am big on making informed decisions that had much to do with it.
In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth shut. I never thought that she would tell my father what I said, we had always spoke in confidence before, and she had stated that she would never tell him what his friends said of him because it would hurt him. But she told him what I said, probably because it would hurt him.
“Arguing against globalization is like arguing against the laws of gravity.”
The great difference between globalization and gravity is the force that drives each of them. Globalization is a human driven force while gravity is an undisputable force of nature. Sir Isaac Newton’s law holds true regardless of human behavior, beliefs, or being. Should the human race disappear from the face of the planet globalization would cease to exist.
Change is inevitable, yes, necessary would be even accurate. Whether change occurs by need, chance or want is a question to ponder on. All life on Earth evolved and is still doing so. Living beings developed from tiny amoebas into thousands of different species each with its own developmental evolution. This happened by chance but humans have the ability to make conscious adaptations in order to survive. Combine this with our active imaginations and opposable thumbs and you get “progress”. From the crafting of the wheel to technological innovations, human progress has come in many forms. How this progress is used is based on culture and culture is also subject to change. Gravity, as far as is known, is as it has always been. There is no development that takes place in it. The formulas that determine gravitational pull are the set in nature and there is no changing them.
As humans progressed and branched out across the planet the differences in the perception of the world around shaped the cultures that developed. Though change is unavoidable it should happen at a natural pace not at the accelerated pace of globalization. In larger societies progress is usually hailed as technological and mechanical advances. The faster things can get done the better. Smaller societies usually don’t place so much emphasis on the values of faster, better, and more, so technology and mechanics do not so much serve them when left to themselves. The influence that the larger has on the smaller is increasingly greater and the pressure to compete causes them to make these advances. This is where gravity and globalization overlap, in the concept of the larger body having a great pull on the smaller. When this concept occurs within the natural order of things it seems to be alright, but once again, globalization is not a natural force, but a human force, and humans are not always ethical and do not always have a greater good in mind.
If globalization is truly unavoidable then all of our planet will eventually be uniform. If globalization follows gravitational laws, then all of the small paradises will eventually become progress driven power houses and there will no longer be escape from the stress and higher expectation that the larger societies represent. The planet may then lack the diversity in culture, goods and experience when travelling from country to country, and wouldn’t that be an awful loss to future generations.
Change is inevitable, yes, necessary would be even accurate. Whether change occurs by need, chance or want is a question to ponder on. All life on Earth evolved and is still doing so. Living beings developed from tiny amoebas into thousands of different species each with its own developmental evolution. This happened by chance but humans have the ability to make conscious adaptations in order to survive. Combine this with our active imaginations and opposable thumbs and you get “progress”. From the crafting of the wheel to technological innovations, human progress has come in many forms. How this progress is used is based on culture and culture is also subject to change. Gravity, as far as is known, is as it has always been. There is no development that takes place in it. The formulas that determine gravitational pull are the set in nature and there is no changing them.
As humans progressed and branched out across the planet the differences in the perception of the world around shaped the cultures that developed. Though change is unavoidable it should happen at a natural pace not at the accelerated pace of globalization. In larger societies progress is usually hailed as technological and mechanical advances. The faster things can get done the better. Smaller societies usually don’t place so much emphasis on the values of faster, better, and more, so technology and mechanics do not so much serve them when left to themselves. The influence that the larger has on the smaller is increasingly greater and the pressure to compete causes them to make these advances. This is where gravity and globalization overlap, in the concept of the larger body having a great pull on the smaller. When this concept occurs within the natural order of things it seems to be alright, but once again, globalization is not a natural force, but a human force, and humans are not always ethical and do not always have a greater good in mind.
If globalization is truly unavoidable then all of our planet will eventually be uniform. If globalization follows gravitational laws, then all of the small paradises will eventually become progress driven power houses and there will no longer be escape from the stress and higher expectation that the larger societies represent. The planet may then lack the diversity in culture, goods and experience when travelling from country to country, and wouldn’t that be an awful loss to future generations.
The Cage
“We all operate with some kind of cage that limits us and must learn to love
through- and with- that.”
