This site is the cat’s pajamas

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.

Memories —

Memories --

I follow his long legs through the bushes, walking along the property line. Luckily the moon has just begun to wax or wane or whatever exposing the valley and I just keep quiet ‘cause it’s too cold, too dark to laugh or anything else. Something keeps barking, and I can’t see the road no’more, and I got this urge to stop.

There’s a big city elsewhere, I think

— with women I could hold all night their tongues in caviar, voices on the line.

But for now, I’m following this oaf through frozen swampland looking for his doggie’s grave, and lucky for me his Daddy just cleaned that gun and built those bullets all for us, for this night.

And just like that I realize, she’s right. That bitch. Just because twenty years (longer) ago he was some handsome devil kicked out of the desert army willing to break my shoulder and bite my lip, doesn’t mean I needa’ follow his footprints through the country-side today.

We’re fucking grave-robbers, we are.

Heavy Hands

There I was, stumbling around – drunk again.  Fucking devil.

My knees touch the floor. The couch is nice and soft and possibly velvet of the lightest color blue. I’m telling him to kill me. I’m looking him straight in the headlights, man:

“I want you to kill me”

“Don’t you want to kill me?”

How many ways can I say it?

Everybody knows what I’m talking about!

I’ve been biting my lips, again. I’ve just been waiting, again. 

It’s all so funny, it’s never been this fucking funny before. His teeth are one of the better parts, I like seeing them, his eyes close up a little when they come out. His fingers are so long, like I never noticed before.

I’m just sitting here, looking for pressure points, but really I just want to take his hands and place them in my mouth, really just want him to push his thumbs deep into my neck. I’m not kidding brother, I like it that way. 

There’s that sneaky smile, there’s that look from the corner of the room.

It makes me alone, again. I know for a fact that I am on the carpet and the lightest blue velvet spills onto the floor. 

It’s hard to say what it does: I’ll just be howling in my sleep, I don’t need nothing to believe in anymore. My hands are the heaviest, I feel them pressing down into whatever substance has sneaked around us. The air is thick, buddy. I’m telling you, it is hard to breathe.

Let it be our secret.  Let us have a little secret.

Now it’s hard not to look at him without the particulars.

Lara sends me emails.

“I was on a horse.

Even when I am very calm, I feel as if I were being swept  by a storm. This may be due to my mind’s stumbling over every unevenness of surface because of its rapid pace, or to my desires, which are violent because they are almost always repressed, and when I live my inner scenes, I have the exhilaration that comes from always living them on horseback, on a rearing and galloping steed. I am a horseman. It is since I have known Bulkaen that I live on horseback, and I enter the lives of others on horseback as a Spanish grandee enters the Cathedral of Seville. My thighs grip the flanks. I spur the mount, my hands tighten on the reins. 

Not that it happens quite that way, I mean not that I really know I’m on horseback . . . “

Genet, Miracle of the Rose

Aliens and Old Spice :39

He was on his death bed when he told me that he had seen aliens. I never knew what it meant that he kept that secret until before he died. I don’t know if he was afraid  people would think he was crazy, or if he felt that he was admitting that he was crazy. He told me he never believed in aliens, but “seen them since the 90s”.


Old Spice Original scent 1939:

I wear old spice original scent because my father and grandfather wore it,

today I became nervous because alot of people’s fathers and grandfathers were not as good of men as mine.

Riding in Cars with Boys

I don’t like riding in his car.  Otherwise, it’s fine: we are easy companions.

But in the car, there are no rules.  He drives it like it’s stick and he leans back in such a way that turns my understanding of the situation into something else.

It reminds me of this boy I hardly knew in high school.

I grew up at the top of a long country rode and I passed him often when I finally began to drive around in my sister’s abandoned, piece of shit car.  He was older, my neighbor. In the summer when I was seventeen, I finally pulled over and offered him a ride.

I don’t think I’m ready for that, He said. He had a sly, almost embarrassed smile.  There was sweat dripping into his eyes.

At the time, I laughed it off, uneasy at his careless sexuality.  His hand touched my window as I pulled away.  Years later, his mother found him hanging in the trees in between our houses.  I was long gone by then.

Somehow in a car, you give away your own possession.  Despite the circumstances, the air is occupied by tension, your lack-of-will.  Whether you want it or not, his hands touch the shift, the radio, the windows and your hair is open and there is no control.