One Degree

I’m stalking Kirstie Alley. Before you get the wrong idea, let me state that I’m not a celebrity chaser.

During my career in retail I’ve had the chance to wait on the likes of Chris Rock, Sonja Sohn (who hit on me), Richard Belzer, Carmelo Anthony, Michelle Kwan, a few Ravens, and just about all the Spanish-speaking Orioles from 1999-2005. 

Sure, I would go home and tell my boys about my encounters; and inevitably, they would complain about my refusal to collect any of their autographs. My excuse: celebrities are just regular folx and likely prefer to be treated as such, especially when they’re just trying to buy some film.

¿So, why Kirstie? Well, in the seemingly never-ending process of preparing my novel, Killing Lilith, for publication the discussion in my writing group occasionally turned a possible movie adaptation. When pressed about who I would like to see play Lilith, only one actress came to mind: Kirstie Alley. I fell in love with her depiction of the Vulcan Saavik in The Wrath of Khan, and fell in love with her, personally, during her portrayal of Rebecca Howe in Cheers. Despite her weight gain at that time, she was still incredibly beautiful—perfect for the role of an overweight, former Jewish American Princess on with suicidal tendencies.

At the time her name came up, she was promoting Fat Actress and Jenny Craig, and losing weight at a rapid clip. She’s not going to put all that weight back on for the role was what I heard. Otherwise, there was general agreement that a big Kirstie would otherwise be perfect for the role. Knowing of the potential failings of dieting, I figured she was likely to put the weight back on, anyway. I find the fact that I was right bittersweet. I cheered for her when she went on Oprah in a bikini, but breathed a sigh of relief when it came out that she was struggling again. (Update: Since originally writing this piece, Kirstie stole the show at Dancing with the Stars and, yet again, has lost lots of weight. No worries. If they can make Ian Colm look like a Hobbit, They can make Kirstie look heavy.


Now that I’m in the final stages of polishing my manuscript, I find myself thinking, once again, about a potential movie adaptation. (I realize I’m jumping the gun considering I don’t even have an agent, yet.) Having the vanity required of a writer who wants to break through I feel my novel, once complete, will be top caliber literature. I know I'm cocky, but I was born during the Year of the Cock, after all. It is not a completely egotistical statement. I’ve had enough folx I respect tell me how good it is, including producer David Kirschner, who brought us Chucky, the homicidal doll from Child’s Play, and Fievel the mouse from An American Tail, as well as producing Curious George and Miss Potter. Naturally, I believe a movie version would have Oscar potential. Imagine what it would do for typically stigmatized overweight women, not to mention Kirstie’s career, if she were to get an Oscar nod for her portrayal.


The obvious problem in all this, other than the fact that most writers lose creative control of their projects once a studio decides to turn a book into a movie, is that I don’t know Kirstie, at least not personally. In comes Twitter, the social network that forces you to summarize your ideas into 140 character synopses. Kirstie, being the savvy self-promoter that she is, turned to Twitter to rebuild and energize her fan base and promote her new reality show, Kirstie Alley’s Big Life as well as Organic Liaison, a weight loss program she helped develop. Naturally, I saw it as an opportunity to attempt to attract her attention, hence the stalking.


What I find most thrilling isn’t so much that I can chat with Kirstie directly—which is not necessarily the case considering I might have creeped her out, resulting in her possibly blocking my tweets—but the fact that Twitter has turned the concept of Six Degrees of Separation on its head. As you likely already know, the Six Degrees theory is the idea that we are all only six folx away from anyone in the world. Say you want to meet President Obama. You likely know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows—you get the picture. Now, with tools like Twitter, you can go straight to the source.


Technology is breaking it all down to one single degree. Granted, when it comes to celebrities and other self-important bigwigs the chances are you’re tweeting an assistant or PR type. But in some cases, particularly in Kirstie’s who tweets about diet, her lemurs & even during her appearance on The Late Show, the person on the other end is the one you hope it is.


