one more love and i am lost

1

I don't know the first thing about love. It feels good. It's down there. Has something to do with bringing joy to the world, and having sex. I saw a baby yesterday with a cute hat. I'm not sure if I loved it or not, but it was cute. I saw a pretty girl serving hot dogs later that day. She had a birthmark under her right jawbone that moved when she smiled. She was beautiful. I don't know if it was love. She remembered me from somewhere, I couldn't remember her. I wanted to. I don't know if it was Him giving me another opportunity to find it. I want it. I want it badly.
Haven't had sex in a year and a half. Not because I haven't had the chance, but I've been frigid. Cold-hearted. A popsicle walking around on a summer day. Some people are very warm. Sometimes I can be warm, but then I need to let go of all my complaining about things. When you complain, you don't know love.
I had a dream the other night of an Indian seductress, sliding towards me, her hips churning the air around her. Her almond eyes were fixed on mine, reflecting the surrounding jungle. There was a stirring inside me, a deep desire. I turned away.
Life is full of people. Lots of them, with lots of love. Lots of sex is happening every second. A million orgasms a minute. So much love. He was driving his truck; the sun was setting, the sky was pink with feathered clouds. I was gay. Later that night, drunk and tired, a girl was aching with sex. I could feel it, and I was aching too. She sat down next to me, and I froze. Looking straight ahead, I watched a card game I wasn't involved in. But oh, she wanted it. And I was straight. I mentioned that my car was broken. She left. I shrugged.
I took a walk, and trees were cut down. Probably for paper. I don't know though. Maybe firewood. Some sort of timber. Someone was cutting them down. There was some litter on the ground. I litter when I drink and drive. Someone's gotta do it. Might as well be me. Don't want my car smelling like a redemption center. I drink too much. I hear loggers drink a lot. That may be true.
Clocks sound like tiny pendulums. Back and forth from one moment to the next. No, yes, one, two. Partners in crime, the clock and humanity. Wonder how much the clock industry is worth? Time is profit. I was cleaning a house, and there were 20 clocks inside. There were none outside. I can't see the stars well; I need glasses. I telepathically hit on hundreds of people a day, even though I can't see them clearly. I hit on a person with a walker. When I saw her clearly, I apologized. She kept walking.
I was talking to a coworker. She said she was bisexual, and confused. Her eyes were kind, and welcoming. She is much older than I. I'm supposed to fall in love with everyone I meet, and I do. She said she was scared of anal sex. I think it's great. Been talking a lot about sex recently. The girl at the hot dog stand was cold. I offered her a jacket. There was another guy working there; strong, handsome, with a great smile. He gave her a sweatshirt. I cursed in my head. I don't speak very often any more. I think, with the volume turned up. I always play music loud, or else you won't hear the lyrics. I don't like the lyrics to my song. It's very negative.
Negative and positive are both the same without numbers. I read about a place that could only count to two. Anything over that is called "many." There are many ways to count. I heard that one, two, and many was inferior to one through ten. We sent binary to the aliens in the 1970's. I wonder if aliens have more numbers than we do.
I want to change. I want to be kindling inside with passion for life. I want too much. I heard that's not good. I can never tell if I should trust my sources. When I hear something, I ask "really?" Lies are inefficient. They make no sense. The truth hurts. So does being a popsicle. If you had sex with a popsicle, it would melt. People are warm inside. Even in the cold. Hugging keeps people alive in winter. In movies, jails aren't cold in the winter. Outside still is. Rocks are colder than humans.
I met a shepherd that drank a gallon of wine and two legs of lamb a day. He was 104. He was healthy. My Italian brother and I told him about America's history. He loved Ronald Reagan. We ate sausage he made and drank his vineyard's wine in front of an olive wood fire. Fires in Italy burn slower. The girls on the island are very short. I am tall. I don't think I'll live on an island.
A fire burns in my groin. Sex. I want someone to take charge, to grab my crotch, and suck my cock. Talking is hard. Sentences are too short without love. Love is a good story. I mentally interrupt people when they tell stories. I don't wear a watch, but ask the time a lot. Sometimes it's twenty minutes. Sometimes it's an hour. As long as the sun is up, it's daytime. When the moon is up, it's night. When you fly forwards, you can be with the sun as long as you want. When you're in a plane, time moves slower. Sometimes when you travel, you arrive before you left. There are lots of girls in airports carrying purses. Purses look like vaginas. A lot of things do.
There's a mannequin that has duct tape around her stomach that is lying across the lintel in my room. She has no arms, because one is in a chimney. The other is on a television. She wore boots the other day. She would have looked better in high heels. Red ones. She's wearing too much makeup. I was gay when I put her there. Now I'm not too sure.
My eyes flicker when I doubt life. It's a strobe light in my mind. I want to have a nice, relaxing ochre light there instead. I have ultra-violet light in my body that makes people turn purple. It shows all the stains on their clothes. I have lots of stains on my clothes. Fingerprints also; i saw that someone touched a lamppost in the park. Maybe they were tired. There are some manatees in Florida, but they die whenever a boat hits them. Maybe they're tired, too.
I had a dream that I was working at a hotel that had short ceilings. I had to bend over as I gave my family a tour. I was getting married to everyone I met. There were a lot of women who I could choose to respect. I wanted to love them all. Fuck them all. Going up the stairs, I locked eyes with a blonde, whose soft features lured me. I kept walking. There were two brunette, athletic girls walking ahead of me. Their hair swiveled back and forth across their satin night gowns. They looked back, and I wanted them both. I had to choose, but couldn't. I woke up alone, and horny. I wish there was a brothel near where I worked. It would make sex a lot easier. Don't have to talk to a whore. But I don't just want sex. I want fire. Sexual Prometheus.

