ASH ...'s Open Salon Blog

I'M A GUY

Sun, 19 May 2013 21:05:46 -0400

I'M A GUY

Are you a Ms, a Mrs, or a Mstrs?

Because that's OK

I'm a guy

On fire

Online

On dancer

On vixen

Heatstroke

The sun sets on my face

Why not you?

Coy is a fish

Count down your number

All systems go

I'm a guy

Only part of me is blue

I'm red handed

Life spanks

I'm a guy

You heard right: three times

You wish

Your wish

Its on the tip of my tongue

I have your answer well in hand

Good vibrations

Are hard to come by

So come along

I'm a guy

In your wildest dreams

I can be pushing on your door

Behold

I come quickly

I'm a guy

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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS

MANIFESTOLES

Sun, 19 May 2013 14:05:58 -0400

MANIFESTOLES

I was told I was to be captain of this voyage

I wasn't shown the manifesto

There are strange cries from below

The chaplain warns me not to question the Company Policy

The helmsman disregards my wishes and says he knows best the course

Why then was I hired?

To accept any blame?

To go down with the vessel?

The radioman won't translate the transmissions

He tells me they are not to be spoken

He assures me there is a charted course

What choice do I have?

I want to get paid

I stand watch

The stars tick past

I draw meanings in the constellations

Still I hear the voices below

In the galley the cook prepares bread, fish, and wine

It is a comfort that I provide my body

How many have gone down?

I pace myself with thoughts of mutiny

But where ashore?

What was my care before I was born?

I too dream of lions on the beach

I stand on the water fathoms deep

There is life below

DIARY OF A BRINE SHRIMP

Fri, 17 May 2013 13:05:37 -0400

DIARY OF A BRINE SHRIMP

I am a terrible person. I hide my pathological indifference behind a façade of congeniality. I drift into people and I ruin their lives.

Except for Her. She would not let me ruin Her life.

Everyone soon annoys me.

Except for Her.

Can you comprehend how lonely I really am? Inside I'm a castaway on an iceberg floating in a perpetual night "starless and Bible black" like that song says.

I burn only on this page. For Her.

What is wrong with me? I accuse god for this, for what is me. I then hope that in death there is nothing, just like I think that just one good night's sleep will make all the difference. It doesn't. There is always something. I bark at something unseen.

What will become of me? Well, I mean, I know the answer to that in the graveyard, but what I mean is: when do I win the lottery of my own purpose? Is that really problematic?

Mendacity may be the system we live in but disappointment is my address.

I grow weary. It is late. Or maybe it is early. I nod over the well of sleep. What can I draw from the well this time? The fluid truth? Certainly not freedom from what I am: A Terrible Person, god's gift to you all.

Except to Her.

Am I just an expendable brine shrimp? Don't brine shrimp deserve an answer from god either?

Maybe I'm not a brine shrimp! Maybe I'm something smaller: a Black Hole! Sucking-in whatever draws near, letting escape no light, only a theory, spewing an existence out into yet another dimension. A dream.

Not Her dream.

With that truth (and of course it just has to be the one immutable truth in my life) I am at the top of my emotional Mount Everest. Oh, so they don't call it Mount Everest anymore? I do. It is so promising: Mount Ever Rest.

Nothing else matters. Why the Hell is that so? Ha! "The Hell". Fuck me; I just answered my own question. We all answer our own question, don't we?

I just wish I could have been Her answer.

Now I am violent tantrums, a tantric beast, raging at the futile attraction, clawing anyone who dares to come too close. It is futile to rage, I know. Rage begets regret. Indifference is devoutly to be wished. Indifference like a stomach digesting what it has been fed. But wait, stomachs vomit. I have the same right, don’t I? Does that make me a terrible person?

I want peace and contentment but I have evolved unbalanced, falling forward kicking and screaming and lashing out and being hit. Poor me. I reject me. Deal with it or walk away into darkness.

It is crowded in the darkness. Relationships with people are based on the trinity: sex, drugs, or money. Or any combination thereof. Since you wonder, there are seven relationships possible.

Except with Her.

What is my relationship with Her? Null, imaginary, open like a wound?

Little white goats graze in the golden grasses on the steep hill up the other side of my dirt road. I think of angels in heaven. I’m over here tapping this SOS into my netbook, drifting in and out with the country western radio station. I think of a dark night in the vast desert, sitting inside the luminous tent of a little fire, listening to a pocket radio reaching for a country western station whispering from another state. I had no word for what all that made me feel. Years later I discovered and claimed for that feeling the Portuguese word “saudade”

a deep emotional state of nostalgic or deeply melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing will never return.

Pleasure is absence of pain I always say now. What is hope? Is revered hope a biological mechanism like the breathing reflex, sine qua non? A Hail Mary when your alleged soul is forth and down?

It is said that hope dies last. I am a lone figure in the lamplight of a train platform, looking up and down the cold hard rails, hearing the distant mourning of a train whistle.

Did I miss my train? Someone behind me whispers, “Saudade?”

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But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS

HUNTING THE CLEAN BOOTY

Sat, 11 May 2013 16:05:11 -0400

HUNTING THE CLEAN BOOTY

Once upon a dawn in The Kingdom of Belgium on a little farm there was an old farmer who went to his chicken coop to collect the eggs that he had counted the night before.

