NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-5: Fire is on Your Couch

When I love with fire
And fire becomes complacent
And fire is on your couch
You are too busy sweeping soot
To cook or sit and eat
And sleeping next to heat
Does little to console
The burden of this role
And you're surrounded day and night
By more efficient sources of light
That are gentler to the touch
And these do not cost you much
These loves you may equally requite

NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-4: Moment of Impact

I carry a love ball
I bounce it against a hate wall
For that split second of impact
The ball is consumed with hate
As I catch it on the way back
I wonder, does that split second dominate?
Stochastic tosses touch a truth
Is truth an average of moments?
Am I completely oblivious to
What my incessant tossing foments?

NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-3 Drifting Apart

My comfort zone
My forgotten world
The melody to my rhythm
The tune stuck in my head
My frustrating puzzle
Long ago thought to be solved
But some pieces are missing
We look at one another through them
As though it were a wormhole
Gradually we realize it is not
There were just two puzzles in the same box
So as we drift apart
We gradually turn away
But I can still see you
Space and time
Were never our strong point, anyway

NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-2: Magic Foot

Why should I let the hairs
on the top of my foot dictate
anything
Oh yeah, they weave between
the threads of my socks
Then each step almost pulls them out,
So I purchase socks with a higher thread-count
Fortified now, without an alibi, I walk
Foot hair no longer a factor
My ambitions climb
So my pace is faster
Foot hair not on my mind
The fine fabric massages my toes
A fan of friction, my Mercury rose
Forming pools of sweat beneath my arches
And static electricity like insects, marches
Marches as my hairs inter-tangle with my stride
So I speed up, as though this phase
Is merely the beginning of the trail I'll blaze
A quaint memory at most
And I continue patronizing this moment
"It'll make a great mantle-piece"
But soon, my static must find release
On these crowded streets, gunshots are heard
My feet glow, and people assume the position
I run at first, but I just become brighter
My only control is to ease my transition
Into a novelty life of public service

NAPOWRIMO Splatterings 4-1: Mice

Everybody has a defiantly intentional home for mice within themselves
If small holes appear in that chamber, we Spackle them shut with feed
We feel constantly compelled to subtly reveal
Indirectly that these chambers exist
With a series of clues
Droppings
Squeeks in silent moments
Silent moments so designed with one thing in mind
The challenge of maintaining a tent of self so that in time you know
Different levels of where my mice may be kept, so I may know yours

Said The Dentures to the Peach...

I always knew my parents were strange as a child, but it wasn't until adulthood that I realized how truly bizarre my upbringing was. See, both of my parents had an oppressively conservative upbringing where wholesome family values were maintained with an iron fist. They ate dinner as a family unit every night, no TV past 7:30, and under no circumstance would they ever discuss anything remotely unpleasant. Well my parents' believe that this practice stunted their development, so they decided to do the exact opposite when they raised me and my sister. While they did enforce certain ground rules, I was always more than encouraged to learn about and then discuss my views on sex, drugs, violent movies, the concept of mortality, and anything else that pre-adolescents like specifically because their parents don't want them to know these things even exist. So when I turned twelve, of course they started leaving porno magazines in the bathroom. At the time I thought it was just a coincidence, until my parents, BOTH of them, lectured me on masturbation technique.  The lecture seemed planned, like they wanted it to introduce the concept, let that sink in, then maybe a quick anatomy lesson, a few basic motions to get me started, and proper sperm disposal.  But they kept arguing over details that were at the time completely over my head, like "If he always uses lotion it's gonna train him to get off too fast and he won't be able to hold down a relationship and he's gonna wind up committing hate crimes" or "That's gonna make it so he can only do girl on top"...  I noticed they were always quietly hovering outside the bathroom door.  Over the course of the next month or two, they repeatedly assured me that the magazines were in the basket next to the toilet for my enjoyment. My dad would wink at me and say, "Hey, I like the articles too, son!" like I was supposed to know what the fuck that meant! Most parents treat their kids like dogs or drunkards they are placating until they sober up into adulthood, my parents treated me like I was their buddy.

