there is a cigarette waiting for me, so i must be brief.

we talked.

fuck. we talked.

it made things better and harder. as if difficulty was a measure of worth. better. much harder.

he was as i remembered. smart. capable. though he lets things hit him harder than he should: maybe.

we talked and talked. i drank. he drank water. my gut hurts, but not for the same reason.... oh no. not for the same reason.

it's waiting, so i will give it breath.

b b i a f l a s h

i let myself hate him a little bit for the first time. it didn't feel good. but it made me angry, and that felt right. not good. just right.

my drunkenness of last night was appalling. completely embarrassing. apparently you can say whatever you want to when standing in the middle of the street. also, you can get in a yelling argument about (kill me now) the requirement of strife for passion. it was retarded. i hereby accept this golden shortbus award with bowed head and burning ears. may the committee take pity on me and be gentle.

see, the thing is, because of his bullshit, she is pinned. she can't go to a movie. she can't talk to me freely. i didn't just lose a lover, i fucking lost a friend. and that pisses me off. i want to talk to her because she is the only one i can talk to about some things. she is one of my best friends (the? perhaps.), and we're still acting like teenagers who got yelled at by dad.

on a good note, my headache did actually wear off.

on another good note, i got some record purchases in the mail. xela, klaxons, dutty, phil kieran. the dutty record put me in a good mood. it's loud. xela made me sad, but that's what xela does.
i think it's time to go to the springs and rinse out my consciousness. get rid of some of this weight. this pressure.

honesty.

it's all about honesty. some of it you don't want to hear. some of it is just noise to the ears. but that's the rule. honesty.

there was a person. girl. boy. stupid, doesn't matter. doesn't matter.

we need to be constructive. to build. to make something lasting. with kids and picket fences.
she is naked and on the bed. she feels her skin with my fingers. i want her to feel herself through me. i love her pits and hollows. i love her smoothness.

i love her until she becomes me.

there was a drink or three. sometimes i tell her what i want her to hear. sometimes i want her to love me and what i mean to her. sometimes i want to challenge her and be her antithesis. something to push against.

but ultimately, i am a cock. i am a hard and wanton dick that wants savior. i want love. i want solution (to be disolved). i want this meeting. i want fucking.

she is sad. like the moon is sad. she is the fucking moon, the lady i have hardened to, and sprung too... but she wants more. she needs to feel wanted beyond being beautiful and special. she wants to be goddess. i want to make her goddess. lick her moonlight.

but, she needs shadow and won't allow herself the pleasure. it isn't pleasure, it is honesty. to herself. she needs to feel her own selfishness. her own life. her own cunt. and without cunt, honey, you can't cut it.

as they say, one must trust their own cunt. otherwise, you are really just a pussy... adrift. cunts do business, pussies get fucked.

the teapot... she is a right cunt. she knows her business, though doesn't yet know how to get everything done. she'll get it. at least she knows her cunt. granted: she is wallowing. and getting fucked without doing the fucking. it feels nice, but is... unsatisfying. teapot: seize your cunt. please. and just let it all go.

the light. she doesn't trust her cunt. she thinks that all that is false or wrong or ... who knows. she needs to get dirty and play with her shadow. and love her own ugliness.

same, really, with the pink. she knows what she has. she knows what she can do, but she is really unsure of her own power. she can rock mountains if she wishes. the will must be spoken. so speak. please. just tell him what needs telling. he's a big boy. he can takes it.

shit.

g'nite.

there is a pain in my stomach. not, stomach really, it's focused on that bone that they warn you about in cpr class. the xiphoid process. there's a weight there, an ache, a persistent pressure.

maybe it's ossification. my center is becoming solid. my unflinching generosity is being argued by my skeleton. it is time to stop giving of yourself, time to start fighting.

the xiphoid comes from the greek word xiphos, meaning sword.

i suppose i could go on and on about the symbolism of forging and arming, but. . . it's far too trite and it doesn't make the ache go away. though i have been known to try, masturbation never really makes the pain go away, it just sets it aside for a while.

somewhere in my life i forgot how to breathe through my nose. maybe it was the smoking. i don't like being, as they say, a "mouth-breather." scoff though i might, i still think it is uncivilized. not as bad as eating with your mouth open, but it touches the same nerve.

when i breathe through my nose it feels like i'm suffocating. i can't get enough air. my reason says otherwise, but my body doesn't like it. the air feels cold and strange in my sinuses. too dry.

i have started wearing latex gloves a lot. not for fun or fashion. but because of smell. i had a party that involved chicken wings, and i always hated that my hands smelled of wing sauce for days after eating them. it bothered me. so, i wear gloves when eating them. i told the party people that i had discovered a grand thing. one needn't have saucy fingers! you can wear gloves!

they looked at me like i was crazy. seriously, that strange "are you serious" look. i reconsidered my motives.

it occured to me that the main reason i despise smelly hands is that i chew on them. i hate to admit it, and i hate it even more that i do it. but it is a fact. when i think, i masticate. if not on hands, on a pen or gum or wood or... whatever. the party people didn't. they don't have their hands in their faces all day long, so they aren't bothered with persistent aromas.

i quit smoking, but still dabble. lately i have been smoking two or maybe three cigarettes a week. the ache, i'd imagine.

this morning, as the sun was coming up, i had a cup of coffee and was watching the cars go by on the interstate. i took a drag on the cigarette pinched in a latex gloved hand. it made me feel smaller, and not so important. so many people with so many problems. i touched my xiphoid, and pressed. no more of this. my hara hardens and knits. i close my mouth and inhale.

i close my eyes and exhale.