Another Song About Sex (untitled)

You and I belong together
Like a moth to the flame
We're drawn to one another
Like the Earth and the Moon
We Pull at each other.

And I can't wait to lay with you again
And I love the feeling
When we're skin to skin
Talkin' dirty your voice
Is like liquid sin.

And I can see it in your eyes
Don't bother me with lies
I need to see you again
You need to see me again we need to....

Your hands and your lips are everywhere
And I can't see nothin'
But long red hair
Our screamin wakes the neighbors
But I don't care.

Come on girl and let's build a fire
The way you move your body
Fills me with desire
Hot breath in my ear
Makes me a live wire.

And I can see it in your eyes
Don't bother me with lies
I need to see you again
You need to see me again we need to....

Champagne, whiskey, chocolate and wine
It's a decadent feast
And it makes me feel fine
I love your body by the moon
And the bright sunshine.

Oh I love it when you kiss and scratch and bite
You keep my motor running
All day into the night
Don't tell me that it's wrong
'Cause I know it's right.

And I can see it in your eyes
Don't bother me with lies
I need to see you again
You need to see me again we need to....


M. PotPie

Carolina's Silver Moon

From the moment that we met
I knew that we'd be together
And I bet you felt the same way too.

And girl it wasn't long
Before we did something wrong
In Carolina's silver moon.
In Carolina's silver moon.

The gold and diamonds on your hand
Yelled out that you had a man
And he was jealous of me looking at you.

But as soon as he was gone
Again we did something wrong
In Carolina's silver moon.
In Carolina's silver moon.

With hurricane winds blowing
And the rain pouring down
I found myself looking at you.

Well you looked right back
And you went on the attack
In Carolina's silver moon.
In Carolina's silver moon.

We were locked at the lips
And we were locked at the hips
Our hands always on the move.

Well I threw you on your back
And I went on the attack
In Carolina's silver moon.
In Carolina's silver moon.

Ain't no moral to this story
Ain't no lesson learned
All I know is that I want you.

And I hope that next year
We're both right back here
In Carolina's silver moon.
In Carolina's silver moon.


M. PotPie

American Indifference

(Inspired by a visit to Blog of Funk. Do yoursef a favor and check it out.)

Lately I've been wondering if, living in the Heartland, in Wisconsin, if I can either understand or appreciate what's really going on in the world. I live in a rural area with the Horicon Marsh in full view out of my windows. (I haven't figured out how to paste links in here yet, but if you Google it you'll find it right away) It's beautiful, every day, no matter what the weather. Acres upon acres of marshland sit unspoiled before me and I stare, sometimes for hours at the beauty. No noise of the city, no traffic...only the hundreds of species of birds and the wind.

And then London blows up. Being your typical American I want to care, really I do, but it doesn't effect me at all. 9/11 didn't effect me directly (other than the new airport restrictions), neither did the bombings in Spain. In a messed up way I want it to effect me, want the pain, heartache and fear.

You know the old saying "It could NEVER happen here!" Well...where I live it's true. What could anyone possibly bomb out here to hurt me? The Marsh? From what I've witnessed, geese are pretty well versed in procreation and the reeds always grow back. The cheese factory? Do terrorists eat cheese? (an entire post on it's own!) Right now I'm sitting in a pair of shorts, drinking beer, watching a baseball game, making tomato sauce for my pasta and blogging, not a care in the world.

Right now American soldiers are dying in a poorly planned and ill-conceived war picked by a bully in the Whitehouse for reasons we can't figure out. That effects me. They're my friends, neighbors and I'm very thankful they're willing to make the sacrifice to preserve the freedom I'm enjoying right now. I really don't think we'll stop terrorism by plunging another country into civil war, but what do I know? Perhaps our presence in Iraq and our British allies assistance has caused the attacks in London. Perhaps more than perhaps. That certainly gives me a guilty conscience...and yet doesn't effect me in the least. That thought makes me sad.

