Hot Biker Chicks of Pinellas County

She approached with heavy Megan Fox-style panting, not a single wiggle to her lean profile, pushing a three-wheeled exercise stroller with two well-behaved younguns strapped in for the ride. Her smile fanned the driveway, holding my gaze, interrupting the fill of my bike tires prior to an inaugural ride. Her skin, a scintillating coat of sweat which made me consider, if I was to bite her right now, she’d taste like crispy salted caramel. She’s still smiling and I’m still checking her out. The left brain asks, “What does she want??” The right brain predicts, “My money says she’s a nanny!”

Caramel approached with the pram. She sexily exhaled as she pointed out the deflated front tire, and could I help her air it up? I scowl inside: she’s pulling the Hot Damsel In Distress on meeeeee? That’s my move! At least she’s close enough for me to admire her toned thighs and sculpted calves. Shoving kids on a run does wonders for the human form! Alas, no ass. That’s Jenga. Right brain concedes to left.

The way the tire pump latches is too bulky for the small tire space, plus the receiver is funnily angled. Not gonna ruin my equipment for a hot chick, so had to send Salted Caramel on her way. Graciously she thanked me, waving as she bounced off.

I can get used to the suburbs.


Credit: supertran.net

Credit: supertran.net

We’re two weeks out, and muscle memory has kicked the door down. I’m able to walk a mile with the Bobster and push two miles on the bike before my legs tire. At peak performance I was burning up cardio machines and playing in bike lanes for ten miles on average. We’re getting there people! Santiago’s Manolin springing forward.

That takes care of the physical development, but how about this big brain? The apathy I shared in my fisherman’s post has tempered a bit. Every day I sit at my laptop and excrete the garbage getting in the way of genuine reflection. In reflection lies the idea, strong enough to stir tangible thoughts and visceral reactions into typed or written form. Just like thigh muscles, brain muscle memory is quite possible; the gift isn’t lost it’s just not exercised enough. Finally, a pay off. I really like the idea presented in my documentary post! Needs rewriting, yes, needs more carrots or potatoes, maybe even some Texas Pete’s. I’ll keep adapting it; you’re welcome to offer suggestions as I clean up. So there’s good news; the creative cauldron is ready to cook in!

Spiritually I’m indulging on companionship and doing it healthily. It’s…nice…different in a good way…this pseudo-domestication that is cohabitation. Something about sharing a nap or a homecooked meal keeps the crazy kitties at bay, or at least, bothering someone else for now. Major Lazer was onto something when he produced “Lean On” wasn’t he?

&

The Most Dangerous Blog In The World

I have always been in love with O’Shea Jackson. The way he carried himself, that street-borne braggadocio mixed with literary genteel, a marred Dionysus not outdone by our screwed up society. The crushing weight of discrimination, heavy to bear, yet O’Shea kept his shoulders up, his head high, never quite frowning. Bothered, but not broken. His Jehri curl, perfect.

*swoon*

Ahh me.

Cradled face on twin bed as my heart sighed towards the telly, ankles crossed, marking the beat for Straight Outta Compton. The rest of the clan: Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, Yella, MC Ren, they were alright, but not the focus of my tween attention. Ice Cube was bad, but not bad meaning bad…well, you know the rest.

Of course I went and watched the documentary this past weekend, of COURSE I did! And please, whatever is causing you to be scared to go, don’t believe the hype. It’s just like Coal Miner’s Daughter. A story of struggle against the status quo, of artistic starvation, of personal definition. The moment Loretta Lynn decides to write and perform a song about birth control, wanting to take back womens’ right to be a human being and not society’s brooding sow, she is forever marred. Instead of being recognized for her bravery in speaking out for the oppressed, she is demonized; her music, considered dangerous.

The struggle is real, and so is the talent.

As I pass the movie lobby poster making note of ‘the most dangerous group in the world’ or whatever, I smirk at the thought of, who labeled N.W.A. as such? They certainly didn’t. What they did with Fuck The Police was utilize momentum to take back the right to be acknowledged as human beings and not society’s kicked down domesticated dogs. There was a scene that was so agitating for me I squeezed my man’s hand really hard, then realized he was angrily squeezing mine back. Damn right, fuck the police, we both expressed in pissed-off embrace.

