Drunk Oracle (audio)

Pinot Grigio in one hand, cigarette in the other, I am chatting it up with some guy outside of the bar because nobody smokes inside bars anymore and also nobody smokes, but the few left who do are forced to remove themselves from the rest and brave the elements. Not so bad this time of year, though. It’s cold but only mildly so and the autumn air smells of damp earth and freshly fallen leaves. There are a few bonfire pits around on the front lawn of the place and people are gathered here and there talking and laughing as their drinks sink them lower and lower into the back of their minds. The fires are wood-burning and the scent and scene is warm and charming. Twinkle lights strung all around in the many maple trees which surround us along the edge of the parking lot.

The wine is terrible because the bar is a brewery and I don’t drink beer and they don’t have liquor, so here I find myself taking large gulps of this watered down wine in an attempt to soothe my rattled nerves enough to listen to this man I do not know speak about things I do in a pleasant enough exchange. Holidays and gas prices, Thanksgiving plans and the bullshit that is Musk and Bezos and all the other fuckers who have this world by the balls.

It’s not that I mind small talk it’s just that it suffocates me sometimes and all I want is to be alone. He starts explaining to me that his wife is new to working out and she complains it’s making her gain weight instead of lose it and she won’t listen to him when he tries to tell her she is gaining muscle weight and losing fat weight but she doesn’t want to hear it and frankly at the moment neither do I. I think working out is bullshit, too.

The chatty drunk stranger finally makes his unceremonious exit to go back inside to order up what I can only assume is another holiday reindeer pale ale or whatever the hell these beer drinkers drink that I’m repeatedly amazed gets them so damn wasted. I can hear the band playing – some kind of country rock song. It’s just late enough that everybody should probably just call it a night but they won’t because the night holds nothing else for them after this.

I take the last drag of my smoke and crush the cigarette into the tall ashtray full of smooth sand. The glow of twinkle lights has become hazy under my gaze which is how I become aware that I am more than a little bit buzzed, incredibly enough considering the sad state of the offensive wine. When I get back inside, I see the dancing has begun. The volume and glare of everything is way over the top including the lights which are entirely too bright, illuminating a good bit of what nobody really needs to see.

As I am not one to know when to leave well enough alone, I get one more drink at last call and scan the bar for the guy I met earlier. I see him in the corner nearest the band, his hands rubbing on the small slender shoulders of a woman I assume is his wife who hates to exercise. She is sipping a bottled water and doesn’t appear to need to work anything out. My mind makes up a story about the intricacies of her life which I couldn’t possibly really know. I wonder how she does it. Stay sober as her husband staggers and stumbles. Stay fit in a world where everything is too much even as it’s watered down and it gets harder and harder to fit anywhere at all.

Body Language

Running a hot bath, I get undressed in the middle of a cold gray afternoon, observe my body in the mirror. It didn’t snow but walking through the city you might have thought that at any moment soft flakes would begin to fall. The clouds were that swollen, thick, and low. The air was frozen with that strange sort of tension between patience and anticipation. Strolling over the cobblestone streets felt like moving through a romantic movie scene.

The skin on my thighs turns rosy pink when I sink into the water, that pleasurable sting when you warm your body right after coming in from the cold. I sip my wine and listen to the new Lana Del Rey. I know not everybody does, but I find her kind of glamorous romantic melancholy to be seductive and haunting. Love as tragedy, sex as a hopeful kind of destruction. Desire like a drowning you prayed for all your life.

The mirror over the sink fogs full of steam. Out the high window I can see the purple evening sky begin to simmer and glow with the tiny piercings of star light. I fantasize about biting and sucking on your nipple ring. Sliding my soft tongue along its steel hardness, making you moan at the sensual torture and press against my hips seeking friction, needing release. I touch myself and give my breasts a delicious squeeze.

Massaging the fancy shampoo into my hair, the price of which was something obscene but I was so taken by the sultry charms of the salon owner that I couldn’t resist the splurge, I imagine all my little inconsequential sins piling up like a snowdrift blown against a gravestone under the tall naked trees. I wonder if any of our choices really matter that much in the end or if seeking pleasure and avoiding pain is really enough to call it living.

If you had the chance to do it all over again, would you do it differently? Would you do better because you know better or is ‘better’ just another trap. Just another way out of reality and into a place that feels so safe you grow numb to the danger of dividing yourself into two. Del Rey sings like a siren about being left behind by her big strong man. Short skirts and full lips. Sadness as entertainment. Loneliness a sadistic kind of turn on.

