bumblefuck a new spelling of my name
Ed and I have made elderberry bourbon. Which is to say that I’ve purchased Buffalo Trace and dumped it in a flask with purple elderberries(not to be confused with Huckleberries) that he picked on a camping trip. It feels slightly hippy. It feels like a nice variation on what I’ve already been doing which is the same but different. I email the first two pages to my writer friend Cameron. He tried to live here but couldn’t because who could? He, me. The dicks in mouths and asses. We tried we really did. But. You know. The human mind can only withstand so much before it goes to pudding. Jello shit pudding being shilled by Bill Cosby as he date raped women. That type of thing. So Cam flew off to LA where the cement is ugly enough to pillow the cheek. And I stayed here and I will stay here until this is done. And then I will go to live in a cottage on the coast where the trees are bent from the wind and the suicide rate is the highest in the country. Home is where the heart is. And this is where I will go. Because I’m tired. I’m tired and I can’t find the energy to translate myself into a language that can be digested like breast milk. I am gibberish. And I don’t have a dictionary to hand out.
A month ago before Cam flew out on his bevy of Lyfts and stolen toothpaste I wrote down a couple of pages of what my brain looked like. Felt like. Was like half the time. And I’d like to share them with you so maybe if you, perhaps maybe you understand that I understand you. Then you and me we can speak face to face. And nod and commiserate and maybe seesaw. Because I’m writing this for you. The you who has been there. The you who knows. The you who wants to be seen.
So this is me. This was me. This is you. Maybe you.
Bumblefuck (The voice in my head): I used to walk around folded like an inverted origami. Neck, beak and feather tucked between my knees Honk. Gork. Snork. A language the seesaw and swings did not understand. But sometimes the merry-go-round once flung to the wind could spin a wing and i could see heaven i could see hell. I always wanted to tell Jane that when she threw balls to Spot. The dog. The very nice dog. Well when she threw them it was Loyfn. Lauf. Correr. Pick. Cock. Penis. Pee-pee. Wee-wee. Things that are not nice balls. Things that do not bounce. Things that go bump in the night. Hands the size of baseball mitts. Captain Crunch and cheerios. Spit on the finger before sliding it into the too small space in the rolls of baby fat and mall rats. The 80’s were really something. Moonwalks and Michael Jackson. Priests blessing boys before bending them over the alter. Eucharist. Blood of my blood straight from the sippy cup. Mickey Mouse. Donald Duck.
Translation: You should never sex a child if you want them to believe in Jesus. And for another god damned mother fucking thing leave santa clause the fuck out of this conversation leave out the fact that you’ve been stuffing the stocking with our magic pussy because the first time it happened you saw fireworks but it wasn’t the 4th of July or the 17 Bicentennial is was hurty stars. Stars the kind that pop behind your eyeballs when the hurt drips from your asscrack. He’s hanging on the wall my plastic Jesus and feeling the piercing goes hand in hand with watching paint dry or skateboarding with your teeth. But mostly it’s the sushi belly cut just below the mushroom button clit that lends itself to removing your voice from the box. Dadda. Mama. Rotten bananas. Oh well that was not a good attempt at translation for my brain waves.
But you see how this goes. My brain. You see how it might be hard to function in a linear world of Max Trains and law school.
Rattletrap (The other voice in my head): I’m ruled by my snithcy snatch. The other kids are pinks and blues. Boys and girls. Sugar and spice. Puppydog tails. Me I’m scooting on a boys bike because the cold metal bone of that finger feels like home on the range. I rock my horse back and forth. My saddle is a brick brack macrame thing. It reminds me of the mobile of spinning teddy bears. My little sister sleeps in that crib now. I get sick just watching them bobble looking down with glass eyes. Me looking up with like hazel lids. I don’t know why a baby toy would make me sweaty and full of red headed clowns with big feet. They talk in my sleep with ziggles and zaggles and rock that is fraggle but doesn’t match my rusty rattle. I would play battleship but when Jane says b12 over and down I Zorro hip to hip. Blading myself open. Jawing on stones. Bleeding until my mouth is full of salt.
Translation: This voice in my head that talks to Jane makes me look crazy. But it’s a clinical thing if you really think about it. It happens when your head is the tower of Babel and every time you learn a word that makes sense to you. Well. Then. No one else knows what the literal fucking aaaccchh you’re saying. It’s like a tine can lingo. Garp. Ferkbubme. Jaberwocki. It hurts when I walk. It squeeks if I tiptoe something like chicken between the teeth. That meaty tweak of chewed muscle. Rubberband sheets. Close. Th. Door. Stop. Hide and seek. Tuesday’s panties were always purple. It’s almost cliche the way we react these days to what grown assed men and women do to little children. They do. What they do? They do it. Say it. Say what they do. Say what he did. Well how do I put this nicely for a nice G rating. Grapes in a bowl. Apples you paint in still life. He. Well he. What he did was. He did. What he did was put his fingers there. Yes that’s a start. And his fingers were the size of logs. The size of roman pillars. Wait. Stop. How can I say this so you won’t look away? How can I say this and you will still love me? I think I will stop here. I’ll just stop. But no maybe but no.
