Coelaboration The small apartment smells a little from the windows being closed against the humidity. I don't have any place to put the butts from the ashtray and I really don't want to waste my time doing domestic things anyway. Time seems too valuable for that. But the job of cleaning now has become overwhelming. I hate living in an apartment and not on the road because messes remind me of stagnation. I am stagnating and the garbage reminds me, the ashtray, and the clothes I have to smell before wearing. This is wearing thin. My writing is going just fine, but I am not following Eastern Daylight Time, but Hawaiian Time. I have been away since bright and early at 2:30pm and shall go to sleep in an hour or so, around 4:30am. Its certainly the typical hours for work in downtown Honolulu. Maybe Los Angeles. Okay, LA, but I'll never admit to having to do anything with that place.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
Seattle then. A place called never never land. A place so unlike Washington. Washington looks so deeply into the mirror. Washington is like a teenage girl. She notices every flaw and every ounce gained; she worried about everybody's opinion and fears rejection, always believing herself (no matter how gorgeous) to always be the homelier. New York is her older sister, the prom queen, the forever more popular to the studious insecure Washington.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
Seattle just is. Whether the mecca for new technology or sustainability; or, as it is better know, for the romper room of the Generation X (and also the Generation Why as well as for Old Hippies and middle-aged Punkers). Seattle just is. The people explore their own trendiness with great seriousness and commitment. Whereas people from the seventies laugh off their bell bottoms and feathered hair, Seattle youth of the nineties (much more so than their Suburban "Club Soda" brethren) shall be unable to secret their past shame in the attic, but shall be wearing it across their backs in inky faded wings. Or in a tribal tattooed arm band, in the scar of a clitoral piercing, brands, scarification -- this is commitment, this is power.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
But here, Washington looks at herself in the mirror and doesn't want to be one-hair out of place; she doesn't want to stick out; she doesn't want to be snickered at by her friends. She doesn't know what she is missing, the freedom of showing off the downy gleaming blond hairs of the tummy, the ellipse of the navel; to show the movement and form of the breast; to let the length of the body move under sunshine, under rain, beneath the incessant tirade of base and guitar. Pressed and exposed; excited and rosy from the blood coursing in the veins, breaking near the surface of the cheek.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
And the ashes are constricting my chest. The smoke is no good for the chest. Seattle is cast under cloud by day, but at night the mist is nicotine and clove. Seattle is a Camel town. New York is Marlboro. Washington is a Marlboro Light town, by default to New York.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
The pale flanks of Seattle, tight from starvation. Striations of muscle, the glint of the rings, the glitter of the disco makeup, the high camp. The bell bottoms taken for a steal at a flea market, from the folk's attic. The nosebleed platforms and ubiquitous coffee jitters.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
Dimpled erotica painted on flesh with needle, wrapped like tentacles along the arm and down the back. Once, my head way held tight during a freedive. By a giant octopus, I shit you not. It took hold and its eight tentacles, each as big as my wrist. The suckers reeled down my arms and bare back. On one breath, I fought it. I used my knife to tickle it away and it disappeared in a cloud of ink.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
I had been hunting for him so it was a fair loss, but when I arrived on shore, there were terrible welts where the genius had taken hold. They were red and indelible for quite some time, having broken the blood vessels, creating bruises. The Mark of the octopus from that day were as flowing and dynamic as the patterns dancing on the flesh of the Seattleite. Half-shirts, tank-tops, halter-tops, no shirt at all. The dancing of the image on the flesh; the tinkling of rings and jewelry. The clicking against the teeth as the boy absentmindedly plays with the silver barbell in his tongue as he pulls you off a shot of espresso.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
"Chocolate City" t-shirts. "3 for $10," Hope reminds me. Thin transparent cotton dishrags with "Washington Blues." Sadly, Bart Simpson is suffering a decline. His "Don't have a Cow, Man," used to be a classic, used to make young children smile when your returned home from Washington. Such a wonderful momento along with the foil packet of astronaut freeze-dried icecream one dad kept hidden after the boys had eaten all their before even leaving the Smithsonian. That one packet shared together at Walt Whitman rest stop way up I-95 on the way back to Queens. The freeze-dried ice-cream reminds me of my father's ashes as I emptied them from an oak box into the midnight blue sea off Waikiki. The freeze-dried icecream reminds me of the ashes held tight by a Boston family for all to share later, when everybody has all but forgotten.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
The dive boat we had used since he and I took our course through PADI in 1985. I was almost 15. Tom Yoho was always our captain. They were always different boats, but if Tom was there, it didn't matter. It was a consistancy, one of our few traditions -- to great me whenever I deplaned in Honolulu International Airport. The boat rode low, there were so many people chain-smoking Viceroy Golds and drinking scotch out of tiny paper cups. Little chips of ice rachetted at the hollow plastic bottom of the several ice-coolers on the boat.
The lights of Honolulu and Waikiki sparkeled. On clear nights, it always appears that lava is rolling down the mountains from the Koolau mountains, down Manoa Valley, and along the ridges of Pacific Heights and Hawaii Kai. The light of homes along the ridges mimic this flow. The coursing streetlights and the softer lights of the homes, of lava hardening.
Inside the oak box (there is no gravestone, no marker except in our hearts, in his images) I was surprised to see a gray platic bag. I felt strangely like a consumer as I untwist the wire and tasted the ash as it wafted up from the brisk tradewinds off shore.
We held our Glasses high, some of the amber fluid leaking. Someone wanted to pour some whisky into the box. Some wanted to give the ash a cigarette. I kept the box close and insured that the ashed where deposited into the sea, none of it to be kept. I gave the box to his partner. My mother looked quite affronted by the burial. Not by the burial, but rather by the drunken dandies and hussies making such a spectacle of themselves, offering booze and smoke to the remains, the ashes of a man who had died.
All the while a gentle breeze, the flowers riding the waves having been thrown in after. The leis slowly wilting on the string: carnations, orchids, tube roses. Thrown to the waves and little fish, the eels, turtles, anemonies taking the ash into their bodies. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
TheBUS. The city bus in Honolulu. From 6-11, I lived across the street from my Elementary School, Aliamanu Elementary. At 12, we moved downtown, miles away. I was a crossing guard for JPO (Junior Police Officers) in my school. We never told the school district we had moved. I had to be ready as a guard at 6:30am, in an orange tunic and an aluminum pole with a red "STOP" at the end. I took the public bus 5 miles every morning to school during 6th grade. Bleary-eyed, out the door, an hour early. Pre-dawn. Dawn. My backpack and the quarter for school lunch. The paper bus pass. Walking from the apartment, down the slope of Punchbowl. Even Honolulu is chilly early. Rubber slippers, backpack. Waiting there at the bus stop before the eternal flame (for the dead men of the war).
Hawaii is blessed with the most wonderful bus system. The fares are cheap and the people are all friendly and bright and the bus driver always takes care of the kids. There are always very young kids taking the bus to better schools away from their area, supplying addresses from their auntie or cousin as their own -- anybody who lives in that school district.
I was lucky that my bus drove straight to Salt Lake, where the school is. And then Walked down the small slope and to the little orange room where we picked up the reflective tape and vests, silver whistles and batons for stopping traffic for the kids coming to school hours after we did.
No, I never took a yellow bus, except when going on field trips to the Aquarium, to a theme park, to the youth symphony. Funny, I took TheBUS everywhere, even earlier than 11, but commuting on the bus at 12 seemed very menacing and awfully mature. I loved it and it excited me to no end.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
The blue plastic kayaks are perfect percussion instruments. The nudging of a log, the tap of the oars, the lapping of the cool morning waters. I usually sleep late. I usually wait until the morning is long past and the day has bugun and has moved closer to evening than the crack of anything. But the morning haze. Is it fog? It shrouds the river. The water fowl come to sight in grand grey silhouettes. the icy dense humid air swallows the songs. makes morning even earlier.