Dizzy with the flush of steamy heat and Sauvignon Blanc, I rise from the tub, pull the plug from the drain and wrap myself in a warm white towel. Somewhere downstairs he is stoking a roaring fire in the old stone fireplace. Not a lot going on at the moment. It’s just that something in me wants to tell you about it anyway because if these small moments can’t be made to come alive then I don’t know what we’re gonna do but go completely out of our minds.

Ask Me Anything

November trees line the street, I see them in their lovely perfect rows out the window. One hundred black birds soar in formation, spreading out farther and farther across a whisper gray sky. I plead with the gods for an early snow. Fantasize the smell of it before the first flake even crystallizes deep in the wet white atmosphere. The soul is a frighteningly open space. Chilling in its vastness. Beyond the bone prison. It would be sweet, the attention poets give it, if it weren’t so brutal on the psyche. I curl my fingers around a cigarette, draw the curtain back and blow smoke out into the quiet. There are tear stains on my hollowed heart. Coffee rings on the worn pages which never stop turning in my mind. Imagining what it would feel like to dance along the tree tops in bare feet, I run a finger against the glass and carve a shape into the frost. What to do with so many secrets falling to the earth underneath my chest. Where to run when all the universe is already inside. I let it in. I swallowed it whole. They won’t tell you but I will. The trouble with secrets is that they are true.

Little One

Little moth wings crawl their way up the screen and I watch as its tiny legs move its tiny body higher and higher at a crushingly helpless pace. It is trapped inside the window. Between the glass and the screen. I can see it from the inside and it could see me but it is facing the the other way. Its eyes can see the sky.

It’s crawling against the meshing, trying to get free. I don’t know how it got in there. I know it can breathe. I see it can move but cannot fly, it keeps tumbling back down into the well. It is a most pitiful sight.

Why does it even try.

Because it has no other choice. It can either make attempts at freedom or sit and wait and die, return to dust.

The house is quiet and dim, only the sounds of the heater, crackling. I set my coffee down on the table. I slide the window up along its track and remove the screen. The little moth climbs onto my finger and I move my hand out into the frosty autumn wind. The winged stranger flutters and falls and then flies crooked into a bed of dried leaves below.

Closing the glass pane, I wrap up in a blanket and take a long hot sip of my coffee. It is a gorgeous morning. The sky is light blue, washed in soft pink. A perfectly tall naked tree snakes its wild silvery branches high into the empty openness. Orange and golden light spills onto the distant rolling hills and I imagine holding on to nothing.

Opening up my slender hands and letting go.

I remember exactly what it felt like to crawl to you on my hands and knees and beg. The flash of your eyes and your teeth, and your firm feet between my legs. My mouth waters and my jaw aches.

I imagine the world on fire and watching it burn.

Everything I ever thought or wrote about going up in black smoke. It smells like spiced embers and feels like liquid heat scorching through me, skin and lungs and bone.

I do not move. I do not run away. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. If only some stronger hand would appear. Would open the window for me.

The Way You See It

Accidentally saw the lunar eclipse, in all of its shadowy mystical glory, in the black of today’s early morning sky. Right through my bedroom window, just like that, as I cuddled in a hoodie in the dark and sipped my coffee as though we aren’t all just tiny specs of cosmic dust swinging through space and time while the universe does its wondrous thing regardless of whether we care to watch it or not. Indifferent as stone. Shadow eclipses shadow, and again the light emerges like a miracle if you still believe in those.

I’m on shaky ground there myself and have been for a good while now. It can make your life feel eerily haunted when on the surface things appear smooth, happy even, chill. But underneath there is something inside which is always running and I don’t mean running like on legs down the street, I mean running like the machinery inside of a clock or the ticking inside of a time bomb.

As I sit typing away on my laptop, I scroll through some notes I took yesterday on my phone. Writers are always fucking taking notes it’s an obsession with detail we can’t shake. Spent a good portion of time researching the differences and similarities between absurdism, nihilism, and existentialism. Not sure how coherent of a conversation I could have about it all what with the endless nuances etc., but needless to say I’d give anything for someone to discuss it with over coffee and a cigarette.

Good conversation is achingly hard to come by in these times of division and rage. And for the life of me I can’t understand why this doesn’t break the heart of the entire world into pieces.

Remember the beginning of a young, fabulously ridiculous love? How at the beginning you felt like you could throw everything you owned or believed in into the river and not give a shit and never look back and stay up until dawn talking about nothing and everything and believing in something again but for the first time. Does that still happen to people in these times of broken bottle promises and trashy gutter minds? The cynics and maniacs and all that accumulated apathy. Sex like animals only with less heart.

Absurdists believe there are only three available responses to the existential dread we experience within when our human tendency to grapple for meaning in life collides with the universe’s indifference to assuring meaning in anything at all.