Ok, I'm getting off track, but please bear with me, I'm very confused about my complete lack of a role in what's happening. As an American I've been brought up believing that the freedoms I enjoy are my god given right. I'm also lazy, somewhat disinterested and mostly concerned with paying my bills and living day-to-day. News and crises are something that happens on the television and radio and occasionally interrupt my baseball games. I watch, say 'wow, that sucks' and go back to whatever I was doing. There are several million more people exactly like me. And we're supposed to be the best country in the world? I can see the appeal, can understand why so many people want to live here, but thoughts like this make me wonder what we could really accomplish if we as a country weren't so selfish.

I have to stop now, I'm incredibly depressed. Maybe I'll pick it up later, after my shows are over.

M. PotPie

Untitled

A cross decorated with flowers swims in my vision, the vision in my head, my eyes are closed. The cross sits in a dusty town square, a Mexican town, old, adobe buildings, blood, sweat and loss. Red and yellow flowers, roses maybe, do they grow in the desert? An old woman in a woven ivory shawl shuffles to the cross, carrying something...a basket, but I can't see what's in it, it's covered with a cloth. She brings her fingers to her lips and mumbles something, her fingers trembling, reaching for the cross...I can't make out what she says, it's in Spanish, I don't speak Spanish. The vision starts to fade, I can only hear the old woman's voice...

"Mi Dios le pido, nos perdono...." her voice fades with the dream and I'm left with the sound of the alarm clock and blood in my mouth.

I reach over and flail at the clock, trying to stop the buzzing. I could swear I set it every night to wake me with the radio, but every morning it buzzes at me. I've replaced it a few times, but it's the same every morning, the buzzing. I hate that fucking sound. Sitting up on the bed I rub my eyes, thick with sleep and taste the blood. I cradle my head in my hands, running my tongue over my teeth and get shocked by a wet nose in my armpit. Oscar. It's a weird thing he does, like he can't believe something smells so bad, he just has to get as close as possible. Or he just likes to screw with me, which is more likely.

We walk to the back door and I let him out to piss and chase whatever wildlife is out there, but he just stands there and stares at me with what I could swear is a worried expression. I just want to brush my teeth and get in the shower. "Go on, go. Go, what are you waiting for?" He just stands there staring, not blinking. I'm led to believe this is odd behavior for a dog, staring directly in your eyes, but he's done it since the day I got him from the pound. It's why I took him home. I like to say that he chose me and I really believe it to be true. After a few minutes of me prodding and him ignoring the prodding I close the door and mumble a whatever at him then stumble to the bathroom. He follows me, sitting down and leaning against me as I brush my teeth, warming up my legs which really don't need it on this hot summer morning. I spit out the toothpaste, pink from the blood and look at him looking at me. "What? Is Timmy stuck in the well again?" He doesn't answer. I just shake my head, rinse out my mouth and start the shower, anticipating the cool water on my face. As I get in the shower he tries to follow me in, something he hasn't done since he was a puppy. "Dog, seriously, that's enough." The key phrase that has always stopped him and doesn't let me down now. He gives me one last look and lays down on the bath mat, leaving me to wash away the grime, sleep and the dream I'm already forgetting.

On the Road Back Home

I'm not evil, but I ain't no angel. Yeah, I'm self centered, self destructive and can be judgemental, but really I'm a decent guy. At least that's what Sarah told me, and she should know.

Sarah and I spent a summer together in Detroit, my home town. We'd go to Tiger Stadium (before the cookie-cutter Comerica Park was built), sit in the bleachers, drink beer and yell at the opposing outfielders. We'd chant "MVP! MVP!" every time they made an error and make up stories about their family members. A good time, really. Our favorite player to taunt was Bo Jackson when he was with the ChiSox. He'd take it in stride and more often than not get a few hits, drive in a few runs and make the difference in the game. Then he'd come back out on the field, point to us and smile. Make no mistake about it, Bo knew baseball. And so did Sarah, which made me fall in love with her. If there's a woman on this planet who looked better wearing the Olde English D, I've never seen her.