I knew I was going to cry once E got sick. His voice, his crowd command despite his tiny build, reminds me of my monster days. I let the tears flow then broke a selfish smile at the thought: “I bet you would’ve liked I Blew Up Juarez, E.”

Straight Outta Compton the documentary did everything right. Honored Eazy and Dre; made me smile as I learned more about my tweenage boyfriend’s skills as a writer.

I had my demigod Oprah’s ‘a ha!’ moment at an early age, listening to West Coast rap albums, following Ice Cube’s skyrocketing career, putting into practice what Cube was extolling: people are out to placate, not celebrate, dark individuality. My a ha was realizing everything is not unicorns and rainbows, and I’d be lying to myself if I even attempt to write prose or poetry without darkness. After all, that’s the point of “gangsta” rap: tell the ugly truth, expose the pretty lies.

Great documentary; I will likely own it once it’s out on Blu-Ray.

American History Why

HIS VOICE.

I had to hear it again.

UGH.

Not that I wanted to, AT ALL, but I had to.

Phone calls from the mortgage company, asking for my ex-husband, were growing in repetition now over a month. I’m not involved with the Texas house anymore.

I said to him, peacefully, I didn’t want any argument, I just wanted everything having to do with our past shared property to be his business, not mine. I didn’t expect anything more than peace in the matter. X said he’d handle it in a voice that I wished I could trust. I did tell Turkey Neck thank you for addressing the problem. Speaking in a fang-baring tone, the Michelin Man reminded he wasn’t doing a damn thing for me. I let my kindness override his irritability, knowing he’s the kind of person who constantly seeks out battles; his preferred weapon, the telephone. He must hate the Internet now that social media has taken over.

We have been divorced four glorious years and I sold my share of the house for a $1. I don’t even remember receiving that $1, but that’s just how much I hated him, how much trauma I was experiencing, I couldn’t give a shit about no dollar bill. Because of him I am this way, and today is a post traumatic stress kind of day. At least the eyebrows can perk up a bit because the issue with the house is no longer.

Regicide was the WOTD. Means ‘death of a king.’ X was no king; with his nasally, holier-than-thou, mawkish New Yoork accent he reminded me what a fat, dumpy, hair coated asshole he is.

He remains such.


With a, “you do you, bye bye!” I ended the call. In the next room, my angel begins to rouse from sleep. I asked for a hug. He lifts the sheets, inviting me in and I curl into my favorite position: head on his hairy chest, one arm wrapped over his torso, my legs tucked up against his thigh. I feel as if set ablaze from within. He feels like he’s fireproof. His embrace absorbs my flashbacks; with continual kisses to the forehead, the memories disappear.

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Due to my ex’s bleating goat voice, I feel as if my soul’s been thrown through tempered glass, impaled everywhere. Every loving hug received I feel a shard push out of me, emerge ooze-covered, to dissipate in whatever hell space X resides. At this point I should be crying, but what’s to cry about? I told him flat out I want to be left alone, and I don’t want him to give out my phone number. I want peace and privacy, two things I could never get from X, two things I’m joyfully experiencing from Why.

“Why are you with me?” is my check-in question.

“Because I love you,” is always his check-in answer.

When he says that, whatever hate I feel in my heart finds something else to do.

X wavers but Y remains.

Treading The ‘Burbs

Today is my Saturday. A grande bowl of Frosted Flakes and a whole banana kicks it off right! My dietary choices, the reward for a completed mile under the blaze of a Florida morning sun. Yes, even on days off the body should be conditioned; I’m a proponent of that! My trusty walking buddy, Roberto, happily dons his turquoise harness as he takes the lead. Smart little guy; our first full week living in the suburbs and he knows which direction we’re going to pad our feet along. In the unfiltered glow I notice the brown tufts of fur which give his black hind quarters a cool, conflicting pattern. Six years old now, so white fluffs are starting to burst back there as well.

Under his feet I note the pressure washed sidewalks and driveways, cumulus clouds drawn specifically from property line to rest of property line, beautiful little curlicues screaming, “Don’t tread here!” It’s easy to tell which houses are up on their atmospheric artwork and those whom allow Nature to make her mark.