¿So where do we go from here? Depends. Lots of us, myself included, enjoyed Facebook until we were inundated with the constant stream of status updates from “friends” that were barely friends when we knew them. Although I’ve accumulated nearly a thousand Facebook friends, many who I have known personally or at least met, only a small core actually notice when I’ve posted something new. Even fewer read it, which is a shame considering my writing can be entertaining, funny and insightful, and I only make money if folx click on the ads on my blog or my column on The Urban Twist. I also have a Twitter account, but few of my friends are even on Twitter. They likely feel that Facebook takes up enough of their time.

That might be where it stands right now, but I reckon once they get tired of wasting time on Mob Wars & Farmville (or for the rest of us, get tired of requests to join Mob Wars & Farmville, etc.) you might eventually see a migration to the stripped down, no nonsense network Twitter has to offer.



Time now for my own social network experiment. As I mentioned, I’ve had no success getting Ms Alley’s attention, yet. Either she thinks I’m a joke, or I’ve spooked her into blocking me. Considering how in touch she stays with what's written about her, I hope this blog entry will finally catch her eye. But you can help. That’s why I tagged all of you. The other phenomenal thing about building social networks is the potential power it gives you to “spread the word,” as seen by the Twitter fueled protests in Iran and elsewhere. My challenge to you is this: help me get Kirstie’s attention. Open a Twitter account, if you don’t already have one, follow Kirstie (While you’re at it, you might as well follow me, right.), and let her know that The Word Pimp has what might be the opportunity of a lifetime. ¿Why not? You’re just one degree away.



And if the day ever does come that I’m standing on a stage in L.A., music playing, being handed an Oscar by some lovely starlet, I promise to step up to the microphone and thank you all.


If you would like to receive news, updates & excerpts from my novel, be sure to "like" the  Killing Lilith Facebook Page.

Happenings

I know, you're all eager to see Part III of Never Too Short to Get Cock Blocked by God. I promise you, it's coming. The main reason I have yet been able to focus on it is because of my newest gig. In case you weren't aware, I am the newest op-ed columnist for The Urban Twist. So if you're hard up for some Word Pimp, click on the link and read my shit there. I'll try to get back to my pathetic quest for teen sex by the end of the week. Until then...

Much Love,
Fernando Quijano III

Never Too Short to Get Cock Blocked by God, Part II

Things finally started looking up when I turned sixteen. I started coming into my own, attracting the attention of cute (& not so cute) girls. One day during the summer I turned sixteen, I went to the pool in Patterson Park, not an unusual activity for me in those days. I came out of the pool a shivering mess, and realized I'd forgotten my towel. I laid out on the bench to dry under the hot sun, and a young lady next to me offered her towel. After drying myself, I thanked her and gave it back. She looked right into my face and said, “You know, you have the most beautiful eyes.”

Not used to that kind of attention, I could feel my whole body blushing and replied with the only words that I could muster, “Thanks.”

She asked me my age. I replied honestly. She admitted she was twenty-four, and asked if that scared me. It didn't. This was, after all, the opportunity I'd been waiting for. I gripped the bench tight. My first Older Girl. It was all I could do to stop myself from falling to my knees and thanking God. “If I told you where I live, you wouldn't come over and hang out, would you?” she asked after some small talk.

There was something sad in this beautiful young woman, afraid that I might reject her. Of course, I said I would go because my prayers had at long last been answered. She gave me her address and a good time to stop by on the following Saturday. I told her I would be there. She said, glumly, “You're not gonna come, but that's okay.”

That whole week, I could think only about that day. It couldn't come soon enough. I was going to prove her wrong. Not only was I going to come, but I wasn't going to do it all by myself this time. That evening, I skateboarded the mile or so to where The Older Girl lived. She was outside with her family, including her son who couldn't have been more than three. After introducing me, she picked up her toddler and had me follow her into her apartment in a building a few doors down from her mother's. I waited in her kitchen as she filled the bath for her son. At this point, I didn't know what to expect. I admit, I got a little nervous.