The yellow of fog lamps. The hong of a horn. The wail of a siren. Only these abominations remind me of rush hour.
These and the bloated grey carp, their bellies cut and rotted, bobbing along with the current. The knives cutting, the singles pass. I am not ever certain if the racing shells are physical or am I seeing things. They never make any noise. When I rowed in an eight, there was grunting, there was a coxwain and a cox box and a coach in a skiff and the clank of the oar in the oarlock.
But not these singles. These knives. They are to electric cars as eight man crews, the sweeps, are to the inefficient inline eights of the old american gas guzzlers. Faster, yes, but an inelegant gracelessness.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
There is magic. I have never doubted it. When I saw my first exorcisim, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It really didn't appear possible to be taken by a deomon. Demons are not for real. The other night, running through the close boughs of the forest, the fingers picking at my clothing; the bugs biting through skin and into vessels, I caught sight of several irridescent beetles darting several steps off the trail in a small bright clearing.
I changed my course, away from the strong river, and came upon wild mushrooms formed in a circle. The bugs were gone and the trees were still. Even the birds had decided to zip their mouths.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
fellation brass axe shitake falling away into and running with the entire concept of the boy finally reaching sweet sixteen blowing oh so sweet woo woo cat melodies into the center of my head thick pressed paws thump beat honk of geese in the small floating room below the exit sign before the moving leaves and the red light the red burning eye. the. the. the. he bought me a drink but i was afraid to drink it, there might be something in it, might be something else but the boyman drinks from the brown glass condensed hoping. hopping. jiving grooving saying its me i am doing i do not i try not. i do not. buzz buzz. the strain and staring into the mirror for five under stalin red budsign loo loo skip to the loo loo loo skip to the loo my darling and the window to the soul the man with the cruel face the cruelty hidden hidden and the slash across the face, that which i knew before but without the beard even more cruel like sneer and dogs jowls rabid slather pores wide fixed and moving, eye/eyes/eye/eyes dark cruel sanitary tp tp wiping the water wiping the water mine eyes mine eyes leaking leaking -- watering. bad choice... all choices. exhilarated glide on wings to nest here dishrags making pruned paws clean pieces steel glass gyrating oregano, basil, hemlock, hem. lock. hem. locked. ahem.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
The summertime wintertime in densest el nino washington here on the potomac cleaning cleaning the homely scum of the sink shitty shit in the bowl and getting down on the scabby knees from being aggressive n the rub the brown rug before the fireplace. i don't really need the fireplace today -- it is an absurdity just like the dust floating in my air passages. Watchng breathless on the telly. missspelling simple words simple ideas and putting off the easy task of writing the letter of intent to hopkins to get that place in the masters program. funny, hopkins does not have an mfa writing program. they do not so much consider writing a fine art so much as an art -- good for them. one of the oldest. rejected the ivy -- doing heroin instead, anyway. and the people i was with almost missed new years -- almost forgot about time with the mousy ivy, the saucy femmes tout en noire, the large vat of simmering meatballs and nacho nacho taco shell melody. asshole bartender -- some kind of complex. and there is the time of the day when it is already spent and you call of the dogs and make sure you're set up for the next day for another time with other people. did i miss not kissing this year. no. did i miss not fighting? no. being with the people was all it was about this year. seing the two sets of lover kiss. good enough for this bechelor.
want the scene from harry met sally. want the tuxedo and the lbd, want the cold NY apt and the balcony or the roof. want the brownstone. want the flights to paris. want the seine. want the metroliner and the washboard stomach and the dresses that press and pull and move and restrict and the touch of lips, the sharing of wine through the lips.
the saline solution of love. the movement of timespace thrugh the veins and out the skin in a musky agent. the attraction unexplained or explained matters not. the soft but firm flesh at the hip, the smooth hairless skinn looked at scrutenised -- there is always a peach fuzz. it can be seen after the body is lovingly painted in watersoluble paints under a high sun.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
This small apartment. Can't see through the bay windows. The rental company never has them come to clean. Things break. I read about schitzophrenia. Symptoms look to me like enlightenment in a small apartment in a small townhous on a small park in a small neighborhood in a swampy city in the usa. as the night effects not the room but inks out the windows i listen to music telling me it'll be okay. the screen on the telly is blue. the vcr isn't feeding tape. if it did it would be the film _Breathless._
new york herald tribune! new york herald tribune!
bugatti said, "cars were made to go not to stop"
i talked to a photographer today who told me how to sue based on copyright infringement. the song is over. i believe its going to be okay because it always has been before and 1998 is cake. and at least i am not hearing voices.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
pizza enogh to fill the belly? well, if I were to start a pizza company it would also give direct in-the-face advice for the little homes. Instead of the readout telling only of the telephone number, there would also be a background check and the dire straits of the houshold would be on the screen so that a divination would be easily forthcoming for the occupents: "clean up you pad for your guests. good call on the gift for mum -- she knows you love her now that you finally gaver her the movado. the useum watch, the love, the swiss movement and the battery that has to be changed in 2000. clean the wndows alone, do it and realise that everybody but you has the style enough to collect all those matchbooks begotten at the restaurants and arranged into linedry art long the walls. then you will be able to invite guestst over to enjoy the brazillian collection of music, the eddie murphy album, the vynl and enjoy the love affair you devote to a happy despressive blonde. the blonde who lights up your life.. the boy who perfoms the spear chucker dance as the music from brazil which sounds more indian or thai than anything from a portuguese- speaking south amaerican nation has the right to.
"my name is not noraa and i want to see you again soon; my name is not noraa and I want to see you again soon; my name is not noraa and i want to see you again soon. I dvorce you; I devorce you; I divorce you. Three strikes and you're out.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
ulysses. square eye similar to the one-eyes snake. mine eyes be square for they are always looking towards and through squareness. no wonder i am becomming decidedly L7. Slides, theur 35mm image smooth and shiny and then dull and emulated otherwise. ulysses. young stephen lost me every time and it is in a world not unlike his in which i feel the need for life for living for the odd sophistication that would make me finally to wake up next to a lover. head full of cleaning fluids. the oven still leaks brown fluid from the clean. spray foam all over inside of oven, starting at the top, and close and leave until morning. wipe with warm water, repeat.
two women coming. no deadlines except one. hopkins wants a letter of intent from me. only 2 pages long but my how I have avoided it. masters in writing. masters in baiting. cleaning the sheets, keeping the wndows open for the air outside mirrors closer than not the fine breeze of dirk's summer. T-shirt weather, 4 Jan 1998. Stayed inside and mucked around.
writing to me is just as it said. the pressure of the journal's leaves and where to make another mark. pencils like to break off their leads and although my pelikan writes smooth on the cotton bond, the days of movement empty fountains into you pocket or all over the pages.
spilled ink and blotches, rubs and smears make a journal. and this little lcd screen looks up to me in its grayscale. begging me to return to pen and paper. wondering what I should do with my manual typewriter and would it be pretentious if I tried writing on it? Tried starting a novel in the most novel manner?
a surprising number of contemporary authors still use manual typewriters; a sizable number of writers still use their old reliable selectric II. And how is that direct response of paper and wrtten notes and white out? Is that more real and if proust and joyce and hemingway and fitzgerald could hobble along on their enameled portables.