2

I woke up next to her; she was rustling around the floor looking for her pants. I didn't have a condom the night before, so I didn't have sex with her. Like a hot dog in a bun, but no more. I really wanted to. I didn't know then that babies happen when they're supposed to. I don't know that now. When I'm straight, I am not ready for a baby. When I'm gay, I would be a good father. I think it should be the other way around.
The room was cold with linoleum, and she left with a glance. She had a boyfriend, and it was a night of passion. There was a fire the night before in the woods. She sat on my lap and I whispered some things in her ear. It must have been magic, because we left the bonfire together. It was perfect. I apologized months later, in the rain. Apologizing for passion.
He and I were sitting in my car, listening to music. We talked about God. It was warm, and I saw his eyes. He had gotten poison ivy a week before. The music suggested sex, and I touched his arm. I did not get poison ivy. He was not gay. Telepathy is scary when you don't know love. I'm getting used to it though. Positive thoughts feel insincere when I'm smoking a cigarette. The smoke makes me self-conscious; it makes me forget where the love is.
I hitchhiked last summer, and a 30 year old man picked me up in his truck. He wanted to go swimming. I told him I would wait for him to finish. There was a marble quarry there. They dug too deep, and they hit a river underground. He got naked and had a piercing on his penis. He jumped in, unashamed. I turned and faced the wall. I was not gay. But I wanted to know what his penis looked like. I was gay. I helped him out of the water, and he dropped me off farther down the road. He did not listen to music.
I got high during the winter, and walked through the snow to a person's apartment. It was white, and the wood was old. I walked in to the room, and there were people having an orgy. I sat down, a girl sat on top of me, and we kissed. She was high on drugs that made her love. I was high. People took pictures, and I touched her breasts. She wanted sex. I didn't understand that she meant me. Sometimes I understand people, sometimes they need to explain. Her pussy was glowing under her skirt. So was my cock. I didn't need explanation. Maybe I was gay.
When I'm with people, I say their names a lot. As if they didn't know it; as if we were strangers. It separates us. I don't want separation deep down. There are some snakes crawling above my head. They just want to have sex, then they'll drink some lemonade under an umbrella. A big snake orgy in my mind. I want him. I think he knows.
I went for a run. I have to stay in shape. I took three cigarette breaks in between. I ran for less than a mile, and came back. I do pushups, sometimes looking at myself in the mirror. As I count, my face contorts and I become less and less attractive. But strong. I'm big and strong. Pacifist, pushover, pushup-pumping, sex charged, turbo-diesel fucking machine. Time for another cigarette. A person I know has a shirt that says Drink Oxygen. I want the burgundy of oxygen. Thick, heavy, meaty air.
I bought pheromones when I was really straight. They're naturally extracted sex attractants. And a rip-off. They smell nice, and have an eye dropper cologne applicator. They don't work on guys. I wish they did. He told me not to buy them, as he stood there in his cloth hat, pulled over his wild hair. Running my fingers through it in my mind, I tried talking about music. His chest, his pelvis. Love.
Later that day, when he had left, I went riding through town, desperately looking for some girls. Some pussy, tits, ass. I was drunk, and had a bottle of banana rum in my lap, swigging it as I watched the sidewalks. Some were marble, some were concrete. Breasts. A car braked suddenly in front of me, and I noticed just in time to stop. Good thing I got those brakes fixed.
I spent two hours in a car shop smoking cigarettes, reading retail catalogues. The magazine only sold items in sets of three. Three garden gnomes, three poker tables, three umbrellas. I buy things in ones. There were two men wearing overalls talking about bad drivers. One said that the only bad drivers are the ones who don't get laid enough. I've had a lot of tickets.
I live in an apartment that I share with six other guys. Coming and going in their tight underwear, shivering in the cold air after showering. Never felt a man wet. Running my hands along their arms, tracing their spine with my palm. We use the same soap. I bet they feel better. They're probably more efficient in the shower than I am. Military shower maybe.
I had a girlfriend. We kissed in the back seat of a car, lying down. Driving home two hours, I breathed on her neck while she lay next to me. We breathed. Her sweater was soft. I curled her hair behind her ear, and traced it with my finger. The ultraviolet light turned on as the white stripes flew by. Her jeans were tight and her face smooth. The fog of my drunk shifted into a slick of colors and warmth, with cool blues and purple floating through us; our breath throbbing.
I wrote a song about her. It was painful and vengeful, full of wrath and bile. I loved her. I thought, at least, as I wrote. When I sang it, I thought of her. Late at night, emotionally hungry, hundreds of miles from her warmth, I was just lonely. We tried anal sex. She didn't like it. I took it slow. I wanted to get her pink champagne for Valentines Day. We rented a hotel, and we fucked. Over and over. I showered her, caressing her breasts. Darling Kelly Motel. I couldn't get the champagne, so I got some cheap beer. We smoked cigarettes and ate chocolate. I bought her a bra, and she wore the scarlet lace. It was the last time I saw her wear it.

