I have only ever been good for two things. no matter like the valles of Mars my thew twists in to canyons, veins like rivers running red through them. a walking fucking island. when is it over? when can i stop? when daylight and i drop.
i chew gum to stop me from chewing my warts and my nails are broken in two. ive only ever been good for two things, when you look close enough and the cracks start to show but youre always too busy with your rebute. when it it over? when do you stop? when an island becomes a mountain and daylight and i drop.
what are we really like, beneath our own justification? what rationale does one have to corner the written word like water or oil? where do we stand outside the issues? not within reach but beyond?
“excuses excuses, all you give me is excuses.” then give me a reason.
“A man’s morality is tested when he’s asked to be a wingman on a friend’s blind date.”
One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.
– James Russell Lowell
So many beautiful women passing him, he didn’t know where to direct his attention. He liked getting the attention back, even though he knew he wasn’t physically-desirable; it was still nice having these young, pretty faces smile back at him. If only he were more handsome. It took him forever to be able to smile back and now if only they came to him to help him complete the cycle. But he really didn’t want them to: honestly, he really didn’t know how old any of these girls actually were. There was a nice, tiny Filipina, with a blemish-free smile and an onion booty: has to be under fifteen. What about that tall, slender White girl with the amber hair down to her ass, with no tits and a flat back? Gorgeous, undeniably, but young. Obviously too young. But was she? The Friend had worked with women before who were underdeveloped: petite husks for the blossoming female underneath. So it wasn’t unheard of. But they were always taken, and never taken with the Friend. No, he was more the “dateable” type, his ex’s had told him: a man a woman ends with, and not part of the journey. He should believe them, since they all left him in the end anyway. No, he was contented with being sidelined. The girls on his computer could comfort him later. The mall was packed today. No telling why, must have just been one of those days, where the planets were in-alignment and everyone had money to spend, but no one seemed to be carrying around any shopping bags. A shopping mall bursting with the young & bountiful and no one was buying anything. Maybe we were all just here to scope ourselves out, be communally creepy to one-another, in the one public place where it was allowed. In the same way all these young girls kept looking in the Friend’s direction, a curiosity, burgeoning with emotion & development. It must be so easy for some of those guys, isn’t it? Just to roll up on someone half-their-age and be able to ignite that spark within their teenage will as easily as the opposite sex could to him, the flame burning hot & bright for the tight, chaste juvenile body. Was this what made the collective blood of the predators of the world boil for flesh? Someone who didn’t know any better? Someone with no frame-of-reference, no prior dick, no resumé? No experience meant no disappointment to the Creep. No one talking down to them, making them feel low for their inadequacies. Now, they could be the one in charge. Now, they were finally a man. The Friend had to jolt himself back to reality, lest he became stuck in the warren of his mind. He was here for a purpose. He was here, to help out his buddy, who walked beside his Friend with a faux-confidence one can only lather from a social entourage. The boy was nervous: he was nineteen and still a virgin. The Friend, who was a few years older than the boy he had met in College, had to reassure him there was nothing wrong with that: Hell, even he was a virgin till he was 20, although he was thankful this was no longer the case. The Friend could remember the conversation:
it’s the start of another cold day. i am standing on a bridge above a creek that makes a rushing sound as it crosses the linn before the pier shafts. i have an entire half-a-joint left and i am done.
as i listen to the water flow, so do the thoughts that would deluge any if they stood on that same precipice, that wearing surface at three AM, stoned and very aware. not that anyone would care about my bouts with chance and disrepair. should. but it’s how i feel
and there again, another day, as distant constellations fade with the night. a light on the horizon, a constant. there is a candle burning somewhere bright.
i look at you and then i look at your daughter and i see a man who will do anything.
a man too self-consumed putting prosperity on the table, not food, that he can’t make any productive difference in her life. only fifteen, already too late with shorts that leave nothing to hide, a glare through deep holes entwined so you can’t see the fear they leave behind.
theory of a daskeman 