She came out of the bathroom and said, “He'll be okay for a while. He loves playing in the tub.” That was followed by a bunch of nervous small talk until she asked me if I liked to dance. She turned on some music, and we started slow dancing. That turned into kissing & heavy petting. Suddenly she stops and explains to me that she really thought I wasn't going to show up, so she had made other plans for the evening. My heart sank like the Titanic.

She told me she had to take her son back to her mother's and start getting ready, but that I could keep her company while she got dressed. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, but she would only let me go so far, not wanting to do anything that would keep her from her evening. Finally, I escorted her down to her front door. She stopped me one last time halfway down. “Freddy, please come back again. Promise me you'll come back.”

“Of course,” I tell her, shocked at the desperation in her voice, “I'm definitely coming back! Why wouldn't I?”

"Because my titties are too tiny! I know you don't like them. You're not coming back!”

Mind you, I loved this woman's breasts. They were small—barely buds— but perfect, with large, brown nipples that pointed like prayers at the sky. I figured she must have had a hard time about them when she was younger. “You got it all wrong!” I cried, “You have great breasts. You have great everything.” And I purposely gave her beautiful little buds as much adoration as she would allow before she had to leave.

With that, she let a smile come to her lips and offered me one last kiss before I escorted to her door and we went our separate ways. Ironically, every time I returned after that, The Older Girl was never around, or couldn't make time for me. Maybe she finally felt guilty about my age, or maybe her parents didn't buy her “He's eighteen story.” For whatever reason, that door closed for me almost as soon as it opened.

That left me back at square one and unbearably horny. Which reminds me of the period of my teenage life when I was particularly grumpy all the time. Knowing what I know now, it was probably hormonal. When my mother once asked me what the hell was wrong with me, I blurted out, “I don’t now! Maybe I'm sexually frustrated!!” I don't remember her ever laughing that hard at something I said, and as you might imagine, I could be a pretty entertaining kid.

A few months after The Older Girl in the fall of 1985, during the heyday of my skateboarding years, I was hanging out with a group of skaters who rolled all over Fells Point. One night, I skated by and everybody was hanging out in front of this house on Castle Street. I stopped to see what was going on. Apparently, there was this Geek who had to be in the house once the streetlights came on who had this beautiful girlfriend that everyone thought he must be making up. They were waiting for her to come out, which considering it was nearly 9 o'clock, would be soon because he wasn't allowed company after nine.

Sure enough, at around 9:15, this gorgeous, buxom, blue-eyed, blonde mini-goddess comes out of the house. The Geek (Lordy, I have to get better with the names. I'm thinking it was Chris, maybe...) comes out on the steps and introduces her to all of us. He barely got a chance to finish when his mother calls him back into the house. Pam, as we learned her name was, lived in Laurel, near D.C., and had an aunt who lived next door to The Geek and worked at Johns Hopkins Hospital as a nurse. Pam's mother would allow her to come and spend occasional weekends with her aunt in Baltimore.

She hung out with us for a few minutes before deciding she's going in for the night. We convinced her to stay out a little longer with offers to show her the waterfront, which she hadn't been to yet—a shame considering she was only blocks away. So off we rolled down to a little waterfront parking lot off of Boston Street. Actually, I walked. I was older than the rest of the crew, and more of a gentleman—as everyone else tried impressing her with their skateboard tricks, I, like a Word Pimp-in-training should, impressed her with pointless banter. That worked better for me anyway cuz, to be honest, I sucked on the damned boards. I couldn't even do an Ollie without my board twisting about 90 degrees counterclockwise. I was sad.

But not to her. My fellow skaters kept showing off their best moves, but remember, all my best moves are made with my mouth. By the time she was ready to head home, I had found out quite a bit about her, including the fact that, like me, she was a virgin. Of course, I lied and said I wasn't. We made it back to her aunt's place where Pam invited us all up. Her aunt was on shift until two. Everyone hung out for a few minutes before they started trickling out to meet their own curfews. The oldest of the bunch, I had no curfew and offered to stick around, keep her company.

We chatted until two in the morning, talking about life, music, sex. Everything. I couldn't think about anything but kissing this young goddess, but she was only fourteen to my sixteen. Plus, as little respect as I had for The Geek that was quietly sleeping next door, I wasn't an asshole. Okay, just not THAT MUCH of an asshole.

