Dancing Like My Mother

theres that way some men who sweat alot in the
middle of the day from maybe climbing steps in the heat or
carrying things in humidity, theres the way
they smell. musty and wet, mixed with their cheap cologne.
some "sporty" fragarance. kind of like
the smell of soap on your hands
but hours later when your fingernails are
dirty and you've been handling money or touching
stair railings at the subway station
but you can still smell the soap.
and if they're a little fat
just a little and their tshirts are not exactly tight
but not exactly loose. usually they have round
heads and their short hair may be thinning
and they could be wearing fancy jeans and maybe fancy
shoes or some shitty white sneakers, but definitely
a gold chain not exactly for decoration but not
exactly not for decoration.
and even if they did dry off their sweaty faces
you could still see it on them, the heat
the exertion, the discomfort. the smell.

you make me think of this.

Posted by Johnny at 3:16 PM | Permalink | Comments

you write.
you sit on your couch with Paris Is Burning playing on the flat screen that still has not been mounted by your roomate.
You write about a girl you saw on the street, on the corner of 9th and mission.
She was crying, real loud, wearing a purple and green plaid shirt and large reflective black sunglasses. She did not appear
to be on crack. She was too young, too clean, and too well dressed to be sitting on the pavement.
She said something to you that sounded more like an audible screaming yawn. Saliva strung between her bared teeth.
The cuffs of her shirt came almost past her hands. She tucked her face back into her chest.
You thought "I am going to write about this"
You thought "There's also that chalk drawing on market right by church street, that shows what seems to be a mythic indian warrior in pastel purples and blues, that's about 6 feet wide and 4 feet tall, I should write about that too."
Then the americano you just drank kicked in and you got free. you called your housemate to tell him you love him.
You texted your exboyfriend to say hello, you almost dialed your mother.
You write all this down. Now.
In your mickey mouse pajama bottoms and no shirt.
On the screen Venus Xtravaganza says something about her small hand fitting into the larger hand of one of her johns.
You write that you almost stopped to talk to that girl, not just because you were concerned bc it would be a good story.
But that made you sad. The instant reduction of her to a story. To an anecdote. And honsetly, you were scared to go near her.

"She cries
on the corner of 9th and Mission
wearing a purple and green plaid button up
the cuffs coming well past her wrists
making her appear smaller than she is
her knees pulled up close to her chest
her head tilts back with a wide mouth
saliva shining on her lips and teeth
mucous coming out of her nose.
My exboyfriend used to have these crying jags
and he'd sit there on the end of the bed his forearms
resting on his knees, head down
just crying, with snot poring out of his nose
making a puddle on the floor.
I used to gag, while he cried.
I'd sit in the chair by the desk,
I'd offer him a tissue or handkerchief.
I used to think "this mucous makes you harder to love."
She says something to me, mabye.
It could be me or the other guy walking by
it's not even words. more of a cry.
At first it could be heart break. But now
it seems like a mental problem.
There's no drug marks
no sunken cheeks
no pock marks on her face.
This could be me. Don't you think?
I almost stop. to talk to her, maybe to pull her in to some kinda hug
her limp greased blond hair pressed to my chin, the almost stubble.
Her small frame tucked inside my larger one, my crouched form hiding her from the street
from the misty sky, from other passing people. I can't see her eyes though, behind
those glasses. Instead i keep walking unfazed.
Caffeine pushing me to make inappropriate phone calls to ex boyfriends
despite day time minutes "

Venus Xtravaganza is dead. She was killed before the movie was released. They talk about it in the film. She was found under a bed after three days of deadness in a hotel, the kind one rents by the hour. She was tiny. She was "real". She could pass. Or she could've. The phone rings, and it's the wash and fold. Your clothes are done. This is the last of te $50 you had in your wallet. The last of your last $50.