All the kids in school would make jokes about jerking off.  Admitting it to their friends was a relief, the relief of admitting something they were made to feel ashamed of.  Oh what I would give to know what it was to be ashamed of something natural! One kid said that the skin was bunched up in folds at the base of his dick like a Shar Pei because he was jerking off so much. Whenever he came back from the bathroom, a few of his friends would make this gushy sound with their lower lips and fingers that I assumed was what it sounded like when people jerked off. This gave me an idea. So whenever I was alone and I knew my parents were standing outside the door, I would make sure my door was locked and I'd sit on my bed and make those gushy fake masturbation sounds with my mouth.  It must have worked because the questions stopped, and soon I found a shelf unit sound system in my bedroom that I never asked for, ostensibly so my parents wouldn't need to hear me "jerking off" anymore.  It was the closest thing to shame I had ever felt, and I loved it!

As far as actual masturbation goes, I remember thinking how gross the whole thing seemed, and wondering why it is such a big deal. I was already freaked out by my new pubic hair, so the thought of anything other than pee coming out of there made my blood run cold.

Midway through that summer, the family packed into a van and drove up to the mountains for a family re-union at my grandparents' house. It was several days full of idyllic memories chasing crayfish under rocks, eating burnt diner pancakes at 6 AM before spending the day hiking, etc... by Sunday I was completely spent lying in the guest room full of aches and bruises as I looked at the old picture framed advertisements hanging on the walls. I was sharing a room with my dad. He comes in and after a few pleasantries brings up a subject I thought had been dropped long ago. "So you haven't been alone this whole trip, bet you must be jonesing for some privacy, eh?" I told him I already "took care of" what he was referring to, as though I took out the trash or mowed the lawn. "Oh, ok. You didn't use one of your socks, did you? I think you're all out of clean ones..." I told him I used a few tissues. "I don't see any tissues boxes in here." I was getting annoyed now, I told him I got them from the bathroom. "I don't see any tissues in the waste basket, either... are you lying to me?" I was tired, achey, and probably itchy from where my armpit hair was starting to grow. So I snapped. "Well... fuck you, dad, leave me alone! Maybe I'm just not in the mood!" My parents had a fairly traditional stance on swearing, especially when directed toward them. He used to stutter when he was this mad, but now he just adds unnecessary pauses and closes his eyes: "What did... you ... just ... say?" My dad tends to dole out impulsive and random punishments when he looses his temper. When my older sister was 15, he made her go on two dates with a guy she'd just broken up with because she went over her texting limit while they were dating that month. He calmed down and said, "You are going to stay in this room and masturbate, and you are going to give me the tissues when you're done. I'll come back here in half an hour and you had better produce something for me or else." I could barely make a fist from skipping rocks all day, and there were no magazines around for me to even try using for "inspiration". I thought about spitting into the tissues and handing that to him, but I didn't know if that would work. I started stroking myself and thinking of girls from TV and movies, girls I liked in school, girls with proportions I had imagined... but none of it was connecting to any real immediate sexual feeling. Then I looked at the old advertisements on the wall. Sure, the photos were black and white, but there were a few post cards with cute island girls wearing straw skirts... a magazine cover with a woman who was sorta pretty but was making a goofy face that I guess was sexy in 1957... and then there was a more elaborately framed dress ad with a woman who was giving me a very welcome stare. Her face was so approachable, as though I could meet her in real life and we could fool around or whatever. Her breasts were full and less pointy than the other breasts on the wall, so I could actually imagine what the nipples would look like in the context of the whole tit... I could see them shimmy gently as I pushed her legs apart and eased my cock inside of her... I had no idea how that would feel in real life, but I realized at that moment it must be some powerful stuff because I immediately ejaculated right over the one tissue I was holding, all over the side of the bed into my dad's open suitcase. I just stared at the mess as my posture deflated, thinking, "Wow, that's a lot! Did all that come from me? That's... awesome!"  I used the tissue to clean up my mess and once my dad approved, it was time for dinner, which I planned to rush through and then go masturbate again while the room was still unoccupied. I sit at the table and take very little from each dish that passes by. It may not be an official rule, but it is implied that I am only to contribute to the dinner conversation when directed to do so. Maybe I'm a gentleman or maybe I just wanted to enrich my first consummated sexual fantasy with some details, but I wanted to get more information about the woman in the old dress ad. I didn't want to ask directly though, so I just talked about how much I liked those old ads hanging on the walls. My grandmother laughed and said, "Oh yeah, when you get old you tend to accumulate a lot of junk," and she paused to glare at my grandfather, then continued "I had such a hard time getting him to throw out any of those old magazines, so we compromised: he got to decide which clips we keep and I'd frame them and send the rest to recycling! Of course, that's why they're mostly pictures of pretty girls!" The old man was a shameless lech who went to great lengths to check out and make crass comments at anything, even girls in TV commercials. When I was little I used to say "She can't hear you, grandpa!", before I realized it didn't matter. My grandmother continued, "Oh, except for that old dress ad in the golden frame. That was from my short-lived modeling career, year before I met your grandfather." I gave my dad an unmistakable panicked look, and he interjected, "Uhh, you mean the one in the guest room that we're staying in? In the golden frame? Closest to the door? Polka-dot dress? That one?" My grandfather slouched in his seat and with a proud guttural groan he said, "Yep. That one."

