I felt a strange attraction, immediately to her beauty, but later toward her philosophy, her humor, and her inclinations. My second cousin, my uncle’s cousin, that is, she was. My aunt, at whose house we were both staying, cued me into her person before she arrived. She told me she was Randy’s (my uncle) cousin, that she was roughly his age, and that she worked for a living as a hairdresser and Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Later on, my second cousin would correct my pronunciation of this province. My aunt, a professional homemaker was very warm and catering, and was an excellent host for my second cousin and myself. It was Christmastime, as was the motivation behind my visit, and my aunt bought a number of presents for everybody and instructed the cousins to choose presents to gift for each other. “This is a time I want you all to relax, you’re off school, off work, I want you to be able to just, veg, ya know?” “Yes Aunt Tara,” I agreed. “Now close your eyes and turn around, I’m getting stuff.” She scrambled inside the closet of the guest room and pulled out a large cardboard box. There was a fancy round case with different sorts of eyelash and eyebrow primping devices, a set of wine glass markers and a “Girl’s Night Out” bingo game that I envisioned my second cousin would find tacky, and a few other items that don’t come to mind, but I chose the primping kit as I liked the box and thought I would enjoy wrapping it for Elaine, my second cousin.
The next day Elaine showed up at the door with her bags. I saw her blonde hair and tender, loving facial features and I became again greeted with that sort of “in love”, or “in lust”, as I knew it, feeling at the bottom of your heart. That shrill pang that made you blush internally, that spread from the bottom of your sternum to the top of your skull, to your heels, back again to your heart, sending messages to your endocrine system, to your liver, and, if you are a man, to your penis and your balls, too. And the more “logical” side of my mind fired shotgun thoughts of doubt and fear to the same core of my being, when I realized I would be living, yes, living my life, if only for a few days, a stairway away from the guest room where she would unpack, sleep, dress and undress, think, daydream, stretch and breathe, and we would be so close! Doors and walls matter little for separation when you can hear someone snore and stub their toes just a hallway’s distance away. I feared, with her life decades longer than the one I am living, that she wouldn’t take me seriously, that she would be able to see through me, that she would see I was little more than a sad, lost little boy with issues.
We exchanged greetings and pleasantries, but with difficulty, with the rest of the family crowding her at the doorway, pestering her with asinine questions, although in just observing her interactions with them, I had a genuine feel of her maturity, her kind spirit, her earthly yet spiritual wisdom.
Here, we drank and chatted.
Later, she talks about feeling her father’s spirit, smelling him, around the hour of her mother’s death

It wasn’t until we wrapped presents together when our relationship really began to unfold. I found out she is unmarried, single and looking, has no sisters, brothers, or parents.
I wanted her to hold me and love me, though I never wanted her to know what I wanted. And that, in retrospect, was a problem in its own.

I am sorry, I must continued shortly after.

Goat Cheese and Chocolate Every day

I’m only going to write what I remember.

The first time I had a gun pointed at me was January 11th, 2004. It’s just one of those things that sticks with you. Jonathan and I were trying to get high. His blond hair was unusually long and straight, and as plainclothes undercover detectives slammed him against the concrete wall of a seemingly abandoned house, it flailed helplessly. Let’s smoke pot at the abandoned house, he said earlier. Alright, sounds cool. It sounded cool at the time. When the three men pointed pistols at me, and yelling boorishly to freeze, I was so scared. I thought they were gangsters who were going to beat us up, steal our money, and make us suck their dicks. Despite the shock, I was slightly relieved when one of them showed us his badge. “Fuck, that hurt! Why’d you have to slam me into the wall?” “You shouldn’t have gone for your pockets, we didn’t know if you were going to pull out a knife.” As I briefly and blankly considered my future and what drugs were in my pockets, and how to make them disappear, my wrists were instantly bonded by cold metal cuffs. First you feel the chill of the steel, and then the tightness is cinched in until it hurts. It always hurts. When you’re a prisoner. Every time I wear handcuffs, I think about this one episode of the X-Files I watched with my parents – one suspect could dislocate his thumbs and routinely escape from handcuffs. Maybe the handcuffs are so tight because the detectives have seen that episode. As a captive, they patted me down with their brisk, orderly fingers. It was less than a tenth of a gram of amphetamine. I was going to smoke it that night and play computer games. Regret, regret, if only I could have tossed it. A single Vicodin pill. “I have a prescription for that,” I lied. “They took out my wisdom teeth recently.” I was in a weird state. I cannot go on for paragraphs about how the sweat dripped down from my brow, or how I just wanted to crawl into a ball and will myself out of the universe, or whatever. That stuff isn’t true. I remember being completely subjected to the officers’ will, being stiff and numb. If I just stayed quiet, I could go home, I’m sure. If I answered their questions respectfully they’d know I was a good kid on the wrong path, and leave me alone. Blame the friends.

But no. I had the guns pointed at me because I was a criminal of the state. Two felony counts of possession do that to you. I remember on the ride to the police station, one of the men asked me, “So why you doin’ this stuff, the speed?”

I paused and admitted, “I…I like to paint. I like to take it and paint, it feels good and its fun. You should see this picture I did, it’s like a massive thumbprint with contrasting colors. A little bit of the stuff helps me focus and makes me more creative, I guess. I only do it sparingly though.”

