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A fun excerpt from the life and times, baby.
ML: I was the innocent victim of a wasp sting.
ML: [indecipherable words strung together with inappropriate pauses]
Bryan: Hey, you—
ML: mrph [unimaginable babbling]
B: So, basically, you sound just like Person X when he has neurological reactions to migraines.
ML: How do you feel?
“Unnamed Person”: Much better. I was a human geyser. But I’m looking damn good today in my skinny jeans and white belt.
ML: Is it called a human flute? Flue? A slat? [the word ML was looking for was “funnel”]
B: [indecipherable response as ML tries to think clearly]
B: Call me if you need an am-bu-lance. It too expensive to actually call the am-bu-lance.
B: [pretends to understand and obviously didn’t hear ML]
B: Cheerio, chappie
ML: I will have to execute a name change on new doggie if I get her. Obviously, I like maggie but she looks just like an Emma to me, too. Or Emmie. What is your reaction to having it be a fatty cyst?
B: Please I ain’t Karen. I have superpowers and the ability to communicate with the dead.
the days of his domination are over
the days of him going too far
the days of me pretending to be appalled
now he’s genuinely startled when I take him too far
he crumples as a child dropkicked on green grass in the early spring
he fetus-hugs himself
licking his wounds
the ones I’ve created
too much info
is never enough
Someday we are going to have
two point five children.
This is how they’ll be: myopic Caucasians
with updraft hearts and thistle carpets for hair,
curious challengers to the world at large
who will know the truth
about where half their chromosomes came from:
sitting in a lab with an issue of XY, Kleenex, and
a paper cup.
They will have a succession of stepfathers
and an uncle who is closer than the others
who pays child support.
They will know the story of your disconsolate womb,
and how I pressed warm washcloths on that
meadowed belly, pair of us holding hands
watching chick flicks under a lavender afghan,
talking about these future offspring over ice cream,
far-flung and foolish hopes of children
until the day we were serious.
On the unimportant holidays, maybe I’ll arrive
with belated birthday gifts in hand,
tousle a few heads. When they’ve gone to bed,
we’ll sit with lacrymatory mugfuls of spirits,
uncertainly thankful for
the shapes we take.
Bryan has answered seven pressing questions (seven, because he refused to answer any more or less because of his ocd). Enjoy.
1. Do you find Nestle Crunch bars slightly more satisfying than love? Be honest.
When I was young, I did find Nestle Crunch bars more satisfying than love. But, truth be told, love to me then was make believing my high school girlfriend at the time (we’ll call her Melody Eclair) was actually a sophomore named Bo while a certain third wheel rocked herself crazily in the corner of my black Chevy S-10. Now, when pressed, I’d have to say the only thing I find more satisfying than love is a good creme brulee, so long as the layer on top gives you that little crunch.
2. What does it mean if a guy has medium-sized feet and squinty eyes? Don’t lie.
It means orgasm is probably out of the question for all involved.
3. I haven’t gotten a text in hours. Why is this happening to me?
Because you say things like, “I thought you’d never wanted to hear from me again,” “cooooooookies,” and “my dog peed on me.”
4. When are you going to provide me with a homecooked meal again?
You’ve requested Hamburger Helper of the Cheeseburger Macaroni variety. While technically this meal is beneath my level of skill, I will make this for you next Tuesday, with brownies for dessert.
5. Who would win in a break-neck, all-goes fight between bindo and Val?
I’m going with Val. I have a feeling she knows how to throw elbows. Bindo would get distracted by something depressing and write a wonderful poem about it, though.
6. Who let the dogs out? And what the hell was up with all the coconut in the Bahamas?
You let the dogs out, just the same way that you lost your room key and foolishly thought that, because we spent thousands of dollars to go on a trip together, I wanted to spend time with you. As far as the coconuts go, I didn’t see them. I was more impressed with all the men in speedos, which I don’t think you noticed because you hadn’t hit puberty yet.
7. Don’t you secretly wish you had a Blackberry Curve instead of dinky iPhone?
Never. All your readers who have iPhones should download the free App “words with friends” and challenge me, PoeticGrin, to a battle.
He summons me on stage
Let’s do a runthrough
He welcomes my impromptus
the dancing grooves of my pulsing neurons that say
YES, YES, YES
with good humor
a sort of warm embrace if we embraced
co-mingled with the excitement of the next best show
coming to town
he know he’ll be in the front row
free VIP just because he knows me
always cheering at the end
pitying me at the end
wanting an encore.
