Posted 8:18 PM by melanie

STILL, STEAL, STEEL:

Two hours of oral sex versus 15 years or more of nightmares. I got raped a long time ago. It was a stupid situation. My friend and I were set up. She was lucky enough to pass out and they wanted someone awake and alert for their fun.

I was 15 and I can still replay it in my head. Four grown men did this to me. I can still feel the fear and taste the bile in my throat and I can still see the knife. I can’t remember what the men looked like but I could identify that knife to this day. It wasn’t penetration, it was forced oral sex.

When I remember the incident or something brings it to my attention, I ritualistically vow to myself that it will never happen again. This time I’ll kill them. I’ll injure them. They will loose an appendage. I tell myself that I am old and mean and the next one better watch out.

Wait a minute. I’m not violent. I don’t hurt people. Why should I feel like this, this was 20 years ago, and I still think about it. Tears still come to my eyes and I don’t trust men and I don’t trust myself.

They could have killed me.

Years later a bunch of tornadoes swept through the town where this attack took place and people died and I remember thinking and praying, “Dear God, please let these men be in the path of those storms.” and then I stopped myself and felt guilty, guilty at wanting justice so bad that I could watch a weather report and pray, I mean really pray, that one of their houses was one of the ones destroyed and hoping beyond all hope that they died and that they suffered.

The tornadoes were a wake up call for me 15 years later and I still can’t come to terms with something that happened when I was 15 and stupid and young and dumb and I hate myself. I hate myself for putting myself in a situation like that. They were strangers, my friend and I were drinking and we were going to get high with them at the time. I guess we deserved it and we didn’t report it. My friend didn’t wake up till after the assault and they didn’t bother her, I guess they wanted someone who was aware of the fun they were having.

I still feel revulsion, I still feel violated, I still feel responsible, I still feel hurt and sad.

It lasted less than two hours, 20 years ago and I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth, I still can feel the knife at my throat, and it never ends, never.

I got lifetime of feeling like this .

They got nothing.

Posted 6:24 AM by melanie

One more thing, to the elitist bitches that live in Baton Rouge, proceed cautiously to your glass houses, as the rock throwing and mud slinging will begin, shortly. The villagers are gathering outside your stately mansions and another Huey Long ain’t far behind.


{{{{{{{Understand that dignity is an important part of my nursing and theme of my existence. I don't believe in Karma because if there were Karma then I would have received the same competent care that I have provided to others, but then I have to admit since giving birth to my son at Earl K. Long (before I became a nurse) that I have always used their poor standards of providing health care as an example of how not behave towards my patients. After tending numerous births in another state I realized that it was not normal for the nursing staff to curse at you while in labor ( to the staff on duty at Earl K Long in 1987; I am not a fucking bitch (your words) and I will never shut the fuck up). If Baton Rouge produces snipers, taliban members, and serial killers then maybe, just maybe, they need to look at the way they treat women, children, minorities, and members of the working class.}}}}}}}}

Posted 5:50 AM by melanie

One of the most devastating things that has happened to me in recent memory has been the outright bald faced attacks on my reputation which I know to some is practically nonexistent, anyway. I spent 10 years struggling, working, scrubbing toilets, and wiping asses only to be told that I had never worked. I was called names and was sneered at by people claiming to represent me.

Growing up the hard way is still growing up. Years of being the sole support of a child and of attending school and professional conferences and having references and documentation as to my where about didn’t seem to matter.

I spent my time engaged in work, school, raising my son, or engaged in my favorite past time of constantly work shopping and going to readings and concerts, but that didn’t stop them from imagining something quite different. If you think you know someone at 17 then trust me by the time most of us, and I know not all of us, reach 35, we have gone through some growth processes.