just ordered the complete poems of hemingway. what an odd thing to buy. i have zero exp[ectations. and radiohead is speaking to me and saying that I should fade out again; and fade out again. the words fill the townhouse and i am so wanting the neighbors to call the police. it has been a boring day.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
my skin crawls. the hair is greasy and falls well without a comb. wearing black is the answer. scrubbing out the white stains from rubbing a morning mouth. seeing the hours pass. immoving. orangina and viena sausage. i'm on a rool; i'm on a roll this time. i feel my luck could change. 1998. the time is exactly opposite in OZ. pull me out of an aircrash. i am your superhero. we are standing on the end. lyrics spinning from the large speakers. _The Breast_ is the name of a novel. it sits beside me. I wrote the number of a woman into its inner back cover. a 212 number. the breast. a man wakes to discover he has become a breast. he is placed in a sling which looks remarkably like the cup of a mansized brazziere. suck my nipple. lick my nipple. its all he can think. he think he's insane. thinks his woman will leave if all he wants or needs in his life is to have his enormous red nipple incessantly molested. thank you mr. philip roth -- we indulge ya something awful you brilliant son of a bitch! orangina. javascript. hopkins. wintel. somethings when i think about the way my mind works caught up in this parallel processing mind of ours looking for pi, searching for the ideal form, realising that no matter how well turned a foot, no matter ho tight an abdomen, no matter how arched a back and how pert a breast, this is but a shado, this is but an insult to the form. and then i ask, as might have stephan, what in hell are we going to so as to turn our back and bear the light? in photography, the only thing one can capture while facing the light is a silhouette! no matter what, even when turning towards the ideal form, one may only still glimpse the outline filled with ink. fill flash. pop. but that is part of you, now --pushing your own waves and particles so its not parfect any more. evian. high and dry, radiohead. don't leave me high; don't leave me dry. two jumps in a week i bet you think that'[s pretty clever don't you boy/ flying on your motorcycle watching all the ground beneath you drop/ you kill yourself for recognition you kill yourself to never ever stop/ you broke another you are turning into something you are not/ don't leave me high don't leave me dry/ don't leave me high don't leave me dry. drying up n conersation you will be the one who cannot talk/ when all your insodes fall to pices you just sit and wish you could still make love/ they're the ones who hate you ... lost the lyrics -- cant keep up...
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
I walked along the yawning streets. Wearing a tweed sportscoat, kakhi trousers, and a yellow tie, I moved towards the train without needing an overcoat. They say its to be 70 degrees today in Washington. In my life, dead soldiers refer to the paper cups which are beginning to collect on my desk. In my office. The sky is clear and there is the notable warmth. El nino. The Child. I smelled vomit in many places and am wondering if it is me. Am I decaying? The black children stand near their intermediate school on Pennsylvania Avenue, SE, near the Eastern Market. The low morning sun paints their smooth skin yellow. I envy that yellow. My face will always looks jaundiced under that light. Their faces, golden. It takes evening light, the light from a red orange sunset to paint the white face gold.
The funny thing about the group Radiohead is that whenever I have an epiphany (for the past two years), there is some semblance of their album "The Bends" playing.
Especially that song I insisted on transcribing from the live broadcast on 99.1FM, "Just Passing Through."
"two jumps in a week i bet you think that'[s pretty clever don't you boy/ flying on your motorcycle watching all the ground beneath you drop/ you kill yourself for recognition you kill yourself to never ever stop/ you broke another you are turning into something you are not/ don't leave me high don't leave me dry/ don't leave me high don't leave me dry. drying up n conersation you will be the one who cannot talk/ when all your insodes fall to pices you just sit and wish you could still make love/ they're the ones who hate you..."
When I was younger and was first initiated into magic, I really needed a level of guidance my friends in college couldn't provide. As a diver, all my metaphor revolved around the sea. When I plunged deep into the depths of my mind and my not mind, I would swim energetically as deep as I could and the quicker the better.
Sometimes, I would be abandoned at that depth. I would get spooked and would kick off the floor (or rather, merely a ridge -- I don't think anybody has really plumbed it truth depth) and shoot like a missle towards the glimmering dapple of the clouds.
I would feel the bends. I would feel as thought the pressure inside me and the surrounding environment were imbalanced. I could feel the fizz in my blood, an opened bottle of seltzer.
I would panic. I would realise there were only minutes until the air would form bubbles large enough to block a vein, to traumatize my brain.
It was times like these I would really unsderstand what panic was, what vulnerability could be.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
home, safe haven. work, accidents always happen mostly within ten miles of home. home is elusive. used to think that hope is where your hat hung. well hung hate. fedora. baseball. ten gallon. skull capped with a browning 9mm. drinking at mickey's last night, finishing off with mack, when we drank two shots of tequilla each and talked about how our jobs where alike: i am a data plumber and mac plumbs pipes, lead, filled with immovable shit. my data collisions and his turds. the a/c, the turd, urine filled vats yellow viscous and stinking.
a boy told me he must suffer so suffer he shall; a boy told me his life is gravy and delicious and it is it is. poor fools poor fools but i cannot blame them because look at all their friends and parents and world and school and look at the darkness of the clothing.
rather, vivid colors. rather, catch a rainbow. rather, embrace the vibrating illusion. i won't accept your downer bullshit cause it might infect my sunny disposession.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
again i am in my shirtsleeves. thank god for IT. i believe its the geeks who made casual friday the success that it is today. its grand for ladies looking for their mate because on casual friday its less of a no-brainer than the suit is. the suit can be a copycat thing. You can peg the poor taste on the fridays, and if he is too neat, he is porbably married or gay anyway. anyway, off to the ground level, the surface. ate a tuna sandwich. a pickle. some chips. an herbal tea drink. still had 40 minutes left. sunny day but its raining. spritzing. clear sky. where's the rain coming from? no answers but refreshment and a prize.
a double rainbow loomed above the city, causing people to stare dumbfounded into the sky. the sky behind the bow was almost purple. i could have sworn i could register ir, uv.
people in suits stood stansfixed. people in skirts stood transfixed. the site seduced me away from the route. i walked up 15th street, towards mcpherson square. the bow topped my present movements. drawing me from NY towards K.
sunny's surplus; espresso; soft spray of rain from a cloudless sky. woman in earth tones. her long skirt sliced up to the hip. the most aluring tease of movement. the shiny leather heel, the sheer stocking, and the slit, the thigh less visible than in a pair of shorts or a swimsuit of the most conservative cut. less is more. less is more, and its all in the delivery.
that thigh was absolutely desirable. more than an exposed breast, more than bending from the hip or the low cut shirt, more than the minidress or the daring lbd, more than sheer or transparent. the quick peek of the knee, from the heavy wool skirt wrapped like sarong, falling to the ankle. rushing the light, the soft white dough of the inner thighflash thighflash until she passes from view and i sit and compose, sit and compose.
the fire is usually dead until spring. the weather of winter ala el nino is stoking flames better left deep within the protective bog of the everyheating compost heap.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the small of my back. its where everything sits. sometimes the shoulders, but not this year. the weakpoint of me. i have not received a massage from anyone in well over a year. to think that touch is such a distant concept in my life at the moment. i remember the nights in uni when all there was was touch. since when is fucking considered touch? there does not need to be much of anything in this sharing. hard pressure, hair in hand, arched back, ankles and hands and hot breaths. tongues. pressure, heat, gripping, nails tearing long red lines down the flank, down the back. rushing under water, holding onto the wall, pressing the nose into the pillow. pressing the body against something firm to support the shock of the blows. hiding the bruirranbr under coverup, like the hickies you hid in the world before the drama, before you knew that she liked to be fucked up against the wall or that you loved to feel the razor tips of the bloodreds in the place where wings would sprout were
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
i sit here alone. the cd whirs, the other cube has a person in it. i only hear my own voice yabbering on, with the echo effect presseded past the reverb feedback and its me at the bottom on a hole 555 feet deep. the martha washington memorial. alone. thinking maybe i am ocd. seeing the way i can waste three weeks cleaning up a 1br pad for the visitation of one cool chick and a finnish femme formidable for the space of but a couple days. need booze. need ash trays. need fresh oj. cereals: muesli, grits, bran. fruit for the juicer. wine. whisky. lighters. shampoo. its funny when the decision to buy condoms enters your mind. since i have made a vow of poverty and celibacy it always seems the furthest thing from my mind but it isn't. i always wonder what it would be like to make love to every woman. any woman. no men. if i were bi, says woody, than i could have twice the opportunity and double the people in my dating pool. some say the male to female ratio in dc should me
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
today i find it hard to breathe. i huff. the galoise blonde, a gift from marlise. today i find breathing difficult. tonight i see an old teacher, a man from hs; tonight marlise is making us food. i think we have enough wine; i think we have enough to drink. today i drove to work and the fumes from the cars kept me doped all day. i can barely move today. sleep is what i need, vitamins fix all.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the evening passed on my dry elbows, before a dead fire, next to a monitor playing reruns of the x-files. before the lcd playing the words of a former mistress, a milky little doll with a blunt bob, rosebud breasts, and a penchant for wearing dkny under the hawaiian sun. or showing off a tummy above hiphuggers and below a jogbra, black. her words on the screen. x-sender. x-reply. x-header. she at work, me putting off the rower. the words. "how can you remember all of this?" she asks, "or a you making it up as you go along?"