Suicide. Religion. Acceptance.

You can end the self (deemed by Camus and Kierkegaard as irrational, as to end one’s own existence only makes that existence even more absurd). You can throw your faith behind a God which exists beyond the Absurd and who creates the meaning in which you are obligated to trust. Or you can accept the Absurd, make your own little meanings out of things for your own reasons, all the while remaining fully aware that ultimately there is no meaning to anything in a life, followed of course by a death, which – you guessed it – is meaningless, too.

That last one there is what Camus believed offered one the most freedom and contentment inside of the madness. Kierkegaard, though, apparently thought that last one was bullshit. For what it’s worth, I could go either way or both at the same time it’s tough to tell when you try to pin a thing to the wall but nothing ever sticks. I’m so strung out on the insanity of capitalism and the rest of it that I’m pretty sure I can no longer see clear through to any answer of any kind.

The thing is, though, there are moments. There are inexplicable happenings that offer glimpses into something so disarmingly beautiful and fleeting, and so quietly, piercingly mesmerizing it makes you wonder if even among the wreckage, there just may be a ghost inside the machine. A ghost not entirely friendly, not entirely punishing, but maybe, just maybe, not entirely indifferent, either.

It’s all wildly outrageous, of course. But as I write this to you now, the unblinking eye that is the moon is a full orange glowing cratered circle sliding behind the bare stick figure trees and I cannot look away. Maybe because, without planning or forethought, all alone in the silence, I happened to catch it blink.

That Which You Seek

She spreads her legs and the shattered world disappears into her precious flower, opening and expanding, flowing out like the sweet milk of celestial bodies. Spinning light and darkness into eternity.

Remember that sunlight emerges, cut with boundaries, slicing, selecting sides. Piece by piece, dissected.

You contemplate duality. You run your fingers along her neck. She offers it to you.

You recall a time you felt most ashamed. You kneel your naked knees to the edge and expose yourself, raw, before the wolves. They smell your slow blood, you need the hot pierce of teeth.

Show me the places where you make yourself break.

Remember we design our own pain.

May I lick you back together. Or would you bleed yet remain the same.

May I part your ribs and tear you all apart for the cruelty of it. Remember that darkness knows no boundaries at all, only horizon after horizon of endless invisible cloud.

When you reach for me, I respond in kind. Your touch graces me, strokes the paradise beneath my skin. Little lights are coming on all over the globe, an electric buzzing dawn. Bodies falling like dominoes into the abyss.

I close my eyes against your palm, request your instruction. Appear in places where, to the outside world, we no longer exist.

I press my lips to the frost upon the window pane as the snow comes down soft, pristine. Taste the heat at the center of the cold. Contemplate ecstasy, stimulate hurt. I suck your fear and tongue your fantasy.

Cheap Thrills

Dried brown leaves chase each other in circles along the sides of the street, you can hear them scratch the pavement as they scuttle. As I watch the peach clouds move in and the white hot sun climb higher and higher in the pale blue sky, I am filled with a familiar feeling of dangling on the edge of dread and/or excitement. Dread because I have a toothache and I just know fixing it is gonna be bad news for all of us involved. Excitement for no good reason but all I can tell you is anxiety manifests itself in strange ways. Sometimes it feels like anticipation and though you aren’t sure if that is good or bad, it doesn’t much matter because your mind is off deciding things on its own again while your body is left behind with the caffeinated jitters.

Checking media is not helpful except in the sense that feeding off of the addiction to infotainment allows you to blend in with the rest of the adorable fools around you which, admittedly, is sometimes a welcome escape from being swallowed whole by the gaping void of your own inner existence, mangled and marred as it is by years spent overthinking every last goddamn detail of every last goddamn thing.

The world has become entirely impossible, one crisis after another and to be honest I’m simply exhausted at the thought of another day spent beating back against what hurts. I thought about dying my hair even though everybody tells me not to, just because I can and it’s more fun and less unsettling than clawing one’s own eyes out, no? As I envision it, it would come out a beautiful rosegold-blonde color. It would shimmer and shine in the autumn moonlight as a forest fairy’s would as she flits and flutters all about the moss-covered forest floor and it would get him off when I go down on him because it’d be like fucking a new girl or cheating on the one he’s got. Go ahead and judge, but a thrill’s a thrill and you take what you can get your hands on these days.

But you see, people do not understand. The more they tell you not to make a move, the more making a move consumes your every thought. The harder they warn you about the dangers of yourself, the harder you lean into the danger and defend it with everything you have. It’s really not complicated, but when was the last time you let a simple thing come easy?