3

I liked a girl when I was young. She wore red hair. She dressed in autumn colored sweaters and hiked a lot. Spoke of poets and giggled. Read more than I did, and better books. We made muffins, and she bossed me around. I pretended not to like them. Banana nut. I mashed one with my hands, she told me that was gross. I used to think bugs are gross. They're just different. There's a robot bug that can carry 5 grams while flying. Robots are like us, but metal. That's gross.
My bed is too small. My feet hang off the end. When I sleep on a bed that's the right size for me, it feels uncomfortable. When things fit, I get uneasy. The feeling of good slippers. I want to see him in slippers, shuffling across the floor late at night, hopping back in bed. Or her. She has glasses and paints. Is an architect. Structural, Polish, and smiling eyes. I watched two movies with her late at night, the apartment was empty. My breath smelled. I hadn't shaved down there. She was shaking her head no. Or maybe responding to the movie. Either way, I watched the movie. It was about cancer.
Apathy is the cancer of the world. I wish I cared. Who am I to say? He and I watched a lot of movies together. I tried feeling his warmth. Looking over at him, I became ashamed. I've looked at millions of people in my life. I wanted to look at him as I look at a kiwi. I love kiwi.
Life is full of fantasies. I am lying in bed, after trying to contact him. He says he is coming over later in the night. I feel his presence in the headlights of a car as they drift up the walls. He walks in, takes off his shoes, and climbs into bed. He smells of fresh cigarettes and fire. He wraps his arm around my chest, and we hold each other. We look in each others eyes. His name is Alex. The music plays like a divine jukebox.
He likes my art. I like his. He draws passionately and with strong free hand. When someone touches me, I think "don't touch me." Only because I want to be touched. Sex and love are like water and oil, I just need to shake up the bottle. Alex. The patterns of the oil look like raindrops in zero gravity, forming groups and highways. People might have auras like that. Everything might. He does. I take medication so that I can feel his better. I feel, alright.
I don't dream of him. He is reserved for my waking hours. In my dreams I am straight. I think God wants me to be. Or maybe I do. Her, him, what's the difference. We're all one. There used to be differences. It's like a similarity contest. Maybe that's comfort. But this is also fantasy.
Someone said that dreams come from the fourth dimension, beyond time and physical reality. I want them to be a reality. Somewhere, that must exist. Maybe my muscles can hold him better. Make his experience of my embrace better. I want a clone I can hug. Maybe the mannequin.
I lay down in bed with it. Its bent knee demanded the inside of the bed. That's my side. Already she was ruling the relationship. Her head rested on my shoulder. The sheets were warm. She was cold as linoleum. I wanted her breasts to be rubber, supple. I took her out of bed, and she broke in half, hitting my computer. For two minutes in bed, we were a couple. Now she's wrecking my shit. Back up above the door, her eyes are fixed on my bed. I used to think she was creepy standing up. Somehow things aren't as scary lying down naked, suspended in air.
I would take Alex down from there, hovering him above my bed, me climb on top, just floating with each other. I would be weightless. That's all I want to be. I weigh more with beer. Hops sound funny when drunk. My dad never spilled beer on himself. Sometimes I rhyme to amuse myself. Putting the thesaurus away today. I swear too much. My mother used to tell me that swearing is a sign of a poor vocabulary. She used big words when I was young, now she does not. She wanted me to learn them, but I forgot. She doesn't swear. Shit.
She rode a bike up the hill, waved, and smiled at me. I was working cutting down and burning bushes, and I must have looked good in an undershirt against a background of smoke. She rode a bike like a European. Her back was straight. I was gay then. She looked beautiful. I used to care about my posture because I am tall. Now I hang my shoulders. Other people are short. They say when they talk to me things like "how is the weather up there?" I would think if you were short you could come up with something better. Like maybe "If you boiled water in your mouth, it would boil before a pot on the ground would!" People are funny like that. I wonder what a wide, thin person would look like. Probably a platypus.
When I was young, I walked like the movies. I walked like the cool kids. I walked with fixed eyes. I walked everywhere. Walking is inefficient. I really don't care. Maybe that's how it was, maybe it was different. After I live something, I live memories. After the memories, I have whipped cream. Fantasy gets me so confused.

