Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Tranny Fag Diaries

Feeling the unknowable.  I reach into myself through my vagina,  up my anus, into my guts, up my esophagus, past my trachea, out my nostrils and lips.  It's an explosion.  No goodwill.  Only release. 

Repeat.  I'm an individual.  Everything you are not I am. Everything I am you are not.  Talent is persistence.  Persistence is trying for no reason.  Talent is trying for no reason at all.  Repeat.

Poetry hasn't been bad like this since twenty minutes after the invention of LSD.  How many times did Timothy Leary touch his penis then? Malcolm Gladwell told me once.  Fuck what Whiteafromotherfucker says--I'm on the A-Team.  You're on Team Beat-off when you're mom's not looking.  Someone gave me a vibrator, it's a battery operated Aston Martin.  

In my dreams I am Kal Penn initiating a 10 year old Indian Boy into the world of fuck.  I feel his little asshole hairs with the backside of my warm  brown hand and my cock shakes with cockglee.  I notice for the first time that life has become my pillow.


I am a dildo.  The ad hoc hood ornament on a VW Bug filled with old women who have large flower arrangements in their already elaborate hats. They stop the car when they see me trying to extricate myself one screw at a time.  They dart out and grab me.  Each has one hand around me.  Pumps up and down in unison.  "Age has no affect on a viselike grip" I note with surprise. What their old pussies can't.

Oh no, it's really just Martin Lawrence and I should've known I'm in Big Momma's House.  It's wet.  Smells like fish.  But it's roomy.  There's a batch of collard greens on a checkered tablecloth.  I am not even sure I know what collared greens are.

Self: How often does it dawn on you that you hate me? 

Self: A lot.