The next thing I notice is, no one’s out with me. It’s 8am, where are the other daywalkers? At the Treehouse the place buzzes with dog walkers, bus catchers, gym rats, the whole shebangy bang. Here? I can practically hear the flowers sing about cats and rabbits. Just as I actualize my aloneness, a lovely display of fabric hanging from a beige stucco home unfurls. One is a black flag; another a yellow one, baring the well known “Don’t Tread On Me” icon. Ah. Tread lightly, little dog; we’re amongst score settlers!

Gadsden flag

Gadsden flag

We get to a point along the walkway where Bob decides to cross the street. How rude am I, wearing Ray Bans while his big brown eyes squint painfully. The sun must hit him like the very first sip of freshly brewed coffee not quite cooled off for safe consumption. Bob leads us under the trees, into the shade, and I marvel at what I miss: trees.

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Yes, my special home was once flanked by two oak trees until the property manager decided to cut them down. They’re gone but I can’t stop calling the place the Treehouse. The suburbs have lots of oak, Bobby reminds, as he swings a right, then a left, then a familiar right towards our new home.

The Puppy Is A Poet

My book options are either a rich girl with predictable life problems or a rumpled copy of a vampire story. Like Suzanne on Orange Is The New Black, I feel, “Vampires are derivative,” so I stick with the somehow New York Times Bestseller paperback. There’s literally nothing to do between med checks, so I designed a routine of ten laps after every chapter to while away the time. 

My second to the last day in the hospital, and I got a puppy. He’s probably 24, my height, a scraggly little mutt of a man. He spent breakfast hour giving away his food, then going table to table to see if someone needed anything. At my table, he took the time to thank me, in front of my fellow patientmates, for letting him play UNO with us the past evening. Then he took to asking about my milk and if there’s something he could take away. I coldly told him, “You’re being overaccommodating; why don’t you finish your breakfast?” Like a puppy he lingered for my approval but once I’d left the dining room he got the hint.

Puppy followed me as I entered into my after-breakfast ten loop walk of the ward. Hands clasped behind my back, taking quarter steps since there’s no rush, I ask him to share what’s on the sheets of paper he carries, quietly hoping it isn’t some Barbarella nonsense. We loop past the water fountain as he enters into his setting: he is a great bird, at flight, surveying the majesty of his lands. As he reads, his tone shifts to something…metaphysical. Gosh darn it I’m intrigued!

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The lady who chose the vampire book parked a chair at her room door. As we approach, she proceeds to chastise him for reading poetry to me; I find this odd considering she’s wearing a wedding band. He stops to make his acquiesing apologies whilst I saunter on, clasp resting above my uterus, wondering what would it be like if my period started while in the ward. Of all things to worry about – the wanderer who preferred to pee in my bathroom, the catatonic woman who’d wake a few minutes just to tell everyone to go to hell only to fade back down, the constant threat of stealing my journal – my mind was on menstruation.

Puppy returned on the fifth loop. “Continue your reading,” I said, sagelike, interested in his bird’s flight. This time, he finds himself on a mountain and he’s climbing it, moved by the sounds of his lost love beckoning him forward. Goodness, I think to myself, do all great poets have to achieve psychosis to harness the power of words? Have I done myself a favor then?

Puppy is dressed in his hospital gown but with a hunter’s camouflage sweater over it; I’m dressed in all black street clothes. As we make a turn by the nurse’s station we encounter a regatta of wheelchairs, the ladies ranging from early dementia to raging psychosis. We pass by The Screamer, quite the pair of lungs on her, and once the puppy clears her she howls to him, “You’re the soldier, you need to be careful!” Towards me she tells him, “See that one dressed in all black, you watch her…SHE’S GOT A KNIFE!”

I smirk for several reasons.

My last loop is done, so I go find the least loudest place to delve into a book which spends its better energy dumping a wet mulch of a predictable whodunit subplot.

At least I have a puppy.

Time For Something Fresh

Hey ya’ll! I am back. You were missed! Glad we’re together again.

Where was I? Well, I was hospitalized to treat my bipolar disorder; cumulatively I spent 10 days under mental health care. The good news is, the medications that were causing my body disarray have been changed out for medications which keep me quite on the level. 