SECOND UPDATE

4

A friend came by the apartment, sat in an office chair. We talked, I mostly listened. Told me that silences aren't uncomfortable between friends. I knew that. I felt it sometimes. I felt it then. It's like a pausing a movie, and being filled with the tension of the next frame, without the tension. Suspended in time, interacting with someone on a personal level is without time. That's the way life is supposed to be. That's where I want to go. I wanted sex.
It takes me somewhere with a grinding forehead, a churning of thought and furrowed brows. Most of the day I can't see, I'm thinking so much. At least the air is clean. I smoke a pack a day, and some weed every day. I should sober up, get clean, live life. There are kayaks down the road for public use. I should go exploring. Nothing's exciting to me any more. I am far too negative.
The sun was wrapped around the bedpost, throwing flowers and leaves. My eyes were wide open. Shit. Have to take my medication. I'm the guy who can't be positive. I don't know how. Life is great, life is good. So says everything. But then tons of people are miserable. I don't want to be miserable, it's just the lowest common denominator. I'm betting low. I don't know what I can do. Every day, I want sex, every day I want love. Every day I think of her, of him. Then with the cigarettes and the booze and the weed, I get caught up wanting everything so much that I forget I want to be myself. And I'm perfectly satisfied. Sure, I'd love a romp in the sack.
I tele-path most of my conversations. Feelings are not words, so often I just sit there staring, figuring out how to modify my feelings. Little to I realize, the whole time I'm indecisive. I used to cry when I was young and I couldn't decide what I wanted at a restaurant. The waiter would be there, my dad would look and me and say "Give her the order. Give her the order." I just cried.
I worked as a waiter for the winter. I would show up late, and the man who owned the restaurant wouldn't comment. I got people's orders wrong, and apologized. It's a hard job. Especially the confidence. I'm not sure was Neapolitan Pasta has in it, but I think it has olives. The green kind. Not salty. I really don't know, let me ask the cook. There was a girl who worked there who loved talking. She had two children, and was a year older than I. She was sexy and hot and didn't take shit from people. I made her a chocolate milk. The radio station there played only Christmas music from Halloween until the holiday. I didn't believe in God then.
I trust John Lennon. I think that people have to trust peace-makers and love transmitters. He was full of love. He said he didn't believe in God, he believed in himself. And Yoko. Then he was shot. I don't know what that means.

5

My grandfather lives in Florida in an assisted care condo. He can't walk; he had a stroke. His wife gave me a magazine that described what it's like for him. Sounded really bad. Metal worms eating your skin, and things like that. He used to play tennis and golf. He would throw his rackets and his clubs and bend them around trees. He had competition issues.
I was in Florida on vacation, and stayed with him for a few days. He asked me about God and suffering. About why things happen the way they do. He thought I had the answers. I have a lot of questions. I told him that everything that happens is meant to happen, and that everything is good. The only reason things seem bad is because we make them that way. I looked in his eyes, and he knew. He was caught in the loop. I know how he feels. But I can walk, and I am young.
Later that day, I went to his other apartment and ordered a call girl. She was twenty years older than I, and had fake breasts. I didn't know what to do, and she took advantage of that. I lay down on the long bed, surrounded by mirrors and breasty busts. She gave me a naked body massage, and had me touch her pussy. I didn't want to. She was disgusting. There was a Mickey Mouse phone at the bedside table. She looked away while pretending to moan, rubbing her breasts across my chest. She wanted me to masturbate. "I can't touch down there. Only when I'm comfortable with the people." Three hundred dollars, and I get to masturbate to a woman as old as my mother. I just wanted a girlfriend. I was straight then. And broke.
People go on dates. I don't have enough money for them, after the drugs and the alcohol. I also don't want to go on a date. The last date I went on, I paid 70 dollars and didn't get a kiss. I don't know why not. I was a perfect gentleman. She was tall and flowed gracefully. Stood like a dancer, and had large, Roman feet. She ordered the Volcano Chicken, and I thought of beaches and sand between our reclining bodies. Not sex, just being with her. She was very smart, and assertive. I had some confidence then, and showed it. We talked about nature versus nurture. I was never too sure. I didn't know then that they're the same. Things are how they should be.
I did homework with her, sitting on my bed. I wanted to work harder, write better, think longer about what I was doing. I pictured myself taking her hand from her book, and holding it, cradling each other. We spent four days together at the beginning of freshman year of college, and I thought she was the one. I told her that she was exactly who I wanted to be with, that I was comfortable with myself when I was with her. I didn't mind spilling my heart, because I knew she would catch it. She got up from the bed, and walked out of the room. "I'll think about it," she said. Thinking doesn't take very long.
I went up the stairs of the dorm atrium and knocked on her door. She came to it, and opened it a crack. I sensed that she was afraid of me, and I collapsed inside. I told her that I just told her how I felt, and that I wanted to know how she felt. She told me to leave her alone. The next day, she recited a poem at an open mic, telling how she was bisexual. I was straight then. I was alone. The mannequin looks at me, not really caring.
I had a dream about a man in Alaska who worked as a logger. He opened the screen door, and walked out onto the dirt main road of the town. He was wearing jeans and hadn't showered in days. He was carrying two shotguns. He started running as fast as he could, storming down the street. The camera circled around him, and he dropped to his knees, screaming. He lay down, letting go of the guns, and fell asleep for three seconds. He dreamt of dragonflies. He awoke calm and walked home. We dream thousands of dreams per second. I sleep too much.
I'm afraid that on a date, it will be awkward. He and I go to McDonalds all the time. That's not a date though. I don't know what a date is. Reserving a couple hours of someone's time sounds so businesslike. Let's just be together. I don't need to impress anyone. If I'm impressive, people will be able to tell. I used to impress myself often. I made sculptures of styrofoam cups and stirring sticks while at drug rehab. Had nothing better to do. I guess people make art when they have time. It's nice that time is all I have.
Today was nice I think. The window seemed bright. The trees seemed happy and breezy. I looked at the kaleidoscope of shadows on the ground today. It started spelling things, and I stopped. It spelled sex. I saw a couple making love; penetration. I was with my friend. He was straight, I was gay. I told him that I've been thinking about sex. A girl walked past, and my crotch exploded. As she faded out of site, my face was left blank and helpless. How can I approach a being that makes me feel so incredible? I was straight then. And just like that, I fall in love.
I heard that the space you are in dictates who you are. I want to go somewhere primitive, without pavement and reinforced concrete. I want to live every day, eating what I capture. Make my own hut out of bamboo and hemp rope. I don't want to understand the language. Just feel what people are saying.