Bone Crush

I remember my first kiss mostly because I didn’t want it but he did and so I decided I had no choice, which is right there where the sickness flowers and lives inside of you like a low grade fever forever. Or until you claim it, beat it back. Pin its wings and place it in a jar on a shelf in a room you refuse to enter ever again which makes things tricky because the room is in the haunted house that is you. Lips and fingers, bodies and doors. You learn ways to unlearn yourself in the hopes you will one day disappear. It’s all an act, of course, nobody really wants to be erased or at least I can’t imagine life would want life to live that way, but God’s a train run off the tracks of your bones long ago.

There is a hollowness which has become sacred to you and you could swear it smells like home, its vacancy warm as fireglow, like magic, like a secret you have to keep to protect yourself and those around you from seeing you as you really are. What if you have claws instead of wings, or worse what if you have both. Human love is only as enchanting as humanity can be and so much tenderness has sunk into the angry sea as it is, along with the toxins and residue of apathy and gloom.

As I make my way up a hill which cuts through and along a small old cemetery, my heavy boots push the colorful bed of leaves around in the dirt. When the wind presses against me in earnest, I pull up the collar of my wool coat, light a cigarette and blow smoke high into the autumn air, it billows and swirls against the pink sunset sky. In my mind, almost adorable in its seemingly endless capacity for delusion, I am Camus and my entire life is lived out minute by minute, frame by frame, in grainy black and white. Meme culture. Counter culture. Noir and scotch. Cults of personality. The fetish of annihilation.

The clouds this evening are absolutely wicked, so deeply gray they nearly blackout the already fading electric rays of auburn light. I think about the woman with the rich auburn hair online modeling fine lingerie, her perfect ivory skin, curves like waves on a glistening ocean, eyes like crystal blue heaven. I think about the philosophers and poets who have come before us and the tiny slivers of wisdom they have handed on to us like passing notes through the invisible veil, taking swipes at meaning, dangling enlightenment in front of us like it was hung on a rope.

It’s all an act, of course. Every single move we make and breath we take, an act of surrender, desperation, hope, absurdity. Acting like we have any kind of control, the mass of all the universe spinning in circles in our tiny hands. Acting like we would know ourselves if we ever dared to meet ourselves at all.

My Body and Your Body

When you look at me can you see the earth on fire in the sunset hills, the end of this wretched world and the beginning of a new one. My head is split in two, angel, please close the blinds. It must have been the whiskey and cigarettes that went down like heaven as we talked and sang and laughed our way through the spiced autumn night. I remember the chill on my skin, the moon glow and the dirty jokes. The way your thumb coaxed my mouth. Hats and coats on the floor, you and I naked beneath the soft white sheets. Please wrap another blanket over us and tell me it’ll all be okay. When I spread myself over you I am filled with a radiant warmth I never want to lose, even though I know all good things will turn again to dust on the broken wings of a time gone by. Sunlight crawls muted through the window which overlooks the brightest orange and golden trees. Funny how vibrant is the dying season. A blackbird soars elegant against a snowy clouded sky. And for right now, silence lays her head down next to us. Quiet sighs sliding smooth along the water glass. My body and your body, melting like teardrops into the steel gray afternoon.

Adult Entertainment

As autumn leaves fall silently in the open air, the sky darkens to a deep metal gray as the wind and rain move in on their own rowdy, wet, sinister terms. Just yesterday I had this thought about what my life would have been like if I had noticed I was beautiful back when I was but youth, being so shakily timid in her wide wandering mind and her tight sparkling body, barely recognizes itself in the mirror let alone in its own fragile hands. I feel very strongly that I must get away, from what I just couldn’t tell you. My life, I think. Not my blood, mind you, I’m not talking about cutting off my own circulation or any of that shit. The story goes like this: I want to be alive and that seems to be the trouble with me. I seem to want to experience more and this makes me a rattle-y inconvenience to the rest of the world which would prefer if I just quiet down and quit being so fickle and thoughtful and nuanced. Perhaps it’s that I’ve just had too much coffee and chocolate for breakfast or perhaps it’s the way the splashing sound of heaving cold rain pelts the fiery red maple leaves just outside of my open window but something in the cells of my being is buzzing with a kind of sensation somewhere between panicked agitation and heart-pounding lust. I’ve had my period for the past few days and so we’ve not had sex because I am weird about that but now I’m horny af and all I can think about is kneeling in a darkened bedroom, taking his gorgeous cock into my mouth and worshipping like a woman desperate with a thirsty kind of sweet admiration. I know what you’re thinking. The window shouldn’t be open because the rain water is now pooling on the hardwood floor and my daydreaming ignorance will cause it to warp, but I meant to tell you that also I’m smoking and trying to blow most of it outside for what it’s worth which is really very little.