If I spent my time well, while nine out of ten didn’t, then don’t fault me for it. If my loves were real, if my maternal instinct was real, if my time I spent nursing and at college was real, and if it makes you angry that a nothing like me, someone who should probably have given up, Oded, or been sent to prison decades ago to prove you right, then I want you to know that:

I did it to piss you off, I did it to prove you wrong, I did it because THE BEST REVENGE IS TO LIVE WELL and I will continue to improve, to further my education, and I will never, ever give up.

Posted 4:58 AM by melanie

@}---------------
I found this one last year in a family bible. I didn’t know that he had written it. It was written on the back of a letter ( I had never turned the letter over or seen it until then) with an envelope postmarked Denver in 1991. I tried to get in touch with him in 2001 after I read this poem and I found out that he had died of a heart attack in 1994. He was only 33. He wrote it to me and our son.


NO more Games or Realization Finally-
(A Prayer)

Realization, Finally!

There I was out on the road
Lonely and cold with nowhere to go
Then came trouble
I went out with ones I thought were my friends
Said the fun never ends
I don’t know where it began
And my Mamma said
“Jesus died on that tree for you and for me
So that we could be free and live eternally”
Now I’ve had a rough time
All through my life
I got in fights with my wife
Who gave me a son
Such a beautiful one
And that’s when I began
To know what love Is
This next part might not all rhyme
But I’ve decided it’s time
To put God in my life
And I pray that my son and my wife
Are together and safe
Wherever they may be
And that they may find God, too
And I pray that we get back together
And be a real family
Soon.

R. Zetzer (03-1961) to (09-1994)

Posted 4:14 AM by melanie

I said a while back that I had some of Ric’s poetry. Here’s one. He wrote this one in jail. His Mother said there are more verses to it. This is what I have. Most of what he wrote had music, too. Unfortunately, I don’t have that.

Trip Through the Lair

I write a million letters
I never get replies
There are few familiar faces
in this little world of lies.

Shadows dim of strangers
And long forgotten fears
Once considered dangerous
over many, many years.



Silver rings of Purgatory
Set inside a rock
The years blend together differently
My God unplug this clock

Another screaming metaphor
Running in the night
With Armageddon's door ajar
And God's eternal light.


A martyr played the odds again
I never won a hand
Now I’m a stationary traveler
In never, never land.

R. Zetzer ( 03-1961) to (09-1994)

Posted 4:33 AM by melanie

I found this on the net about R's Grandfather, Ed (my son's) Great Grandfather, John Zetzer. It's seems funny that I met R at a nightclub just outside of Hot Springs. I have friends that are pilots and I drive by the airport all the time. When we went to Port Clinton this summer R's brother showed us the Garage where they cut up the car. Actually it wound up in a river and not in the lake.
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All about Alvin Karpis and the Barker Gang by Richard Kudish.htm


After the raid, searching for Karpis and Hunter, they did an enormous amount of canvassing at local tourist camps in the area, interviewing people in Hot Springs, and listing the damages they inflicted upon the house. It must have been galling. The agents conducted an extensive investigation at the Hot Springs airport interviewing the airport authorities and others about the private plane flights of Karpis and Hunter. The Bureau had also grilled Zetzer, the pilot from Cleveland who had flown the fugitives from Ohio to Hot Springs after the train robbery.



“The postal people got in on the act, and it didn’t take them long to trace the money back to Ohio. They grilled Burrhead, and he told them about Brock and the train robbery. They got their hands on Brock, and he really sang. He confessed to them about Edith Barry’s whorehouse in Toledo, about how it was a traditional hideout, and all the details of the train heist, including the part about my plane trip from Ohio to Hot Springs. That information brought the postal cops and the FBI into Arkansas in greater numbers than ever before.”
However, Karpis paid the pilot of the small plane used in the getaway, a man named Zetzer, to cut apart the car with torches and then sink it in Lake Erie. Zetzer was known as a “crackerjack” pilot, and he smuggled liquor in from Canada during Prohibition. The FBI memos during this stage often have the fugitives’ cars identified and Karpis is just as often trading in the car and buying a new one, or abandoning the vehicle. Sometimes doing so in a rural area, with the motor running, so when found without gas lawmen might conclude they were on foot in the vicinity.