THIRD UPDATE

6
Fireworks are going off. I don't remember a holiday. My muscles twitch with each explosion. When I was younger, there were balls of explosives wrapped in paper. They were thrown at people, and deemed dangerous by the school. The bully in my grade would throw them at the teacher's feet. That was the final straw. There was a school conference about them, in which the red-haired principal with long nose hairs and a six foot frame clothed in tweed declared them against the foundation upon which the school was built. I think I was in his office more than classes.
The gym teacher told me that the president wouldn't give me a really cool blue circle badge. The president of the United States sent all these out to people. Then there was this other badge that the Vice President sent out. Who the hell wants a badge from the vice president? I couldn't touch my toes, I didn't get the blue badge. I went around the class, having people sign a petition that I wrote. I walked into the gym teacher's office, and she read the note requesting her resignation. She started crying. I felt bad. I wanted Bill Clinton to think I was a good athlete. The bully got a blue one. Fuck Gore.
I always got in trouble in school. I was always trying to compensate for something. I don't really know. Maybe my height. Maybe my skin problem. Maybe my braces. Either way, I was rowdy and inappropriate. The bully told me to ask my third grade teacher's assistant if she spit or swallowed. So I did. "What do you mean?" she asked. I told her "Like, when you drink bad tasting soda?" She told me she did both, depending on the situation. The bully laughed. I got suspended. The day I returned, I got my ass kicked. Served me right I guess. I didn't even know why it was funny at the time.
My girlfriend never swallowed. Not even on Valentine's Day. When I was experimenting with masturbation, I figured out a way that I could roll myself onto my back and masturbate. I came in my mouth, and I swallowed. I had always wondered what a girl feels like. It's such a strange, sweet, salty sensation. Knowing that there are hundreds of thousands of little babies in your mouth is a realization one does not have every day. Days before, I had stolen some underwear from my neighbor's house. It was satin, blue, with patterns of flowers embroidered in it. It had stains of past periods, and it made me hard thinking about it.
My room at the time had no window shades, and was facing the road. I would stood in the middle of my room playing Janis Joplin, slowly taking off my pants, pulling my t-shirt off over my head. I was down to my underwear, and my erection strained against the boxers. I took one foot at a time and placed them in the panties. Slowly, I pulled them up my frame, shifting my weight from one hip to another, until they touched. I flattened my dick against my stomach, and rubbed the satin until I came. I wondered if she could get pregnant if I placed these back in her underwear drawer. I decided instead to keep them.
Panties. This is normal, I told myself. Everyone fantasized about this. Later, I would get an eyeliner pencil for Halloween. I started wearing it, while dressing in her underwear. Later, I would steal a bra from her and stuff it with socks and toilet paper, masturbating furiously at my feminine appeal. She wears this, I thought. She puts this on. I put this on. The bathroom was my tiled sexual haven. I thought of her all the time. When I was done, I would wash up, take off my costume, and go downstairs for dinner, as if nothing were happening.
One night, I forgot to wash off the eyeliner, and my mother shrieked when she saw me. I remembered what I had on. "Mom, it's goth day at school tomorrow. I'm just practicing. Pretty funny, huh." Yeah, pretty funny, she said sardonically.
When I had my girlfriend, she thought it was sexy when I wore eyeliner. I put it on at college pretty often; nearly every day as class was over. I wore a white sweater, and gelled my hair into spikes and cries for help. She would hang by my side. I would hold her, and hold her tight, hoping someone would see how wrong we were as a couple. I was a freak. I was wrong. I didn't deserve her. She puts up with this. Maybe she knew I needed it. When I was wearing makeup, we had the greatest sex. Rough, no holds-barred. Prop her up on the bed and bang her. I never knew that makeup could change someone so much; bring out the dark side of someone. I was into rape videos then. Anal penetration. Horse fucking women. Women fucking dogs. Dirty, wrong, terrible, awful. I was a bad person for viewing it, and I was viewing it because I was bad.
She didn't know this. She didn't go on my computer. She thought I liked who I was. I was the strong father figure, telling her it was ok. That I would be there no matter what. I would do for her whatever she wanted. She believed me, and I believed me. I ran my fingers in her curls, and braided her hair, just like her dad used to when she was young. Lay your head on my chest, babe. I'm your Bob Dylan.

