Tribes As a child, the family was his tribe. His older cousin showed him and his brother how to fish. He was shown the colors of the earth, and it helped him through the noise and clamor of his half-sisters and the city. He and his brother and mother and sister were a tribe. He was taught to cook and introduced to the sounds that inspired his brother, and it helped deal with the bright colors and materialistic shallowness of the American dream. He and his friends were a tribe, Not the ones in person, but the ones who knew only his soul, The soul that would be connected to his love, and it helped him deal with the absurdity of those who had trouble moving on in the in-person world. Now, he needs his tribe again, In order to be safe from those who see savagery, In the most noble of existences he knew.
Visuals Of Varying Degrees Of Effects On Dopamine Levels The households I stumbled into. The people I’ve seen. The staff at the bookstore on 43rd and University Way NE. The therapists. The doctors. The residents going about their day. The woman who says not to let me drink too much Monster or I’l be too nasty-tempered. The meth head who rambles on of desires to mutilate a girl he fucked from a church group, but flinches from the smallest movement of hundred thirty-five pound, twenty-nine year old woman. The disgust I never thought I could feel at being the date for two girls to a ball. The thin line of a whether a Buddhist is also an atheist or not. The stretching-yawns of juvenile standard hooded rats in a pet store and their curiosity of the large beast outside their cage. The cat on a leash in the noisy city, shivering from the unsettling nature of its environment.
Say Something You need to be nice even if you don’t like the useless junk piece of crap gift. You need to wait your turn. You need to play nice with other Idiots Noisy monsters kids, And yes You have to play with other Idiots Noisy monsters kids. You need to brush your Teeth? Hair. You need to shave your Face? Legs. You need to do something besides play In my happy place Video games. You need to talk to other People besides your Friends On-line friends. You need to be more Submissive Laid bare Open about your Dirty secrets Dreams and desires to your family. Why won’t you Pry yourself open Reveal yourself to scrutiny Say anything about yourself to us?
The man without a childhood The man without a childhood didn’t receive his name from a parent like other people. He created the name, created himself. He had no father figure, no idol, yet something within him loved men enough to foster his existence. The man without a childhood is aware others like him exist. Some he’s passed by on the street, some he’s congregated with in groups of a few dozen, one he’s loved. He isn’t the least bit like them and yet they’re kindred in their absent recorded youth. The man without a childhood seldom understands social norms. He makes bits and pieces of what to expect and goes by on that. He bars these ever evolving theories from all but those he trusts with his psyche, lest he encounters someone who intends to shatter him into nonexistence.
Fishing Camping in eastern Washington Smoky wood smell Mist in the morning. And crows cawing. When you’re out in the air it’s got this biting sort of cold to it That feels like life. You’re enjoying the sight of the earth before the mist lifts, The anticipation of the clouds ascent And the wetted grass, pine cones on the ground. We then go to the lake. A half mile walk through a field. The lake is clear and it’s cold. We get out the tackle box The bait and the lures—some are just hooks Some look like tiny fish. The bait is a neon paste Placed on the hook. The lines are cast. We wait. Maybe just minutes Maybe an hour. We get a trout. First one I caught by myself, I was six. It was a foot long. It was a lovely specimen—a rainbow trout and we ate it. My older brother and I would take the fish To the gutting place with Mike and he taught us how to gut it, cutting from the cloaca to the neck, hacking at the head, thenpulling it out and the organs with it. Then scraping the fecal matter and blood stil within the fish. The intestines were always so strange looking like worms with odd little valves at the end. It was a strange moment where taking something apart Was actually interesting. Machinery was just bits and pieces.
At the time, it was just a perverted joy. If it was any other living thing, I might have hesitated. But the trout was caught specifically for kil ing and eating. It was an acceptable time to be primal
On Why Shoe Does Anything I have difficulty concocting what he would look like. I guess some build? He better at least have a happy trail I can drag my tongue up. I know what he would feel like, and smell like. Covered in hair and scented like salt and earth and feeling like a trembling fire when I enter him. How can I say how many it would take to get to him? Maybe he’ll be the first I connect with, maybe there would be numerous failed lovers before him. I ‘m very certain what I want from him in terms of personality. I want him to love being healthy, but I need him to also love the calm and organic of the woods. I hope to god he can be both a fighter and a poet, in a monk sort of way, not an educated knight in shining armor way. We would be like two monks who behold the world, and in our lesser moments hold one another.