Also, I've got a Bank Vault in Heaven. Loud, mofo, please.
Because I love you.
They decide to exchange heads. Barbie squeezes the small opening under her chin over Ken's bulging neck socket. His wide jaw line jostles atop his girlfriend's body, loosely, like one of those novelty dogs destined to gaze from the back windows of cars. The two dolls chase each other around the orange Country Camper unsure what they'll do when they're within touching distance. Ken wants to feel Barbie's toes between his lips, take off one of her legs and force his whole arm inside her. With only the vaguest suggestion of genitals, all the alluring qualities they possess as fashion dolls, up until now, have done neither of them much good. But suddenly Barbie is excited looking at her own body under the weight of Ken's face. He is part circus freak, part thwarted hermaphrodite. And she is imagining she is somebody else—maybe somebody middle class and ordinary, maybe another teenage model being caught in a scandal. The night had begun with Barbie getting angry at finding Ken's blow up doll, folded and stuffed under the couch. He was defensive and ashamed, especially about not having the breath to inflate her. But after a round of pretend-tears, Barbie and Ken vowed to try to make their relationship work. With their good memories as sustaining as good food, they listened to late-night radio talk shows, one featuring Doctor Ruth. When all else fails, just hold each other, the small sex therapist crooned. Barbie and Ken, on cue, groped in the dark, their interchangeable skin glowing, the color of Band-Aids. Then, they let themselves go— Soon Barbie was begging Ken to try on her spandex miniskirt. She showed him how to pivot as though he was on a runway. Ken begged to tie Barbie onto his yellow surfboard and spin her on the kitchen table until she grew dizzy. Anything, anything, they both said to the other's requests, their mirrored desires bubbling from the most unlikely places.
When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold itself but pours its abundance without selection into every nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider that birds' bones make no awful noise against the light but lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them, not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen, each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.
I was an even bigger nobody than I am now when Jon Smith, incredibly generous and Kind, reached out and contacted me.
I know that nine-tenths of the motives for why I bleg are base (and suspect the other one-tenth), but Al is a primary reason I try to be Kind here. And his blog was awesome.
You are not me, and I am never you except for thirty seconds in a year when ecstasy of coming, laughing at the same time or being cruel to know for certain what the other's feeling charge some recognition. Not often when we talk though. Undressing to the daily logs of this petty boss, that compliment, curling our lips at half-announced ambitions. I tell you this during another night of living next to you without having said what was on our minds, our bodies merely rubbing their fishy smells together. The feelings keep piling up. Will I ever find the time to tell you what is inside these trunks? Maybe it's the fault of our language but dreams are innocent and pictorial. Then let our dreams speak for us side by side, leg over leg, an electroencephalographic kiss flashing blue movies from temple to temple, as we lie gagged in sleep. Sleep on while I am talking I am just arranging the curtains over your naked breasts. Love doesn't look too closely... love looks very closely the shock of beauty you gave me the third rail that runs through our hospitality. When will I follow you over the fence to your tracks?
Regardless the ultimate motives of the shooter, watch this play out in the media, in Corporate's boardrooms, in your head, exactly like you think it's going to play out.The Giffords' shooting is a toss-away carnival toy in Americana yet everyone sprang to their default position and brayed. I'm not comparing the significance of the two events, I'm observing what reflexive barking asses we are.
For the time being call me Home. All the ingénues do. Units are the engines I understand best. One betrayal, two. Merrily, merrily, merrily. Define hope. Machine. Define machine. Nope. Like thoughts, the geniuses race through. If you're lucky after a number of revolutions, you'll feel something catch.
(Zayner) (White) (Kitchen) (Woolard)
Brasesco Jakovic James Burch
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city, Mad-eyed from stating the obvious, Not proclaiming our fall but begging us In God's name to have self-pity, Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range, The long numbers that rocket the mind; Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind, Unable to fear what is too strange. Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race. How should we dream of this place without us?-- The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us, A stone look on the stone's face? Speak of the world's own change. Though we cannot conceive Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost, How the view alters. We could believe, If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy, The lark avoid the reaches of our eye, The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn As Xanthus once, its gliding trout Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without The dolphin's arc, the dove's return, These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken? Ask us, prophet, how we shall call Our natures forth when that live tongue is all Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean Horse of our courage, in which beheld The singing locust of the soul unshelled, And all we mean or wish to mean. Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding Whether there shall be lofty or long standing When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.