DelinQUEncy

Bart walked into my office this morning with a cracked-egg smile on his face.

"When did you join the MOD Squad? Christ, you look like..." *snap, snap* " ...what's her face...Lipton..."



I was sitting back in my chair with my feet propped up on the desk, keyboard in my lap. One eye coasted his way, "Peg."

"What? Yeah, right...Peggy Lipton." He started to leave and looked back at me again with a smirk. "It's the hat. What on earth possessed you to put that on?"

"When did Julie ever wear a hat?" I swiveled to face him and cocked my head in contemplation, "Was it in the episode where the squad tries to save LA from encephalitis-ridden pigeons, or the one where she falls in love with a prince from the Middle East and creates an international incident?"

"Smart ass...."

Yeah, and on this smART ass was a pair of hot pink briefs with a motorcycle parked on Pussy Avenue, but I didn't relay that nugget...only a smile adDRESSED his incredulous retreat.

voyeur

Natasha

Working in NYC was fantastic, but I still kissed the ground when I landed in Austin, two weeks earlier than scheduled. I managed to sell most of my paintings and was ready to start fresh. "Back to the drawing board" took on a new significance.

The last two weeks ran the gamut of situations and emotions. My plan to create a photo journal of the artwork Christine and I installed in Harlem, as well as an interpretation of the history of the boroughs in and 'round the city, took several detours. I purposely left my days to chance whenever possible in order to allow things to happen. Oh, boy....

Simply put, I met some amazing people by putting myself in varying degrees of danger. I did it without thought, not on some divine notion of finding myself or the world. C told me that I have the most interesting stories due to some capricious gravitation that radiates from me to conjure calamity without so much as a step.

And me, with my laid-back view of life, a singular woman-child who isn't invigorated by drama, looks on at these unfolding events with wide-eyed fascination while the same thought lingers in the back of my mind. What the fuck?

Sure, I love a good yarn, but some of mine border on the realm of "do you have any common sense?". While the answer is yes, that is especially hard to prove after the fact to those who didn't witness the way it all went down. It makes no difference 'cuz the story's still the same, and by the grace of the universe (perhaps by sheer will) I'm intact to tell it.

I found and lost a spectacular person Saturday night. A girl, addicted to heroin and crack, on her own, hustling the subway lines. She had her shtick down, my dears, the girl could work a car. When she entered mine, skin n' bones covered in dirt, I instantly saw her addiction.

Her profile was striking. A scar ran from the bridge of her nose to her jaw, and another crossed it. A very deep knife created this impression of desperation on her visage, while her eyes, large and amber, told a different story. This girl had fire. I called out to her.

"Hey, um...I'm heading to Columbus Circle to pick something up. Would you like to join me and then grab a bite to eat."

She looked my way before turning back to gather more money stretched her way.

"Just a sec...." She completed her transaction and then plopped in the seat next to me. A man sitting across from us gave me a grin. Do you know what you're getting yourself into, it said. Evidently, no.

She looked me up and down. "I need a friend...."

"What's your name?"

"Natasha. What's yours?"

"Sunshine...."

"No shit? That's beautiful." She smiled, an enchanting laugh followed. Her skin and teeth suffered the ravages of misuse, but she was somehow radiant. "You like burittos? How 'bout we go to Burritoville, OK?"

And so it was. A redhead and a brunette got off at 59th and hit the mall to pick up film.

"Um...I can't go in there." She paused at the door, biting her lip. "This place is too nice."

I grabbed her hand. "You're gorgeous, let's go!" Again, that laugh, and as we rode the escalator up past the security guard, her grip tightened. Sure enough, the clerks took notice, but nothing was said. She flashed a brilliant smile and wished them all a good night as we hit the door.

Destination: Burritoville. Back on the train, she whispered where to get off and then disappeared. I heard her voice in the background, the same as before. More money, more people willing to pay a girl rather than look at her. She went down the line and we met up at 72nd St.

"Ready to eat? You look like you could use a good meal." She grabbed my hand this time.