Rainbow Unicorn

Immediately before he went to bed, Mark purchased a coupon: $10 for $17 worth of food from groupon.com to this new downtown vegan cafe called The Rainbow Unicorn*. The terms and conditions for the coupon are as convoluted as the relationship he just got out of and therefore a liability if used in the presence of others, but he is determined to use it on a date regardless. See, his ex was as finicky, uptight, and judgmental as they come, so he was trying to find someone more laid back as a rebound. The type who would enjoy a vegan restaurant and wouldn't get bent out of shape if he used a difficult coupon. Imbued with his new purpose to distract him from the pain he'd recently experienced, Mark was kept awake by thoughts of wide-eyed girls with colorful clothing, directionless conversations and laughter, and condition-free sex with no follow-up questions aside from those with no wrong answers. Despite the restlessness, he woke up well before any hippie chick he could imagine would and read up on current events so he would have something to talk about other than heartbreak and consumer electronics.

That morning on the light rail, Mark didn't even need to try maintaining the enlightened glow he was rehearsing that morning in the bathroom mirror, which is for the better because it actually looked more like a self-righteous smirk than anything else. Most men bemoan the way beautiful women only seem to notice them when they are in committed relationships. While this may be true, there are other instances where men appear downright radiant to the opposite sex, and those times are never mentioned because they aren't as much fun to complain about. One example of this radiance is the phase Mark is in right now. Mark is glowing and perfectly content not because of a woman, but because of himself and his joyful anticipation. He experiences bliss almost equal to a sexual release just from taking a deep breath and fixing his posture. It feels like his spine extends and pushes his head up to the ceiling, and when he opens his eyes he meets the relaxed smile of lips so pouty that such a smile should appear forced, and wide sapphire eyes with no discernible ability to close until somehow her eyelids travel down for a blink. There was plenty to be skeptical about between her eyes and her lips, but in that instant Mark only notices her tribal motif and buffet-style simple elegance, and still near the beginning of his exhale he compliments her necklace as though that was his intention all along. He couldn't tell if her necklace was made with bones or petrified wood or lacquered recycled board game pieces, any of those items could find themselves dangling from her extremities or resting on the ramp leading towards her unbound but nonetheless remarkable breasts. Before long, he is missing his stop so he can listen to the brief narratives associated with her personal possessions, all of which seem to have resulted from road trips and personal discovery. The train is at the first traffic light in Tempe when she mentions her beliefs about eating locally and sustainably grown food, and how she volunteers to help out on farms in Wilcox once per month. Just as he was about to run out of clean ways to express his amusement, Mark seizes in on the opportunity. "Speaking of which," he says, "have you heard of The Rainbow Unicorn Cafe?" She shakes her head without expression but without breaking eye contact. He continues with a bright chipperness that betrays a lack of social awareness, "Yeah, it's this new vegan restaurant that only uses locally grown ingredients! Only things that grow in Arizona. It's the Rainbow Unicorn!" Now she clutches her bag and looks at the floor. "Umm, ok. You don't have to be sarcastic." This is not what Mark expected. His frivolity is deflating, but traces of it can still be heard as he says, "I'm sorry, what do you mean?" She continues, "I get it, you're saying 'If you want to find locally grown produce in Arizona, it is like looking for a rainbow or a unicorn'." "No, that's not it at all!" "Well then what did you mean? That I'm just some shallow hippie dippie flower child who collects funky jewelry and goes to places called 'The Rainbow Unicorn'?" Mark tried to explain, "No, The Rainbow Unicorn is a real place, it's a restaurant downtown", but it was of no use. "Don't insult my intelligence," she said. "Nobody would put all the time and effort into opening a restaurant and then blow it all by calling it 'The Rainbow Unicorn'. I give people more credit than that." The train slowed down as she stood up, clearly to leave, but he was still trying to salvage the situation. "I swear, it's a real place! It exists! I don't have any proof of it, but I know it does!" She disembarks without further comment. At least there was one more stop before the end of the line, otherwise he'd have been forced to get off the train and either hang out at the platform, implicitly admitting that he missed his stop just to talk to her, or he could leave the platform and pretend that was his stop and walk briskly across the street like he was going somewhere and then eventually go back to the station once the girl was out of sight. Mark wonders which of those he would have done as he texts his boss to say he is going to be a little late.

