Endorphins zip through my neurons. My brain
takes me to far off corners while my body is still.
I feel and see all sorts of phenomena.
Silky legs that kick through the green bubbly
water.
The egg falls -- slow motion -- revolving in
the air. Plop, it lands in your hand, the shell safe.
I slide down the thick silver pole, and it presses
between my legs, the friction and warmth building.
Clinton's rosy cheeks flush even more.
I'm too susceptible to the influence of TV's images, as
they pass through the air onto the screen before my eyes.
Zap. How does this affect my brainwaves?
A hot bath. Climbing a ladder up to the cloud, where
I step off and boing through the fluff. If I could, I would
get a pair of scissors and snip snip off all of Roxeanne's long
blonde hair until it was just a mound of dead stuff on the
floor. That would make her mad. She wouldn't have an identity without
her image.
Bumblebees buzz through the air singing their songs while
fleshy thighs shake and jiggle. I smell peppermint. It's
from the pink stuff flowing out of the faucet, glug glug.
And she skipped the boring part because life is short.
I thought he was Robert Downy, Jr., but then he spoke
in italiano. Damn, this isn't straight from my brain
but intercepted by the images on the television screen.
Some bizarre show with men on stage with pink & blue hair,
holding fake stuffed dogs and rabbits -- and that one
isn't a part of my imagination. I turned it off
because I think my mind could come up with better images
than what I saw.
Creative release. Don't let your pen stop moving. Sometimes
I'm hit with artistic urges; then I'm stuck because I can't think
of who I should make my project for. No one out there would
appreciate it as much as me, would they? Plus I can't do
anything as raunchy as I like it b/c who wouldn't get offended?
Whereas here, in this little blue book, I have no limits
because I have no audience. No rules to this game. Just
let it flow.
Like a river. If I could take a bath in any substance, what
would it be? Nutella sounds schiffo right now since
I ate too much cioccolato today. Bath in honey? Sticky soft
supportive. Her toes wiggle. On the moon you can bounce up high
and never come back down. "Where is down?" you wonder.
Slip on the long piece of yellow plastic on the lawn that hot
summer day when you run the hose. Slip n' slide. Let gravity
work for you.
My lips always need lubrication.
Do some people always live with some numbing substance to keep
a gap between their perception and the true reality of who they
are? Easy path. Cigarettes give me a head rush. Can't think
too fast when I do that. Suddenly tempted to light the one
I sneaked from the M.S. pack I found in the drawer in the living
room. Has my initials, you know. Belongs to the self-proclaimed
"commmie" next door who has collagen-stuffed lips and a real fur coat.
Kissing isn't as pleasurable these days as it used to be.
Standing downstairs in M's house with A.J.; he's about to leave
on a summer trip with his dad. We kiss. It feels so good that
I won't let him go. Why can't it feel that right & pure &
easy & blissful anymore?
Were tongues really meant to mingle?
I want to turn myself inside out and purify my body of all
its built up waste. Start over. Only ingest water and leaves
and roots. I like the taste of dirt. The smell of moist
soil. Dark and soft and mulchy. Squish it between your fingers.
My red underwear is spread out on the radiator to dry
after being laundered. I've never worn a g-string.
Crickets in the summer.
Count to ten in how many languages? In my dream it was
her birthday. A huge crowd gathered behind a curtain to
surprise her. The young man held a cake that glowed with
candles. Sshhh... TA-DA!! Buon compleanno. She is beaming
with joy, not expecting the party. She has crass honesty.
Older and not completely straight. Well-loved by all.
I like the green ripe grass that doesn't cut like the
edge of a piece of paper. Instead the blades fold against
your skin softly, giving in to your weight. You can eat it
too. Moo. Tip? Slip the lip before I whip you pip of a
grip. Tangy on the corn chip.
Is originality impossible these days?
Clamping her leg around the trunk, she dug herself into
the dirt and became the roots. The sepiatoned bark melted
into her skin, and when she stretched her toes, they grew
into branches in the air.
My neck hurts. Will you come here and massage it? Just
slip into the inner courtyard (the first door
on the right, off Parma's colorful Via Cavour). The light
is always on at night. Climb the second set of stairs. Yes,
all the way to the top, five flights up. You will be out of
breath when you get to the last door. Your heart will be
beating very quickly, and a light sweat has broken out on
your forehead, lower back and upper lip. I will have left
the door unlocked, so you can quietly let yourself in,
closing la porta behind you. Then you will tiptoe through
the carpeted living room to find my room. You don't turn
on the light. You just pull off your shoes and jacket and
then slowly crawl into my king-sized bed, snuggling up to
my warm sleeping body. Hold me. I won't wake up. My R.E.M. will
just get better.
I'm happy with my body tonight. My nipples are content under
soft black silk. My skin is clean and fresh.
Sometimes what looks opaque is actually sheer.
After reading the first chapter of The Agony
and The Ecstasy, I want to go back in time and roam
Firenze's strade til I find Michelangelo, that curious
artiste, in his sandals and long shirt, passionately
watching the people around him.
Antiperspirant is a sin.
Sometimes I get the feeling that fluidity is my ultimate
key to happiness. I need to become liquid in my thoughts,
energy, emotions, movements, expectations and outlook. Flow,
flow.
I miss her already. How precious it was to have mia mamma
here with me. Love is tangible when I think of how I feel
about her.
What's your favorite ink color?
Crunchy cucumbers create crisis, crammed catastrophically
into Caleb's crying crevice.
Why is nudity so difficult a concept for some people?
Plunge into the buoyant warm salty water.
The other day, sitting in an audience, I looked around
me and saw that most people seemed to clap their left hands
onto their right, their right palms being faced upwards. I
do the opposite, right onto left.
She jumped too soon and fell into a sack of flour that stuck
to her sticky skin. It made her look like a piece of meat ready
to be thrown into the skillet of spattering hot olive oil. I sat
on the sofa and listened to the crackles and sparks. Sounded like
a sauce simmering on the stove. But then I realized that the
sputters were actually Sylvia's shower, the drops of water fiercely
hitting the plastic curtain and tub.
What does "lipid" mean again?
Kraft cheese is not a possibility for me, now just an
artificial mound of ignorant chemically processed poison soft
fluff.
Isn't it weird when the walls of a house creak or snap on
their own? Like ya hear it one night when you're just lying
there in bed trying to go to sleep, absentmindedly stroking
yerself, when all of a sudden -- SNAP! -- the wall in the next
room makes a quick little noise like it was readjusting itself
to get comfortable. Haven't heard it here, now that I think about
it. Maybe cuz these walls are made of 17th century stone and plaster.
Tick tick. Those waves are moving slower now. My head even
kind of aches, like it's tired of thinkin' or sumpin. Creeping
to a standstill. Gotta do this here activity again sometime. Mighty
fun cuz it get my creative juices all a flowin.