And then her aunt walks in. She had taken a double shift, and was given some time to go home and change. She did not like seeing me there. I wasn’t The Geek, who might have been as horny as me, but likely harmless. I was very polite, explained that I was only keeping Pam company and asked her to excuse my intrusion. She kindly, yet coldly, said goodbye and had Pam walk me to the door.

As I got ready to hop on my board and roll off, Pam grabbed me and said, “¿You're coming back, aren't you?”

“¿But what about your aunt?”

“¡Forget her! She's going back to work in a minute. Just skate around for a while and come back in like fifteen minutes."

"Sure," I said reluctantly, not wanting to get her in trouble or myself arrested. Then she grabbed me and kissed me. I was stunned. I never really had much luck with the fair-haired, fair-skinned girls. I just thought I'd made a new friend. Not that I hadn’t been hoping...

“Promise me your gonna come back. ¡Promise!”

It seemed a little desperate. I was having flashbacks of The Older Girl, but I figured my luck couldn't possibly be that bad. "I promise," I told her, kissed her back and rolled down Castle Street. It wasn't but maybe ten minutes later when I saw Pam running down Chester Street—barefoot, wearing only a nightshirt. Her aunt had left, and she wanted to make sure I hadn't.

Back at her place, the mood had changed. We were no longer friends. We were lovers, virgins wanting nothing more than to shed our virginity—The Geek be damned. Pam put on a Scorpions compilation, and we started making out. The first oddity was that she didn't want to take her top off. That was a little disappointing, considering she, unlike The Older Girl, was very well endowed. She told me that lots of boys only liked her for that reason. She didn't want to think that that was the only reason I liked her. Also odd, as we were exploring each other's bodies, Pam flinched as my hand made its way to virgin territory. I asked her what was wrong, and she explained that she had been making out with The Geek, and the doofus had accidentally kneed her in the groin, hard. She followed that up with, “It's okay. I want to do this. I want to do this with you.” I think I fell in love with her at that very moment.

Needless to say, it wasn't meant to be. The Geek wasn't there, but he'd ruined it for me with his inept clumsiness. Sex was too painful for Pam, and I was too inexperienced and nervous to ease her pain. We spent the rest of the night holding each other, and I left once the sunlight crept through the windows.

Pam's parents didn't want us together, and forbade her from coming back to Baltimore. After a while, they wouldn't even let her use the phone. We couldn't communicate at all. There were a few surprise letters, including one that promised that she was going to join the Air Force, and that once she got out, she was coming to get me, and fuck the hell out of me on her bed with an American flag hanging over our heads. That was a bit scary, but a part of me wanted nothing more, however resigned I had become that it was never going to happen.


Next Time: The Stripper, My First True Love & The Thief

Never Too Short to Get Cock Blocked by God, Part I

If you’ve read about my first time, you know that I waited until I was nineteen to lose (¡get rid of!) my virginity. As I mentioned then, it wasn't for lack of trying. I'd been trying to get laid since I watched my folks doin' it through the keyhole when I was six. Can you blame me? Whatever they were doing, it looked like fun.

I started in first grade. There was this cute little girl named Yolanda in my class who would chase me around the school. Standard stuff, but once we got around to the back where nobody was looking I would pretend to trip up so she could catch me. There we would kiss until we heard Yolanda’s mother calling for her. On some mornings we would make sure we were the last two to hang up our coats just so we could hook up in the little closet in our classroom. I’m sure our teacher must've wondered what took us so long to get our galoshes off. Okay, maybe I wasn’t really trying to get laid, yet; but I was certainly laying the groundwork.

My mother gave me my first sex book at seven. It was one of those “Where Do Babies

Come From?” deals with cartoon-like illustrations and everything. That’s where I first learned the terms "penis" (pronounced like “peanuts” without the “t”) and "vagina" (pronounced like “Virginia” without the “r” and the second “i”) That same year, my uncle gave me my first porno mag. I think it was a Penthouse. I learned more reading the dirty magazine (Yes, I did read the articles.) than the "baby" book. Granted, there were some scary moments, like the picture of a vagina with big, sharp teeth, like a bear trap. It was a little confusing, and had me wondering if sex is what I really wanted.