7

I grew quickly, always feet ahead of my emotions. I was six foot five when I was fifteen, with fluorescent braces and zits covering my face. I would wake up early, and look in my bathroom mirror, finding layers and layers of new whiteheads, and my eyes would drop. Every day, I hoped they would be gone. Sometimes, I forgot to check the mirror in the morning, and would walk downstairs for breakfast. My sister would say "Eww, gross," and walk over to me, examining my face like a game of Operation. Her nails were claws as she would pop a pimple. "You clean it up," she would say. Fuck. I hated my face, and I knew that I repulsed everyone who saw me as I walked down the halls. My clothes were stained and too small for me, my step was bouncy and uncoordinated. I sang in the halls, in a voice that was desperately cracking, wanting to be smashed instead. I went to see a doctor about my skin. He prescribed me two different types of creams and pills that I took every day. I did it for months, and nothing changed. I never believed my skin would clear up; I was ugly for life.
I didn't know about telepathy then. I thought we were all separate beings, all destined for death; that things had lasting importance and meaning beyond understanding. I thought that space exploration was a great venture, that it was changing lives and should be funded more. We live in space. Our bodies are space. Love is bigger than space. I want to be a father. If I'm gay, I'll have to adopt from some poor country that can't afford to raise its own children. Maybe they'll call me "Zack." That's my name. I wonder how parents and children interact differently when they call them by their names instead of by Mom or Dad. It creates a whole different atmosphere. Equality, I'm not so sure, but independence. Maybe I'll give my kid the right when he turns 18 to call me Zack. My friend's parents told me when I was 16 to call them by their first names. I had always called them Mr. and Ms.; it had always been that way. I guess it's how you're introduced. People think my name is Josh. Lots of them. I never introduced myself that way. Maybe my last life, I was a Josh. Josh Yaltram from Switzerland. Why not?
Names don't really matter. We're all the same down deep. All we're doing is naming our bodies. Might as well name each part. My girlfriend named my penis Zeus. Maybe with slight suggestion from me. It made me feel good, while walking down the winter paths carved from the snow, she would ask about how Zeus was doing. I told her he was hungry for a Lady Friend. I named her vagina. I named her breasts after the moons of Jupiter, Io and Europa, as we were under the blankets, touching each other's stomachs. Her skin was smooth; I thought of shaving my chest.

FOURTH UPDATE
My father is hairy everywhere except for his head. He has gone bald with dignity. He's always been bald to me. When I was born, he was in his mid fourties, wearing aviators and denim. He dresses up well, and often, having silk Italian suits and blazers. I always had mismatched clothes at formal occasions; my height was too inconsistent. Now that I'm fully grown, I think it's time for a suit. I don't know how I want to portray myself. My brother displays bold colors and strong lines, jarring and comedic, but fitting for his curls and laughing eyes. He seems to make fun at the concept of dressing up, choosing clothes as a child would. He has class. He got it from my father. I am the youngest; I got the leftovers, but I never really cared.
My dad taught me how to tie a bow-tie when I was in middle school. His arms wrapped around me, his cologne smelling like formality. His fingers pushing and pulling at the cloth. The knot was too big; something had gone wrong. He got exasperated; told me to learn it myself. He didn't have the time; he had his own tie to fix. I went online, downloaded a manual, and did my own tie in the mirror, taping the instructions to the wall. It didn't seem that hard. Maybe my dad was drunk.
I have a drinking problem; it's no secret. I don't drink to sip, I drink to drunk. There's no point in having a beer when you could have ten and feel better. There was a car accident the other day; someone got deported. He was living in America illegally and working for minimum wage. He had a wife and kids in Ecuador, and now he has nothing but four walls and a six foot cell. He's going to be deported. He was not driving the car during the crash. His blood had some alcohol in it that made him illegal. No one was hurt in the crash, and insurance would pay for the cars. His life is ruined.
My father used to run a restaurant. It was Romanian cuisine; chopped liver and onions, salmon, huge steaks. It was a fun place when I was a kid. I used to tend bar with the short bartender, over fifty years old, and mock his height. I did not think I was being rude. He was just short. He told me a story out on the deck of our house one night, the moths flying around the floodlight, about some workers in his restaurant. He was fed up one night because they were not working as hard as he expected; he fired them. It was only 9 oclock at night, and the restaurant was busy. They left immediately, and my dad was left cleaning all the pots and pans himself. "Zack," he said, "never fire the dishwasher."
There was a room above the restaurant that was covered in floor to ceiling mirrors. My sister and I would play bartender there, with a small stand with wheels. There was a pitcher of water and a cup of sugar. We would mix it together and run in circles all night. My dad would drive us home late at night, smelling of vodka and caviar, singing songs in a voice that was never on key, but always sincere with songs from the fifties. Sometimes, he would take his hands off the wheel to form the meaning of words with his hands. I guess he was driving drunk then.