Posted by Johnny at 6:38 PM | Permalink | Comments

She wears a full skirt, floral printed.
She's thin.
Her lipstick travels from her top lip to her right cheekbone,
which is prominent.
One might say that she is gaunt.
One might say that she is on drugs.
She works her jaw busily.
A boy I dated 9 years ago called me compulsive.
He barely knew me.
It was a second date.
Later he ran around his apartment looking for an object
to compare my dick to, i was told, reluctantly, by a friend.
She works her jaw compulsively.
I want to make eye contact.
I'm scared.
With her absent chatter she draws in a boring fat man in a blue polo.
Her hand lights on his shoulder like a lame butterfly or
a one winged bird. He leaves her but keeps looking back over his shoulder
considering maybe, her desperation coupled with his need for coupling.
Or maybe he's in love. truly.
I cross the street toward the space between them.
She's now turned, or rather twisted herself in the air
wrapping the whole corner around her
drawing it to her bruised, pale and youngish shoulders
like a shawl. too obvious. like a shrug. obviouser. like a coat.
no. the arms of a lover? she wraps the whole intersection around her.
I'm off balance, the street moving beneath me, towards her.
That boy, he would not sleep at my house
he lied and said he was a Calvin Klein model,
I gave him money because he had none, so that
he could take the subway to see me.
I was maybe a little too desperate.
She wears just one high heel, and one fur lined slipper.
It is 2pm on a Monday.
On the corner of 7th and Mission street.
I am in San Francisco.
A crumpled five clutched in my left hand
my cell phone in the other
shoulders forward
eyes forcibly down
i pass the vortex of her moment.
I go to the dollar store.

Posted by Johnny at 5:08 PM | Permalink | Comments

You wake tired, in your clothes, with the light on and your shoes tied.
Next to a man or not next to a man, on the couch or on your bed,
Your wool felt hat crushed under your feet, or perched on your head shielding your mascara crusted eyes, like the rim of salt on a cold sweet margarita. with a cramp in your neck from the awkward tipped over position you passed out in, or just the dry gummy taste of bourbon and sleep fuzzy on the back of your tongue.
your jeans unbuttoned, fly unzipped, and waist band pulled down below your hips, just below the crotch of your underwears, or solidly pulled up to your waist the stretch of suspenders digging into your skin leaving thin red marks just half an inch in wide on your shoulders. It is your house. It is not your house. The bed is unfamiliar. The bed is softer than yours, the room smells of boys, or men, the hot breath of sleeping inebriated men. The room smells of sex. The room smells of bleach and dandelion. The room does not smell or rather you can not smell anything except maybe the traces of cocaine. The man is your friend he is naked, you wake to find his hard dick pressed into the small of your back or even the palm of your hand. On the couch your computer glows at you, porn flickers across the screen, a half eaten bananna crushed into the upholstery under your hip. It smells like coffee, sounds of breakfast making wake you, and your housemate whistles at you through your curtain, you whistle back. You waken to the alarm on your phone, it takes you two full minutes to locate the phone on the floor next to the bed but on his side, where you never put it, you reach across his fully clothed (blue jeans red flannel buttoned all the way up, white sneakers, shaved head) lithe body, his breath hot on your cheek smells of rosemary, he does not waken. The jackhammers wake you, they are jack hammering the street just outside the window, only 20 feet away, this window has white curtains, bay windows, there's a dark wood floor, a white defunct fireplace, a blond wood desk with a stool piled high with oversized magazines, clothing radiates out from the bed like a corona. Who's room is this. Your tank top is wet and your neck aches.
It is noon. It is 2pm. It is 8am. It is 9am.
You jerk awake, leaving sleep like you jumped from a bridge.
You ease out of it, like easing into the cold cold ocean, in jumps jabs, with breath held high in the chest.
Your mind wakes up but your body sleeps and you are stuck there, tipped over, bannana under you, pants down.
You are in the bathroom staring into your own red eyes before you know you're awake. your hands braced on either side of the small metal sink, your neck thrust forward your forhead just inches from the large plate mirror, water from the counter seeping into the crotch of your white jeans, the shower is running, you can smell the steam and mildew.
Your roomate comes into your room, not knowing there is a man there, and that he is rubbing your chest.
You roll off the couch.
The jackhammers do not stop and you can't find your wallet.
Your computer falls off the couch, the screen does not crack but it does flicker, the porn continues.
The flourescent light whines.
Your jacket is under the desk.
It is raining. It is sunny. There is silence, post apocolyptic. There is the chatter of the homeless only 6feet below your window like a conference of birds. It is windy. You can hear it, under the jack hammering, behind the kitchen sounds, after your housemate whistles just before the crash of your computer falling. You're tangled in sheets or just on top of them, a pillow under your arm, or on the floor. no pillow. You wake tired, in your clothes, with the light on and your shoes tied.