An hour spent under a flashing neon sign, at a rickety table covered in salsa and salt, talking about life, music, art and family. She admonished me for not eating (I'd actually already had dinner) and kept pushing quesadillas in my face. She allowed me to pay for the food, insisting she buy the drinks.

"You know I don't go off with people if they offer to buy me food. I mean I'm just working for money, right? But I saw your face and I wanted to come. This means the world to me, sitting here eating and talking, you have no idea. I have no one...I live in a car." Her eyes penetrated mine and found what they were looking for. I was listening, but not just with my ears, something came together in that instant and we both felt it. A shared bond, a common pain. I hugged her and she whispered. "Come with me tonight...I need this, please. Just this evening, before I go back to the same old shit." We smiled and agreed.

She told me everything, things I won't document because I believe they belong to her alone. That is her story, not mine to tell. Needless to say she had it rough, she'd lost a great deal...enough to take her past a point of no return from which she honestly wanted escape. She would repeat herself trying to explain it to me, an attempt to relieve some shame. I told her there was no shame in being human.

Then the night began to blur. My heart rate sometimes dips dangerously low, an irregularity passed on to me from my father's side.

"What's wrong?" She touched my face. "You ok? Girl, I told you to EAT!"

I laughed. "No, I have a heart condition. Bradycardia. It gives me trouble every know and then." -edit: I found out much later, these episodes were actually seizures-

"I'm taking you to the hospital..." She started shoving people out of the way and sheltering me. I stopped her.

"I'm all right...I just need to take it easy. They won't be able to do anything for me there, anyway."

"You sure? 'Cuz if you pass out on me I'm going kick your ass all the way there, bitch."

Natasha walked fast, used to being on the move. I struggled to keep her pace as we hit three stops in Harlem: one, to her car to grab a dress, two, the store to get mystery item no. 1, and three, down 110 St to obtain mystery item no. 2. She had a gentle way about the neighborhood; she knew the metro workers and the convenience store clerks. She gave a shout-out to people hanging along the streets as her pace quickened.

"Walk on ahead of me, just keep going..." She pushed me away from her, and ran to catch up a few minutes later. "I didn't want you to be a part of that. I have to have some heroin or I'll get sick, but I promise you I won't smoke tonight, if you promise to sing for me."

The tracks down her arm, the vague look in her eyes. I realized at this moment she had little choice to do otherwise; to go cold turkey would put her in a coma. I nodded and told her I was sorry she had to take anything. She nodded as well and looked away.

The plan was to go back to my room and shower before hitting Smoke, a jazz club just up the street from my co-op. However, back on the train, Natasha could not refrain from hustling...she wanted to catch her money line, express 2.

"One last stop?"

She smiled. "Just one, then we go."

"Natasha, can I give you my number? If you decide you've had enough of this life you are welcome at my door anytime."

As the doors opened she whispered, "I'd leave this shithole tomorrow, but I won't come unless I know I can make it."

We got on and she started to walk away. "What stop?"

"160..." and she was gone.

It wasn't until I'd been on the train for about ten minutes that I realized that something was amiss. I leaned over to asked the lady next to me when the train stopped at 160.

"It doesn't."

Oh, shit. 116, not 160. FUCK, fuck, fuck. The express kept on chugging, and when it stopped I got off at the most desolate looking platform imaginable. I took the stairs down, crossed the street and went back up to the other side. It was as simple as taking the next express back, then I'd stop at 116 and if she was gone I'd look for her car.

Well, I waited...and waited...and waited. There was no return train. I glanced at my watch, 1AM. I had no idea where the hell I was, so I pulled out my maps, but I couldn't find the street I was on. Right. See, I wasn't in Manhattan, I was in the Bronx.

Fuck again.

I took the stairs down to survey the neighborhood. I was at 147th St. I figured if I took the cross road down I'd eventually run into another subway entrance or a bus stop. Time to move my feet or get a ride. I was dialing info for a taxi when 6 men walked up and surrounded me.