There wasn’t much conflict considering that all the girls my age never wanted to go that far, anyway. There was the one girl when I was eight—I wish I could remember her name—that was a few years older than me. She had two brothers who were close friends (and whose names I can’t recall, either) who invited me to my first sleepover. I was mortified when I woke up to them "messin' around" on the top bunk of their bed. They looked kinda like they were playing Leap Frog, except that the older brother wasn’t leaping anywhere. He was just stroking away behind his little brother. They told me they were just practicing and invited me to join in. They even told me I could keep my undies on. Even then, male-on-male action was way too icky for me. Granted, I didn't know back then that most people's first sexual experience is with someone of the same sex. Nevertheless, I kindly declined their invitation.

The next day, though, their sister, who I suppose was around eleven—and an Amazon compared to me—offered to teach me how to do my multiplication tables, but only if I made out with her. That was the best math lesson I ever had and gave me a leg up on the second grade competition. She wouldn't go all-the-way, but she went far enough for my eight-year-old ego.

The rest of my pre-teens went pretty much like that, a lot of

closed-mouth kissing and dry humping. My little brother's father's older daughter from a previous relationship (my step-half sister, I guess), my best friend Francisco's older sister the day before they moved to Tampa and I never saw either again, the Rolek sisters in one of their closets while their dad was at work and a 45 of the Police's Don’t Stand so Close to Me played over & over on their record player.

The most painful moment, to that point, was with this cute girl Tasha who I'd had the biggest crush on when I first moved to Maryland from Jersey. During my year there, she rarely ever gave me the time of day. Finally, the day that I'm moving to Baltimore City from the county, she invited me into her place and laid my first e

ver French kiss on me. Talk about shock & awe. My mother had to drag me, kicking & screaming, to the city.

But before leaving the good ol' former redneck haven that was Middle River, Maryland I should mention the one time I did almost get laid there. I was thirteen, and I hung out with a bunch of underachieving teenage drunks. As a matter of fact, I was an underachieving teenage drunk at the time, myself. Anyway, word got around that there's this girl who wants to have a gangbang with the lot of us. We gathered together and headed down to Middlesex Shopping Center where we were suppose to meet her.

I was thinking, Wow! Its finally gonna happen on the trip over. Once there, I realized she wasn’t the most attractive girl in our circle of friends, but it was no time to get picky. ¿Beggars cant be choosers, right? Well this girl looks right at me and says, "Not the one with the glasses." When my friends came back, they told me they didn't go through with it, that they didn't like the way she smelled, that they just let her blow them. I knew the truth, they were just trying to make me feel better about being rejected so viciously.

I had been living in Baltimore for six months when I met Bobbi Jo during summer break on the playground in Patterson Park. With her masculine features and her mullet, she was a little butch for me, even back then. But I wasn't getting any other play, so I figured why not. ¡I even had a good shot at nailing her! We were walking home across the park when we stopped at this big bush. "Let's go in there," she said as she ducks down and goes through this little opening, "It's really cool, like a cave."

I followed her in, and she already had her shorts at her ankles flashing her own big bush. Maybe I was too shocked. Maybe I was too taken aback by her forwardness. For whatever reason, I turned down my first real chance at early teen nookie with some lame-brained excuse of being late getting home.

The next day, I headed back down to the park, knowing I'm not backing out this time. She wasn't there. Her cousin Tammy was. Tammy was cuter by far, more feminine, with the most adorable chin dimple. I'm a sucker for chin dimples. Anyway, it was obvious I liked Tammy, and considering the extended French kissing session we shared, she liked me too. We made a pact that I would break the news to her cousin gently, and Tammy would reward me with the long sought after Home Run.