Posted 5:15 AM by melanie

Posted 5:15 AM by melanie
You know, it has occurred to me today, as I think of the passing of my friend that some people assume that because you may choose to live in the country and work withthe elderly and that you do this because you couldn’t hack it anywhere else and that’s not true.I like working with elderly, although I prefer working with one patient at a time and one of the most enjoyable things that I may do on the job is walking with an elderly lady and perusing flowers and learning the names of every wild flower and variety of herb in her garden. The fact that she may have Alzheimer’s does not lesson the wisdom or the truth of her nature walk, as I become someone who learn and not just a caretaker.Some of us would rather work in a way that allows us to stop and smell the roses, to quote a favorite cliché.I have watched the guys behind the garbage truck. They run, grab, and dump, whistling in between stops, oblivious of the traffic behind them with a soda, and they don’t seem unhappy. Reminding you that no matter what life brings you, it is always what you make it. Your attitude makes up your happiness.

Posted 11:08 AM by melanie

RITALIN
(for eddie)

You are a ship
trapped in a medicine bottle.
Your sails will never catch the wind under glass,
stiff riggings,
no salt air.

Placed on a shelf.
They put a
a plastic
childproof cap
on your daydreams.

For a dollar a day.
You are time released to go off
when you reach age eighteen.

Mel (1996)

Posted 9:02 AM by melanie

Once again I must warn you how easily fiction weaves in with autobiographical material which by it’s very nature is often misleading or biased or as a former instructor, Dr J taught me, “for a work to truly be autobiography and nonfiction, then a life story would have to last a lifetime and none of us have time for that.”

Posted 8:43 PM by melanie

So we made the national spotlight, again.

I say a lot negative things about Baton Rouge.

I am bitter about my childhood, and about being made an object, even to this day, of ridicule and scorn over something that I could not help and something that I cannot change.

The town itself isn’t responsible for this. It’s sad to say that it could have happened anywhere and does. I am nothing special. Children are cruel and often grow into crueler adults. That’s just the way it is.

There are certain things that I think about when the name Baton Rouge is mentioned, like the rolling green lawns of the State Capital grounds and a childhood spent climbing in the branches of it’s oak trees and playing hide seek in the bushes and picking illegal flowers from the gardens. The smell and taste of crawfish boiling at the Country Corner on Perkins Road. Dancing in the streets with a bass playing blind friend named Joel while listening to Marcia Ball. The way we all gather peacefully into a multi cultural, multi racial, and multi class, group when we hold a festival and how everyone smiles and chats and dances and eats. It’s not such a bad place, at least the people aren’t all bad.

Posted 6:59 AM by melanie

My crack is the Internet. My dealer picks up his cut once a month. People sometimes have misconceptions about me or over assume too much. I find that my keyboard is a very convenient drug delivery system. If the keys should start smoking when I am on a roll then don‘t worry reader there is a fire extinguisher present at all sessions.





Did I mention that he was a drummer (he could also play the piano, the guitar, and any instrument he looked at) and a very good one. He said he had perfect timing, certainly when he was a club DJ in Baton Rouge at the Texas Dance Hall for the two years he worked there he was one of the best. He could go from dance to country and back again.

When we lived in San Bernardino he would spin records at a club in Rialto and whatever band that played that week would let him sit in for a session on the drums.

We made awesome friends the short time we spent in San Berdo with likes of Buddy Reed, a friend of the legendary Muddy Waters (for the uninitiated the West Coast has an awesome blues scene) Donna Justice who had the most pure blues voice on a woman I ever heard. I went with her when she sang with Rod Piazzo at the Sunset Club who has the best blues band anywhere.

I got pregnant and wanted to come home to Baton Rouge where we met Mark and Mike Rogers the owners of Texas Club and Ric’s friends. Our best day there was my due date with Ed. It was also the day Johnny Winter came town and needless to say baby had to wait to be born.

