Swine

I feel fed on by ravenous crows, a murder of them tearing at my spirit with hungry maws.
At home I make an appetizer plate of it and offer it to my children. Them I wish to feed, but they won't eat.
I return to the town square and they take and trample my gifts under a pretext of civility and general goodness. They tell me what a wonderful job I am doing and ask me for more and more. Then they take it and chew it and spit it out. 
I feel weakened to the marrow afterwards. I keep returning to the village for the benefit of my children, but who benefits from the con of life?
My children like to play with the other children but they don't do the work the townspeople give them. And I spill all of my life blood and effort on the cobblestones in the square, for the benefit of the community, but who is watching for the best interest of my own brood?
What sustenance will they gain if I waste all the nourishment I have to offer on swine and let my offspring be indoctrinated by swine?

Dark Moon

Don’t you know? At the core, I’m still this little dual gendered blondie in short black dresses and you can see my panties when I bend over to help the little kids at the table. I’m still hot for girls that are hot for girls and hot for boys that wear dresses and swing on swings and girls that wear mustaches and men in tall black hats and anything tall and black in general with hair all over its body. I like things that want to go where they’re not supposed to go and go there anyway. Who says it’s not okay to crawl around the dark side of the moon with your panties off and a big black dog sniffing at your crack while the stars spin round and round singing "wheeeee!" and the fabric of the universe goes "crack!’ And the black man’s head splits open and wrigley green things come out and it isn’t clear whether they are many long separate wrigglies or all appendages of one hidden thing with wagging tentacles.
I still like the desert all hot and bare with broken Indians on the side of the road selling hot pink butterfly necklaces to people that pass by in white sedans on their way to some other place. I like cacti with their prickly hairs even though a little one bit me when I was just two years old. I said, "Can I pet you?" and it said "Yes." and I reached a soft trusting little finger down intending to be as gentle as possible, but it bit me anyway. My mother had warned me. Sadly I do so much that my mother would warn me against if only she knew there were such things to do. Luckily, for her peace of mind, she can’t imagine them, so she can’t worry about the things I do where no one can see, down in the cracks of all that gray matter tucked neatly under my scalp.
I’d like to be strangled to death some day. I know that I would be nice at first and then even though I want to be strangled, I’m sure that as my mechanical creation begins to realize that something must be done or its day is done, I imagine I’ll start to fight against my own will, wriggling and flopping like a long legged blonde fish.
I did have a boy once that one hot summer day come up into my bedroom where the curtains were drawn to keep out the sun. We were both a little wet so I dropped off my clothes right in front of him and I could see that he liked it and I put on something else while he watched and then I asked him if he would wear a soft pink dress I had in the closet and he did it. He wasn’t the kind of boy that I would have pictured doing it, not lithe with long hair and a penchant for wearing eye liner. No, he was husky and short haired with eyes that bulged out like those of a goldfish, and he had hair on his belly and on his back, but he put on that soft stretchy powder pink dress of mine and I liked it very, very much and no real boy has ever done that for me since.
There was a bearded lady though, that I used to fuck with a strap-on, and when I was away at work one day she took off all of her boy clothes, which she wore because she liked to fool everyone around her, and she put on my dress without asking me, and went into the bathroom and played with herself in front of the mirror and took pictures with her camera phone and then posted them on My Space for everyone to see. I checked my email at work and was pissed off when I saw those pictures posted since it was my dress and she hadn’t asked. The worst day ever with her was when she came home with her beard shaved off and her face all smooth and youthful and it scared me and I didn’t like it because she didn’t look like a devil anymore, but I tried not to freak out too much. However, I’m sure she thought that I acted funny and asked too many questions about it.
Nobody knows how I am exactly, and if you’re reading this, you might think that I’m some cool chic that wears lots of dark eye make-up and a lace up bodice, but I’m wearing a turtle neck sweater and a pink rabbit ear cap and even I forget most of the time just how queer I am while I try to make small talk with the soccer moms in front of the school. And I’m sure that if she read this, that soccer mom would feel all the skin on her body get all puckered up with goose pimples and a hot chill would run up through her middle and it would feel as if her heart were trying to fold in on itself and she would be afraid and wonder what kind of horrible person I am and what terrible things I might have done that I’m not mentioning.
But in reality, I’m probably one of the safest people she could be around, because everyone visits the dark side of the moon when they sleep, many sleep even as they walk, but they forget what goes on in the dark side or they pretend that they’ve never been. But I can see all of that junk in my trunk and run my fingers through it and watch it and pet it and then come back well informed about the dangers that lurk deep within, but some sleep walkers start to do things without noticing that they’re doing them, because the dark side wants to bubble over after they’ve kept a lid on it for so long.
Me, I just want to dance and sing and say crazy things and make crazy things in my own image and then disappear into the deep dank soil when my time is up and be remembered by the worms when they eat me and then fly through the void as a screeching streak of magenta. There may be more to it than I can imagine, but I won’t worry about it now.
For now, I tell you to listen up- if you are a boy you should try on a dress, and if you’re a girl you should stick your hand down another girls blouse, and if you’re a dog you should high tail it out of here before I think of something perverse for you to do (and stop reading blogs because it freaks people out when they come home and find their dog looking at porn on the internet and it’s even worse if they catch you researching metaphysics). I innocently stumbled upon some very dirty but harmless images on the web myself the other day, and now things occur to my imagination that never did before. So the same will start happening to you, (whether you’re a boy, a girl, or a dog) in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…

