Shut Up

Shut up and roll over
I want that only thing
That you have to give me
Shut up while I pull those pants down
No one can say I'm raping you
Of course that wouldn't work
I can see that you're into it
Shut up while I mount you
I'm tired of waiting
For you to get to work
Shut up while I do it
Your spit, your sweat, your snot
What's the difference
From the other fluids you make?
I don't need your help
To get it from you
Just shut up while I ride you
I'm tired of talking
Of hearing about your needs
My needs are more important
I am the family
You're just being selfish
Now just hold still
Your help isn't helping
This isn't for fun
It was never for fun
I don't need to feel close to you
I just need one thing
And I need it when I need it
Until I don't need it any more
Shut up and wait 'til I'm finished
And don't need you any more
I want to reproduce now
It's my decision
My child will replace you
There's nothing you can do about it
Resistance is futile
Just let go and let it happen
I'm not asking, I'm telling
You have no choice
Either way you will become nothing
So just shut up
I don't want to hear it

(4/28) April is National Poetry Writing Month


Let's Be Civilized

Artificial light
Running water, trappings of
  Stored meat and clothing
No more disappointing hunts
    Women are enslaved
The concept of ownership
Men are animals
Soldiers, workers, to be used
Rivers, woods, sun, moon
We live with their surrogates

April is National Poetry Writing Month

What Goes Around Comes Around

An intact man feels the earth beneath his feet
While a cut man is on ice skates
There's a wall at the edge of the rink
Both walk and skate toward it
And crash into it
It takes practice to have control
To slow down before hitting the wall
To skate or walk back and forth before it
Before finally hopping over it
It takes practice

Otherwise it is a roller coaster
Fast and thrilling and out of control
And over quickly

Instead of like skiing
Sometimes fast, sometimes out of control
Controlling the thrill level
Even slowing or stopping in the middle
Controlling when to reach the end
How fast and how long it lasts
It takes practice

Some practice off the hill is good
Overwhelming sensation is hard to get past
With a lover
The excitement when it's about to happen
How she takes off her clothes
How she looks naked
The ecstatic pain and pleasure
Of the real and unreal juxtaposed
The smooth, warm press of bodies
Many hit the wall even then
Some feel they must rush through foreplay
For fear they will never make it out the other side
It takes practice
And the willingness not to be selfish

Passage to the act
The moment of entry
Surrounded on all sides
An overwhelming explosion
The feeling of being drawn in
The feeling of wanting more, more, more
But too much of a good thing and it's over
It's hard to stop and just be here
To stop and rest in that warm joyful place
To remember this is an option
It's not a man's way of doing things
But it's not a job to get done
It takes practice
And the willingness not to be selfish

The cut man who stops
May not be able to start again
May not be able to get to the wall
No matter how long and hard he try
Or he may fall and can't get back up
Sometimes the ice skates can't push against anything

Without three-quarters of your vision
No colors, only light and shadow
Awkwardly bumping into things
One quarter the feeling in your hands
No textures, no typing, writing
Feeling , grasping objects, impossible
This is what the cut man faces
When he tries to make love
The intact man has the opposite problem

It takes practice
It's not enough to say, "Just do it (me)"
"Just do what you're doing a little longer"
It takes kindness
And knowing what kindness means
And the willingness not to be selfish

April is National Poetry Writing Month


I Woudn't Have It Any Other Way

I have a terminal Y chromosome infection 
I love it
It doesn't hurt at all
It's a privilege, so they say
And I agree
I wouldn't have it any other way

I'm tight with the bigwigs
Who run everything
We share the infection
And we all agree
That we should start another war
I hope that all my male friends and relations
Will be sent to the meat grinder
To be cannon fodder
How lucky for them
What an honor
It builds character
To do your duty, to show courage
I'm glad we're not allowed to cry
Once they're all dead
Or hurt so they can't fight any more
I'll be allowed to go
To be slaughtered
A noble death
A manly end
It's a man's life, a man's death
Maybe I'll be one of the lucky ones
And be shot, or horribly hurt
Or crippled, or part of my body blown off
Or at least I'll be emotionally scarred
And then I'll have that precious excuse
Not to worry if I'm living my life well
Because it's all I can do
To get through the day
And keep it together
I'm glad we're not allowed to cry

Or maybe this once
My high-placed cronies
My luminaries of the patriarchy
My kings, presidents, and magnates
Who hobnob with me
Won't listen to me
In spite of our shared infection
And there won't be any war
And I shall have to content myself
With working my life away
It's such a privilege, so they say
And I agree
I've been trained for this since I was small
I'm so glad we're not allowed to cry
I wouldn't have it any other way