On Saturday night Nov. 3, 2007 I saw the most beautiful interpretation of unconditional love I think I have ever seen. I fell in love with award winning choreographer Marie de la Palme’s The Cage. We are first met with dancer Fabienne Levenson who is inside of, you guessed it, a cage. She is animal-like, near naked, and expresses concern for her position. She is soon joined on the stage by a free leaping Evan Strand who stops curiously to examine this trapped female creature. Through athletic and primal movement they manage to touch and interact with each other enough to show the audience their feelings regardless of the very obvious barrier between them. The interaction is so captivating (no pun intended) because of the juxtaposition between the strength needed to achieve those gymnastic feats and the tenderness in their expression of feeling for each other.
The focus and title of this piece is the cage which made possible all of the acrobatics used in this dance. They flipped and climbed and spun all over that thing like children in grade school on the monkey bars, and yet not like those kids in that it was much more controlled and sophisticated. Evan’s horizontal hand stand was enough to make one question his humanness.
Using the familiar and ever intriguing Afternoon of a Faun by Claude Debussy to accompany them was genius to me. I know the score from the Ballet de Russe’s piece by the same name.
“We all operate with some kind of cage that limits us and must learn to love
through- and with- that.”
On Saturday night Nov. 3, 2007 I saw the most beautiful interpretation of unconditional love I think I have ever seen. I fell in love with award winning choreographer Marie de la Palme’s The Cage. We are first met with dancer Fabienne Levenson who is inside of, you guessed it, a cage. She is animal-like, near naked, and expresses concern for her position. She is soon joined on the stage by a free leaping Evan Strand who stops curiously to examine this trapped female creature. Through athletic and primal movement they manage to touch and interact with each other enough to show the audience their feelings regardless of the very obvious barrier between them. The interaction is so captivating (no pun intended) because of the juxtaposition between the strength needed to achieve those gymnastic feats and the tenderness in their expression of feeling for each other.
The focus and title of this piece is the cage which made possible all of the acrobatics used in this dance. They flipped and climbed and spun all over that thing like children in grade school on the monkey bars, and yet not like those kids in that it was much more controlled and sophisticated. Evan’s horizontal hand stand was enough to make one question his humanness.
Using the familiar and ever intriguing Afternoon of a Faun by Claude Debussy to accompany them was genius to me. I know the score from the Ballet de Russe’s piece by the same name.
the rules
This poem is not
an autobiographical detailed tell and kiss
confessional of last night's dick stick story
this poem is mostly not
a clothed soft porn masturbatory exhibition
of the poet's isolated gratification story
however
this poem is horny
this poem has gifts of sweet peach
chocolate soothing down the jewels
for ears pooling from rivers in thighs
this poem wants shakes, aches pinches of pre-lovetouch
nowtouch
love and afterlovetouch
breathing deeply
how –you- could- take- more -heat –in- touch
so
so ya meet this poem and
find your middleparts
a little fired up
your usually covered parts
begging to be ungarbed tied up
tied down spread wide rubbed to town
touched and lied down upon
perforated dissipated dominated celebrated
so ya want all parts to be thinned
liquefied and poured into the body and the arms
of another
or to just plain get laid
well
just as poem is born from poet,
this poem's suggestions implications images
whose legs may or may not appear to be wide valleys
does not necessarily reflect the immediate desires of the poet and are not,
unless otherwise specified,
dedicated to
or intentionally presented to
any particular individual or individuals at any particular time.