Posted 4:14 PM by melanie

This year when I took him to meet his father’s family for the first time and they welcomed and made him feel special, even with sadness of visiting Ric’s grave, I saw in my son’s eyes that same look of innocent joy and happiness that I saw in his very first smile. It's the naive, joyous kind of happiness that we all loose as we grow older. I am so glad I got to see it in his eyes one more time. I hope he never looses it.

Posted 9:12 AM by melanie

Now, I’m blogging again and I am tired of talking about Ric, not really tired, as in, bored, but tired as in, it’s too much emotional baggage right now. It’s more than I am prepared to handle. You can put your feelings behind you and they still come with you. I didn’t know this. Chalk it up to experience.


(We traveled a thousand miles
To visit a hometown
that wasn’t mine
To take my son to visit the grave
of a father that he never really knew)


After Ohio for Ric


Before we left Port Clinton.
Ed and I went to Ric’s grave.
We pushed back the stone
and left our armbands
from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,
a picture of Ed smiling with his new found cousins
and a bunch of Mardi Gras beads
from a New Orleans parade
Ed wrote on the side of the tombstone,
“Daddy I love you“.
It felt strange to leave him there
it was sooo unRiclike
to be reduced to a formal name
on a gray piece of stone,
I was glad we jazzed it up for him.

Mel Zetzer

Posted 9:06 PM by melanie

We named our son after both of his grandfathers. Both died before he was born and we thought that if we gave him their names then he could always have them with him. I had never seen a picture of Ric’s father, and until recently, although I have heard stories about him and even heard a tape of him telling a joke. He was a part time DJ (yes, he loved music as much as Ric) who owned the Bowling Alley in Ric's hometown and he was a big Elvis fan (I saw pictures of Ric and his brother outside of the gates of Graceland, taken before Elvis died) and now I have a picture of him on my wall for Ed.

It’s funny but in the picture he is a smiling young man with the same beguiling eyes that made me fall for his son. I never met him and I’ll never see Ric alive again, but you know they are so much a part of my life, now.

Ed’s grandmother was the sweetest lady and reminded me so much of my own mother, her age and even her furniture and style of decorating was a lot like my family ( she had lots of antiques and tons of pictures and china with gold edged bowls and depression ware) I think it was no accident that Ric and I got along so well.

Father’s are important, even if they are not around, and for anyone to think that they aren't is unrealistic.

Hindsight is like watching a news reel and knowing what will happen next and wanting to change it and knowing you could fix everything, but being helpless to affect the outcome.

I want so badly to fix things. I know what I could do now to make it different. I have maturity on my side. I didn’t have it then. I was dumb and young and he started drinking and I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I thought he would come to his senses, maybe go to AA (I think he would have, had he lived) He was so smart and funny and talented and he had worked hard all his life.

He didn’t live long enough to make things right. I don’t know how to explain this, but days turned into months, months into years, and I got really busy . I got my Nursing license and continued in college. I was busy and I literally ran from place to place, meeting to meeting, job to job, sometimes I was so tired I couldn’t even eat dinner without falling asleep in the middle of it.

I just didn’t notice time passing, if I had, then I know I would have realized that he should have shown up by now. I never went after him for support. I didn’t want him to go jail and I knew if he could have sent us money, then he would have, and anyway I was making it without him. Now, I wonder, if I had been more diligent and made him pay support, would that would have saved him?

His heart gave out because he was drinking and his roommate had kicked him out (he was sleeping in a car) and he got pneumonia and he died. He was so far away from his family in Ohio and so far away from me. It happened all the way out in California. Those people didn’t know him or love him like his family. Here I am a nurse, and I didn’t even know it was taking place. I would have liked the chance to nurse him back to health. I feel responsible for this. I feel bad, like if I had kicked his butt and made him do what was right way back then, then maybe he would be alive. Maybe………………………………......