I’m happy to oblige.
Being a fag doesn’t seem that hard
what’s discrimination to you
what’s civil rights to you
don’t you care too much about your red vests and purple stripes
the gel in your hair, the lotion on your skin
walking in high heels
like sissy boys
Group think equals group fabulousness?
Fags of the worse sort
striking down as they are stricken down
Try fighting slurs that the gays fling about
hag as if insulting good friends
isn’t the same thing
as the jocks, the Christians, the Muslims, the Red Texans shouting
fucking die fag
Bindo let me interview him for my blog. You know you will giggle as I did. (I suppose I should admit I’m not sure if the pronounciation is biiiiindo or beeendo.)
Bindo’s note to you, dear reader. Before I answered any of Medicated Lady’s questions, I felt it necessary to put on Beck’s “Sea Changes” undoubtedly, the most depressing record ever made. Hmm, where are my smokes? Ah, here they are! OK, everything is in place, Ashtray? Check!…Lighter?..Check!.. Coffee? Check! And now……
1. Can you describe your Dark Place?
Very dark, like a, but with a great paint job and tasteful window treatments.
2. Where does your writing inspiration come from?
It comes from years of being on the road, smoking, drinking coffee, drugs and booze, hundred’s of dead end jobs and a ridiculous amount of meaningless sex.
3. How did Bindo, the writer, become Bindo, the writer?
After being fired or quitting hundreds of dead end jobs (for good and not so good reasons), it occurred to me that I wasn’t good at anything except writing about not being good at anything.
4. In a no-holds barred, caged fight, who would you want as your “wrasslin” ally: Bryan or me? Also, who would you be up against?
That’s tough, because you are both extremely cute and I am shallow on many levels. But I think considering everything, I would have you on my team because I could sit back, light a smoke and watch your luminous hair flying as you leap through the air to put the kabash on our opponents…
That would have to be Bryan and The Dalai Lama. First, well ya know, I get to wrestle with Bryan but mostly, I just like to win.
5. I’m at my happiest when I’m terribly depressed. I am allergic to fire ant venom. Is there any circumstance in which you’d ever want to be eaten by a grizzly bear?
Funny you should ask. I was out hunting bear, back in my Hemmingway days. I had a big grizzly in my sight, pulled the trigger and fired. The bear dropped to the ground. I ran over and the bear was no where. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned and saw the grizzly. He said, “you have two choices: One, I maul and eat you or Two, you let me have my way with you.”
At the time I was feeling very prolific and didn’t want to die at the moment, which is always a strange feeling, so I opted for backdoor number two. Well, I was depressed over my rape and was going home. When I saw the grizzly again, I sighted him up and pulled the trigger. He dropped like a bad habit. I ran over to celebrate my victory over the horny bear but he was no where to be found. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and there he was with a grizzly smile. He looked at me and said, “You’re not here for hunting are you?”
Be sure to check out bindo’s site:http://bindo.wordpress.com/
Bryan has also reviewed one of bindo’s books on his blog: http://poeticgrin.com/2009/07/03/smoke-breaks-by-bindo/
For the record, Bryan was supposed to read his poetry at 3:15. I was in town by 2:45 when he texted me and was like, “well, it’s done and you’re a sorry excuse for a medicated lady,” which was a bit harsh but he was a diva at a gay pride event so I give him props. Fate promptly bitch-slapped me. Before and after, respectively.
I’m not sure anyone will necessarily think this is funny but it amused me. If you want a good time, go back to your old emails and read them. Share them.
MEMO: It has come to my attention that some members of this staff feel that it is professional to wear denim garments below their waists. This behavior must come to an abrupt stop. It is counterproductive and sends the wrong message to the childrens. If I catch any of you wearing these denim garments, I shall strip you then and there and let you feel my power.
On Tragedy (a Haiku)
Weed in a taco
Broken swings, asses, and dreams
Satan’s spawn inside
(Bryan’s poem to my/our then-boyfriend (who was in the Air Force but is not Air Force John, this guy was just a “Luke”), who later left the country without telling me/us)
How I want to fly with you,
to say your name with a heavy “K” sound
resonating in my throat long after
I am air sick
from this quick
*An email exchange between Bryan and me concerning the matter of a straight man.* Please note, we are usually completely off the mark about straight men but we have conversations like this all the time.