We lived in Royal Oak before it was trendy, rented a house off Woodward and 11 mile. Went to the farmers market for fresh produce and cooked together a lot. Of course sometimes we'd just go out for Coney Islands and stop off for a few beers. I miss those days. I miss that girl.

Sarah's been dead some ten years now, killed by a piece of shit drunk driver that jumped the median on Woodward and slammed into her car, right into the driver's door, killing her instantly. I think I died that day, too. When I got the news, brother I wept, wept like a baby that lost his mama, howled like a mad dog bitching at tornado sirens. And then I ran. I left my job, left my friends, left the house and left Detroit. I've never been back in all these years, never had the urge to go. I didn't even go to her funeral, don't know where she's buried, but lately something inside me is itching to find out, itching to see Detroit again and reclaim my place in the city I used to love. I think maybe it's more to reclaim my life and let Sarah go. It's been more than a decade, after all. But so much has changed....

When I left Detroit I wandered, taking temp jobs here and there to keep me in booze and cigarettes, living out of my truck and washing up in public restrooms. I wandered through Wisconsin, Minnesota, back to Wisconsin then got a bug in my ass for warm weather and drove down to North Carolina. I've been down south for a few years now, but the slow pace is getting on me, and the southern drawl, while nothing but sexy coming from a woman, is blurry in my ears and makes me screw up my eyes.

So I think I'll quit my job at the seafood store I work at, jump in my truck and head back to Detroit and look up a girl I once knew.

Wanna come along?

Spinach

Spinach gave Popeye the Sailor power and allowed him to defeat his nemesis. Yet when I eat it my teeth turn green and I can see leafy bits of it, whole, in my feces.

I think I must be allergic to Popeye and now sympathize with Bluto and Alice the Goon. Death to the Popeye! Death to that sod of a sailor!

I Am Wearing A Suit (repost from defunct blog)

Today I am wearing a suit. I have only two suits, so when I do wear one it's a special day. Friday, March 25th is Green Suit Day. It's not an obnoxious green, but rather a subdued olive/grey that draws the eye and makes it linger, taking in the glory of precise tailoring and fine material. I think it's wool.
My suit fits well and rests on my body like it belongs there, it floats around me and moves with me. I sometimes get the idea that my suit is alive and is only happy when I'm wearing it, and the suit that is left hanging in the closet is jealous and spends the day silently weeping. When I get home from work and hang the suit up, the jealous one is full of questions and badgers the one I've worn, asking if I've left anything in the pockets or if anything was spilled that day.
The suits are the aristocracy of the closet, and rarely will they talk to the shirts or ties, never to the sweaters or clothes not fit to wear to work. The closet is a very segregated community, with the suits getting the best hangers and the most space, lest they wrinkle and I am forced to take them to the dry cleaner's, which they hate. They pretend to like it though and lord over the other clothes saying "See? Even when he wears you he takes us along!"
My suits are snobs, but they do convey a certain sense of confidence while I'm wearing them. Suddenly I'm 'Sir' or 'Mr' and people notice me more often. The checkout girls at the grocery store smile more often and really mean it when they say "Thank you for shopping!" I imagine that if I were pulled over for speeding the officer would say "Do you know how fast you were...hey, that's a nice suit! You should really slow down, sir. I'll let you off with a warning this time. Have a nice day!" I have also noticed that people are eager to open doors for me while I'm wearing my suit, as if the act is below someone who is dressed as nicely as I am.
At work I feel more professional and sit straighter in my chair. I keep my cube neater and spend less time chatting with co-workers. I am here for business, can't you tell by my suit? I am more efficient, more articulate and will not tolerate any nonsense. I leave that to the off-the-rack-shirt-and-tie-without-a-jacket crowd, who gather around the water cooler like vultures dissecting the latest happenings on the news, and to the sweater and scarf women who huddle in the kitchenette eating low-fat crackers and drinking diet soda while they gossip.
I won't join either group today. I am wearing a suit.