(I am being self indulgent right now and I know it. I just can’t get this idea out of head. I am no angel and I’ve had my problems too, maybe I was too hard on him or maybe I was not hard enough. I wish I could roll that reel back and make things different)

It isn't all sad. I met his family and they were wonderful. Ed and I moved a lot and they didn't know how to get in touch with us when he died.

Last year I was going through a box of books, and in a family bible that belonged to my mother I found and poem and a letter that R had snuck in somehow.He wrote it Shortly after Ed was born. I didn't know it was in there and I had never read the message or the poem.

It was so loving and sweet that I started going through the process of trying to find him, never expecting to find out that he had died.

I'll share that later. I feel sad right now.

Posted 3:02 PM by melanie

This is about genes, DNA, and the powerful pull of heredity. I had never met any member of Ric’s family and knew them only through brief phone conversations after Ed’s birth and what I remembered that Ric had said about them.

It was a surreal experience for us all when Ed and I came to Port Clinton. It was very comfortable with no awkward moments or lulls in the conversation. I had already come to know them through raising Ed and they were instantly taken with us after meeting him.

His Mother wrote me after our visit that it was the most amazing event in her life. We were never strangers. So many quirks, habits, and personality traits that I had become used to over the years were the embodiment of their family.

My son is 15 and I hadn’t spoken to them in at least 13 years. I haven’t spoken to Ric since about a year and half before his death 1994.

I want to say more. It is hard to explain, but we knew each other. It was incredible.

I learned so much about my son in this visit. I’ll come back to this later when the words come to me. It was awe-inspiring.

[The tale of the family is a whole other story, complete with a gangster grandfather (John Zetzer, a pilot who helped Karpis escape Hoover back in the 1930's) we got a tour of the old hideouts.]

Posted 5:24 PM by melanie

I guess what I want to talk about is Ric, my son’s father. How we met; what happened and why we didn’t stay together. I am not sure about any of this.

My father had died and I needed a friend when I met Ric. I had one of those disagreeably, dysfunctional, eccentric (never say crazy, darlin) southern families. We had Azalea bushes, instead of picket fences, and our grass in typical Louisiana fashion was greener than the grass in most other places.

My oldest brother died a James Dean death, on a borrowed motorcycle, clad in black leather at 17 years old, complete with a long line of weeping teenage girlfriends. I was only seven, so I never really got to know him. My other older brother, who is now doing a long stretch in prison, was 12 and he took full advantage of the death of my oldest brother and could pummel me into submission without my bodyguard around, anymore. I don’t want to bore you or traumatize you with the excruciating details of this right now.

After the death of my dad, our anchor, we all (my family) drifted between Louisiana and Arkansas (we had property in both states) and my other brother (the one who lived) started taking advantage of my mother. He was stealing money, checks, and stuff like that and my Mom wouldn’t listen to me, and the people we knew didn’t know the scope of it (they wouldn't listen to me either). He was very abusive with her and she would lie and hide it. I couldn’t stand to watch it.

I was 18 and I had the world by my tail (didn't know it at the time,sigh) like most people at 18 do. My Dad always had said that 'I was like a sore tail bob cat when I was mad' and he’d warn all my boyfriends, that he wasn't worried about me with them, he was more worried about them with me. Ric never met my father so he wasn’t forewarned.

One night about a year after my father died, my Mom and me went out dancing at a honky-tonk on the edge of Hot Springs called the Rhinestone. Ric was the club DJ. He was about 6’1, 24 years old, and he looked like the blonde guy from the Dukes of Hazard. He was gorgeous and he carried around a guitar and could sing and play like Buddy Holly. I was in love; I mean, big time IN LOVE. Of course he didn’t have any money, or a car, or anything like that, but you know, you don’t let things like that stop you when you are that young. He had the bluest eyes and the curliest blonde hair and he knew me, every inch. He was from Ohio and he knew so much and he seemed so worldly to me (Hell he‘d even lived in Cleveland). He knew the words to every Elvis song and could sing them, too. What else could a lonely girl from Baton Rouge want in a fellow?