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
i am not bitchy enough to be a man. i have so much rope here that hanging is certainly a possibility, wordwise that is. i have not cried since 1994. and that was uncontrolable catharsis. and my lover called her mum, a nurse, in a panic. her mum told me to stop. if a man starts truly crying, he'll never stop. "challenge your man," she told her child, "with crying. tell him you will not feel truly close to him unless he takes you in his arms and has a good cry. comment openly on the president as he cries -- mention how real men cry, and how crying is healthful and removes all the toxins that lead to premature heartdisease. you'll catch him, sooner than later. if he does, if he really lets loose beside you, clutching to you and holding you tight enough to bruise, he is weak. he is a weak man and he will never stop once he has started. wait for a stoic man, a man who can be more of a rock, more of a safe harbour within which your family is secure."
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
hysteria, the madness of the womb. dora. dr. freud. a case of hysteria. for me to cry, must i have a womb. i have a belly for sure. bitch. slap my bitch up. a song. bitch, witch, witchy woman. an article. "Now it's safe for me to cry, and I no longer need to." ". . .a toilet paper commercial, for chrissakes, what's up with that?" "Every tear I've shed has watered my dreams,. . ."
every word has brine infusion; every desire we feel comes from sadness. i know i am melancholy no matter what anyone calls it. people say the word "weep" too often, it has lost its meaning, like the word "love." what does that word mean?
can we trust the tear? i know people who can fake it.
"seduction," sayeth beaudriard, "is a forever-changing dance: first one lover leads, then -- given one misstep -- the other."
what i want is a love relationship with someone who will allow me to not have to fight for lead but also not shirk from my desire to be lead. i am a damned good harbour and will be a fine husband to a wife and kids, but i don't want to be afraid that this is all i can be.
the day is bright. the calves of city girls flash in my mind, from behind the slits in the stretching fabric.
i have been accused of loving all women. was this a compliment or a warning? i have been told i must be gay, is that because i love all women? i have been told i am a womanizer. i have been told i am a lover of women, all. i have been told i have been antisocial. i have been told i am too social. i am told i am confidant. i have been told i am hung up. i have been told i am insecure. i have been told i am an eccentric, but mustn't someone be much older and richer to hide behind this label. merely mad? sainted? creative? all these monikers both blessing and other. what is there to believe?
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
synergy moves across the fields like wind. this most basic of needs, the building blocks of community, caresses the husks old grain stalks. dirk consoles red; red flirts with pretty boy; never enough hours in the day, says kat.
i raise my hands, unable to delete any more, anymore. words are words and editing is not the proper way of the white man to remember history. herstory.
"He thinks it's great and does it again, just because he can."
email and _bound_ all evening with a former lover. the woman hurt me, but i asked for it. now her friends root for us. i haven't been an us for a long time. emails back and forth, telephone rings past my bed time. i answer, its she.
_bound_ -- she and i are attracted to the same women. I say this, she replies for me to be careful she might be jealous.
virtual girlfriend. the woman who broke my heart, the woman i broke my heart over. blunt bob, thin features, smooth lithe cream skin. creamy. little, better say petite. elle est tres petite.
She is C&S.
"He thinks it's great and does it again, just because he can."
Dirk says, "Red - better a moment of weakness that passes as the tears dry than days of the pain and effort it takes to conceal the sadness. Once you've wept, the tears are gone, but the struggle not to weep binds you for long, long... "
I say, there is always an ember you can ignite if you have the patience and are willing to spend the vital energies.
i remember: the line of her body when first i removed the clothing. the place behind the pillow where she kept her pajamas. the crooked back from the scoliosis. the little fingers little hands. the firm budding. the blunt hair, hark and rich.
a friend told her, "he cared for you, pimples and all." this friend is "rooting for us, for you for me."
ben and jerry's is an ice cream store. they sell ice cream to women they sell ice cream to hope. in an old post office next to the pennsylvania river...
"saying that they were going to put my dog down sometime that week"
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
phlegm. yellow sometimes, clear. usually the color of what i just drank. morning's oj, the cafe au lait. this is an irish story, it doesn't have a happy ending. my great grandma read tea leaves. she was blind. described to me as a jigging oracle, reading leaves before the dark and listening to 78s on the record player late unto her twilight. i have faced my deamons, i am sure that's more than many of you can say. we work along the same roads now, the low road, the high road, and I don't know if the point of the game is to exorcise but to cohabitate. been told the deamons are self. reading a book on seth. seth. seth.
"irish catholic boys from RC school are rife with just a host of delicious hand up hung up fuck up and amen"
Hope wrote, "'And this one?' she asks, and idly traces the faint white mark on his forehead, with the gentlest of fingertips,' and I could feel the finger. The fingertip, the tenderest pad of sworls.
The vortex, the complex. the tampex. being told how much the period can hurt, how the woman is hit up for $250/month while men are charged but $103. That's what my insurance charts say.
in saint petersburg, babuska would approach holly and beg her, child, to get off the ground, get off the cement child, the cold rock -- it kills the womb, it injurs the uterus.
a land that treats woman. women are not men with breasts, boys. can they not be equal if they aren't? hat only equal if men with breasts?
expand.
my copy of _ulysses_ was signed by the poor trinket salesman in county galway. important to me. galway kinnell was named after galways and i love james joyce so it all seemed to fit like pieces to a cliche.
dunn, judge. county mayo, county cork. the high street, dublin. the darned green busses in dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty...
"no nay never no nay never no more..."
some of these irish pub, who's meme took hold in Baltimore and Houston St long before they arrived here, are more irish than ireland; some of the french cafe's here are more french than in france. some say, french baguette: gone to merde.
merde. ) Re
divine grace. my most important concept at the moment.
divine grace or just grace i muse upon it as a romantic thinking it will fix everything.
to be graceful to have grace in word and touch and response and tongue.
divine grace as came to amy in chasing amy, so I am told in a nyt review.
director smith says he is "really into jesus."
Hope said, "I wonder, sometimes, at the power of this remembering, this taking the ancient grudge out of your pocket every so often to pet it a bit."
yes.
i was told my a wise man: always forgive, never forget.
