my new column for a website...

title: "Feeling"

"Its so stupid feeling like - you care about someone, despite yourself.
You know what I’m talking about. Remember? Its like you make this totally valiant effort NOT to - and its still there… your heart beating - needing it; needing love. The heart, oh my, this poor dear will latch onto anyone who so much as regularly shines a smile its way. The childish immature being - all it wants you to do is dream away, to imagine beautiful tomorrows, without regard to what YOU’d like to do or feel.
You’ve been there, man.
Perhaps you want to relax at home, take a bath, watch some basketball on TV - and suddenly that need, the sickness comes over you. "Where is she?" … ooooh "Where is he?" We wonder. We scratch our head. Grimace - hey, its not MY problem, not my concern. Hey, my FRIEND can do whatever she wants!… whatever he wants. I don’t care, and CAN’T care for these three very specific reasons - He’s slow. He’s - I don’t know - too old. And… he’s my dad’s brother… yes! That’s right - this can’t work… You know - she’s my roommate’s girlfriend… giving me the eye - in my own head. Staring, licking her lips; her wet pout driving me to… arhhhhg. What to do to forget?
Fuck.
That’s what I’ve been trying to do - just to relax, to forget,
to waste away the evening
in joyful meditation contemplation relaxation.
Yes - slipping deeper into the luxurious bubbles, popping open another can of bud as you settle deeper into the couch… a touch of lavender incense; the ashtray gloriously full with a fat J gently resting on top, and your pack of Camels lying byside. Baby, you’re all set! That’s right
- you are ready, to be yourself, to be comfortable and content watching those darn Lakers three-peat in the NBA Playoffs… breathing deeply the perfumes in the air, mmmmhhhmmmmm - and what’s that right there?
Oh… mmmwouldn’t it be nice… if the door opened and she walked in. No words would be needed - no gestures - he’d simply know what it is that I need… his touch, the succulent taste of her mouth, on mine. My hands on their back… feel fingers in my hair, sweetness in my limbs, numbness in my thoughts - the blow!
Ow!… Fuck!
What the fuck?
God, I don’t NEED to torture myself like this over someone who means nothing to me.
What purpose do these sick fantasies hold do you think? Is there any reasonable purpose?
When its no good, totally useless to imagine…
The taste, skin feel, the breath… Breath - yes... fuck, forgetting to breathe, I’m drowning wallowing in this ache, in this torturous muddy mess.
All I wanted was to chill - get stoned, watch TV, and forget to think about her - but I fucking can’t forget. Its a sickness that grips my retard of a heart - my moron of a heart - my absolute Tolstoy village idiot of a motherfucker - that beats like a Brazilian drum at the very idea of the sweet deep thought of him.

In,

within,

my heart beats - and I’m out here, trying to reason with the fucker."