M. PotPie

I Have Taken A Nap (repost from defunct blog)

What a glorious weekend! The sun shone, the breeze blew, the animals...did whatever they do and the lovers loved. Everywhere you looked there were people holding hands while walking, staring in one another's eyes, throwing their heads back laughing and generally enjoying each other's company. Hugging, kissing, talking...a perfect early Spring weekend to spend with a significant other.
I, however, did something infinitely more appealing and satisfying to the soul: I took a nap. I won't bore you with the trivialities of my activities before the blissful period of napping or the feeling of euphoria after I awoke, but rather I'll concentrate on the nap itself.
I spent 45 minutes in a state of not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake restfulness. Ideas and dreams flitted through my semi-conscious mind, incorporating the sounds coming through my open windows. I flew with sparrows, honked with cranes and passed people in the slow lane. I played steel guitar in a country band, hosted a conservative talk show and played point-guard for the Michigan State Spartans...without physically leaving my chair. It turns out I'm a really good athlete and musician. I'm not a bad bird, either.
Were you to look upon me while napping the first thing you would notice would be the smile on my face. I can't be positive, of course, but I'm fairly certain that I'm smiling while I nap. I know that I'm smiling when I wake up and assume I've been smiling the entire time. I don't snore while I nap, but rather breathe deeply and evenly, a model of efficiency that would surely invoke the child-like wonder of engineers.
My 45 minutes of napping was spent in the same position, never tossing or turning, not fidgeting or flailing about. With my arms crossed on my stomach and my feet propped on the coffee table I lean back in my chair in a stress-free repose. In this state I invite sleep and dreams, I open my mind to whatver passes through the ether, and I am not disappointed. My nap has recharged my life-batteries and has renewed my faith in the world. All is well and I am rested.

M. PotPie

I Love My French Press (repost from defunct blog)

As the title implies, I love my French Press. It's not a full size carafe, but instead some genius decided to make a travel-mug French Press! (and yes, I feel the need to capitalize both French and Press) What this means is that I can now drink snobbish coffee while I drive! At work I can lord over my lowly peasant co-workers as they drink their Maxwell House 50/50 blend of crap and crap! I chuckle to myself as I enjoy the fully caffeinated so-brown-it's-almost-black elixir contained in my hard plastic feat of modern engineering. Like a King I raise the pneumatic chair in my cube as high as it can be raised and look down on the masses gathered about admiring my superior coffee. They shuffle their feet and mutter to one another, or to themselves, looking first at my French Press with longing, their gaze then returning to whatever sludge is contained in their sad comic emblazoned mugs or, heaven forbid, their styrofoam cups.
My French Press has granted me the status of "Interesting and/or Mysterious" and leads people to believe my life is fascinating and makes them wonder what I do outside of work that would allow me to possess such an item. I keep my after work activities secret. When asked "So what did you do last night?" I smile, gaze off into the distance and reply "Oh, nothing really."
I always make sure to empty the grounds from my French Press into the trash can in my cube. Not only does this make my cube smell like an exotic coffee house, but the coarse grounds are sure to attract the curiosity and wonder of the cleaning lady. I'll only wash my French Press when the kitchenette is full. I make sure to wash it both gently and carefully, making sure the screen isn't clogged by the smallest particle and shines in the pale flourescent light, glinting like the treasure it is. I dry it carefully, reverently and reassemble it with gentle and deft twists of my wrists. I leave the kitchenette cradling my French Press like a puppy, walking slowly and surely back to my cube where I place it on display yet out of reach. When I hate my job I'll turn and look at it, already wishing it was the next morning so I could refill it, and in so doing refill myself as well.
I love my French Press....