8

Sitting in my blue room, late in high school, I sat in the room with the lights off. The night was deep and dark, except for the camcorder sitting on the windowsill, pointing to her room. Her curtains were always drawn now. She knew that I watched her. The beer bottles were spread across the room, littering the floor. It was November, and both my windows were open, the heat turned down. I wore my winter jacket and pants, preferring cold to the oppressive dry heat of my radiator. I had an office chair, and would roll from one side of my room to the other, hoping to get a better view of the curtain. Maybe I just wasn't looking at the window correctly. If someone were looking in my room, they would have seen me, for sure. Why can't I see her?
Every hour or so, a silhouette would cross the window, and my heart would jump. Maybe then I would see her naked. Her family was beautiful and smart. They hiked in mountains together. She had two sisters, and they played lacross together in her yard. I would watch the ball being thrown back and forth. I played lacross. Sometimes with her. She would stand, legs shoulder width apart, her stick up in the air expectantly. When I made a good throw, I felt triumphant. Surely she saw the superior craft of my game, the tuned perfection I had reached. She must have envied my accuracy. Until I made a wild throw. I spun around, cursed, watching her chasing the ball. I was no better than she was. I was worse. I should have gone inside into my room, just to observe. Participating was too much pressure; I never knew how to react to a perfect specimen.
I knew her before she was cool. She became depressed in junior high, and cut her hair short and bought contact lenses. Her red hair that had held her flat, and unappealing in combination with thick glasses, now became a liberating stream of fire that captivated everyone she met. I knew her before she was cool. I had that advantage. She was always smart. She was always nice. She was always fun. The depression made her popular. And I ran to catch up. I wanted to be part of her group; if she could do it, so could I. We rode the bus together half an hour to school. No one else knew her before I had. I knew her best. Later, I would get to know her schedule. When she woke up, when she went to bed. She showered at night, but did not go immediately to her room. She changed with the lights off. One time I saw the towel flying across the window with the lights still on. I got an erection, and the camera shook as I held it expectantly. I adjusted the zoom, the window coming back into view. The lights flicked off. I missed her immediately.
I didn't know I was a voyeur. I thought I was in love. I thought about her often; having nick names for what she meant to me. She was a Rock Chewer, a Leaf Cruncher, a Happy Clown, a Full Tire, a Glimmering Star. I would recite names to her as we walked home from the bus stop. She would smile. I can't imagine what she was thinking.
I never know what girls are thinking, but it always feels like that. When I compliment someone, I apologize in my head. It negates it, but it keeps me safe inside. She was probably upset that I thought she was perfect. I didn't know then that everyone is perfect. I don't know that now. When we made muffins, she left the mixing bowls and blender dirty, sitting in my sink. I help clean up. Bitch. Sorry.

FIFTH UPDATE

I keep my room clean every month or so, and it's pristine for a few days. I get upset when my life becomes disorganized. The clothes start piling up, the trash finds its way onto the table-tops instead of the trash can, and the food wrappers and cigarette plastics find their way under my bed and mixed into my CD collection. I don't know what triggers it; it just comes on. My mind starts to fray, and I become a pair of torn, greasy jeans. I don't know who I got it from; my dad is obsessive about tidiness and things being in certain places. He loses his reading glasses often, and because of this, he has ten pairs throughout the house, bought at Rite Aid for a couple of dollars. He shops with coupons, asking me to sort the expired from the valid. After we shop, we eat out, and he tips the waiters thirty percent. He walks in to the restaurant, slipping the maitre d' twenties and fifties. They thank him profusely as the handshake transfers the bills. "It's how you get good service," he tells me. After every meal, when asked how the food was, he replies "The food stinks, the service is great." I must have heard it a thousand times.
He once spent eight hundred dollars on steak cuts, just because the place was going out of business, "You like steak, don't you baby?" "Yeah dad, I do...but..." "But nothing," he says, as he piles the butcher wrapped meat in my arms. It took four loads to the car to get it all. The shop still went out of business. We had steak whenever I visited, months after.
I lived with my mother for most of my life, visiting my dad about a month a year, mostly during the summer. Because of this, he spoiled me, always asking if I wanted to go shopping. I didn't want him to think that I only loved him for his money, and as such, I often refused his offers even though I needed clothes. Years later, I am still wearing the same clothes. They still fit. In America, people go through clothes just because it's another year. I doubt it's the same all over the world.
And in this way, I am filled with guilt. Jewish and well off, my father's side of the family is opulent and liberal with their money, giving it away to charities and organizations that help the orchestra or museums. There should be a charity that gives tens of thousands of dollars to one man who's down on his luck, but who has drive and inspiration. It would turn a person's life around. I don't think the orchestra feels the same way.
There was a man who helped out at my father's parties, serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres. He lived not far from my father's house in Philadelphia, but it was a run down neighborhood, and he walked there and back for the events. He was a hard worker, and a good man, calm and reserved. My dad would tease him; he was a vampire. "How's the blood sucking going?" "Mr. Katz, I don't suck blood," he said. His skin was decidedly pale, and his manner so removed that I couldn't help but wonder. A few years ago, he came down with cancer, and had no insurance. My dad's wife was the vice president of a company that made millions of dollars a year, and had a great coverage plan; she offered him a job there stocking shelves. He worked as he got his chemotherapy, and cancer gave up. Once it was gone, he quit the job. He just didn't work there, he said, as he left without notice. The last time I talked to him, he told me "A huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I was carrying the weight of the world with me, and now it is gone. I have found Him. I am free." I didn't know what he meant at the time, but now I do. I still wonder why he quit. It wasn't very nice.
I love how heat distorts the air, bending it, morphing it into ripples of light. Alex and I have made a lot of fires together, getting drunk under the stars. All my friends were there in a circle of chairs in the middle of a field, burning away the past. Mine is still smoldering in the coals. When it glows bright, the flies circle my feet, and my head feels like I'm wearing a band saw helmet. I felt the same way in little league when I struck out. The images burned in my third eye, replaying over and over. There's so much time that has passed. My car's rust has grown exponentially, though I am very much the same. I carry the weight of my experience on my shoulders, too. Just waiting to let go, that's all. The fire never has burned that bright for me that the light cancels out the shadow. The closer I get to beauty, the darker my history becomes.