The next few minutes of my life are a testimony to the power of adrenaline. Three or four men held me down as I struggled while the others laughed. I can't remember a damn thing that was said, I was too busy looking for a hole in the mayhem. My hair pulled, my pants around my knees, someone struck me hard and I pushed him away. Kicking out my legs with all the force I could muster I managed to escape their grip long enough to also flail my arms. With my pants down, I stood and took off.

I think I ran three blocks in that condition before ducking behind two women on a stoop. Not all of them had followed me, and the ones who did backed off when they saw where I was. The women spoke in hushed tones as I put myself together, but not to me. I scanned the area and when I didn't see anyone I ran again. Fast, faster than I've ever run in my life, until I reached water and stopped.

I collapsed on the sidewalk and closed my eyes. Where was she? Did she think I ditched her? God, it tore me up to imagine that.

I asked around for the nearest subway. Riding back I sat in a numb silence. I was bloody. A knot was forming on my head and my ass ached. People looked away. Was this what it was like to be invisible, shunned? Don't ask, don't tell. Who knows.

When I got back to my room I stood in the shower for 30 minutes, letting the hot water soften the impact of my night. Contemplation. I was leaving NYC at 8AM, flight 678 out of La Guardia. Do I go to bed and forget what just occurred, or do I look for her?

Wandering through Harlem at 4 in the morning? Not recommended. The whole time I felt like a complete ass, mostly because I didn't remember how to get to the lot where her car was parked yet I was stupid enough to continue looking at such an irresponsible hour. My inquires garnered little more than dirty looks and shaking heads. At 5:30 I walked back, got my bags together, left my key at the front and returned to the subway.

She wanted one night. Wow, drugs are about escape, right? Perhaps I was her drug for the evening, another way of avoiding the reality of what's to come. I've been many things in this life, but on September 25, 2004 I was a window into a world she'd long forgotten, where you are seen unconditionally. She returned the favor.

Natasha, I pray I didn't let you down. I promised to sing to you, sweetie.

I will every day.

inCenDIARY CaligINosITy

Accord

Perhaps J is right...New York feels like a lover.

Leaning out our window I breathe in the cool evening air and dusk settles in the back of my throat. A glint of orange ignites an iris, causing the flowers below to slip into something more comfortable. The simplicity burns just beneath the skin alongside the scent of Indian food and laundry, the voices and laughter melting into the vibration of a drum, into an electric-seeking synapse.

This lady charms the knickers clean off my happy ass with an euphonious hum.

I sleep in the nude, listen to the breathing around me...I connect. IN the way the guy on the congested subway rubs his crotch against my shoulder, sending me off with a have a nice day; in the way the guys on the hoop court simultaneously flip each other the bird and flash a legitimate grin.

Down around the lights and the music, the dancing falafel vendors and the poor bastards handing out flyers. With every step I hear another language or catch a kiss. I pass cell phone confessions and intermittent moments of bliss. I reach out to strum a righteous Mohawk and wink at the boys who jus' wanna talk. I play Frogger with taxis and pet the green poodle. I linger over hot-air grills where clowns stoop to doodle.

Here in her arms, perfectly exposed in the midst of chaos I find shiny, sparkling, sinuous scars. My industrial doppelganger has jagged lines and careful patches -- ugly to those who've never stumbled across the entrance to hell and been given a hall pass, exquisite to those who fell on through and somehow managed to escape. Dirt and grime with its unassuming putridity and defiance intertwine with unwavering hope and vitality. It grabs me and spins me around, there among the hurried crowds I look up to the sky.

Her lasciviousness plays like a blue note lent to a crazy pentatonic scale. Where have you taken me, I ask. She smiles and hums again.

A senseless poem for the wandering truffle

Confetti laced with tears
the burgeoning scent of lilies on the sill
aimless thoughts take me down roads where little mushrooms grow in the Prêt of envious thrills

Drudge up the dregs
put them in heels and minis
while the bananas peel down to the root of thrust to dance by neon signs wearing pink boa beanies

SUMmer BREEZE

Gargle 'n SUCKing Diesel

Woke up early this AM to a little shake, rattle and roll in the cot next to me...and this isn't the first time. I definitely hit the hot sPOT of nocturnal action.

Um, back story....