Posted by Johnny at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments

She's upset.


I know this because she said "I'm upset"
She holds a crumpled and torn tissue in her hands
as if it were a tiny bird. A tiny dying or dead bird.

"You are upset"
I repeat it in my head three times
Trying not to mouth the words.
Lipsynching to my thoughts.
She catches my mouth moving, my lips expose my teeth.
They are slightly yellowed from neglect. The act of tying my shoes and brushing my teeth seems oppressive. It's my fear that if I pay attention to some details I will HAVE to pay attention to ALL the details.

There are too many details.




She says, "I am upset," she says,"and you are thinking about your teeth right now," she says, "You are thinking about tying your shoes and the details. Details," she says, "which you cannot even concieve of," she says, "because you can not approach the simple logical ones, ones," she says, "of cleanliness and self care."
She says, "You are not listening to me because you are comparing my tissue to a bird, a dead or dying bird."

All this
I struggle to not move my lips,
or expose my teeth
I struggle to make no metaphor about her oily limp hair
I struggle to keep it straight forward, just the facts.
Just periods and nouns and verbs.
But my lips move, they lipsynch the whole thing
and she walks away, its like watching a train arriving but in reverse. The feeling too is similar.

Posted by Johnny at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments

A Chinese woman wheels three stacked whtie boxes across bush street at noon, during a break in traffic. The bungee on her cart snaps, the boxes tip and crash in the right lane just in front of a subterranian parkig garage entrance, the traffic peaks over the hill and begins its descent toward her.
while
a homeless man just across the street carefully pushes a dangling silver earring into a once pierced ear, he stops the latino guy with black sunglasses, tsubi jeans, a black american apparel hoody, and creative facial hair, asking for assistance with the jewelry. The latino guy says "what do you want me to do" before registering that he has been enlisted to push silver through the greyed and filthy lobe of a stranger, all this and he's just looking for Level 4 hair salon, because just before the earring and the boxes tipping he asked you where it was.
But your voice, which has gotten tiny, almost a whisper, not quite a rasp, was too confusing for him so rushed on toward the homeless man, toward the wrong salon.
The less you say, the less you want to. The sun heats your freshly shaven head, your shoulders through your mesh shirt, the backs of your legs, your shadow lands just below your feet, and your feet land just on top of it.
The wind comes at you from behind as you pass the latino man and the homeless man, as cars rush down the hill at the three fallen white cardboard boxes and the chinese lady struggling with her cart and bungee. The wind comes up soft with a smell of cigarettes, pine, and hot pavement. The smell reminds you of your father, and grape soda. A plate glass window throws your face back at you, and you see briefly how you will look at 40 then 50, the wind stops. The traffic stops. You cross the street back to work. Your shadow close and small and close.