I don’t think the answer was good enough for him, because he didn’t respond. I wonder what special investigator person, call him Agent Bradley, did after work that night. Did he complain about today’s youth, have a drink of Maker’s Mark, call his wife a sour name and then apologize? Did he walk in the door, notice a bill he’d been avoiding on the countertop, and swear, and wish his daughter didn’t hear him? Did he tell his wife about the kid who does speed because he thinks he’s a creative artist? Did he lay her a sweet smile at the end of his jeering anecdote? Agent Bradley, what did you have for dinner that night? Do you live alone and eat Marie Calender’s frozen entrees? Do you smoke Pall Malls, Marlboro Reds, or are you just too good to smoke? When you’re not driving the Ford Interceptor, what do you drive? I want to know about you because I want to know what makes you you. I want to know why you didn’t respond. I told you why I did that one particular drug at one particular moment last week, which, in my opinion is a very personal thing to ask, and I, feeling blinded, physically immobile, and mentally blunted, poured out a piece of my heart to you during that drive.

And I want it back.

It’s hard to be a rebel when you just want to go home and see your parents and hope they’ll still love you.

I'm a fan of the occupy olympia movement, I support it. But I think their general assembly meetings are pretty silly. They way they work is that they demand consensus on everything, and everyone who wants to raise a point is free too.

drinking game: Corporate, Capitalism, and Gluten

Is it me or does 50% of Olympia suffer from Celiac disease? It was the first time I've seen homeless people turning down free bread!

Have you guys read a day in the life of Ivan Denisovitch?
Citizen, your ration for the day is 400 grams of bread.
Agh....do you have Quinoa?

When I was a little boy my mom would arrange play dates with the other boys in kindergarden.We'd play video games or legos, but I noticed that our play dates would come to an end when the other boy would show me his penis. This happened more often than not.

But I became vigilant.One day me and this kid Anthony were playing a board game. I guess he got bored and told me to come to his room. He shut the door. And he started taking his clothes off while grinning at me. I remember this very well. So I stopped him and said Anthony, please don't show me your wiener, cos then our moms wont let us play any more Monopoly Junior.

When I was a kid my mom would arrange play dates with my friends in preschool or kindergarden.

Sometimes we'd play Mario Kart, sometimes we'd watch Disney movies, sometimes we'd play board games. But more often then not, the boys I had play dates with ended up showing me their penises.

The first case was with a boy named Russell. I don't remember what we were doing until we went inside my closet and he showed me his penis. He told me to take mine out too. But both of our mothers rushed in and they looked horrified, at the sight of Russell's babydick. And he went home and he never came over again.

And then there was Sean who showed me his babydick in the pool one day. I was horrified, and I told my mom that "he showed me his 'thing'" and we both left.

The third time, I was more vigilant. I didn't want my playdates to come to an abrupt end. One day me and this kid Anthony were playing Monopoly Junior. I guess he got bored and told me to come to his room. He shut the door, smart boy that he was. And he started taking his clothes off while grinning at me. I remember this. So I stopped him and said Anthony, please don't show me your wiener, cos then our moms wont let us play any more Monopoly Junior.
...
also if you wanna take your wiener out, go to Katie Wolf's house. cos she likes to touch it.

Everytime i orgasm from sex I have the bad habit of immediately thinking about my homework. I seriously muttered under my breath "god damnit i have to finish oliver twist" and my partner was mildly upset from this comment. how are you? Yeah baby, im good. two hundred pages...

But i realize where this reaction stems from. In one of these sexual advocacy meetings i heard that whatever you look at upon the moment of orgasm is permanently embedded into your brain. And as a very regular masturbator in high school, I'd put my geometry notes adjacent to my keyboard, so right as i was about to come i'd cover the screen with them, and chant REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER

and hey, to this day i still know what perpendicular lines look like, so :)?

Not just a horny fuck or an amateur comedian but I'm also a published poet.
Well, ALMOST.
pay attention because this is short and i'm NOT gonna repeat it


Me a warm ass nigga
unda' all these blankets
I see a big ass booty
bitch I wanna spank it

My strongest influences are Dickinson, Pound, and Bukowski.
In fact, the ABCB rhyme structure here is very Dickinsonian.

Dear Matthew,
Thank you for your submission. We at Poetry London regret to inform you that after careful review of your entry, your poem "untitled" was not chosen for publication. The theme for this quarter's publication is Goons, Moons, and Quadroons, and the editing staff and I did not feel that your poem "untitled" was a proper fit.
All the best,
Colette Bryce

Utmost Christian Writer's Poetry Contest,
Dear Poet,
Thank you for your submission to the Utmost Christian Writer's Poetry Contest. Unfortunately, your poem "untitled" was not chosen for publication, and is not eligible for any prize for our annual poetry contest. Commentary is below: The words n****, a**, and b**** are not allowed by our foundation to be published in our gallery. Please note that this contest is only open to Christians. You do not need to be a member of Utmost Christian Writer's to submit poetry, but you must be a Christian believer to enter our contest. Please look over the rules .
Sincerely,
Barbara Mitchell
Christian Writers Foundation director


SW
Your poem, which was submitted without a title and will here by be referred to by the first line, "Me a warm ass nigga" was too short for publication. There is not enough information about the protagonist and how the statements correlate; it is unclear whether his feeling of warmth relates to his desire to spank a "big ass booty." And is the word "booty", here, in this connotation indicative of a woman's behind? How does this poem relate to women? And what of the word, "nigga"? Furthermore, does being under "all these blankets" warm just the protagonist's skin on a physical level, or metaphorically? We are just trying to understand what is really going on here and if this is applicable to this year's mood.
Cheers,
Slightly West