IMPULSE. Fortified again with male attention.
Which I guess is what something inside me seeks.
Alternately, something inside is tired of boys,
tired of being disappointed and broke-hearted.
But some voice inside says:
There’s a smorgasbord out there.
I’ll have the sampler platter to start please.

My euphemism for the breakup is “the Change.”
How I feared it. How I craved it.
I forget then that Change enables growth.
The unseen grasp of Change as it extends its hand, lifting me up to a new level.
And as always in these moments I reflect, why did I resist?
(inner voice whispers: Welcome to your new home,
We’ve been building this nest for us, here on the Other Side)

The other side of what? What side am I on?

Change? Present? Past? Future? Love?

(just a forward motion on your hero’s arc,
the pendulum swing, the sine wave, reaching out of you,
desiring growth, transformation)

I ate all the way through the coccoon.
Walking with confidence on faltering legs. Looking around me.
Is this where I’m supposed to be now?

I wonder to myself if I am for real.

If you are a man, and you lie in my arms, and feel the thickness of the vibe,
the intimacy that feeds something lonely inside, and you are covered in kisses,
and you want to get inside me, and you just met me,
and I am wrapped up with you, lying there for reasons of my own,
and you wonder if I have drugged you,
Remember I am the dopamine junkie.
I am not megalomaniacal.
But I ingest quite a bit of drugs.
And perhaps now I am a drug myself.
I don’t know what I am.



Match the Snatch – Requires Shockwave

Slap the Slut


It’s 6.22 a.m. on Monday morning and I’m already in whining stance, to no one but myself,
because I don’t really want to go to work today. The weekend seemed so short.

Got my mani/pedi, treated my younger sister to one as well.
Friday night a girlfriend/ex-housemate came up from Santa Cruz to spend some time.
The three of us had breakfast at the Squat and Gobble on Haight, shopped a bit.

She bailed, then it was just me and my sister walking down the street.
My sister is 21 going on 22, and carelessly and deliberately provocatively fabulous.

We were headed down the street, she wanted to sell some clothes at either
Buffalo or Crossroads, when we were accosted by a tall, blonde, 6 foot green eyed Ex Boy!
(He lives near Haight)

He recognized us “from behind” he said.

We walked about a bit, then my sister needed to get going.
We put her on the N. Went to his house to smoke bowls.

Before I go on: THERE WERE NO WORTHY SHOES ON HAIGHT FOR ME.

Remember, Ex Boy has a girlfriend. A co-worker.
Which is why, because he’s deathly afraid of creating unpleasantness in his life,
he’s not been able to break up with her despite the fact that he’s not in love with her,
she’s a fucking harpy and he wants to date other people.

At his house we toke, I kiss his housemate on the lips as is my greeting.
Listen to music. Cuddle together like yinyang. Which we are. Amazingly synergistic.
I know my vibe is deadly.
I can feel him getting chubs and harder still, simply from the touch of my hand on his shoulder, his thigh.
He strokes my arm the way I like, inhales the scent of my hair, tangles his limbs in mine on the couch.

We breathe deeply when we are together.
He glances at his watch and curses the vibration of his cell phone,
where he is being VM bombed by New Girlfriend.

Synergistic moment is over.
He kisses me lightly on the lips as I leave, promising that soon, soon,
he will have more time to spend with me, where he won’t have to feel guilty . . .
I won’t hold my breath.

He’s 25 but still young in the mind. In the sense that he cannot take control. I hate that.

Thus begins a mood that lasts for the rest of Saturday.

Saturday night I had plans to see the Connoisseur.
When I phoned him however, it seemed we would be joined by one of his friends.

Not that the Connoisseur would ever hurt my feelings intentionally,
but at that moment I didn’t relish the thought of being a slampiece for show.

I need to be capricious. Selfish. Independent. Cautious about the feelings I let out to anyone.
I know my vibe is deadly. I know I have a very strong magnet inside.
I know that the Game is out there, waiting to be played again.
I know my pimp hand is pretty strong.

I know that most of the time, all I want is intimacy more than sex.
I want spoons and cuddle, kisses and sweetness. To start.
And if that escalates, maybe fucking.
But no one will get a piece of me until my brain fuckhole is soaking wet.

I am prone to gazing far off. I am prone to get lost in my thoughts.
I am prone to fits of laughter, wry smiles, heavy sighs and tears that never actually fall.

I would write a bit about a new friend. Who is young but adept at setting synaptic fires.
A pyromaniac of sorts. But he’s shy and I don’t want his cheeks to flame.

I worry about my feelings. Which are messy right now.
Whosoever wants to reach inside me to try to get a piece of my heart,
will come up with a handful of veins and arteries, pulsing with old black blood, dirty mixed blood and the new fresh red blood.
I’m looking for a transfusion.

I forget what is my blood type.

However if there existed categories for donors of Energy, I think I would be type O. Universal donor.

* * * * * This weekend there were no shoes. No where.
This weekend I went to the the mall. At least I ate a corndog.
This weekend I had a makeout session in the parking lot where I “digitally” and “technically” lost my virginity.
This weekend I visited the buffalo in the park, and watched the young Pyromaniac
make friends with a dog, a goose, and some little childrens.

The cynic in me wonders if this is part of a scheme.
But even if it is, I suppose it is harmless.

Monday. I’m keening a bit.
Depressed by the fog, the empty space inside yet unfilled,
and the lack of pretty shoes for me.