The body flails; the uterus spasms; the labia are pink or painted with stick; the cigarette burn still shows the phlegm is page the work is easy the tongue is green and there are odd warts in back and the auckland chinese herbal doctor told me i am strong and there is luck there because one day i will not be so strong and i will be taken by the power of my ignored fevers.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the opportunities crash like waves, yet theu catch my ankles and bring me with them. The brine cleanses wounds, softening scabs, making skin prune. the hair dances on the scalp fish bite the end, cutting off split ends. the twilight sky ghouls the underworld. i see a pacific green sea turtle its shell is rich and woody, smooth and polished. the beak touched the prune, never slicing. it seems to move between the night and light, and i have to concentrate between breaths. long deep-diving fins thrust me my legs are strong the water rushes my concentration deceives me into following the kelp, mistaking the coral for the turtle, its smooth fins angling the jewelry of the tag the quick movements, odd for a cold-blooded reptile; the turtle, a reptile. reptoid. more like a puppy, like siren, luring my in my breath, into the green waters, edging me farther away from the beach where the air is more plentiful. my lungs are clear, the doctor said, the lungs are clear -- was all so a couple minutes distracted. told: the body begs for air by pissing itself the body begs for air down in the velvet waters at night now, haven't done more than sip the night sky and following something: i have lost the solid form of rubbery scales and hornrimmed hull, the slashing fins, mine blue; its green. into the rush of the wash, listening for the movement, seeing more of an aura, more of a ghost than the solid skeleton, strung like drum, the pacific green sea turtle. water, thermoclines, rushing blades on outboards, butting flanks like mine, like its, like manitee, dugong intercoastal, like whale, sperm, right, mink, killer orca fine slow . . . my hide, my skin, and the preassure against my mask the ache of the legs, the prune of the fingers gripping the coarse ache alivedead coral. into the dark velvet the terrible chase, the loving guide, the wraith, the aura, the energy, the reptile, moving under only several breath, trunks, the long freedive fins, a weight belt, a breath held, a breath held.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
true romance and told stories insult the living. what is the romance i suffer and i have had many many and yet where have they gone? the moment in the corridor under a skirt skin red with blood, the blush of lovers the fingers working, the waves rushing against the hull, the whine of hoover around the corner, breath, breathing and the tilting of the pelvis against my hand, feeling the fine blond hairs of the skin, the pitch of the ferry, the cleaning lady around the corner, behind the hold, the quickening until only breath and the cold of skin braced by north atlantic ice -- the sija from helsinki to stockholm, the brace of cold, the icy thighs, the turning hip, the light field of blond hairs found on bare skin, which tightens and catches the cold, making skin brace brace, the hairs stand on end, the breath, the breath, huffs of breath from the mouth then more shallow, tighter and the stomach, the muscles tensing, the slick space the movement the way we moved on the deck to the music from the band, after we had the drinks, the cigarettes, the courting men, the rich Norwegian thwe young texaN and it was i who took her hand, and we rushed the deck to cool the sweat from the dancing, the the movement, the bodies pressed and moved, moving. the thick scent of her body and the perfume, the rich techture of the auburn hair, the dancing and Finnish music, the oompah oompah and her father was there, looking after her, looking after her, but we ran off ran off to the deck, to freeze under the dark sky, the milk of a cloudy night sky, mixed and velvety. the milk of her and the nuzzle where my face was, looking for warmth in her, looking for something to make the night last another day, but then it couldn't, there was extenuating circumstance, so we just hid amongst the corridors and pressed agains the railing, listening to the rushing waves on the big white ferry, the ship filled high with trollies, lorries, truck, cars, mail, papers, cargo and us. the touch of her hand in my heair, the press of the body, hot and panting, the and the sweep of the minutes then the hour and until the summer saw us tired and towards our rooms, having saved ourselves through innocence. there was no place for us to hide, so we scurried about the boat like children, like teenagers, finding our little quiet dark corners, a place and hand might find a dark spot, might steel a kiss, might sneak a touch and allow the ship to be the third, the movement and the pitch, the night, then the walk, hand in hand, our bodies aching and fatigued, the evening clothing, the dress, the jacket, and then sleep enough to close eyes, splash water, and listen to the announcement, to feel the dull thud of the gin, and then the port, the landing, the deboating and a final farewell as though we had barely met, such knowing glances away from the old man, away from the common friends the friends in common, a coffee and goodbye.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
come they told me pa rump pa pum pum the boat rocked like elvis. even in washington, the state means nothing to me. when i am stirred up, when i am frenzied i cannot easily consort with the boring, with the concerned. the miniblinds striate light thinking of the yellow morning on black faces, up turned. seeing the dc as cc, seeing the day as night. seeing lovers blush from touch, in the parks, when i never notice the noise around, never concern the people and their picnics and children, not a concern the riff raff in my periphery.
"the train leaves in an hour," she says as she reads from the schedule, "do you think we can make it?"
we were to rush to gretna green, nearby enough in scotland, the vegas of britain, to become wed by a scottish elvis, maybe in a gingerbread house; perhaps our nuptual bed would be 90% water and in the shape of a jelly donut.
"love, do we have enough time?" in my head, she was the brave, she willed me to decide, she needed me to make the call. she 19, me 21.
i remember words, "We were in Summer-heat, that Winter. Me, freshly free from another Dog-house stay on Valentine's day . . ."
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
i was 21, and with no degree yet, and with no money, and with no certain great expectation, in my heart of hearts i believed i was protecting her when i said we couldn't. i was protecting myself, i was frightened. i was spineless. i was jealous of my future. there was nothing to be jealous of, its real shite.
in my arms, this rose anglais, this petite femme. blond, gangly, smooth-bodied, limber, flexible, bright, quick, sensual, bilingual as we worked together in the half sleep of lovers, in the student cell in the narrow attached student house.
in the uk, it is easier to bathe than shower in the uk, it is easier to take cold water than hot in the uk, tea warms better than the showers, little electric kettles on the wall, heating the trickled shower spout, heating enough not to make so much sick, but sickly -- or strong.
in the attached student house, the cell, the bed. her hair up in a bun, her pale soft british thighs, rich white chocolate made of cadbury, pressed to the wooden chair, the soft cotton pj's, the little bears, the little figures, the sweet innocents of soft cotton pajamas.
working on german trans; EUR, the school. scratching alien words on alien landscapes. showing me the english, showing me the words, jumbled from her lips, like tossled blond hair. the german verbs, the heavy haze of sleep, the soft lilt of the voice, soft lips passing thick aryan words, passing like fire hose pressure.
sleep and her voice, sleep and her words, "what? what was that?" "you're not listening are you?" "Yes of course, i just missed that, what you said," i lied. "its almost valentine's day" "yes, its almost valentine's day."
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the word hate. it is a nice word to say. its the strong tee at the end, its an ending word. its a word with commitment. its both a child's word and a word that no amount of maturity or wisdom can erase. a blade of grass is stronger than the oak, for the oak breaks under the storm whereas the grass bends to the winds. the grass is stronger. in the short run, might makes right; to the vistor goes the spoils. although, didn't gandhi topple an empire and send the brits a-packin'? my pager sends me notes, one of which states that the autralians want to kick queen elizabeth on her ear. and, "genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration." tomas edison was a real prick, what a liar. what a wanky american positivist! i am a watermelon: green on the outside, red on the inside and the pits, man! a woman who barely remembers me send me words. she loved my friend, she loved my freind, she loved my friend. she loved my friends, either love or lust but remembers me only vaguely. only as a memory. i told her she has always been in my fantasies -- even still -- but i barely remember what she looks like, and what i do remember: the curved young body, the quick-bounded step, the red lips, the high cheeks, the trundling brown hair, the small feet, the narrow waiste, and the smooth talent and bright eyes -- may be infected by other models, other women, oblique faces, taught bodies, round buttocks, brighter eyes, smoother calves, actresses from merchant ivory films, women from victoria's secret (laetitia casta, whomever), people in the magazines, on the television. easily saying, "doesn't she look like A?" "Chris, if she looked like A, I wouldn't have broken up with her/I would have taken her and never let go!" Hmmm.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
sleep comes to me, under the feather duvet, in waves. the athletics of my early evenings make my body tired, allows me showers in the evening. the tight slender forms around me, running on the tread mill, pedaling on the stationary bikes. cnn on the monitors around the room, captions for the running impaired. despite all my rage, i am still just a rat in a cage. the heady smell of body. the stark form of body under thin fabrics: lycra, cotton, jogbra, muscle t's, shorts, ankle socks. calves flash, flesh grinds against the machines, the weights. pulling hard at the catch, the concept ii rowing ergometer. pulling while watching the soft white hamstrings of a redhead on the stairmaster. the translucent skin starts on each step. there are people with discmen, there are people watching the news, money line. there are people lifting hundreds of pounds of weight for no other reason besides because. in emulation of the greeks, in emulation of the romans. gymnasium. ad nauseum. in bed, the clacking of steam through floor vents. the miniblinds closed to the street light blinking in the alleyway. a smile on my face from the voice of the petite woman who wants to share my bed, my life.