In my zeal, I told Jimmy, my best friend at the time, with the promise he would keep it a secret until I could tell Bobbi Jo myself. The next day, I got to the playground and Bobbi Jo's already there. “Listen,” I started, “I have something to tell you—”

“I know, you’re breaking up with me to go with my cousin Tammy,” she interrupted. Jimmy had told her. If you want to know how I dealt with Jimmy, read my essay, A Little Puerto Rican. Anyway, the next time I saw Tammy, she had cooled off on me and decided to dump me. I cried, not because she dumped me, but because I had ruined my chances of getting any from Bobbi Jo, and Tammy had dumped me before I'd had the chance to get any from her.

Things picked up in high school. I was fifteen when I started hanging out at this girl Chrissie's house. She was pretty big in junior high, but in high school, she had trimmed down rather nicely. She had a boyfriend, but she introduced me to Peggy. I forget her last name, but it kinda sounded like Puddles, and I like that, so I'll just call her Peggy Puddles. I'm a sucker for alliteration.

Anyhow, we would all hang out in Chrissie's bedroom—her with her boyfriend on her bed and me with Peggy on the extra bed—with the lights out. The rules were simple. Anything goes, except actual sex. Actual sex would, apparently, get you in trouble, but everything else was fair game. This, my friends, is where I mastered my cunnilingual techniques. I mean soft, quick tongue strokes, slow. hard ones, spelling my name on her clit in cursive, switching to print... You get the picture. I was hooked after my first lick.

This went on for weeks, until Peggy dumped me. Why? Because I would never go all the way. Apparently, I didn't get the wink wink, nudge nudge that came with the no sex rule, and she dropped me for someone who would, indeed, give her what she wanted more than a tireless tongue and frisky fingers. Ironically, the dude she dumped me for ended up jerking off onto Peggy & Chrissie from the 2nd floor landing as they slept in the living room one night.

As I'm writing the rest of these stories, I'm realizing that this is probably the subject of at least a couple of blog entries. Being as this little episode so nicely sums up my early attempts at getting some, this is as good a place to stop as any. But this ain't over yet. God has yet more roadblocks to place on my quest for the Holiest of Grails, and the closer I get, the more intentional it seems. Stay tuned for my next installment.

Next time: The Older Woman & The Virgin

State of DisUnion

They've done it, Folx. The Powers-That-Be—and by that I mean the cabal that uses its wealth & influence to keep the Rest-Of-Us at a perpetual disadvantage—have almost finished dismantling the very systems which kept Them in check. Granted, it doesn't help that They've already done an excellent job sowing the seeds of discord that keep the Rest-Of-Us fighting amongst ourselves instead of focusing in the slow expansion of Their power over us. As such, my fellow Americans, our state of disunion is strong and growing stronger every day.

The plan was simple, almost effortless. Find ways to pit the populace against itself, and they won't even notice as we grab the reigns and tighten them. The poor are easy; so many ways to divide them. Race is a good one. Make some feel inferior, and when you're finally forced to treat them as equals, make them fight each other for the same, menial jobs while continuing to sow distrust and fear. Once they're psychologically segregated, you can set them against themselves. ¿Come on, are you really surprised at the rate of black-on-black homicide? I bet you They're not. It benefits Them. As long as the rage that develops from generations of having less and having little to look forward to is aimed mostly on our own, we won't aim it at Them.

Then, pit the poor against the so-called intellectual elite. Those folx could afford the best (left-leaning) colleges & universities. ¿What would they know about the plight of the poor and middle class? They merely want to promote a liberal agenda to place the reigns of power firmly in the hands of government. They don't truly care about the poor, and will simply continue to over-tax the middle class. Add to that an ongoing series of lies and half-truths with a splash of fear-mongering believable enough to the less educated segments of the populace (be it Death Panels or terrorist threats) and you have a great recipe for discord.

Now all you need is to find ways to divide everyone again, but this time on moral grounds. Life v. Choice. Creationism v. Evolution. Sex Education v. Abstinence preaching. Marriage equality v. homophobia. Don't think for one minute that They allied with the Religious Right because They care anything about these so-called morality issues. They did it because it expanded Their base of power long enough to for Them to deregulate EVERYTHING to make it all more profitable for Them. They used the bible thumpers like they use everyone else, like they use us.