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These dancing girls, one being lifted, can be found at Weekie Wachee Springs. The best thing you can do for someone with an illness of any type is offer positive support.

Those of you who haven’t experienced psychiatric hospitals probably will lean on films such as “Girl, Interrupted” or even “Shutter Island,” but I encourage you instead to check out a wonderful organization, NAMI.org, to address your concerns. They’re a group that does amazing work at the national and regional level; check out the site for the group nearest you.

While I was being treated, I asked for a journal. I figured I could have an Oscar Wilde moment (sans alcohol and non-prescribed drugs) and just write the entire time there, only to find that my handwriting was completely illegible, due to muscle spasms. It’s been a week now, and I’m able to type (hooray!) and my journal entries are once more legible.

So what should you make of it? I’m still the Von you know and love, I’ve gotten treatment that works, and I have a support system in place to ensure I continue a quality life, which includes you my buddy readers. Meanwhile, am thinking of a fun way to share these experiences with those who wish to know more about bipolar disorder, psychotic breaks, mania, anxiety…maybe pull an Ann Landers and call it, “Ask The Crazy Girl.” 

So…any questions I can field right now?

:D

I Wish I Had A Fisherman’s Patience

At Albert Whitted Park this morning, I observed a man with a weighted net sitting by the water. He waitedfisherman on someone as he stared into the lapping waves. I started my morning walk around him, and by the time I was done, he was still there, but this time, casting the net into the water. The person he was waiting on finally arrived.

I was able to do a half mile on my own today. Been out of the hospital now three weeks, but the muscle memory hasn’t kicked in fast enough for my desire. It only takes three days of inactivity for a body to lose its energy. I feel like an old woman, even though 40 is a couple years’ off.

Yet I push, and try to make the most of non-rainy moments. Sucks to be stuck in the house with no interest in writing or books when that’s all I’m surrounded by. I want to be out! I want to grab a beer. I want to talk to someone in their face, not by text messaging. I am bored.

Update your blog, I consider, and I consider that, in its abandon, something called SEMALT has taken over. I shudder knowing an innocent photo of me has likely been transmogrified into something completely different, in the universe of a Nicki Minaj cover photo. What am I gonna do; go up against some bloke in Brazil? Whatever man. As long as you are able to occupy your day.

To which I’m trying to do. Occupy time in a small space with limited mobility. Damn, damn, damn, this sucks! Someone entertain me! Pick me up, drive for me, trust me, I’ll be entertaining.

<sigh> I’m getting there. I feel that’s my life right now, waiting on me to show up, so we can play in the waters again. A fisherman’s patience, I wish I had.

Eros Be Damned

Von Simeon:

Send me R B P

Originally posted on Von Simeon:

[Usually periwinkle blue, today I’m feeling more midnight blue, no glitter. Here’s a pseudocode of a poem which might go somewhere, eventually. Shouts to William Butler Yeats, yo]

Love is Pain.

is a meat grinder for broken hearts.

“ “ cayenne pepper in the eye, lemon in a fresh paper cut.

keeps me awake, gives me night sweats, drenches my sleep shirt, mats my hair.

makes me want to commit Hate crimes – not out of principle, but out of circumstance.

= the Devil.

But…

Like Lucifer, Love is the brightest Light. Perhaps that’s Pain itself – Light fighting to burst past Pride, but the walls are too thick.

It’s the Light, pushing pushing, making friction, heating as it churns with vicious velocity, burning within.

Love is a fighter.

is fortified by Hope, driven by Resolve.

“ “ a twin, and champions its pair…

View original 52 more words

Eros Be Damned

[Usually periwinkle blue, today I’m feeling more midnight blue, no glitter. Here’s a pseudocode of a poem which might go somewhere, eventually. Shouts to William Butler Yeats, yo]

Love is Pain.

is a meat grinder for broken hearts.

“ “ cayenne pepper in the eye, lemon in a fresh paper cut.

keeps me awake, gives me night sweats, drenches my sleep shirt, mats my hair.

makes me want to commit Hate crimes – not out of principle, but out of circumstance.

= the Devil.