I'm glad we're not allowed to touch other men
Except to punch them
Or in sport
We have external genitalia
Where better to wear them?
Otherwise they wouldn't worry us
The badge of our masculinity
So easily attacked or taken away
In sport we wear a cup
But is it to protect ourselves
Or to protect the other man?
Touching and soft words
Are reserved for women
That is the way it should be
I wouldn't want to be ridiculed
Or beaten to death
Or dragged behind a truck
Or set on fire
For not sparing other men
Touching and soft words
Anything besides work and sport
It's a privilege, so they say
And I agree
I wouldn't have it any other way

I've never read in the papers
About women dragging other women
Into the street
And beating them to death
For putting flowers in each other's hair
Or for touching or soft words
Or for admiring one another's clothes
Women are sometimes soft
And this is a good thing
But men do not think to do such things
I wouldn't have it any other way

He who uses the pronoun of another group
Forfeits membership in his own group
...unless he is a woman
In French, it is even worse
Si elles arrivent à utiliser le pronom féminin
Elles savent qu'elles sont solides
Qu'elles peuvent dire leurs sécrets féminins en paix
Les hommes ne sont jamais saufs
Le pronom masculin ne leur protège point
Il peux y être toujours des invahiseuses

They borrow our clothes, our ways, our places
People have long since given up stopping them
Men will get used to it
Like we have with everything else
Men will not invade their turf in return
They are too well-defended
We may secretly envy what they have
But we do not want it
We cannot want it
It does not fit with us
Men already live in the best of all possible worlds
It's a privilege, so they say
And I agree
I wouldn't have it any other way

(4/24) April is National Poetry Writing Month


The Jigglebra

The Jigglebra. An idea I had about 10 years ago, and had some more thoughts about it this morning, and also due to a relevant conversation with an experienced friend last night.

I want to make some prototypes and try it out on some volunteers, just like in this strip. I think it will change the lives of millions!


The Binary Nature of Mental Illness

There are four types of mental illness
Type one hurts others but not you (01)
Type two hurts you but not others (10)
Type three hurts both you and others (11)
Type four hurts neither (00)

Most mental illnesses are type two or three
Sometimes you can go from three to two
If you limit your contact with people

People don't like to be around crazy people
People who say crazy things
People who don't act the same
People who don't feel the same
They make them uncomfortable
They scare them

"Out of sight, out of mind"
You can be out of your mind
Only if you're out of our sight
Please have your fits with professionals

We don't want to see your tears
We don't know where it comes from
We can't help you
We don't want to help you

It's always gonna be type three
Unless you kill yourself

April is National Poetry Writing Month

Women are Cool

Even those things about women
That don't seem to be wonderful
Are at least fascinating

Women are like regular people
With force fields sparkling around them
Making them seem magical

Women's sexuality is serious
Multiple orgasms
Unlike men, who are silly

Men's sexuality doesn't matter
It is of no consequence
It takes care of itself
Men are stuck at the back of the line
Sent to the back of the bus of life

It must be nice to find a woman
Who doesn't hate men
They must exist, I imagine
The fascination must go both ways

It's a piteous thing to hide oneself
For fear of a bad effect on others
Oh, to feel like a human being
Not to be ridiculous
To sit with the cool kids for once

April is National Poetry Writing Month

Manic -Depression

Could I be disappointed with my lot
If I didn't know the lots of others?
Comparing my insides
With other people's outsides

Why do some whistle under crushing burdens
While others weep bitter tears despite their ease?
I sometimes whistle, sometimes weep
It is a blessing and a curse
I live in two separate worlds
Which never meet

A diary or a loving friend
Can offer precious insight
That life may be less about circumstances
Than what goes on inside
That we must accept the world
And change ourselves instead

April is National Poetry Writing Month



The Bricklayer
The Maker of Bricks
Which I use to build the walls
In which I imprison myself
Against which I smash my face time and again

Only you can tear them down
And build new walls
Which grant me freedom
And protect me from my fears

Only you can lay down flat, dry pathways
And even safe bridges
Across the muck and mire I live in
If I would but trudge them
Towards that happy destiny
That you have prepared for me

(4/20) "Hemp Day!"
April is National Poetry Writing Month

Talking at Myself

What is my self-talk?
What do I say to myself?
If the words of his mouth
Are what defileth a  man
How much more so
The words I say to me?

Only someone who truly loves you
Would take the trouble
To say these things to you
To torture you so kindly
To kick you so lovingly
To stick in the knife
And twist it with such tenderness

I must carry on the tradition
I cannot let it die
The noble love of my ancestors
We are bound to one another
By a hatred of ourselves
And of each other

How can I escape?
How can I climb out of the world itself?
How can I see outside the air I live in?
Are there people beyond this place?
Can I ever learn to speak their language?

