and it was shoving me onwards
blindly I went
with my head covered
signs lined the road
the look of the letters
like bullet holes in tin
the untended fields are green
bees swarm the fallen fruit
drunk on rot
liquid vines of snakes curve along the hedgerows
this is not the tale I meant to tell
I cannot tell it otherwise
this is how they all begin
with the road and the fields
with rot and green
with drunken honey
(2022)
it was always an experiment. for the first time it wasn’t a journal, and that had always been the problem. too much churning, mucky pointlessness in those, a daily spilling of mud on a porcelain floor that had to be mopped up again and again.
this was to be a handprint in wet concrete, a tiny, temporary thing that never went away, disrupting an impervious façade, a reminder of the beauty in incompleteness. Humans disrupt. We are hardwired to want.
Wednesday is the Friday of the soul
Thursday is the Friday of the heart
Friday is the Friday of the loins
Saturday is the suspension of disbelief
Sunday is the apology
Monday is
Tuesday is the Wednesday of the mind
Wednesday is the Friday of the soul
23 02 2022
So: your boyfriend who has family connections to your MBA supervisor invites you to an anonymous orgy. You want to go, because you like to fuck, so much that you agree, despite the fact that you will know probably half of the people there. But you try on the expensive mask he had made which really does cover your face well, a tight fitting cap of blood-red leather that extends to the base of your nose and conceals your hair. You look, in the mask and nothing else, totally gorgeous, a fact he tells you continually as he fucks you from behind, watching himself in the mirror over your shoulder. He is not wrong, and thinking of all the other men who will fuck this gorgeous masked woman, you come, shaking so hard he pulls out, thinking he’s hurt you somehow.
Idiot, you think again.
Yet you go to the party. The orgy. You wear the mask and a garter belt and stockings and heels and a long coat and nothing else. He has waxed not just his pubes but his chest, striding about in leather pants with a tear-away crotch. You spend very little time together, because the pants make you laugh, and as a designated sub that’s the kind of disrespect that earns you a shift in the stocks.
You like getting spanked. You do not like humiliation, being hung out for anyone to torment. Too many of the older men who dominate this scene fall back on that trope, one more reason why you are sitting alone in the back corner of the mansion’s front parlor, wondering if it’s possible to ghost on an orgy.
“Is this seat taken?” Before you answer the man sits down anyway on the other end of the little couch. “I just gotta relax for a bit.” He flops back, breathing hard, his half-hard cock laying against his thigh.
You check him out, because it’s that kind of party. A black beaked mask, Dread Pirate Roberts with a hint of Plague Doctor. The fit body of a dedicated college athlete keeping his shit together. No gray hair in the pubes. Who is he?
“Is the master enjoying his evening?”
“Don’t do that master stuff. You can just talk to me. And I don’t know. Yes and no. I’m thinking about going home.”
Ask me. You blush, because no matter how many dicks your boyfriend lets you have here and now, he will not lend his subs. He has told you so himself, because so many in his clique have asked to fuck you. Asked him, not you.
“Me too,” you say. The plague pirate turns to look directly at you, and you shiver, because the mask is only half of his menace, the rest in his dark eyes that seem to swallow you.
“I want your number,” he says.
“Okay. How—”
“I’ll remember it. And if I don’t, it’s my fault, right?”
“Okay.” You tell him your number. He says it back to you. “You got it.”
“Does your boyfriend, sorry, master, read your messages?”
“God, no.”
“Good.” He stands up and stretches. Like the slut you are, you stare at his erection.
“Are you leaving?” you ask.
“Yep.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
He turns to you, and you shiver again under his dark gaze. “Not here. I want you paying attention.”
“Oh.”
He winks and walks away. His ass is amazing.
“Who was that?” your boyfriend asks as he approaches.
“I don’t know.”
“What did he want?” He is fiddling with his detachable crotch again. You do not love him. Now you know that you do not like him either.
“Nothing.”
“Really?”
“I’m getting one of those headaches. Do you have any idea where my coat is?”
(2020)
I am done with improving
No one else joined in
And I am doing all the work
We must all work together
Or surely we shall hang apart
Each to his own gibbet
They are having a bonfire at the farm next door
If you walk this way, through this field
It will look like the house is on fire
And we are gathering to watch it burn
(2022)
love everything with me
we hold hands
fingers interlaced
let us go together
and be loved
be loving
carry nothing
our hands empty with purpose
the knee bends just so
every step
framing the horizon
come, here is the spring
and here, the cup
its edge thin between your lips
the green leaves and the gold
and the shadows on the water
here, the cup
and there, the stone
stained by offerings
see, here
this crack
this was how the god escaped
now flowers grow
(2022)
romance yourself
don’t wait
you can love someone today
the lover is you
romance yourself
build expectations
make it clear to you what counts
and what is mere performance
yourself
needed by yourself
unneeding of all others
all boundaries are a wound
here
this skin
it is the least I can give you
(February 2022)
I went
the dark was absolute
I did not eat
not one seed
my mouth was empty
that is not my throne
pacing, waiting
she is there still
yes, the sun sets very late this
time of year
yes, I spoke to her yesterday
and she was happy
enough
what more does a woman want?
(2022)
O
God lady
Don’t you
Every get
Dizzy
Going round
and around us
Why not
just stop
(2020)
That’s the story I repeatedly tell through my fiction. All my work really, as my essential nihilism has required me to repeatedly question whether there is such a thing as Home. There is Safety, yes, and Love, but we conflate these into a singular experience and then symbolize it in a physical location and then pretend that we didn’t construct any aspect of that.
I don’t mean to say there’s no value in the idea of Home, only that we must be prepared to never, ever find it. The essentiality of Home is the end of the rainbow, present yet untouchable. What makes a home? Not the people in it, for those raised in chaos might find their comfort in solitude. Not the structure, for it seems the stronger you build your walls, the less resilient you make your spirit. A frightened man needs bricks and fences. The brave walk free.
How little we need to be happy.
So I spend a lot of narrative time pursuing stories about characters who lack a sense of Home. Not homeless in the economic sense. More that the geolocator of their heart points to everywhere and nowhere. Because that’s my story. Wherever I go, I make myself at home. I am a cuckoo, a sampler, a constant mirror. Show the locals that you are enough like them and they will accept you. This rules my personality, to the extent my whole conversation style is predicated on affirming the other party’s statements. I act out their words, their stories. I sometimes cringe as I watch myself doing it, but it works, because they laugh. People remember me because I make them laugh. This gets you far, when you have no Home-land. When you are constantly looking for a new Home.
I am not however a dupe. I am not recruitable to any cause of diminishment. I would rather die alone than don a brown shirt and deny others’ basic humanity.
How little we need to be happy.
thefixer.home.blog 