I have four rooMATES, all men, who gasped the first time I entered the room.

Kent, a New Zealander wearing little more than a towel, looked me up and down before closing his mouth. John, also from NZ, with noTHING on, opened his, "I didn't know this room was co-ed..." John M., a Irish rogue with hangover eyes, sat in his mess of a bed with one shoe on and the other on his head. We all stared at each other for a few moments before I spontaneously broke into the running man with jazz hands before going down into the splits.
(Good move for breaking weird silences, or creating them: use at your own risk)

Ok, I need to go back further....

I had the room to myself the night before this -- a small space with a floor to ceiling window, four small storage lockers, two bunkbeds and a futon. Within five minutes I was asleep, and I don't think an A-BOMb coulda roused me, letta lone four young travelers arriving late after barhopping through SoHo.

Enter the above scenario as I returned from my shower. As I rose from from the floor I felt a slap on my ass -- Bren, the last of this bunch, from Belfast, came up behind me and put his arm around my neck, "I knew that lump in the upper bed was a fla gingernut."

At this John M. clenched one eye, "Aw, shut up, arse, you're as thick as two short planks, aren't ya?"

"That's right, mind yourself...I'm bleedin' deadly!"

Yeah, so several insults later we fell quiet once more and just as I was about break free of my chokehold to enact a scene from Coming to America, Kent suggested they kindly leave the room so's I could get my face on. Hmmm...ok.

Right, right...sorry, back to this morning. (Flashbacks are a bitch)

Kent sleeps beneath me, with John in the futon and Bren and John M. in the adjoining bunk. It was around 5AM when the place started to shake, and since I was pretty sure New York wasn't prone to earthquakes, I sat straight up and hit my head on the ceiling.

"Fuck!" Exactly.

Translucence

tRAIN A -- all local stops late NITES

There are five things you need in order to survive in NYC:

1. Attitude
2. A good sense of direction
3. Money, or at least a Metrocard
4. Public bathroom locations
5. A place to stay

Now, my lovies, in the past week I have been without one or more of these things at critical intervals. I have almost been arrested, slept in a stairwell, gone all the way to Queens and then back to Brooklyn quite by mistake, and considered taking a squat by a tree when extreme desperation set in.

I have walked from AVE B to Christopher St, then up to 81st by the way of 7th n' Broadway, with a sunburn and a temperature of 102. I have gotten lost in Greenwich Village, where the streets circle in on each other -- hell, Winnie the Pooh ain't got nothing on me. Surrounded by food and absolutely no appetite, I have looked longingly at the plethora of cafes and bars and then kept on trekking.

Of course, this all rides on the line between a great adventure and poor planning, but I'm not sweating it (not since my fever broke, anyhow). The best times often come wrapped in a painful lesson. Like realizing yesterday that my 35mm camera (which is older than me) was allowing light in the back, and therefore I had no pictures of my first week in NYC. After everything else that I had been through, the last straw finally broke...I sat down on the side Mott and cried.

And what, my dears, should happen to me next. Angels, everywhere. The people of this city are incredible. I had no more then shed one tear before an ancient-looking man, wearing a hooded frock tied with a scarf and using a walking cane, managed to bend down to offer me a tissue. "Don't cry, pretty lady, you are too young to be so sad." I gave him the most brilliant smile I possess.

I packed up the camera and put away my maps, and with a huge bear hug that almost snapped him in two, I thanked his kindness and kissed him on the cheek. I took the F train to Washington Square Park, sat down and lost a good game of chess.

Here's to a small bite of the BIG APPLE.

MOREgan gives PEAS a chance

SHEga n' spICE

tha Pegasus kICK

Spent most of the AM working in Tompkins Square helping Christine prepare for the San Gennaro Festival.

Per usual I'm covered in art gunk.

Typing from a little DELI on Avenue B, which makes me a bit homesick. I used to live across the street from the Avenue B Grocery in Hyde Park, and that is where my father and I always met for lunch on Fridays. A damn fine sandwich counter - I'm dreaming of horseradish sauce and a root beer float. Not together mind you...hmmm, ya never know, that just might become the new flavor sensation.

