The Pussy Whisperer

I hear this high pitch outside, and then it turns into a lower pitch like there are two of “them”. I hear it loud and clear like this guttural scream, calling me late at night. Everywhere around this house is foggy and lonely out there. You don’t know and can’t see anything. I could stay in here with all the lights on until dawn. I know what is happening out there though. I hear their noise and see their shadows rising up to the top of the trees. I see it all and always will, they will just keep following me forever. One of these nights I will be the one who steps out of the shadows. One of these nights I will take this knife and plunge it deep. I don’t want them out there anymore. With the lights on though, I can let them see everything I do.

This existence here and there is tired and ready to explode any second. Motherfuckers, every last fucking one of them.



7/31/00
I just got in from a day of pinball and coffee. I love the old video games and the pinball machines. I sneak around there and spend a quarter here, spend a quarter there. I don't win no gifts for girls. I ain't carryin' around no stinking big stuffed animals. I'm playing, it's just me. Ice cream soda and little kids yellin' and screamin'. This television is spitting out all sorts of things that hurt to look at. The volume is down, but looking over at it from time to time hurts the brain a little. I haven't been down the road in a long time. I haven't taken this route in so long. I like this route here. I like how this winds around and get's me to where I think I need to be. It's worlds better than that fucking train to nowhere. It's way fucking better than the bus. Dances and hugs and pats on the back are never going to fulfill me for as long as I stay on this route. Poetry is not needed anymore. Poetry and flowers and jackets across puddles. Karaoke on Friday night get's canceled for a random trip to the moon. Dinner and a movie ain't helping anyone on this route. John Holmes and Mike Simondiski driving a techno colored station wagon to the ocean for conversation about ecstacy and Mick Jagger lips. Rug burn from sitting on the floor statuesque for far too long through scary movies and rock videos. Park the car by the side of the road, park it across the street so no one sees us. They all start rumors, they all fill themselves with lies about the moon and lies about the way my car runs. The motor runs great, it needs a tune up, it needs to take different drives, silently through beaches and neon lit strips of Elvis Presley videos. Like a man not even with himself anymore. Like a ninja. Like someone in the deep blue sea swimming. I don't know, sort of like if you took one part reality and one part whatever you need to think you would sort of feel this like this.