Posted by Johnny at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments

You wear white jeans, white tank top white suspenders white polo shirt, three buttons, one undone, with the neck pulled open to show your chest hair.
You've worn these jeans for three days, there's dirt marks on the pocket lips and around the button hole and zipper. Brown and grey smudges. A red mark of something, lipstick?, on your left thigh near the soft round of your dick (white underwer too, fourth day, not turning colors but gathering smells). The tank is on its second day, already a streak of purple near your right hip eyeshadow?, a coffee mark on the front hem, generally greyed, particularly under the arms and at the top of the belly. The polo is new today, already its thin collar curls at the points but it's brightness offers a contrast to the dimness of the jeans, its tightness makes your chest look big. You can not imagine wearing a color, or black, in fact as you try to put together tonight's nightlife look you're filled with uncertainty, nervousness, fear. A thin whine of fear that seems to slice upward from your heart into the back of your throat. You've lost your voice. everyone says something different, sleep, lemon, honey, saltwater. You think maybe the white, all of it can bring back your voice. Without the ability to talk you start to lose the desire. Your shoes are not white, your socks were earlier, but are now dingy, in just hours the bottoms have a dark black print of the balls of your feet and the pads of your toes. You are getting paid ten dollars an hour, at 8a.m., to where these clothes and sell these clothes, you do. and as you do you collect color, or dirt, or both, not purposefully but inevitably, just as the day inevitably drips past or inevitably you must pay your bills, or inevitably you will sleep through no will or desire but just fact, with that inevitability your white becomes less. its this process this inevitable fact of the darkening of your clothes that keeps you in them. do you feel me on this one?

Posted by Johnny at 1:21 PM | Permalink | Comments

he uses the bathroom but doesnt close the door
he hacks three times, loudly, the sound of prevomit
when the mouth floods with hot spit, and the jaw loosens.
he pees. no vomit. this happens in the morning
typically, it wakens you just enough so you can choose sleep,
this time though it's 1:30 a.m., it jars you, the hacking
the idea of the hacking, the potential for vomit
the sound of liquid splashing the tin sink
violently, with force. he only hacks
your bed is hot, you uncover, but too much
and chills start at your lower back, shimmying down your legs.
he does not flush. he leaves the light on,
he walks heavily away, the floor shakes with each step.
your teeth clench. your fists press into the bed.
you are incapable of love.
you are barely capable of sex.
it is 1:35 when you turn the light on.

Posted by Johnny at 2:45 AM | Permalink | Comments

after the break up.
what a way to start.
after the break up.

look, i left you hard, like an open handed hit, caught awkwardly first on the edge of the jaw, then pulled quickly across the face. I left you like that. hard. because i stopped, right then, caring. i started the biggest "art" project of my life, to become a stupid faggot. and here i sit almost two years later at 2:20 am on my roomate's bed, anxiety ridden over money, biting my nails, literally biting my nails, the curtain-dimmed-streetlights and early morning truck/taxi/streetperson sounds falling in through the thin plastic windows. Yeah I'm alive and dumb. Today I became a wizard, truly, I decided that I didn't know a thing about me, or my future (how vague, how vague) and that my body was like magic, it could turn into money if I let it, while I have it. So I couldn't stop smiling. And now though it's just a few hours before I have to get up and shave my face, and shower, and put on make up so I can ride a midday bus full of fags and free booze to a resort where I'll lipsynch poolside to some awful musics that I only perform as an act of torture on my audience, and I guess myself). I'm awake and thinking that maybe even though I'm a wizard with no future and no identity, maybe I just came back to me, to three years ago before the project, before the dumbing down, and the stupifying. Maybe I'm back to there. To some kind of real place, some kind of place where I care, and by care I mean, like not out of anxiety of compulsion (vague vague vague) but out of actual interest. Because I can stand myself, and being alone with me.
Which is funny bc becoming a stupid faggot has made me rather alone, despite my inability to cope with being alone. Do you get what I'm saying?
Ok. So you are still there, and I want back at you. I want back at the interestingness. Not because it's better or more actual or more real than this "stupid faggot" thing/life, but because it's just where I come from. From you. Get it now? Will you take me back? Can I cross over?
Can I?

Posted by Johnny at 2:19 AM | Permalink | Comments