Resistance

Oh the resistance, coiling itself around me like a valuer blanket tangled about drowsy legs; just as I think I will at last generate a wee bit of electricity, I encounter one gauzy soft distraction after another. Even now, I am hearing the most ridiculous new age movie sound track imaginable, and it is my own fault. I perused through the CD selection. Just a handful of titles there- mostly classic rock, The Who, Pink Floyd, The Cream, but me, I thought it would be best to work without lyrics. Now I am soaring through a pg13 Disney movie, and I’m ready to vomit. Now I realize that Pink Floyd or Bjork would have been a great deal more acceptable. I can stop what I’m doing and attempt to adjust my environment…I do and the Pink Floyd case is empty, the Bjork disc won’t play. So you see, here every move you make is countered with some minor obstacle, and there is always an easier alternative, the consumers alternative; eat something, watch something, take a nap and wait for death.
It is a wonderful warm sticky tropical weather that holds me in pleasant suspension. The sun hides behind one of the many small puffy clouds that speckle the sky like a flock of lambs peacefully munching blue all the while growing fatter and fatter. In the background a voice cackles loudly in a one way exchange, a telephone conversation, no doubt, as there are many, "Uh huh"s, and "Yeah"s, and "Right"s between questions such as, "How many tenants do you have?" and "How much are your utilities?"
Other voices too coming from another room. One deep and rough and one small and high, both adrift in the electric hum of computer terminals. These two voices are similar, strangely alike despite the fact that one obviously belongs to an older man and the other to a little girl.
"You do? You know what the phrase ‘window of opportunity’ means already?" The older voice asks.
"Yes. Yes." The little girl voice insists. Outside the window birds sing, a car horn beeps and an air plane drones by. There is a soothing rushing sound like that heard in close proximity to crashing surf. It is the never ending river of traffic coursing over a nearby freeway overpass. A breeze rustles the leaves of the elm tree and palms shading the window. Far away down the street a little dog barks, a hollow, gravely bay. I lean back and scratch my chin. What else is there to say? I could go into great detail describing the fibers of the dark green carpet besieged by tiny white hairs and balls of lint. Even though there are fresh lines left where a vacuum recently passed over its plush mane, there are still small clingy things holding onto its minuscule loops. Now the cackling woman voice from the phone conversation speaks to the old man voice.
"That was a mental institution." She says. "The state pays them $900 a month to board each resident."
"God." Says the old man, "Why would anyone do that?"
"Because she loves them." Says the woman, "She says that anyone who goes into the business of caring for these people should do it because they love them. They need someone to love them. She says no one should even consider doing it for the money. You have to love them."
There is a bit of silence. Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, comfort, and rest. What else is there?