SIXTH UPDATE

9

I stopped smoking for her. I knew once I saw her she would be the one to change me. It was a Friday, and the day before Yom Kippur. She was about to fast to repent for her sins. I doubt she had many. She walked into the inn in a tight white cotton blouse and a flowing river of silk. There was a golden sunbeam hanging from her neck. I was eating lasagna.
She recognized me, and smiled, "Zack?! How are you?" I didn't remember her, but she was beautiful. She had curly, long, black hair that was held up by amber teeth, and deep brown eyes. "Great," I said, flashing my most dashing smile. "I'm working here, doing some odd jobs and web design. How are you doing? Where are you going to school?" She still went to the same school, a small liberal arts college in Massachusetts. I had gone there for two years. "Zack, I have to go, but it was great seeing you." Likewise, I told her, and watched her float out of the room, leaving a wake of fresh air behind her. I remembered to breathe. And with that breath, I knew if she was to be mine, I would need to stop smoking cigarettes. And I did. I didn't even remember her name.
I asked my friends from the school if they knew her, and I found out her name was Leah. Leah. Lay-ah. My girlfriend Leah. Leah Katz. How was your day, Leah? Crawl into bed, Leah. The kids would get her looks, my lips, and a mix of our height. I would finish school, get a high paying job, and she would look after the kids and be a successful writer. In a few years, I would be able to work from home, having established my business, and we would wake up in the morning under thick down comforters. She would turn to me, radiant, eyes blinking away sleep, and tell me that she had a dream of our honeymoon. Her hand would smooth up and down my back, as she tells me that the beach had blue sand and the ocean was pink, and we were making love in the sea breeze. "That sounds nice," I would say.
She stayed in my head for the weekend, through the Jewish New Year. Every time I wanted a cigarette, she would sweetly say "Zack, please don't honey." And rather than smoking, I would remember her smile. As I went about my day, I would converse with her. She rode horses and wrote short stories. She'd ridden them since she was young. She looked good in breeches and riding boots. Her horses name was Heather, and she had ridden it since she was young. She rode them when she went home, and missed them while at school. She had a younger brother, his name was Sam, and she was sweet with him. She helped him to read when he was young, and he had grown up to be smart. He loved her, and she loved him. Her father and mother had divorced a few years earlier, but they were still friendly. He let her mother keep the house, and he bought a new house down the street. She had a happy childhood, and it showed in her serene forehead.
I knew her well, and I didn't know her at all. I needed to see her, to confirm the fleeting glimpse I had of her. I decided that night to drive to her college, which was two hours away. She lived in a dormitory high on a hill, that overlooked fog and coniferous forests. I got in my car, and brought my computer. As I drove, I browsed my music, making her a mix CD. "Baby your mind is a radio, got a receiver inside my head. Baby, I'm tuned to your wavelength; let me tell you what it said." I wondered if I was making the right choice. I had always been indecisive. The kind of person who sits in his room and thinks about the regrets. Not the go-getter. She was changing me. I was a prince charming. I stopped at a rest stop and bought her toffee almonds at Starbucks. I smiled during the whole drive, as singers sang love songs to me through my stereo. It was the first drive I had taken without smoking cigarettes in two years. It was a new year.
In high school, I did cross country running. I was running four or five miles a day, and was in excellent shape. The team I was on was made up mostly of girls, most of whom were beautiful. I didn't know that when I signed up, but it quickly became the highlight of my time spent running. There was a tall blonde with long, flaxen hair who ran around my speed. I ran behind her so I could see her hair bob side to side. She wore tight stretch running pants and was sweet and shy. I liked her for months, and I sat across from her in the bus as we went to meets, and watched her talk with her friends. I finally got up the nerve to ask her out, but decided I should run it by one of her friends first; I decided to wait another day to ask her. The next day, I saw her friend in the hall, and she said that the day before, another guy had asked her out. And so my history went. Too little, too late.
But this was different. I was going to do things right. Tell her up front. Let her know that I was her man, that I saw us as a married couple, and we worked well. That height doesn't matter. That I quit cigarettes for her, and bought her sweets. I pulled in to the campus at 8 at night, and parked my car. I asked people sitting outside, smoking, where Leah lived. Lay-ah. Just down the hall to the right. I went down the hall, and stood outside of her door. I was tele-pathing that I was outside, but I didn't get anything back. Her door was covered with clippings of mystic eyes, frogs, and ancient ruins. My posture sank, and I put my hands in my pockets, standing outside her door, too afraid to knock. Frustrated, I went into the bathroom, splashed water in my face, and looked in the mirror. "Zack, this is what you want. You are a new man. You are desirable."
I went back into the hall, and turned away from her door and rounded a corner. I stopped short; there she was, walking towards me with a friend. She was laughing, smiling. "Surprise, surprise," she said, and turning to her friend said "I saw Zack a few days ago in a random meeting." She turned to me, and I thought about the face I was making. I decided to look happier. "So what brings you around here?" she asked, tilting her head, and tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. I wanted to tell her, wanted to explain that I drove to see her. That I quit cigarettes for her. But her friend was there, and they looked like they were going somewhere. I tried projecting warmth to her; a calm piece of mind, of security and strength. "I'm here to...visit some people, see the school." She smiled at me, her friend nodded, and they both started to turn. She was wearing a paisley dress and had her hair up. She turned her head and wished me a good night. I came here for you, I thought. They left, and the disappointment gathered in my head like hundreds of spikes dropping into sod. I sauntered down the hallway, and slipped the CD under her door without a note. I had written on it "To Leah, From Zack." It was full of love songs.

Blue Satin