Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Maybe its a metaphor, maybe it's not.

When a man who can't physically rape you tries to rape you and winds up covered in his own bloody semen....

hand the poor fellow a tissue.

Friday, January 14, 2011

What a man needs

A man needs a steady source of income and sense of purpose to go with it. He needs to feel powerful and successful and he needs to feel like that will never ever end.

A man needs a fantastic car. One that will take him far and still handle well in stop and go traffic. It should also be sporty with some serious horse power.

A man needs a woman. Preferably one who looks like a dream, right off the silver screen. She should have hair long enough to pull and be without a mind of her own that she may never want or need anything but his love. She should be able to turn off her emotions on demand, well all of them that aren't positive or pertain to her complete devotion. It helps if she's under 25 and still malleable.

A man needs porn more than he needs poetry, and he can rarely tell the difference.

A man needs his ego stroked as often as his cock, and he can rarely tell the difference.

A man needs a set of tools, to construct the world to fit his own.

But what man needs most is a welders helmet, so he might see the truth if enough flame is shined upon it without becoming blind to everything else.

*Sidenote: There's nothing sexy about jaded over-generalizations, which is why a man is not everyman, just the persistant mid-life crisis-ers. ;)

Saturday, January 8, 2011


She would never sell her seashells, she keeps the shore on a shelf, in a glass vase meant for blossoms. The ephemeral bloom exchanged for lasting Floridian flowers in the lapping tides of love and loss. The gulf winds turn gently. Shifting sands awaken her dreams, stretching her heart strings beyond the farthest reaches of sight. She steps into the glowing mist of sunrise stealing a final glance at the broken road behind her and whispers goodbye with equal measures of both sorrow and joy.

How apt

The color of death is not blue, or black, or gray.

The color of death is yellow.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Butterfly In Reverse

I've been having trouble trying to tap into the ethereal realm where I have always kept a part of me. Articulation speaks louder in action yet in some backward falling motion the sentimental notion arises that "the butterfly in reverse here is me."

I've been in reflection mode. Not the kind of reflection where two mirrors facing each other with a flame between them create some grand and glorious infinite sparkle, but the other kind of reflection... the kind where you sit in front of the fire and face into the mirror gazing deeply into the darkest shadows of your silhouette.

I've come away with a small token of appreciation for the hardships and heart-ache this past year has brought me. A tiny smudge of gold powder has been marked across the bridge of my nose signifying what the past few weeks of reflecting has given me. It was by far the most difficult and painful year of my entire life, but I can hardly count it as the worst. It was certainly my most lived, my most felt, my most adventurous, and without a doubt... my best yet.

In strange places I have met incredible people, in familiar places I have lost the same. I have closed off and I have opened up, I have learned that being open is always better. I have experienced divinity and bliss only to touch the face of ugliness and let its violence embrace me with torment and rage. I have tasted the bitter and the sour and have learned to savor the sweet. I have floated and I have sunk, I have tread the stillest of water and been crushed by oceanic waves. I have been in the valley in awe and admiration of the great mountains, and I have stood atop the tallest peaks I could get to, to lose myself in the marvel of a span of a horizon more vast than I had ever imagined. I have been empty and full and both at once. I have loved. I have lost. I have feared. I have skated. I have fallen. I have broken. I have mended. I have scarred. I have laughed until I cried and cried until I laughed. I have triumphed, completely intact, dreams and all.

Sometimes it's necessary to be a butterfly in reverse. Here's to the grand adventure and it's continued existence. *raises glass*