This site is the cat’s pajamas

Month: November, 2012


It went kablam, and bounced back in my hands. The vibrations hurt my fingers but not nearly as much as his skull.


I can’t have the night come, but shit it likes to find me.

It knows who I am, it knows what I like, breaking them blood vessels, curling my fingers back.  I keep opening the shade hoping the light gonna expose me, but it doesn’t and in this brooding way the gray always turns to black.

Last night I went a-walking. Walking through them trees with their hands just slapping me in the face.  Whispering in my ear, they told me keep walking pretty lady, you’re walking the right way. There was a ghost coming out, been thickening my skin.

And suddenly the road opened and I was in a clearing, just a dead end – the tepid orange glow of the streetlamp.  He was standing there just waiting for me, with hair mat down and flash-light eyes.

Couldn’t run, couldn’t do shit.

Nobody told me there were coyotes in the tropics. 



What is Happening to Her. Being one’s own subject.

Hard breath and oven heat.  We were in the shipyards, the docks, the industry. The taste was nostalgic, like when she was young, touching boys in the garage.  He laid his head down flat and she saw the winking light in the yard. Denial.

Busted lip.  Anger.

There’s two memories.  A man chases her through the parking garage. Fucking Cunt! He’s so close, ready to grab her hair. And, then I’m twelve again. The boy from summer camp takes off his shirt and it’s like I’ve never seen a man’s back before. Don’t you wanna look at me, again? Bargaining.

Dear father, forgive me, for I have found terms that are not my own. Two men drink beers in the back room, and she pulls the strings through her body. They start at her fingertips, but weave through her shoulders and hold her mouth hostage. It reminds her of yarn. Depression.

It makes me alone, again. Acceptance.

He wore old spice. I never liked it, I knew he did. To me it smelled like something trying to cover something else up. Kind of like he was. His actions were mostly born out of guilt, like he did something bad and had to cover it up with something nice. But like the old spice the nice actions, the flowers, the presents, the gestures, did not completely covered the other scent, the odor, the odor of guilt. I loved it when he brought me flowers, but soon enough I learned what flower really meant. I learned what kisses really meant. And then I hated his kisses and I hated his flowers, I hated his presents. 

But then, there were no more kisses, no more flowers, no more. We were no more. He was no more in relation to me, and I was no more in relation to him. There was still the odor, his and mine and ours, all the flowers were gone but the old spice remain.

one for you,

and this one is for me,

when I walk out I think about you,

when I walk in, about me

you stood there

looking at me

I looked away

Everything in me was telling me to

I dont know why

I never know why

then she walked in

you looking at her looking at me looking at you

And then, only then I remembered why

why i do the things I do

and why you do the things you do



There are three girls I know and like. There are five boys I know and like. There’s one cat I know and like. There’s no dogs I like. That’s four things about me, I realized you only asked for one, but yeah, my name is Tommy Cook. 

That was Tommy’s introduction in his first day of third grade.

Water Bed.

Mercury is in Retrograde, but it’s hard to process.

I once knew a man who fucked three Scorpios all in the same month.  “Fire” I said, No no no.

Water signs. A “No” for each woman.

He wasn’t really happy about the individual encounters, but Imagine he said

Three waters all in the same bed.


Oh No Julie

She said no no no no but I knew it was a good idea. She didn’t, but I knew it. I wouldn’t let them find her. And when I say them I mean him and his friends.  She whispered in my ear, “make them stop teasing me. I  don’t want to be made fun of, they are mean to me. They are so mean to me.”  I told her to hide in the garage and when you come out they’ll all be gone. I told her to wait and to be quiet. I knew they wouldn’t find her in the garage. She was hiding under some old blankets when I closed the door. I then took the lock from my bike and braced the door shut. They never picked on her again.

How to Consume a Woman.

Today, on the phone in a moment of clarity, my mother said “Shame”

We were discussing rape, in specific terms the way that Rape is mediated by the actual experience and its tendency to lack definites, which propel it towards trauma. Trauma instituted by the fact that the woman is inherently “Shameful”.  A presence so ubiquitous that it’s been translated into an experiential vestige, so that one exists without her body, but only an understanding of its shame.  So that the other only has to remind that body of its innate unworthy charm, to consume her – to give the trauma back.

Dear Reader,

You have to tell me to stop, because if you don’t

 I won’t.