From MedicatedLady to Bryan: What a crybaby Air Force John is. Seriously. If he’s blowing me off, he is doing it in the strangest of ways. I am honestly perplexed. It’s probably just coming down to I’m not giving him the nookie. He’s friendly enough and kept the conversation going for hours (texting of course). He invited me to cuddle. I considered it. I said, really? He said yes. He says, I’m going to bed (he said this before as a way to get me to hurry up and come over). So I say, So are you saying I’ve missed you or to get trucking? And then he says, no, you can come cuddle w/ me. And I paused for a moment and said okay. Then I brushed my hair for him. And then I text, will see you in a few minutes. And then he says, can we reschedule? And I say, ouch, but okay. He says he’s been up since 5 and is tipsy. I say, okay. 10 minutes later. He says, I don’t want to offend you. I say, it’s all good. 20 minutes later. He says, I’m afraid I will make a move. I say, moves aren’t necessarily bad things but it just depends if you can be swatted away when it’s time to cool it. So he says, Nope (smiley face) and I say, well then there you go. 10 minutes later. He says, I’m in my underwear. I say, Um…good? He says, yeah. I say, well, underneath my pjs I’m wearing underwear too. End conversation.
Bryan’s response/translation: I think he was horny, and then he wanted sex, and he invited you over, and then he felt guilty, and then he was horny again, and then he just masturbated.
Hello Dearest Reader,
I have very much enjoyed blogging on wordpress these many months and I have grown very fond of many talented folks. I have wondered often, what’s going on inside this or that person’s head? So I am hoping that you will come with me as I ask fellow bloggers, what’s in your head? As always, this is intended to be both light and serious and I suppose it’s up to you to figure out what’s what.
All things start with Bryan Borland, aka poeticgrin, but I hope some of you will allow me to “interview” you in the future.
1. Meatloaf wrote a commentary about how love has bounds. Whatever he won’t do for love is irrelevant; his point is that he’s not going to let love be all-consuming. Do you find that objects in the mirror appear closer than they are?
If you listen closely to the verses, MedicatedLady, you would hear that Mr. Loaf clearly says what he won’t do for love within the song. For example, “I’ll never stop dreaming of you every night of my life” or “I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t go all the way tonight.” Such things are never irrelevant. If your lover says to you, “MedicatedLady, do you ever let men hit it from the back?” you might think to yourself, “Self, I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.” Or you might think, well, I’ve given him two of three orifices and two out of three ain’t bad. At that point, knowing you as I do, I would have to say that you would prefer objects no where near your rear view, mirror or no.
2. Why are you cheerful when the world is dying all around you?
Generally my cheerfulness is chocolate or sex induced. Or chocolate-sex induced. I recommend incorporating and co-mingling the things one loves. Unless those things include two forms of sleep medication and texting ex-flames. Or salsa and sex. Salsa and sex do not go together either.
3. Can you write an on-the-fly poem about the wasp nest just outside my door?
We build our home with mounds of dirt
And plot a way to score: insert
Our stingers when she’s not alert
To sneak a peek, buzz up her skirt!
A flying fleet who came to flirt
We’ll show her who can make it hurt!
4. How has your writing evolved in the past year?
My writing has gone through puberty and has enjoyed a growth spurt. I feel as if I’ve matured a bit as a poet. I’ve learned to make the most of spacing, that within a poem, every line, every word, every punctuation mark must be significant or it should be edited out. Slashing the cliche’, the repetitive, the overly-indulgent – those are necessary things of which I’ve become aware. I’m still working on them, but I think I am making progress. I believe that when a writer can hit that delete button and remove unnecessary but beloved verses/lines/words, that’s progress.
5. What is your philosophy of writing the truth? Is it concrete, objective, variable? Or something else?
Nothing is concrete. That’s why I love poetry. Poetry is anything you want it to be. If I have written a poem, once I send it out to the world, it’s not mine anymore. It becomes the readers’ personal property, and those readers can shape it into anything they wish. My hope is that they shape it into something that moves them, that recalls a love or a hope or an ache.
6. How does one who is medicated inspire love and encouragement instead of inciting riots and despair?
A happy poet is an unproductive poet, M’Lady. When my life is grand, I can count on yours to be unfortunate in some entertaining way. When life hands you lemons, I write about them.