Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Cunnilinguistics

I’ve been torched to the core,
Peeled layer by layer,
Then roasted.
You’ve been shot.
See a doctor.

I am. Are you?
I am. Are you?
Am I? You are.

If the sun doesn’t rise
If your parents are siblings
If you sing flat as the earth
If you can’t speak your mind

And you don’t open your eyes
And you lie about your lover
And you’re destined to silently observe
And you’re twisted, unkind

You jerk awake, surprised
You lose spirit during summer
You’ve sewn your lips shut
You search and search and never find

That means YOU ARE.
YOU ARE and
Everything will be alright.

The sky opens and weeps
To soak dreams and car seats.
A flash, a flood,
The town is a sea.

I saw a woman sweating blood and sweat.
She wore a veil and gym shoes.
It was cat-and-dogging rain.
I was eleven, minding my business,
Thinking thoughts,
Feeling feelings.
She approached.
Tapped.
She pleaded for mercy.
I wondered where her clothes were
And took another swig.
“Get on the bus.”
She did. Bussed away.
My bloody hands ditched her dress.
I ran home, umbrella’d.

Write what you don’t know.
Fuggit.
Write fiction.
Walk backwards.
Shoot squirrels.
Evade cops.
Fuggit.
Drink stuff.
Smoke stuff.
Throw shit at stuff.
Pay.
Exercise.
Theorize.
Play.
Or don’t.
Fuggit.
It’s your life.
Go to church.
Kill people.
Waste away idly.
Whatever.
Fuggit.

Jump.
Object.
Crumble.
Smear.
Swerve.
Stupefy.
Desensitize.
Cripple.
Disable.
Disqualify.
Maim.
Hush.
Squash.
Bruise.
Belittle.
Bebig.
Bewhateverthehellyouwant.

Wake up with black eyes.
Smile at the mirror.
Erase memory.
Prepare for the day.

Sleep with an open eye.
Scowl at the mattress.
Recall memory.
Prepare for the night.

I sat in the patch of grass
Between the shore and the trees,
Skipping stones, feeling wind, listening to loons.
The sun was setting something beautiful,
Coloring the heavens.
I thought about Darwin
And I thought about God
And I thought about the universe
And the stars I’ll never see.
Why are they there?
Why are we here?
My head exploded.
Darwin and God arm wrestle.

Chicken? or the egg?
The egg, I think.
The glass is half-full if it was filled to that point.
The glass is half-empty if it was emptied to that point.
If no one’s around, a tree falls just as loudly.
I can’t prove that, but it just does.

Bank hours are strange.

I want to star in a Broadway musical.
I want to front a metal band.
I want to compose Disney music.
I want to produce for Eminem.
I want to make music forever and ever.

Machiavellian is a word.

Imagine your last paper cut.
Imagine that every time you’ve gotten a paper cut, nothing happened.
No cut, no pain, no blood.
Imagine that every paper cut you would’ve gotten cut you at the same time when you’re fifty years old.
Would you bleed to death?
It would sure hurt.
Every paper cut is a metaphor for lies.
Stop lying.

You’ve spun a web of lies.
The web is called Life.
Have regard.

Once I woke up, and written on my left hand was, “You don’t like this. STOP.”
Written on my right hand was, “On the other hand…”

Cunnilingus.
Linguistics.
Cunnilinguistics.

When I was young, I wanted to grow up to be a doctor,
But the kind of doctor that healed for free.
I didn’t understand why that wasn’t possible,
But it’s the thought that counts.
I also wanted to be a priest.
Such a selfless little boy.
I had religion to thank.
I was spoon-fed for
Twelve years.
Oh God.

There was a bully who stole my bike.
I confronted him and said,
“My dad could beat up your dad.”
He was an orphan, and he started to cry.

MIKE MEMMESHEIMER
Word Count: 633

2 comments:

Angela Swarthout said...

So playful
so fun to read!

Mike said...

thanks for the comment and for actually reading it!