how many licks does it take to get to the center of the tootsie roll tootsie pop?
the duvet, the maroon cover, the pale blue fitted sheet. the bottle of evian by my bed. the copy of aureole, by carole maso, dog-eared on the night stand. the slight smell of chris having returned to the gym, the odor of chris reclaiming his body. bringing together the divergant team of mind and body.
the blue kayay. the red girl. the careful boy. the autralian pilgrim. a land rejecting a queen. a california covered in H2O. a boy, el nino -- the child. a washington. a petite woman with heavy black hair, with a smooth belly, with a curved flank, with a downy touch, with a past and a desire for a future.
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?" "I'm almost sorry...sorry for what I did."
I always sleep for an extra 5 minutes
"so why do I feel so sad?"
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the wolf men. the hair gene. faces covered with hair, a small tribe in mexico. looks like a poodle. freak shows in the carnival. people who work for carnivals are called "carnies." when i look at your belly, pressing the abdomen with my palm, softly, wondering at the womb, wondering at the organs so small to fit in the little spaces. the warmth of the belly. the way your face gets red when there is a gurgle. the way you love me to lie there with you in my arms. rubbing your belly. it soothes you, it helps you digest, helps you relax. the brown belly, the fine down of yellow hairs that cover the entire body. except where the razor has been. the sheets feel smooth and cool on the shaved leg. some shave below the knee, others take it up the thigh. i shave your legs sometimes. the brown legs. the fine down of yellow hairs above the razor line. if you cannot see the little hairs, look closer. when you walk under the sun, the jeans low and the top cut above the hip, i watch the fine yellow hairs catch sun at the small of your back. sometimes these fine yellow hairs stubbornly stick to a knee. the knee, both front and where the leg folds, is so very hard to shave, so very hard not to knick. many women have scars on their knees, on the ridge of their shin, from where their knicks have added up. in an attempt to remove those tiny yellow hairs. you tell me about your bikini line. you are proud of yourself -- how prepared you are for the beach, for the narrow swaths of fabric you parade on the beach. the high cut suit, the french cut named for the way it accentuates the short-legged french women's long torso, the way it makes the legs look longer, more elegant. it make the hip part of the leg. i watch the tiny yellow hairs sparkle at the spine, between the shoulderblades. i walk over and run my finger down your back and you shudder, turn around, and embrace me. i feel the sun in you, you are infused.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
We feel nothing in our hearts. We do keep people in cages, we spend billions of dollars keeping black men in jail. leaving black women behind. who's fault is this, this high percentage of men of one "race" who have been, are, or shall be incarcerated in the penal system. the united states with the largest sum paid out to the prison systems are texas and california.
we have no problem, we people, of placing old people in care, we have no problem putting people with really radically different POVs into cages filled with leather straps, padded cells, straight jackets, cups of white, pink, mauve, blue, red, green, yellow, pills.
we feel not alot about the people who are in their own cages, prescribed by a doctor, in a bottle the aforementioned little pretty pills, like a little girl's painted fingernails. bright. garish.
detox, rehab, looney bin, clink, home, hospice, home arrest, jail, prison, juvie, death row, prozac, cuffs, anklets, orange jumpsuits, pink clovers, blue diamonds.
let the gorillas rot, club the seals, put down the lame curr, pick off the eagle, rape the forrest, net the porpoise, eat the red roo, ranch ostrich, take drugs, put orangatans in movies with burt reynolds, toss dwarves, bomb clinics, eat shit and die, kiss your first cousin, lie to the jury, sleep with an intern (or don't sleep), get away with murder, sell crack, share needles, eat shit, get on prozac, start smoking, drink and drive, eat shit, wear pink, kick ass, spit, swear, curse god, deface churches, sacrifice lambs, sacrificial lambs, (Apes and monkeys sleep about 10 hours a day, by the way -- lazy ass life forms, deserve to either be poached for archaic chinese remedies or put in cages for our amusement) inject Karla Faye with some Texas hospitality, listen to the European squeal, listen to the pope pious, listen to the ape ape the ape, showing love and lies.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
et, while on the stationary bike, speiled its victoria's secret fleshpots and then a story on leonardo dicaprio. his first major film project. a young fellow. an independant film. the volume was down in the gym, the captions were on. the film, according to the captions, was about the young homosexual french poet, rambo. i was the only person to laugh. i belly laughed and almost fell off of my bike. the sweat of she rolls down her neck like the fronds of some art deco palm frescoed on some german gymnasium. we read from the pages of rambo. the man on et must have had excellent french because the pronounciation was spot-on: rambo.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
boris, the young frenchman, a new face at the world bank, tells me -- after laughing with me at the rambo/rimbaud fiasco, mentions that at 25 rimbaud took up the fine metier of 'arms dealer.' he died at 27. rambo he was. boris mentioned that rimbaud was a better poet than he was a mercenary.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the weekend. i am a working man. sleeping. feeling the exhaustion. the sheets, my alibi. valentine. st. vitus. dance. hallmark. chocolate. les roses. long stem. 12? 24? 6? doing the dozens, the waxy faux rose, dowsed with a spray of mist to make the velvet lips stand out, to hide the thorns with baby's breath. breathe. breathing like a lover. breathing like a diver. slow deep breaths. sipping. buzzing, humming the breath away, sipping the air. like single malt. not malt liquer. a held breath can rupture the lung. the air collects under your skin and crackles under fingers. air embolism. going too deep, sucking the air, watching the guage sweep. sweeping water, deep blindness. nitrogen narcosis. to be narced. the effect of depth. mixed gasses. even air becomes toxic. even words of love can hurt.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
there was anger on the wall. there was a word there, placed by a weak hand, a thick marker, the kind they don't sell to kids any longer. the wicked fat one that smells like sniffing glue.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
mark suggested i kiss her mouth. i asked him. "when i go to meet someone at the airport i always feel shy. I stand there and grab the bag. i fear rejection." "kiss her right away, hold her right away, break the ice, she feels as fearful." she was the last person off the plane, behind a troupe of ukulele players from o'ahu. here for a yuke jamboree in florida.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
onto the bike. stiff-framed. steel. slick tires. bar ends. bar cut two inches. running the asphalt. back and forth to work. right pant leg rolled up, bag over my shoulder. this time, shorts, t, movement of my body through traffic. of course, never a helmet. brain bucket. never had any brains in the first place. up 11, left onto mass, then to k and then finding mark and the walk to frank's where the blue plastic kayaks -- matching pair -- lie waiting for our shoulders, to be taken down to the water, placed in with the waveletts slapping the hull, lower down, push away and pull through the smooth glassy ripples away from georgetown and towards the lincoln. tour boats with spot lights. delicate singles like waterbugs. the rower is incidental. a training barge for paddlers in the tradition on hawaii. one paddle two paddle three paddles four to take me home, fourteen on the left fourteen on the right, take me to hawaii-nei, no ka best. and the shoulder don't let me down. and the arms are like steel springs. the back is straight. pulling me strongly. watching the herons pass overhead. the lincoln is lit, the stairway into the potomac brilliant in the indigo of evening sky over rosslyn's affront. brilliant blue clear cold sky, landing lights queued up into the distance: infinity. slap slap, thonk thonk. the water sounds. river water feeling bright and clean streams down my arms from the blades. my blue plastic canoe. mark to my right. head to head. last summer i trailed his strength from health and me the sickly giant, the wheezing zeus. now, the fire rekindled. love? gym? confidence is a part of this, and the beauty and cool air of the spring with the spires of gt, the span of key, the grandeur of memorial. arlington cemetery. rcs bldg. macnews bldg. tour boat, his light scanning the shore, like on the seine. on the seine, there are lovers to spy on, but washington has no lovers, save one and he is awaiting is other.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