I think I'll see if we can whip that shit up tonight.

Babies, by 7PM I'll either be leaning over Fran's toilet wishing I were dead or running naked across the field at GAME 1 of the Yankee-Red Sox ROW.

Things could get kinky...stay tuned.

WATT iS JaZz?

KaleiDOscope

Fear can be a horrible ENABLER. Its unspoken, yet widespread use as an excuse to behave in ignorant ways has kept our species just short of a realistic enlightenment.

I love to run. There is something in the rhythm akin to music; with each step and breath I break down the barriers between my perception and what actually exists, I feel the vibration of life all around me.

I take the same path everyday, past the old storefronts, down and around the smell of nightlife n' poverty, past throbbing doorways that waft stale smoke within blasts of conditioned air -- God, it fuckin' moves me. I wave at the regulars, smile at the valets as they race around the corner and say "...good evening" to the old men who sit on the bus bench playing chess. My path, my breath, my body in motion...the best part of my day.

The night before I left town I was floating on the humid air with my mind in the clouds. I didn't notice my surroundings as I took a mental inventory of my own design, and it wasn't until I came full circle that the world 'round me resumed its normal broadcasting schedule.

Flashing lights around a vacant lot with yellow tape and a small crowd grew on my left, but that wasn't what caught my attention. As I avoided the commotion, I noticed the same two men I pass every night, sitting in an abnormally rigid fashion, taking heat from a police officer. He stood over them with a very "official" look on his face, broken only when he glanced my way to smile before his focus returned to them,

"Now, you go on and get out of here! Go on now...."

I stopped in mid-step and turned my head in disbelief. His tone had been reminiscent of an adult scolding a dog.

"Why do they have to go?" I demanded of the uniform, as all eyes looked my way. "Excuse me, all authority aside, you don't even know these gentleman...where do you get off commanding them to do anything? Should they walk around the corner and sit on that bench instead, outta sight - outta mind? I mean, do you even care that they may have no where to go?"

Without a hint of acknowledgement, the formerly kind expression he afforded me melting into disgust, he turned and walked back to his car. One of the men on the park bench raised his hand and tipped his hat to me before turning to his chess partner to assist in packing their board. They rose, bid me goodnight and walked into the darkness.

Darkness. Without light. Where so many of us push the unwanted unknown because we are afraid to face what is all around us...the loneliness, the suffering, the disease. Where I sensed the joy of two old men, whose names I do not know, playing chess every night by the light of a rusted car wash.

Ironic, how some things seem better in the dark when childhood nightmares have us clamoring for the light. When life's true beauty is witnessed within the glory of a full spectrum -- healing found through our spiritual prism.

There are times I find myself blindly speed-racing through the craziness of this life amid brief moments of shivering fear, where the “I can’t”s and “what if?”s prevent me from asking the right question.

Why haven’t I really stopped to see?

geT Off

Ambrosial

I love the way I taste.

Covered in paint and sweat, leaning over the A/C unit of my studio with my finger in my mouth, I let my tongue languish along the length before coming back down to suck a bit harder. There are times when I can't get enough of my pussy; its intricacies intoxicate me. The graceful lines envelope a tender pink wetness that comes to life with the slightest touch, thought or just the right glance.

This morning I was reaching down to pick up a brush when the inside of my pants slid across my cLIT. A shock of electricity lent itself to waves of elation. More, they insisted in their rhythmic cadence, more & more....

The flavor of our skin soaked in the scent of hunger, the ever-ripening sensation coursing underneath as the crescendo breaks and washes us clean.

Now, as I lay on the floor in a celestial silence, a fragrant river spills delights from me.

