thoughts of the day

i am Crashing...

.......("forgive? where are your pagan gods, now?")........

Crashing

I am a student.
I work for the pleasure of work.
I attempt to do my tasks cleanly, efficiently, but then the computer crashes and it is unsettling.
It is unsettling.
I am scribbling on a napkin because I cannot type.
The computer won't stop crashing.
I'm crashing.
"Who are you?" I ask myself.
"And why do you write so poorly?"
The tap of my foot is the only response.
"Who are you?"
I am screaming, now.
"And why are you so insecure?"
. . .
He likes to lay his head in my lap or against my chest. And I hold him. I cradle him as he wants to be held, and I stroke his hair. I did, today, on his parents' couch. Later, we made love on his small bed. The springs creaked. I asked him how he liked it best. "The long, deep ones..." "I like the fast, hard ones," I said. And a few minutes still later, he was drilling into me and asked me "Do you like to be pounded like that?" and I said "Yes!" and he was on top of me, heavy, hot. Before then, hours before, we were on the porch by the pool fighting because he shows no emotions. Hourse before then, I was in the desert camping and walking to the bathroom the sweetest scent of desert flowers caught my nose. I realized that the desert held an allurement to it that he never would, and we woudln't make it. We will become those good friends, and not even best friends, who hang out and deal with the chemical attraction. And maybe we are good friends, not best friends, who hang out and fuck. that's right, i said it. fuck. we don't make love, it's too funny to us. he won't cry. he's never cried. he won't cry because he's a southern boy. a good, straight, white, southern boy. i want to make love on a bed and cry and scream for the sheer joy and beauty in the union of two bodies. sex has always been too rough, always.
. . .
i am a whore and a drug addict. i don't know which drugs i do, though, you'll have to ask my father.
oh, father, the man who went for twenty years saluted by men who went out of their way to impress him. i am sorry, father, that i am not a little obedient boy to salute you and play soccer. i am sorry, father, that nothing i do is good enough. i am sorry that you do not know how to express your emotions to me without spitting in my face or knocking me from my chair. i am sorry that mother doesn't put out. i am sorry you mistake me for her. i am sorry, but don't call me by her old nicknames. don't slam the door on me, don't spit in my face, don't touch me. you who would rather throw me out of the house than let me take jazz. i took calculus and i worked hard. damn you. damn you for htis pressure. damn you, father, because you have ruined me. because i have ulcers worrying. because i cry everyday during first hour thinking about you and the things you say to me. damn you because there is nothing that can be done, now. how did it ever get this far? how did it ever get this far? how did it... how...
. . .
i am staring at this computer screen.
"Who are you going to turn to?" I ask.
There is no answer, this time. Not a tap, a sigh, only the throbbing pain in the bottom of my stomach and i want to throw up.
i want to Wretch this out of me.
but I am Only Staring at this computer screen.
Taylor is asleep or doing drugs with his friends.
My father is lying in bed staring at the ceiling, he has insomnia, just like me.
(I walked in on my mother and he making love, once, when I was very young. I think that was the last time. It makes me sick.)
i am staring at this computer screen. i am staring at this computer screen. i am staring at this computer screen. i am staring...

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

crashing

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