leigh words, not chris words: i had a massage sunday evening. church. shadowed light planking in low through a cracked half-shaded window, north dupont circle. wafting incense, softer wafting classical compositions. i was a beautifully threaded bead necklace. all my parts differing sizes shapes colors, all strung together limpy together in his hands, lying atop the table as if atop a dresser, dangling comfortably around the neck of the world as i departed.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
sport. sporty sport. sport-ready. a girl in jog bra and short shorts walks a black dog with white marking, white sock. sniff sniff sniffing down along the bark of trees, under the afternoon shadow of the diamond head. the field. the drummers and the shell, where the kodak hula show amuses and the public can watch watch watch people move their pelvis back and forth. the the girl walking quickly swinging hips, tight black under shorts: sometimes lycra and close-fitting, sometimes baggier, often black, the pale tummy, the crescent navel, the contour of the ribs, the slender paleness of leg-above-sneakers. a leash. a leash law. the piss that burns grass, the scent of other canines. alpha dog. alpha male. heat. spring. sunny. after work business, rushing in a car for the two miles. in the center of the park there is a diamond, there is a pitch. hotshort, sliding shorts, shorts, uniform number 10, knee socks, cleats...helmet and glove and now in the rain again, drops kissing their faces. jagged shoes dig into grass and mud of the outfield... she, the walking girl, the hawaiian girl, the girl with her doggie dog, tight-fitting black lycra life, is a beautifully threaded bead necklace. all her parts differing sizes shapes colors, all strung together limpy together in my hands.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the subtle innuendo ending all innuendos. she is the only friend of yours, red, who thinks you're good enough for her. she is terribly beautiful and where were you all day. down by the river, with me. on the shiny miniscus skittering like a waterbug, the oar legs the hull the awkward bodies, pressing out and over, making wakes enough that their dancing plays the pond's ripples into a watery fractal. watery fractal. dowse. how clean is the clarity? this water in which my oars dip. the water through which i cut, the water which slaps the hull like a drum. playing my vessel. a vessel. to be in a vessel, to be your vessel, to let you be my vessel. to enter and expose, the folds of flesh opening and closing around like the water taking in my oar, like the water boueying my blue kayak. slapping its hull, slapping its hull, playing like rythmic drum beats in various paces, various movements with the wakes and infinite universal effects of some butterfly or another. the long white translucent fish bloated on the surface. the foamed water way up the source, the warm water running down my arms as i move the oars through the clarity. how clean am i? how clean is this? the pizza i consume, feeling grit on my hands, in my mits, from bike grease and potomac. will i die? will worms form. yet the way the soft fleshy folds of the river take me into her, slap against the bow as my arms strain towards the limestone granite white hallowed hollowed monuments washed with evening light and the inert gassy spots, the indigo, the saphron, the blues and yellow of my living.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
easter. on the phone with mdn, and it was not great for her: tiles, barracks, linoleum, beer, bbq, schofield, military, comingling, easter is made for the east coast, even the mid-atlantic. i look at the picture of me in Paris when I was mid-twenty, 1990. even then i knew that for me, europe was hollow alone. i saw the sites like i was preparing my life as a tour guide for her, for she. for the partner who would like to travel with me, to allow me to show her the paris jewish ghetto, the little gay neighborhood, shakespeare & co. the evening light, the wine, the bastille and its opera house. people on the rue, on the walks, crowded in pens of cafe tables. le louvre. the centre george pompidou. even lyons, cherbourg, around and about. the buzzing enduros and our buzzing, our own humming. paris not as a romantic destination but as a place to be, as a place to enjoy to just enjoy each other. no real sight seeing for us! now, its all about being there together not sigh seeing, not walking our feet off, not climbing the radio tower just to see the grim tops of the low low old town-cum-city. no, instant intimites, with friends from Uni and the night clubs costing US$30 for the unsuspecting. the turn of her hip, the way paris invites a woman to walk, a woman to dance, the way she eats her strawberry or touches the silk scarf around her neck. the way she touches me, each other, kissing like school kids along the seine as the voyeuristic dinner show barges barrage us with spotlights, illuminating out expert hands. our knowing touches. this is the paris for which i was prepping, the paris exposed in trite editorials in the new yorker, the same paris eaten in gulps by hemingway. not the ruined paris -- we shall ignore her ripped tights and smudged lipstick -- but the youthful daring city, ripe and flush, breathing heavy with a bountiful chest and apple ass.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
"the eyes are windows into the soul." no truer thing has been said. i can read minds through the eyes. i can read your mind. some attribute it to the shape of the eyes, the emotions found in the curve of the brow, the wetness of the eyeball, the lust in the half mast, the fright in the wide eye, the sadness in moistness, but these are safe havens. "the eyes are windows into the soul." its the scsi. its the port. its the serial connection. the link, the ir port. why are all of my references made in computerese when when i look into your eyes is see myself reflected, i see ourselves reflected, i realise that no matter what say my friends or familia, it is in fact your eyes, "the windows to the soul," i believe. she gets lost in mine. we get lost. the words -- even with me a silver tongued devil -- are static handshakes, the communication unspoken. "the eyes are windows into the soul."
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
she sat next to me and gazed into my eyes. 'i see myself in your eyes,' she said. the source of light behind me was stark. her face bright. my face in the shadow. my eyes, wet & brown, too dark to see into. reflections of self. reflections of she in me. her face with its large eyes, its thin nose, its fine features, dark shock of hair framing. the face. in my eyes. her in me. and there was a communication there, wasn't there? not just a play of the light?, not just the moist of my eyes?, not just a looking glassiness.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
'you should know. i shouldn't have to ask. you should know if you love me.' maybe i didn't love you. maybe that is why i didn't know what you wanted, i didn't care what you needed. maybe the unspoken words where being sent to me in meaningful torrents of telepathy and i wasn't chosing to support your protocol. i support her's, she mine. the male to female connectors. the data handshake, the error correction. sharing packets. checksum. if we were to challenge convention, i am sure we could even download upload transfer exchange envelop develop. 'can you read my mind?' 'yes.' 'be kind to me, i am feeling a little delicate.' 'okay, i promise.' this, without words.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
two people sharing europe. only to return home seeing the sparse rankor of home. even if one lives in hawaii, a grand cityscape make the impression of a life time. nobody at home, in this, a pharmecutical town of delusional grandeur, will understand she, nobody will comprehend the bubble of love, the amphitheatre, the verandas, the fumbled shyness of the telephone request, its innocence in a land wherein the men buzz vespas in two or threes, making eyes at the pretty blond american girls. tight white shirts, evocative levis, leathers and brylcreamed pompadors, their tanned cheeks and their roman noses. kissing, sharing the international language of lurvve! 'i know not much english...' yes, don juan. and here, the boy with his brash firey tongue, choking on his silver tongue before the girl with whom he has shared europe, shared italia, bella italia! and then there is the issue of two people sharing intimacies in formal latin. what could be more arousing to a woman? what could be more arousing?