Ring-A-DING-Ding

Subjective

Oh yes, my mind flexes around this calenture
that triumphs over my fatigued introspection
Oh my, how readily joy flies
fulminating through this sepulchral soul
a wind that blows
warm and lucent
movement I can embrace
laughter to the pinnacle of being
Oh yes, this is what life is made of
Such dynamic words to give meaning
to the most noncomplex emotions
Unremitting curiosity
You challenge my world
bring into focus vague cleverness
Oh my, what changes ensue
sending me on a quest for knowledge and truth
Oh yes, what light meets this heart
giving leave to the dark,
rich ambits that have yet to have spoken
I am overflowing,
glowing
when you touch me
a brilliant reflection in which a depth I hope to find
mirrors the depth that is in mine
Oh yes,
just to close my eyes and imagine your hands
how they pull me close and you breathe me in
There is no definition
only this
a sweet and sultry lasting kiss

Got a light?

On the way home I passed PUSSy on the sidewalk by the broken water main. She was soaked in gutter talk, a lonesome drop of smut on her tail. I whispered a secret in her ear -- poetry is the nexus of our vagrant reflections, within that story the scintillating untold.

Then talk to me, she sang back, let it unfold.

I leave for New York City in less than a week, and I will miss my misTRESS moon and the three-legged mutt. Bottom line I am completely exhausted this week, and as I walk into the office with my wrinkled pants and half-moon eyes, eyebrows raise with the question,

"What have you been up to? Break me off some of that, girl!"

Oh, you have no idea. Seconds away from a crash and burn, overwhelmed by a mountain of work and projects to start, I swivel in my chair and grin. Here's to a fantastic explosion.

KUMadori

Vicissitude

Out of bounds and into the heavens, out on the early release program on account of good behavior, the motion of emotion has deviated from its normal path.

Hallelujah, I am free! The lite'ness of being, indeed, and where is my string - the one that keeps me grounded when flights of fancy entice me? Oh, baby, it was cut, and like a schoolgirl leaning over the desk of conformity with her panties a quiver, the inevitable sting of liberation was oh-so-sweet.

Dreams of his adroit fingers & my imaginative splendor are endearing & enduring, and yet only day trips where longing has been replaced with after-glow, melting as I reach out for new experiences. I am ablaze with anticipation.

Choice "Message" of the week

EARTH TO CAPTAINBADASS - 6 months of pure blissssss. thanx, QueerBoner

1...

2...

3 fine mice

So, I'm alone in my office and I'm doing my thing
where the song is my finger
and my finger tunes the string
of the slowly working melody that brings me to the edge
of a climax too intense to let spider spin its web
toward inclusion where sensations grow into frenzied state
and my body trembles slightly in an effort to maintain
the pleasure that cries out to scream its fucking name
while the business flows @me and this cocoon in which I've laid
my inner soft spring craving for a moment just like this
where lyrics drip and chords slip across my open lips
that flux between the concept and the final pungent bliss
rubs out times of other rhymes & quiet inspiration
the cosmic release, the beautiful sigh, my sublime destinatio

love 'em, Russell

Time & Tide

Sometimes I want to rip the world open and burn the sky. Anything to scorch my tears.

Who can deny a rage inside?

Honestly. From the church-addicted patron to the madman, an analogous collection of gentle spirits and assholes alike churn sweet milk into bitter butter from damage done and things unsaid. Raise your hand if you've taken a hit and not bit back, riding the internal highway instead. Turn the other cheek, love your enemy, see the silver lining - such good advice, yet, dear ones, I do believe that inner child still clenches her fist in fury.

"It'll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I take him back."

But he's not coming back, and I'm walking thROUGH hell in a sweater.

deSIRE

Sin'ple Pleasures

A drop of scented wax on my naked clit
A tug of my hair as my head tilts back
Hot honeyed tea dripping down the crack of my ass
that your lips reach down to catch

Tied and tickled until tears
torture my tiny frame
you kiss them away
lay me on my side
and hold
my
trembling
hand

laughing, the tingling tension subsides
and then you pounce again

Wink

I wear my heart on my sleeve. My eyes hypnotize like a whirlwind of the reflected world.

In me. You are a light in the darkness of that twisted maze, a song that keeps me within your arms as I fall into sleep and dream of better days.

COSMOpolitanism

naked

your tongue has found mine
a savage dance
in urgent tones, sharp scents on a humid night
rough, then tender
intensity
flows from your desire
in eyes that fix upon my fire
as your dream sings me awake