I digress, I still can't believe he is dead. He was so alive. He was 33 and he died. I really, really thought I'd see him, again. He had had his problems, but he was basically a good guy. He loved. He loved everything. He loved his music and his DJ name was Rock and Roll Ric or Rockin Ricky. He was on the radio for awhile here in Hot Springs when our son was still a baby.

He didn't seem like the kind of person you could think of as dead, but you know then again, in retrospect, he didn't seem like the kind of person who would ever get old, either.

It feels weird to be old with a ghost sitting on my shoulder. I have a picture on my wall, now. It's a blown up snap shot. Ric's mom gave it to me. They said it was in his wallet when they went to identify the body. He's holding our son and they are both staring at the camera and he has tears in his eyes (Ric) and he's biting his lip to keep from crying. I remember taking it and remember him crying. Now, he stares at me in this photograph, holding his baby son, a son he never got to know, a son he never saw again after the age of three and I wonder what makes things like this happen. W*H*Y does it have to be like this? Now I'm crying, so I have to go. I'll be back later to talk to myself, again.

Damn, I love life, and I hate at the same time.



Added on 12-10-02 More of my thoughts

[ I drive by the club where he used to work every night. It is ironic, but I was once kicked off the dance floor of this club for dancing to risqué. Ric played Jerry Lee Lewis Whole Lotta Shaking Going On for me and we shook it, he left the DJ booth and we danced and then we got down. I’m from Louisiana, so I didn’t know that I was doing anything unusual, but when we started shaking and shimmying, lower and lower (one of my boobs mighta gotten loose for a minute) and then owner came over and pulled me off the dance floor and said “We don’t allow that kinda dancin in here Missy”

What’s ironic about the story? This was years ago and it is now a Strip Club and every time I drive by, I think about the night I was too much for the place (much to much). Bet I wouldn't be now.]

Posted 4:05 PM by melanie

I had a difficult time this summer. I found out that my son's father had passed away at the young age of 33. He died in 1994 and no one knew how to get in touch with us. These next pieces are just my attempt to make some sense out of everything that happened. Please bear with me. I know it needs some work. The first one is one I wrote after I found out he had died and the following is about my trip with my son to his hometown to meet the family and visit his grave. More will follow. I need to get this out. I have some poetry that he wrote (Ric) as well and I will publish it on following days. He was a talented poet, songwriter, singer and bottle washer. This is all I can do for him. (with love)

To Rick

I should have married you that day.
We broke down on the way to Vegas in Victorville, California.
To me it was a sign
that things might go
wrong and not be right.
And years later it never was
meant to be
and it is now
something that never happened.

Years separate
miles of pavement in hot July sun
baking the desert
and gentle rolling hills rising from interstate overpasses.


The green charger
mint car
over heated
and stopped us
That night we made love
on the roof
of an old building
On Ave E in
San Bernardino.
The next day we sat on the steps and watched
the Thunderbirds roar overhead.
Nights later, we lay in the sand in the high desert
And watched falling stars.

We had a son and drifted apart.

Years went by.

Alone in layers of abandoned clothing
You wore yourself for the last time
Next to the tracks
With a bunch of vagrants,
In a lonely hospital room
Where know one knew you.



Mel for R. Zetzer/Rock and Roll Ric (02-20-2002)


Thoughts on the trip to Port Clinton.