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
a warm call under a warm feather duvet worn like a lover a full half hour before the alarm sounds its ghastly racket. a portable phone flexing its 900MHz across the thousands of kilometers spanning the skin of my duvet, the space of air to the base, and the grand land of the New World, the Peaceful Sea, and a POTS, copper wire, fibre optics, satellite, spread spectrum, repeaters, switching, bandwidth, international subset, substrate, irradiating the rubbery leather of the Sperm hunting the giant giant prehensile squid. where the pipe is laid, where the optics chirp their handshake, their telephony, their protocol, their laser beam words. enough to convey softness the same way it was harsh before, the way it conveys sadness and apology the same way it was hurt before. complaining about the static. complaining about the clicks of the rushing pod of porpoise and the moaning of the migrating humpback as it tries to sing us back to sweet sleep.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
must nectar be sweet? must it be sticky and viscous? is it not the sweet waters of the small towns far away neither invaded by toothpaste nor the pomade of rich black hair. the flushed rubber. must nectar be sweet? must it pulp and leave residue? must nectar be squeezed or blended, must it be diluted before the buds of the tongue can enjoy? what is this nectar and why must it be sugary, that the diabetic must beware?
no, it is the sweetness of the waters downed in large gulps from the cool tap in a far off place. lapped from the hands set deep into the kitchen sink when mom isn't watching, when the girlfriend is in the other room, taken in big guilty draughts from the pitcher in the cooler, taken with a squeeze of lemon, with or without ice, but cold and most certainly flavored not by citrus but by earth and molecules.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the hand was far off. the ember freshly glowing from a drag. the sweet of burning flesh and a little smoke. the hand, far off, resting on the cocktail table, formica in wood grain. stigmatum on a vein received as a blessing of the spirits.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
My father's entire estate, his entire life, was sold in quarter bins in a garage in Manoa Valley. Expensive flashes and JOBO developers were let go for a song. The bins were full. Filled with black bellows and boxes and film canisters, large mylar sheets and silk parachute fabric. Enormous black and white construction paper seamless rolls and the eccentric Japanese men came out of the woodwork: the local amateur photographers with penchants for antique 4x5 cameras and silver oxide processes. The rank sting of blix in the trachea.
Mark and Tomas, collecting fist fulls of dollars and the odd check and it was a profitable afternoon for the salesmen, but then I found a box filled with original proofs, expensive and silvery, the smooth rubbery face of a bottlenose dolphin.
To be sold for $35 a print. Not one was sold, but my heart broke when I considered his last images passing into the homes of these nerdy little men, into their scanners, onto USENET, into any number of home pages, and then I kept them close. I wonder which was the right thing to do?
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
The rumor mill hit me upon arrival at work. "He must have a trust fund." "He must have a silver spoon in his mouth." "He must have another income, how else can he take 21 unpaid days off of work and miss nary a step?" The rumor mill as filtred through a colleague who knows me as chris and not Mr. Abraham. A friend. She told me of the prying questions asked, the threats and the posturing: "I have been working here for almost 10 years and have never taken off three weeks." They call it my vacation, but it was not that. It was a crusade for a holy grail; it was not unlike a quest. It was for love. That sounds terribly cliche, but there it is. The grail, love as pesonified by a woman, as personified. Moving. Flying. United. Hawaiian. A dog named Suzi, a roomate, Bret, a friend, Bryan, and a smallish ramshackle wooden house in Kaimuki. Housing a wonderfully complex flowering woman. Yes, the silver of rings. Yes, the alien weighing my hand, pressing my finger, signifying m Where did those three years go? Where were you? Where was I? I really cannot account for 1997. I am sure it came to pass because this is 1998. I know I was on a plane, living off of stock returns and a passport, in 1996. 1995 was a year of change, a year of mourning, a year of sickness and madness, or tight body and crazed eyes. A dark time. 1996 was a time of embracing and hurting and the bright wet red pulpiness of open wounds -- spittle and puss, healing this way and that, showing jagged scars and a rough wound. Words of death, of love, of melancholy intercourse abroad and cigarettes, wine, whisky, debauch, poetry, ashtrays, trains, ships, planes, and whatnot.
1997. fuck. don't know.
1998. Bob's death day passed and on that day I made images of Willow with Mary, a friend of Bob, and held my love in my arms, held her and rejoiced. Never really mentioned it, but writing words for Bob is meaningless. Burning film, flexing the Nikon, shooting a model in Honolulu, being with Mary, making image is the way to go. Let go. Remember but let it go. Feel and release.
But to love. To care only of the future, to feel the present completely, to feel touch, to hear word, to see body, eyes, hair, nose, brow, teeth, chin, tongue, chest, shoudlers, back, arms, legs, feet, hands, fingers, ring. Let the past go. Be egoless. Be selfless. Love for love's sake. Expose the belly, expose the neck. Sleep soundly. Love completely. Feel the ring on the ring finger of the left hand and let its weight and silver circle remind me, enamour me, seduce me, excite me.
living underground is not like death. it does not have me feeling maggoty or decomposing. better, the feeling is like hibernation. or burrowing like the way she burrows into my chest or the way I burrow under the duvet, into my sleep. in a world wherein i am all abuzz, where i feel always pursued by madness, success, failure, expectations, and need, telling myself that the bedroom is the place for peace, for sleep, for solace isn't nearly enough. when i open the wooden gate and lock it behind me, i must pass pots of budding plants. consciously toeing into the stairwell, squeezing past the a/c, standing before the glass-faced door.
always cool inside. always dark and quiet. always getting light from above, always seeing designs on the floor from branches moving, people passing, rain falling.
the dark, the quiet -- never enough O2, always a little sleepy. If we were to ever leave on the gas after making a stir fry, we would be goners, my shell and i.
have yet to turn on a PC; have yet to login, check in, read in, jack. just touch. just looks and seeing and the warmth of cooked food, the cold of perspirant class, the slickness of body aroused, the tightness of tired bodies looking for the sleep, protected from the EMF, protected from the sirens and public passions of trumpeting city busses, ambulii, engines that could and doo.
soon, a dog named sue; soon, soirees and whole food and the slickness of body aroused; the harsness of a body aroused, the swallowing of self: the gate swallowing you and me; the stairs taking us, the coolness of under ground consuming, the sheets, the bed, the eating, matications, taking onto lips into mouths, the flick of a pink tongue, and then the swallowing only to merge and find not death but restful sleep.
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition
the stories cannot be confirmed or denied. what is an history? what makes things act yoo al? versus fick shi nall? after three years of knowing, after three years of following and exploring the truth, here comes the vulgarity and yet there is no way to know for sure -- no boner fiday way of knowing the incessantly sworling swohrling whorling whoring debilitating mesmerising destroying supporting mucous memories of times past, of inebriations or was it getting toked on hiphop jes grew jes grew it in the back behind the rosemary, behind the Oray Gan Oh (oh, to pronounce certain things like a brit, oh to know smugly what it is to be a man who is from hawaii who attended uni in a small campus on a small bit of land by a lake in farmland in norwich, norfolk: oraygahnoh) corgettes. rahthah. so, where was i: the slipery eel reality, the cumstained rag of memory: is it mine, is it yours, is it swimming with virus, are there pieces of baby there is there you or me, was it him? who's baby? was there shaving cream involved? was there a state of undress? what does a state of undress look like when you stumble upon it as a cleaning lady in a swanky resort and country club -- and moreso, what is the number of jc? wwjd? wwjd? writhing, writing, pawing, slippery majesty and playing the horn, rubbing the nub, eating eating out eating out necklace de perle. perle. wipe. cumstains show up elegantly as ghostly white under the sweeping arc of the black light, the UV bulb. ghost white. used at rape scenes. looking for the came and went; he done cum and went, where dat bleeding black light. the biograph was never illuminated in blacklight because the seating might have shown like the galaxy: innumerable white flecks upon a dark field...
listen — chris abraham, in the voice cast for this edition