When old farmer Boer raised up his lantern he realized that the chickens were gone and that there were no eggs. He cried out, “Fok!”

Old farmer Boer’s hound dog Kloot heard the distress and loped into the chicken coop.

Old Boer cried, “Kloot! Where are the chickens? There were fifty eggs here! You were guarding them!”

Kloot looked up at his master’s face and then his gaze followed his master’s dicing hand and Kloot whined, “Rrr?”

Old Boer began to dance with disbelief, crying, "My chickens! My eggs!”

Kloot followed the casting gestures of his master’s hand and began to sweep the chicken coop for scents.

Old Boer cried, “He got clean away! You’ll have to hunt the clean boot, ol’ Kloot!” which meant to follow a raw scent without the primer of scented clothing for Kloot to calibrate.

Kloot came upon an imprint in the straw and he jerked his head back as if the scent had punched his nose. Kloot howled.

Old Boer almost tossed the lantern in triumph and commanded, “Find him Kloot! Find him!”

Kloot twitched with excitement as he inhaled the scent images of the intruder. Reeling out of the chicken coop door Kloot came to another “door” slit three-edges into the wire chicken fence.

Old Boer shouted, “Wait! My gun!”

Kloot whined in circles until Old Boer returned with his hunting rifle. They both set off into the woods, Kloot following the seductive scent.

Old Boer mumbled as he tromped along, saying, “There are no chicken feathers, no broken eggs. Even that moederneuker (motherfucker) fox couldn’t heist fifty eggs!”

Kloot had the scent image of a vixen, the female fox, and chickens and eggs and bones and decay. The woods grew dense and dark.

Ahead there appeared a glow.

Kloot and Old Boer came to an illuminated clearing. Old Boer exhaled, “Fok!” and Kloot whined, “Rrr?”

In the clearing was a radiant woman. She had voluminous red hair bound at the back of her head into a large fox-tail. Her modesty was concealed in a vest of feathers and a loin garment of feathers. She wore booties of pale skin. Suspended before her outstretched hands was a spiraling halo of fifty eggs.

Old Boer began to jabber in shock, “My eggs! My chickens! What have you done with my chickens?”

The luminous woman looked at Old Boer and nodded seductively, and said, “Hello Farmer Boer. I am Queen Vosse.”

And suddenly her feathered attire burst into a surrounding sphere of frantic chickens. Queen Vosse stood there naked but for her booties of pale skin. Then just as suddenly the chickens collapsed back to become her feathered garments once again.

Kloot whined, “Rrr?”

Queen Vosse said to Old Boer, “Join my suitors and consort with me as you like. She nodded again and at once Old Boer was a strapping young man, burning within. He slowly began to approach the fantastical woman.

Kloot held a different scent image than Old Boer’s visual images. Kloot saw his master move unguarded toward the apparition and Kloot howled and charged.

Queen Vosse screamed to Old Boer, “Stop him! I have no power over hounds!”

The young man that had been Old Boer was quick to raise his rifle now. As Kloot leapt to bite Queen Vosses’s upper leg he fired his rifle at Kloot.

Kloot barked in a scream as the bullet tore tissue from his spine but he did not fail to chomp onto Queen Vosses’s thigh as the fantastical woman then instantly vanished into a burst of frantic chickens and the fifty eggs splattered into the dirt and the leg in Kloot’s mouth became a relic thighbone. He did not release his jaws even as he thudded to the ground.

The young man vanished into Old Boer as he wailed, “Kloot! Kloot! No! Noooo!”

Chickens ran in frenzied circles all around Old Boer as he stood over the body of his ol’ Kloot. He cried as he dropped the rifle and raised up Kloot in his arms still clutching tight the relic thighbone.

He looked down again and saw that the pale booties of Queen Vosse had been made of clean human skin.

Old Boer staggered with his burden of tears back through the woods toward his farm followed by an unruly train of chickens.

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My Own Blogsite At Last! ASH-fiction.com

Visit My Library: ASH Library

Follow This Link To My AMAZON.com SITE

But, the most ancient scrolls are kept on: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS

Whispers In My Left Ear

Wed, 8 May 2013 16:05:54 -0400

Whispers In My Left Ear

It doesn't have to have Meaning

It doesn't have to be True

As long as it helps You to Survive

What does it truly mean to survive?

How far down alone do You go?

What dreams follow?

Shakespeare was right

It is fear keeps us here, for, what dreams may follow?

Every kindness is a sacrifice

We survive by sacrifice

Suicide is sacrifice

Kindly

Jesus committed suicide

How is it wrong?

We are born without memory

We make it up as we go along

Between Birth and Death

Can't make that up

Two hands hold a baby

Birth and Death

Kindness is a Choice

Choice is the dissonance

Why Choice?

Is Choice our damn invention?

Like God?

It helps us to survive?

Really?

Keep whistling

If you have a choice

Think of Her

You follow Her sister

Who leads you to Her father's sacrifice

Who leads you to Her mother's sacrifice

Who leads you to Her husband

Where it ends for you

If you choose?

No. It ends for you.

Sacrifice that Love

Not in an eternal flame of Self-pity.

You have no choice

I kiss my fingers

I whistle here with my fingers

That Love

It works

I survive