M. PotPie

Termites

I have a demon inside me that eats my happiness. It gnaws at my soul like a colony of termites that has finally reached the soft, pulpy interior of whatever it is they have infested, clicking and chewing without sleep.

The demon eats my happiness and makes me relive the past, thereby eating my future. It has grown fat and strong from my suffering, it's belly distended with my pain and raw emotion. I walk through the day like a zombie in search of something it has forgotten, for it's brain is rotten.

I don't sleep much.

I consulted an oracle in New Orleans and asked her how I could be rid of the demon. Her eyes grew wide and she made the sign of the evil eye at me, screaming in Creole, her skirts swirling around her bony brown legs as she ran from me. I took all the money from her cash register and bought rum, determined to drink the demon away. It didn't work, but now my picture is up in all of the New Orleans post offices.

I tried to make friends with the demon, thinking that if it saw me as human and understood how much it was hurting me that it would feel bad and leave. What a stupid idea that was. Humans are demon food. It just laughed at me while cleaning bits of my psyche from it's dirty, cracked teeth.

Just yesterday I Googled "Demon Cleansing" and found none of the links to be helpful. Sure, I like infernal porn as much as the next guy, but it was not what I wanted. I did bookmark it, though. Tomorrow I'll try Yahoo.

Stupid Clowns

The clown is smiling, always smiling, but the smile doesn't reach it's eyes. All clowns are "it's". How can you tell sex under baggy clothes and so much make-up? Maybe that's why I hate them so much. What if I went to a circus and found myself in the front row of the center ring, enjoying popcorn or a candy apple and a clown winked at me? I would be aroused but not know if the clown were male or female. I would follow the clown to it's trailer, missing the elephants and women who stand on horses, hoping to quench my libido in the wet innards of the clown. What if it took it's clown suit off and revealed a penis? I would be forced to kill the clown to preserve my manhood.

Would you like to buy a necklace of clown ears?

Guinness and New Tires

So here I am, minding my own business, trying to tie on a good drunk and tie down the barmaid. She isn't cooperating. The bar is packed with amateurs and easy drunks, the dregs and dullards, people who need an excuse to have a good time. Leave it to the professionals, I say. My Guinness is at the perfect temperature, my mind is slowing and expanding and I'm ready for adventure. Or jail. We'll see which happens first. Usually I drink alone at home, which some sad people will tell you is wrong, but I find myself to be very good company. And really, masturbating in public is still frowned on. I'm at the bar because I'm celebrating the liberation of a great deal of money from my wallet. Be free, tens and twenties! Fly, green eagle, soar into the void and swell the pockets of corporations and parasites!

I had to buy new tires, you see. All four plus an alignment. The grand total? $700. Yep. That's seven hundred of my hard-earned dollars. I needed new tires because I had neglected to rotate the ones I had, so they rebelled and broke their steel-belted bonds, bent on destruction, mine or theirs they didn't care. Ungrateful rubber bastards.

Did I mention that I'm drinking Guinness? I often wonder where civilization would be without it? Certainly Ireland would be worse off...and so would I. Guinness fuels mad dreams and long drunks. It cures lovesickness, lifesickness and sickness sickness, a brown elixir both magical and delicious.

When I drink Guinness I become the Brown Rambler! Story lines and continuity be damned! I would wear a cape, but I am not that fanciful.

Phone Call

Don't do it, don't do it...stupid stupid stupid
idea....

I'm saying these things to myself, in my head, but my
mouth won't listen, determined to continue on it's
pathetic journey. The words come out sounding hollow
and needy in my ears.

"I think you should come over."

I close my eyes and see her bow her head, her
shoulders sag (those strong, freckled shoulders) and I
can hear the inaudible sigh.

"I....don't think so. No, no."

"Why not? You're doing nothing, I'm doing nothing, we
can do nothing together."

"We did nothing for ten years. I'd rather do
something now, with someone."

