the diary of a sex addict
it's the title of a video.
i forget who is in it.
got it monday with 4 other
videos from our favorite
video rental store.
iris is a great film.
rent it.
we are all losing sections
of our brains
daily; we forget &
forget &
retreat into
a strange
world of mind:
reality:
a strange world of mind.
so yesterday morning
it's 9 a.m. & i'm
beery &
the bedroom is dark,
blinds & heavy curtains
closed over the one window;
ann getting prepared
for work -- i slip the tape
into our bedroom vcr.
hit the play on the remote
as i'm prone
under the covers in our bed,
but nothing,
nothing but robin-egg-blue screen.
i sleep like sudden murder,
head chopped off,
but wake way too soon,
alive with a tape stuck in the vcr.
won't eject.
son of a fucking bitch.
i swear
profusely,
yes
i fucking do.
let it sit a day
because other shit is happening,
but this morning
i check online & read
suggestions
how to get a stuck cassette
out of a vcr.
tape is due back tomorrow.
well, christ.
i'm on the floor, shirtless,
gray chest-hair'd,
with the top of the black box
off,
& i have 2 screw-drivers,
& i don't know what
the holy fuck to do
but try to force
the action of ejection.
anyways,
the cassette is now out,
slightly broken plastic
piece, but the vcr
is utterly
ruined. fuck it.
winona
i lost quite a few winona
ryder poems when the messageboard
FREE WINONA RYDER went belly-
up. maybe they're somewhere
in the archives here,
i don't really remember,
but if so, there were
also some composed straight
on that board,
not this board -- those
are certainly
lost down the cyberspace
toilet of
time. life
is toilet-water,
black script of mold around
the water-line
like a level
of diseases
& germs --
oh winona,
why aren't various men
flocking around
you to save you?
not just lawyers
& movie-shock'd
jurors -- but friends,
lovers -- it is so
overwhelming,
i can see it
in those big
round eyes.
this poem
isn't going
to goddamn
save you, that's for sure.
yr fate
is in the minds
of jurors --
my surprise will be echoing
high-note nodules
busting like
butterscotch
pudding
whips across
the flat ceiling --
cement.
gray cement.
oh no winona
little clips of
throat-gasp
breath, mouth hanging
open like a
dead doe's, high
on xanax & hashish.
standing at the trial
as the judge rules
guilty
winona thinks
of moving to lapland,
skipping amerika.
she's been facing
arctic winds for
a long time now.
her cheeks ache.
she
is trapped.
she is
surrounded
by laws, desires,
media frenzy.
it is all
too much
for the petite
actress to bear.
she
may
have
fucked up
yes,
just
as
we
all
fuck up
eventually.
winona
is a white
pale
angel
of atonement
& commandments,
an innocent
girl,
a shy, shy virgin.
i want
to know
everything
about winona
ryder, everything.
logan
i cell-phone ann from cherry
street extension on my usual
way home from work 7:04 on
the car clock: hey i'm stopping
for cash at the mac machine
& then getting a 12-pack
from haggerty's.
ok, ann mumbles.
my call woke her.
so i pass our apartment
parkinglot & head on
down greengarden boulevard
to 26th street,
make a fast left,
& after the first light
yank the buick into haggerty's
parkinglot. a motorcycle
erie cop was seriously
injured at this
spot on 26th
street a few weeks ago.
big erie news.
on my way in the doors
logan is walking out
armed with a 12-pack
of something. ron,
he says, shifting to
extend his hand.
we shake.
i think it's weird he
looks like
rick peabody --
logan? from the plastics
shop a good
dozen years
ago.
had a bad
drinking
problem.
a coke
addiction.
he looks ok.
he must have
thunk
ron looks so OLD!
it's been a
good
dozen years i've seen
logan.
he looks
ok -- still alive.
tires
two hundred thirty-
four dollars, everything
included, total price,
for 4 new kelly all-
season radials,
13" for doug's
mirage. two zero one
for snow tires.
doug fidgets at the counter,
he has $150 saved up.
i offer to pay the balance.
do it now, i urge.
how long is the wait?
doug asks the clerk.
we've been swamped all
day but at this time
it's the best
we've been,
under an hour.
doug fidgets some
more. c'mon doug,
i urge,
we can
wait.
nah.
i'll be
back tomorrow
he tells the clerk.
clerk chirps
ok.
i shrug
my shoulders.
what the fuck,
i scold him
getting back
into his car.
that's too much
money, doug
explains.
but those
are good tires,
i raise my voice.
yeah,
well,
i'm gonna go check walmart.
ok, i
wave as
he drives away.
i had it
past 2 days i'm awake
at 11, 11:30 in the morning.
not good when falling
asleep at 9.
wake, disturbed by time,
check mail downstairs
soon over-joyed there are
tapes from pish.
afro-celt.
inside of my head
is mostly
helium. afro-celt.
new age category,
or non-categorical
music. i'm fixing
supper as i write this.
pork-chops. boxed
au gratin potatoes.
canned
peas. i'll eat early,
before ann returns
from work. i wake
after 2 hours of daylight
sleep, but
actually manage
to flutter away again
on the couch
until doug phones,
2:30.
it is a GREAT,
gray, chilly,
leaf-changing day.
rain tonight,
nearing that tendency
to ice into snow,
maybe snow by week's end.
& october is
nearly over --
tonight dominic
& chris are coming
over:
dominic is a knight
(as in "the sword
in the stone") &
chris
is a
6-month
old lion.
halloween.
i have realized
the title
of this poem
is far from
this poem
now, & my intention
was to tell you
nearly every day
for the past four years
as i turn
out of this parkinglot
i see a vista
of lake
erie
over my shoulder
or in my face.
four years
of seasons
& skies & dreams.
the point
is at 11, 11:30
a poem creeps
thru consciousness
on our couch
& i do
not
rise to type it.
click to view movie/poem - eggs