Mark boards the next westbound train feeling basically the exact opposite of the sensation from earlier. It is now mid-morning, most of the passengers are either college students or people with undesirable jobs and maybe a few people who were too hung over to wake up on time for their desirable jobs. Mark doesn't want to talk to anybody, so he sits in a corner in order to make sure that he will have at least one unoccupied side to turn towards and take a nap. Just as he starts to find a comfortable day dream, a girl asks the time. She wasn't addressing anybody in particular, but Mark was closest. He read the exact time from his phone, turning his head towards her without looking, and she was elbow-deep in her purse and didn't even acknowledge his answer for at least twenty seconds. He didn't hear her reply at all, but it did sound inarticulate and friendly so after a few seconds, he focused his vision and turned toward her to reply. They had a friendly and inarticulate conversation that seemed to mention a few cartoon characters, the uselessness of certain kitchen items, and a small town off I-40 in Arkansas that they both had a bad experience in. It was like pillow talk, as though they were distracted by the magnitude of something that just drained their energy. Anything seemed acceptable at this point, so Mark asked if she wanted to meet at the Rainbow Unicorn Cafe sometime. She agreed with easy enthusiasm, like accepting a bowl of popcorn. They exchanged numbers as Mark got off at his stop.

Their interactions were so care-free, Mark wondered if the "1-day" rule for calling someone even applied. He debated the issue until a day had gone by anyway, and he asked if she wanted to meet there on Thursday. She said anytime after 5 was ok. He printed his coupon at work using their expensive color printer, and the Rainbow Unicorn emblem looks very high-concept, so he decides to call ahead to reserve a table. When nobody answers, he imagines they must be very busy indeed... though he is a bit confused when a generic recording reads their phone number because they haven't set up their voice mail yet. He leaves a message anyway, and when he shows up at 5 a table is available for him. After fifteen minutes, he sends her a text message to make sure she wasn't lost, but receives no response. Just to occupy himself, he asked the hostess about his coupon and what the terms and conditions mean. It was about 5:30 when he got an answer, and that was when the girl from the light rail arrived and apologized for her lateness as she went behind the counter. She wasn't apologizing to him, but to the hostess. He could have prevented a very awkward moment if he thought before saying, "Wait, you work here?!" She responded, "Oh yeah, I thought you knew that." Then she paused and looked up from the utensils she was wrapping and said, "OH! You wanted to meet here... Ohhhhhh... um, sorry?" Normally, Mark would leave this alone and find answers within his own thoughts, but something snapped in him. "Wait. What about me asking if you want to 'meet at The Rainbow Unicorn Cafe sometime' indicates that I somehow knew you worked here? That doesn't make any sense." She was caught off guard and paused, then said, "Well I thought maybe you saw me here before or something and just wanted to stop by." Marks eyebrows couldn't possibly arch any more inward, but he still tried and said, "But what in anything I said even remotely implied that I knew where you worked?" She looked up at him once again and said, "I guess I don't know. Would you like me to get you anything?" As Mark left with his $5 smoothie, he started to guess at the nature of their easy exchange on the light rail and wanted nothing to do with it anymore. That confrontation made him realize that with personalities, you make trade-offs no differently than you do with consumer goods, career choices, and everything else in the world. He boarded the light rail and ripped up his coupon in dramatic fashion, which meant that he had to clutch the unmanageable remnants of the two-page coupon until he reached his stop. Sitting perfectly still with his elbows resting on his knees and his head resting on his fists scarcely closed around bits of paper featuring a colorful high-concept emblem, he prayed this wouldn't lead to a conversation.



* In case you are reading this and aren't familiar with the Phoenix "metro" area, this place actually exists. While I may also be lightly satirizing the mores of vegan restaurants in general, I am not making up that name to be funny. If I were to use a parody name, I would certainly try to be more clever. This is an actual vegan restaurant/gallery space that is actually called The Rainbow Unicorn.