¡Keep dividing! Let's make them all afraid of these foreigners seeping into society in search of the same American Dream. They're already the second biggest minority, now. If we don't do anything now, we'll all be speaking Spanish soon enough. I haven't even touched on dividing by religion (This is a CHRISTIAN nation) and even gender (¡Damned FemiNazis!).

¿What's left? How about stacking the Supreme Court, our last line of defense against Them, and use the concept of Free Speech to justify the use of Their nearly limitless wealth to maintain this sick status quo that they've contrived. Now, not only can They buy as much of anything They want and sell it back to us at any price They see fit, but now, after last week's Supreme Court decision, They can spend as much as they want to continue to convince us all that it's going to be okay, as long as the fights are amongst ourselves and not against Them.

So keep hating. Keep hating the wrong people for the wrong reasons and ignore the real threat hanging over all of our heads—a reality where we are nothing but a commodity, a nameless, faceless mass earning (slaving for) just enough of Their capital just so we can give it right back to Them to feed (¿poison?), clothe & shelter ourselves—oh, let's not forget, to keep paying back the money They loan us to make our lives just a little more interesting, a little ore livable. And television, because if we can be distracted enough, we won't even realize what's really going on. Yes Folx, let's keep hating, and the State of Our Disunion will soon enough become invincible. Like trained elephants, we won't need chains. Mental manacles are more powerful than real restraints. If you have no hope of escape, why bother trying?

Geek Orthodoxy

Geek Orthodoxy
It is religion after all
although we worship
different things
like Sky Blue
Sno-balls or the Big Kahuna
or Lucy & Ricky
before they broke
up or Quantum Physics
or polyhedrons
or Mean Green Dirty-Gened
Killer Kangaroos.
Some of us have even been known
to worship Impossible Dreams
as long as they were artificially
flavored Banana.

All through the almond-colored pages
of a slide rule bible.

We wear our glasses
because we’d rather let our vision
trickle away & go
blind than give
in to our sexual
frustration.

We seek salvation
through masturbation.

Our pocket protectors serve
as shields, a fort
of pens & pencils
to protect our flimsy
hearts from the whims
of adolescent vixens
looking to turn screws.

The very same girls once broke
our Holy Crayolas.

We vow ourselves
to silence because to speak
meant to spread our words like cold
butter on thin white bread,
hard & chunky & all
torn up.

Amongst ourselves we can speak
in our twisted tongues.

None of us practice
long; we all slowly trade
in our plaid & courdoroy,
our Dippity Do & our dandruff goo,
our floodpants & our jogging shoes,
our argyle socks & comic books
for a taste of the mundane.

Except for the few true, dedicated ones
who stick out the persecution long enough
to outlive our Protean deficiencies
& reach that Nerd Nirvana some call
Avant Garde

My Night ( A Poem)

This poem was inspired by the myth of Nüt & Geb, a personal favorite.

My Night

¿How can I

stay away

when You wrap

so tightly

about Me,

sealing,

enveloping,

protecting Me

from Everything,

leaving room

for Nothing

else but the feel

of You wrapped

tight about me

like wet rice

paper?

¿What else

can I do

Sister Sky—

Heaven full

of stars,—

but grind

inside You

until My mountains

are raw

& My rivers

boil beneath

Your pressure,

Your pleasure,

Your gravity?

¿So what

if there is room

for naught—

nothing but

us, no space

for other Gods

to roam between

Us, to breathe?

The feel

of Your breath

is all I need.

Let Them separate

Us if they must—

make room

for Creation,

for Life,

for Other

than Our bond.

¿Could we expect

Them to continue

Existence smothered

between Us?

It matters

not, my Nüt—

They can keep

Us apart—

divided for only

so long

before Night

once again wraps

itself around Me—

when

the Sun hides

You fall

& I rise

to meet

You.

Perhaps

the time will come

when the Sun

abandons its

task & We can

again join

in perpetuity,

when You & I,

and nothing else

will reign

supreme—

Our Love,

Eternal Lust,

Chaos.