But…

Like Lucifer, Love is the brightest Light. Perhaps that’s Pain itself – Light fighting to burst past Pride, but the walls are too thick.

It’s the Light, pushing pushing, making friction, heating as it churns with vicious velocity, burning within.

Love is a fighter.

is fortified by Hope, driven by Resolve.

“ “ a twin, and champions its pair. ‘Soul mates’ is the regular jargon, but that’s a bunch of New Age hooey.

“ “ an element. The Soul is a catalyst.

By themselves, nothing materializes until they meet their match.

Once fused,

Life begins,

planets orbit,

stars explode,

the dark ends of the Universe

reveal their Beauty.

©2015 VS Enterprises

Send Me An Angel Revision #3

[This was performed on June 25th at Oral Fixation’s LBGT Open Mic Night hosted by Sawgrass Tiki Bar in St. Petersburg’s Grand Central District. The next day, Supreme Court ruling finds same-sex marriage legal in all 50 states of the U.S.! Just sayin…]

We’re at the Center of The Universe!

The festival, that is, although the diazepam-psilocybin-cannabinoid cocktail coursing through my body makes me feel as if I’m standing…on the sun. Arms swinging, feet bee-bopping as my team travels towards the main stage, I am feeling rather…superior!

AWOL Nation awaits but, from the corner of my eye I spy a herd of blue boxes. I stop walking to proclaim, Necesito mear!” which means, I need to pee. The foxy phalanx marches on, whilst I experience the rare joy of no line for the port-o-potties!

I exit the pee terminal, and locate the wash stand. Now this is cool; a foot pump to deliver the water, a touch-less soap dispenser, ahhhh hands-free technology! Fulfilled by this first world wonder, I then open my backpack to search for hand lotion; the bag’s darkness, mixed with intoxication, fills me with desperation. Face in the bag, frustrated by the sounds of laughter and play, I feel…apprehension wrap like a steel trap.

Someone is uninvited.

You’re just digging away in that bag!” some festival-goer comments merrily. My head snakes as I hiss, “Go ahead and try me buddy, I’m fucking Wonder Woman right now!”

The jovial stranger, unperturbed, lowers his shoulders so we’re face to face. In a contented voice he says, “I want to give you something.” His hands flutter to his temple to remove blue eyeglasses, without lenses, then waves them towards me. I smile and refuse politely; in turn, he’s sweetly adamant.

I shake my head as I take him in: Ash Williams chin, wide smile, wearing a fitted ball cap to match his dark blue eyes. His body, immaculately sculpted, makes my chin drop!  Madre de Dios…

Focus up, Wonder Woman!

Sweetie, I don’t want your glasses,” I insist.

He gestures towards me, “Take them!”

But I already have glasses.”

You’ll look great in them…”

But I need glasses to see,” I explain, “there’s no lenses; how am I gonna see?” I smile smugly, then squeeze my eyes shut, remembering to hydrate my contact lenses.

I flutter them back open, and he’s wearing the saddest look of dejection! I kick myself internally; aww dammit, I did that thing again where I say something that makes sense to me, but comes off dickish to them!

Puppy eyed, tail tucked, he backsteps towards his friends. “Come here,” I sigh, widening demonic wings to encourage him back and deliver an apologetic hug, “Come, come,” I insist.

His smile beams to the moon and back. His huge arms wrap around my tiny torso, then I feel, undeniably, the purest form of authentic happiness pierce my cynical skin and invade my corroded heart. Time splinters in fractals, gravity is no more, our bodies rock in synergy. His divine embrace makes me feel…humbled.

I can’t tell you who let go first, but I can tell you it took forever.

Tears fall like cleansing waters as we pull apart, but he’s not done with me yet!

Touch hands!” he insists.

I extend my hand to flatten against his.

Now stick out your thumb,” he instructs.

I flex my thumb outwards. He does the same.

Now bring it in…”

I wrap my thumb around his hand. He does the same.

…and SQUEEEEEEZE! Hand hug!” We laugh like old friends.

But he’s not done with me yet!

Wearing the most serious of expressions, using a voice of angelic clarity, he makes a request.

You HAVE

to pay

it forward.”

So… Who wants a hand hug?

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