Quantifying the Rock

I spoke with a friend of mine, a Phd student of economics at American University about our mutual lack of desire for a romantic relationship, yet our equal interest in those of others. I explained to him that a friend of mine was upset because her boyfriend had never had sex before her. She was annoyed that she was his only experience.

"Is the sex bad?" I asked her.

"It's amazing".

Isn't that strange? I asked my friend on the phone. Strange that the relationship is perfect and the sex is great yet somehow she's bothered that he's "without experience".

"Exchange theory" I said, "we value difficulty. Rare things are valuable like diamonds for example. Sure they have warehouses full of the things but the market is controlled to make them seem less common and for because of that they're desirable and expensive".

My friend was quiet for a moment and thought about it, "but if he's never had sex before her wouldn't that make him more valuable, rare, and more important?" He asked. I thought about it.

"No. No, because men cannot have sex whenever they want. They are like rocks. Women can have sex whenever they want and in the world of sex they are diamonds. So, for a man to have 'tried and failed' that is not 'rare or desirable'. In fact it's sad. If we wanted to quantify love the only way to do it is by partners. Men who have had many partners are more successful, more unique, it quantifies their characters strengths, and because men don't come by sex nearly as easy as women potentially could their value goes up. However, women can have sex any moment of their life with most people they would like and therefore the desired number is lower, which shows they are difficult. All difficult things are desired."

"Did you compare men to rocks"

"Yes, it's a decent comparison. I use it frequently".

"Dick".

"in fact...that's why you value our friendship".

"Difficulty?"

"Yes. Rocks are always pursuing the diamonds. Way of the world".

Just felt like posting this! Happy holidays, writers!

Untouched Thoughts

I sing to the ground, the cold blanket you claim.

Grass and maggot, your halo-- I press my face against your button, pebbles pock my cheek, we are united like the Sunday comfort of couch and soft snoring.

You were tired then, as I am tired now, but were you so tired of living?

I disgrace your name, the one I hold spiritually between my birth and submission to a life I never wanted. But I hear you always wanted the best, worked to death; now I work to forget that I want to die like you. A reunion in memory of someone I forget. You are no longer my mother in times of anger.

An orphan to time, the way it's stripped me of my youth. I am constantly naked, propped as prey, my only place. I knew you just as well as I know myself. Put together by assumption, my consumption the measure of self-worth. There is no one here to keep my place on Earth. I wonder who will speak for me, as I speak for you. Will they put all the wrong words in my dry mouth?

Perhaps I've mistaken just who I thought you were.

The spirals I hide behind-- peer in, peer out. I hear I have your hair, your shape, the same taste in betrayal and self motivation. But I never want to wake, as I remember your morning routine. Wax on, wax off. The last time I saw you, your body was cast in wax. My lips touched your skin, gritty with morgue cosmetics. I couldn't grab your hand, it was cemented to your belly. I could have crawled into your bed then, like I did most nights, you'd lie exhausted, my memories of you always rushed.

Now I have no bed to return to, so I rush to another's. Pinched nerve, something intimate. I wake with contacts slunk in my sockets, the way another can weigh on your conscience. How heavy and dry has my memory of you become?

I wrote you a letter, slipped it into your casket. Now a time capsule, my roots in the Earth, your box. That was the day I buried my innocence. I live like the bitter taste black coffee leaves on the tongue. Caffeine makes me reel in discomfort, my heart beats too fast. No surgeon's hand could force your heart to start up again, for it was their own hand that stopped it. Their neglect, similar to your lover's.

Didn't you know there were others who loved you? Your own creation, a mirror of self. I hide from my reflection, as if by meeting my own eye I'd have to tell you the truth.

I'd forgotten how to love you.

Edoardo Sanguineti

Nicely done!

Ezra Pound canto LXV

Who says poets are out of touch and poetry useless?

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A poet poetizes

Mike Tyler performs.

A poet speaks

Short interview with New York performance poet and songwriter Mike Tyler--old friend of mine, strong influence, impossible to ignore, one worthy mofo.

Of Interest

http://www.nfb.ca/film/volcano 1976 Oscar-nominated Documentary on Malcolm Lowry, author of the story "Present Estate of Pompei" and, more importantly, the great, great novel Under the Volcano.

On-line Poetry Community

http://hellopoetry.com/