This poem strongly encourages
mature respectful and incredibly juicy animalistic encounters
between one or more previously but perhaps presently pretending not to be
consenting adults
in the comfort of their own home, grainmill, graveyard, office, helicopter, hiking trail, swimmingpool, or racetrack
this poem does not recommend performing these acts
in the following places
while driving a car
near a stove, particulaly one that is currently cooking bacon,
on a table with broken glass
or on, around, or in the company of the poet
at place or at any time
unless specified otherwise
yes
this poem is woman
of which she is a part but does not represent
this poem is for man
to whom she is devoted but does not belong
this poem is for human
from which she was born
and whose sacramental skin she dances upon joyfully
singing the sacred song of her sex
twirling down the tube that sits at the very top
of every heart
stopping the wheel of taboo hamsters perhaps spinning trough the
mind with names like Jenna Jameson and Barely Legal Hot Blonde Cumshots
this poem does not throw the stripper out with the dance
this poem is the hymnal marriage that pulls one to another in a trance
down to the bottom of soils beneath soils
healing the feeling
of shouldn't ride this pelvic press
realing the feeling
express,
express
this poem wants every orifice
every holy hole in her body to be simultaneously
penetrated saturated
this poem wants be pushed with desire
and to hear the pop of love melting from her skin
because if there's anything that's more sacred
than the womb asking to contain young
the yin asking for the yang
if there's anything more pure precious divine
and worthy of our respect
it's birth
or maybe death
which comes from mine
and comes from your
sex which
sprouts from this poem's chest
like vernal cottonwood buds
and falls from its limbs
to garden our minds growing
a new intimate view
of what our urges those passion surges
are here to do
to unify me
to unify you
with the double-helix
weave of creation design
of wholeness with space and
wholeness with time
right about the time
when we choose
to unclench
all we were taught and
all that we thought
the rules to be
an autobiographical detailed tell and kiss
confessional of last night's dick stick story
this poem is mostly not
a clothed soft porn masturbatory exhibition
of the poet's isolated gratification story
however
this poem is horny
this poem has gifts of sweet peach
chocolate soothing down the jewels
for ears pooling from rivers in thighs
this poem wants shakes, aches pinches of pre-lovetouch
nowtouch
love and afterlovetouch
breathing deeply
how –you- could- take- more -heat –in- touch
so
so ya meet this poem and
find your middleparts
a little fired up
your usually covered parts
begging to be ungarbed tied up
tied down spread wide rubbed to town
touched and lied down upon
perforated dissipated dominated celebrated
so ya want all parts to be thinned
liquefied and poured into the body and the arms
of another
or to just plain get laid
well
just as poem is born from poet,
this poem's suggestions implications images
whose legs may or may not appear to be wide valleys
does not necessarily reflect the immediate desires of the poet and are not,
unless otherwise specified,
dedicated to
or intentionally presented to
any particular individual or individuals at any particular time.
This poem strongly encourages
mature respectful and incredibly juicy animalistic encounters
between one or more previously but perhaps presently pretending not to be
consenting adults
in the comfort of their own home, grainmill, graveyard, office, helicopter, hiking trail, swimmingpool, or racetrack
this poem does not recommend performing these acts
in the following places
while driving a car
near a stove, particulaly one that is currently cooking bacon,
on a table with broken glass
or on, around, or in the company of the poet
at place or at any time
unless specified otherwise
yes
this poem is woman
of which she is a part but does not represent
this poem is for man
to whom she is devoted but does not belong
this poem is for human
from which she was born
and whose sacramental skin she dances upon joyfully
singing the sacred song of her sex
twirling down the tube that sits at the very top
of every heart
stopping the wheel of taboo hamsters perhaps spinning trough the
mind with names like Jenna Jameson and Barely Legal Hot Blonde Cumshots
this poem does not throw the stripper out with the dance
this poem is the hymnal marriage that pulls one to another in a trance
down to the bottom of soils beneath soils
healing the feeling
of shouldn't ride this pelvic press
realing the feeling
express,
express
this poem wants every orifice
every holy hole in her body to be simultaneously
penetrated saturated
this poem wants be pushed with desire
and to hear the pop of love melting from her skin
because if there's anything that's more sacred
than the womb asking to contain young
the yin asking for the yang
if there's anything more pure precious divine
and worthy of our respect
it's birth
or maybe death
which comes from mine
and comes from your
sex which
sprouts from this poem's chest
like vernal cottonwood buds
and falls from its limbs
to garden our minds growing
a new intimate view
of what our urges those passion surges
are here to do
to unify me
to unify you
with the double-helix
weave of creation design
of wholeness with space and
wholeness with time
right about the time
when we choose
to unclench
all we were taught and
all that we thought
the rules to be
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