i remember standing in a parking garage in windsor with a denim jacket and boots on and somebody’s drunk mom i picked up at the bar giving me oral and the bartender behind me licking my ass and all i could think about was how bored and how much longer do i need to pretend like i’m getting anything out of this
equality on a romantic playing field is a turn-off for me because power dynamics are hot
Something kinda sexy about a girl with grown out highlights in a junky Toyota from the nineties with a busted backseat window
Sports doc telling me I have to be careful if I want to preserve my body as I get older, but it’s hard to imagine myself as not being invincible and still easy enough to pretend like I don’t notice new kinds of aches and a slightly lessened recovery time.
Plus it’s ironic how physical activity destroys your body just like it will deteriorate due to the lack thereof, same as women who eat well and exercise regularly have heart attacks just like women who don’t.
Doing 75 down I-75 Northbound, just over
the Michigan-Ohio border,
with my arm flung out the rolled-down window,
scooping up the air with my left hand,
while my right one steadies the top of
the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
I couldn’t do that if one of my hands was thrown between your* legs
(*the “you” in question being subjective).
You take away your body,
and a breeze steels your dust from my skin.
But I keep the highway gust
and save it in my pockets.
It’s been about 10 months since the last time and I figure there’s nothing wrong with lighting up when I realize there’s weed outside, so I’m putting my shoes on and they take me out there and I don’t take my mouth off the pipe as I take in a series of in-breaths without letting anything go and
I realize right before it turns that it’s going to be a bad trip and I don’t want to be high anymore right as I’m heading up the peak and she’s saying something about a guy who had a pet duck and one day the duck got lost and I asked what happened to it and for a while nobody knew but then one of the neighbors found a “fried duck” in their chimney. And I have enough self-awareness to realize how much weirder that sounds because I’m so high.
An immeasurable amount of time passes where I don’t say anything and my ears start to ring and my head is buzzing and everything turns black and white (literally goddamn black and white, I stop seeing colors) and it feels like I keep living the same moment again and again and I had never existed before this moment and I will never exist after it (as if “living in the moment” became an inescapable nightmare) and I try to remind myself that I’m just too high and she asks me if I want to go lie down, and I wonder how my face must look. I hope to myself that I’m still attractive.
I am surprised that my limbs can carry me to her bed and I am sitting up and start to feel constricted so I take off my bra and then my bandana and my pants and my shirt and I get underneath her covers and I notice that the g-string I’m wearing is the exact same one that I wore this other time when I was too drunk and I had torn off all my clothes then too but I’d woken up with a different girl staring at me. That was already years ago and I feel too goddamn old to be this out of my mind and I decide that I’ll never smoke again but I’ve never ended up sticking to that.
After another indeterminable interval of minutes or hours, I’m coming down and she comes to lie down with me and the covers falls halfway off when I prop myself up and I wonder how my tits look at this angle and my contacts are sticking in my eyes and my head is still kind of loud but it reminds me of when we were in high school and laid right here and talked to each other and I only remember that it’s not then when I hear the muffled cries of her son from the other room but she has to let him cry so that he’ll learn to sleep on his own and she said “he’ll let up in 20 minutes” and he does.
Whenever I hear the first few notes of “Nightswimming” by R.E.M. (off their Automatic For The People album—which ironically, was released on the exact day that I was born) I am reminded of the wooden floor and mirrors of the dance studio at Blue Lake where we practiced our routine for that song.
I was a few months from fourteen and my long, unruly curls were resisting the confines of the mandated ballerina bun and in my reflection I could see my side-swept bangs coming undone from useless bobby pins. During recitals, I had to use a sticky gel-wax (from an Aveda salon that I’d gotten on some vacation at a day spa), remnants of which would cling to my hair follicles even after repeated washings.
I remember standing in line behind a girl named Maeve (the first time I’d ever heard that name), and forever burned into my mind’s eye is the image of her arm, bent, and floating from her body in coordination with Michael Stipe wailing “…The recklessness in water/they cannot see me naked.” I’d be watching every muscle ripple through her bare back and trying to subdue the voice in my head that wondered what she looked like naked, accompanied by an uncomfortable stirring below my waist. For years afterward, I thought about her back.
I was reading an article on the SuperCruise, the GM test vehicle that drives itself. And I really hate the idea of cars becoming like that. Roads full of people just sitting and being transported to different places. Depressing.
Then it’s only a matter of time before they start learning to speak; they’ll be in the streets chanting “fours wheels good, two legs bad” and *driving* the human race into extinction.