It hurts. But I don't care anymore. I've lived with
the pain so long I'm used to it, like a rotten tooth
it throbs and aches every day, but it won't stop me
from eating. "Come on, we'll just hang out, I won't
bite." Oh my god, I'm pathetic. Why can't I just
shut up? Now she'll say something purposefully mean
to show me she means business.

"Look, don't even try to tell me you just want to be
friends. Do you think I'm an idiot? I'll come over,
you'll keep my glass full of booze...we'll eat, sit
down, watch a movie..you'll start to rub my shoulders
and I'll get uncomfortable waiting for the inevitable
breath on my neck, behind my ears. I'm done with
that. I'm done with you. You need to accept that and
move on. I'm not in love with you now, and the more
time we spend apart I question whether I ever was."

What did I tell you? Always a good shot, that girl.
But do I stop? Hell no! "Fair enough, fair enough.
I understand how you feel." Uh oh, the salesman is
coming out. "But tell me something: Is it me you're
afraid of...or yourself? Afraid you'll give in, have
a good time and regret it tomorrow? Or maybe you
won't regret it but will pretend you do because you
can't ever admit when you're wrong?" We had never
fought in all the time we were married, but now I had
some perverse desire to pick a fight and hear her yell
at me. Hell, at least it would be an emotional
reaction.

"Look, I'm not coming over, ok? Shit, you make me
hate the fact that I even called you. I feel some
stupid obligation, some duty to you, to make sure
you're ok. But that's it. That. Is. It. I'm not
coming back, I'm not changing my mind. Goodbye."

There's a pause before she hangs up..of course I'm
waiting for "I'm sorry" but it never comes. Just a
click and a dial tone.

There's always tomorrow.

Eat my Shorts

Eat my shorts! Eat them! Chew the cotton, it hasn't been washed! Can you taste my holiness? My shorts contain wonders, even when I'm not wearing them. They are a being unto themselves, glorious in khaki, zippered, buttoned and self-aware.

Eat them now! You salivate and deny yourself, why? My shorts desire to be eaten, masticated into pulp, digested, shat out and be made into shorts again.

Or perhaps my shorts should devour you?

Is there a doctor in the house?

I love a good vagina. Nicely trimmed and fragrant. Yep. I could spend all day in a good vagina, just wasting time and relaxing. I like to lay my head down and sleep on them, inhaling the goodness, smiling. Mmmmmm.

If you have a nice vagina I'd like to meet it.

Right!

Ladies and Gentlemen, members of the press, thank you. Your Holiness, Mr. President, thank you. Before we begin I'd like to state for the record that whatever happens here is not my fault. Ok, if we're all set I'm ready for your questions.

Yes, your Holiness, please. I'm sorry, I don't understand...in English please? No, no I don't believe in god, per se. If you're speaking of an almighty being that created everything, knows everything and will judge me when I die...that god I don't believe in, no. Well your Holiness, I'll meet you there. Next question? Mom?

No, at this point I don't believe you'll become a grandmother. I can't imagine having a child at this time. Next question? Mrs. Ford, my seventh grade Geography teacher, yes? Well yes, I have to agree, the world is going to pot, and bravo. Yes, I'd say I am a huge disappointment to a lot of people. The last time I did drugs? About thirty minutes ago. Yes, I am. On the pot, yes. Next question please. Mr. President?

What's that? How many Mexicans does it take to screw in a lightbulb? I really don't think that's in good taste, sir. Ethnic jokes, while funny in private, don't belong at this conference at this time. Excuse me? It's not a joke? You've always been curious about stuff like that? I see. I guess I can't answer that one, sorry.

Perhaps taking questions was a bad idea. I suppose I'll summarize by saying this: "LIVE!! FROM NEW YORK!!...ok, not New York. How about: VIRTUALLY! FROM AMERICA'S DAIRYLAND! It's nothing, really.


M. PotPie