Ed and I rode the Jet express from Port Clinton to Put-n-Bay as the boat sliced across the waters and I stared at the horizon alternating with the wake of the boat on Lake Erie, the sun was in my eyes and the wind blew my hair beating against my cheeks in a wild pattern, Ed, tapped me on the shoulder and hugged me, before darting up the stairs to talk to a pretty redheaded girl of sixteen, I looked back at the water and the houses that lined the banks of the tiny islands as we sped past, I felt the spray of the water and looked at the faint traces of the Canadian shore and it occurred to me how lucky I was to be there. That if I had never had a ‘Ric’ in my life that I would not have a laughing teenage son one deck above me, that I never would have ridden a ferry, or stared at the blue waters of Lake Erie; the wind continued to blow my hair in a carefree way and I talked the sky, and the lake, and the wake of the boat, and the seagulls trailing along, and the houses that lined the shores, and boats docked in the harbor. I spoke to the sky and the spirit that was Ric and I said, "Thank You, thank you so much for giving me all of this beauty and this healthy son and the chance to be here on your turf" and then I knew that it was all meant to be, it was so obvious, that I almost missed it. God is easy to see, so easy that sometimes we overlook the blessings that are abundant in our lives. My trek, my journey, my visit, my pilgrimage to Port Clinton to Lake
Erie. It was all there and so was he. I love you Ric. I love you Ed and I will always love you both, always.

another version
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My first real attempt at poetry (Ginsberg liked this one) from years back (1992) from my workshop experience at LSU with Andrei and the gang. (nice people) I have been doing alot of soul searching since then.

Your Dick

Your dick was so fine.
Your dick was circumcised.
Your dick was a gun without a holster.
Your dick had a Star of David painted on the end.
Your dick was Jewish.
Your dick was a fine old
Cadillac surrounded by today’s subcompacts.
Your dick was a collector’s item.
Your dick was an Edsel.
Your dick.

I brushed your dick off my teeth this morning
puckering as I tasted your lemon.
I spit your dick down my drain
frothy and white with my toothpaste.
I washed your dick off the insides off my thighs.
Your dick was still sticky in my jeans.
Your dick was on my hand towel in my bathroom.
Your dick was on my bathroom rug.
I spent all my quarters for laundry money
just trying to wash away your dick.

I tried to replace your dick on my clit.
I licked my fingers while masturbating,
and I still tasted you guessed it
Your dick.

I douched and then your dick tasted like vinegar on my fingers.

I washed and washed my hands
trying to wash away the smell of your dick.
I will not be making meatloaf tonight.

Your dick is shaped like my Christmas tree
thick at the bottom with a star on the top.
I decorated your dick with Christmas balls.

what do I need with penis envy?
everything in my house is your dick.

Your dick is my neighbor
I only say hi to on odd occasions.
Your dick left my building without telling me.
Your dick still owes me rent.
Your goddamned dick.

Your dick was crafty your dick knew my score.
Your dick wasn't a virgin.
Your dick was the key to my backdoor.
Your dick.
Your dick.
Your dick.
Your goddamned dick.

melanie


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First Post
A Stoner thought at 10 PM on a Friday (hiccupp) Night.


I guess one of my goals in writing is to be brutally honest and truthful even at my own expense. I want to expose every raw emotion and human frailty, mostly my own. If the reader laughs when perhaps they feel they shouldn’t then my answer would be an affirmative. Go for it. I’m smiling at the ignorance of living in the here and now and that’s the way it should be. If someone becomes offended then I think they should be. Hate me, revile me, whatever, but understand my primary concern is to push the First Amendment as hard as I can. To bang at it as though it were a large stone tablet seemingly oblivious to the pounding of my furious tiny fist. Like a door meant only for the elite, but open to us all with an awareness that any of us can be knocked over with the flick of some twit's wrist as an obvious irritant, an inflamed pulsing vein on the ass of the Supreme Court, not even important enough to be considered, merely another screaming voice in the cacophony with all the joy and pleasure (I get off on this. I’m weird) and as rambunctious as I can still muster. A crowd scene, if you will, in the privacy of my own room, hitting on flies and stomping on roaches as I write. I do it because I can and because I am curious and want to see how far I can take it within my own set of strictures and morals, yet never backing away from what I see to be real even if its not a part of the cultural mores of the day. Even if you hate me then I’ve had some effect and achieved some measure of promoting our baser primal urges that take us finally back to what it is to be human.