The good thing about self-hatred
Is that you become willing to try anything
To brave any peril
To endure any hardship
Even without knowing
What the other side is going to be like

April is National Poetry Writing Month


A Contract Blythely

The dewy newlyweds
Before the banker's desk
Seek his monetary sanction
Lay bare their plans for sex,
Childbearing, child rearing,
Home and family life
In a place of public commerce

Do they even need a plan?
They have the seal of Church and State
If not shared love, at least a shared paper
The banker gamely joins the farce
Contractual polished wood and marble, cool and solid
Fleshly needs, primordial, their endless squabbles
In ridiculous juxtaposition

Sex and marriage are silly things
Like skiing
Why does one do it?
One just does
Others admire the boldness
Without knowing why

From some high place
One slides down
Drawn by inexorable, heady forces
Where one goes and winds up depends
On the rash choices made while on top
To the warm and welcoming lodge
Or to a cold deserted valley
Of blaming one another

One cannot clamber back up
Much though one might wish it

April is National Poetry Writing Month

In the Limit, Zero

Infinity takes away
My cares and worries

April is National Poetry Writing Month

My Body, A Meal

My body, a meal that I offer to others
Many refuse, claiming diet or that they just ate
Some pick at the parts they like
Saying they don't like the others
Or even argue that they don't exist
Others say those parts don't agree with them
This limits what I can serve these people

Lately I've learned to keep some parts to myself
Keep them from the eager forks and knives of my diners
To ringing peals of rage at my selfishness
A rare few want all of me
Good and bad, light and dark, sweet and sour
The intimacy of sharing some part of myself
With another who completely and eagerly receives it
My body is who I am

Women are adventuresome diners
Is that just how they are?
Or are they just not taught to be closed off
From truly experiencing and enjoying
Something new and different
Or just anything they choose?
Women prepare meals of their own
Themselves, served on a platter
Is intimacy easier for them?

O to cook a dish everyone wants to savor
To be unconstrained by dietary restrictions
My body is how I experience the world
And how other people experience me

April is National Poetry Writing Month


In My Eye Love You

Me ni irettemo itakunai
It won't hurt even if you put it into my eye
The Japanese say
Of a beloved thing
Like a beautiful child

Some say gay sex is gross
Or must be painful
They can't've had much sex themselves

Japanese food is like kinky sex
Pink, moist, throbbing, writhing, raw, wriggling
Smelly, stinky, slimy, gooey, gluey, mucusy
Sauces, salty, sour, slurping, sucking sounds
Impossibly long, large white radishes
A challenge or a threat?
You're not putting that into my mouth!
Well, maybe.  We'll see.
Irettemo itakunai kashira
Maybe it won't hurt even if you do

Group participation, don't be shy
Cook it yourself at your table
Sliced meat and vegetables
All arranged neatly in their street clothes
All buttoned down in their office clothes

Waiting on the plate
Waiting to be stripped of their aloofness
Waiting to be ravished and debauched
Waiting for the melée
Waiting for my chopsticks

To be roughly grabbed, plucked, boiled, fried
Rolled in sauce and raw egg and then
Popped, still steaming, still protesting
Into my waiting mouth
To be eagerly gobbled
The anticipation beads on them like sweat

My waribashi
Her straight, pale legs still closed, side by side
Joined together at the crotch
Like a proper, demure young maiden
Soon I shall rip them apart
Or bite one and pull the other
Like a rascally fu-ryô scoundrel
Release the beast

Chopstick legs scissor and twist
With bewitching alien grace
In concert with hand and mouth
Are they really doing what I think they're doing?
The messy, noisy dance repeats
Yet somehow building
Toward a climax, like fireworks
That you miss while turning the other way

The other side of satiety
The happiness of not needing any more
But knowing there will be more later
The once gross things do not become gross again
Sometimes we must overcome our fears
Try it, you might like it
You'll never know until you try
It might be scary at first but maybe you'll find
Me ni irettemo itakunai
It won't hurt even if I put it into your eye

April is National Poetry Writing Month


Mnemonic Dirge

The youth of friends, some dead and gone, preserved
Places whose impressions have faded
Boxes of memories, of things past,
Boxes of my life, saved up
For when I shall some day need them

Precious only to me
And to those who love me
The true picture of my life
Taken through the lens of G-d's love
Utterly truthful, yet unjudging
Unlike when I'm gloomy or grandiose

Proof that my memory is not perfect
A collection of preserved moments
Forms a canvas of a life well lived
If they are gone, do I cease to be?

History is a world of documents
Without which is only the confusing here and now
To live in the here and now
And yet remember the past as it was
Is the goal of a serene existence

Did I go to China?
Did I really see women with bound feet?
How big was Tiananmen Square?
What color was the Dalai Lama's palace?

Did I ever see the Earth from Space?
How many times have I been to Egypt?

Didn't I live in Switzerland?
What did my friends look like then?
And how many were there?

Did I go to exotic parties
In San Francisco and Tokyo?
I can't keep my erotic inventory
All in my head

Who were all the women I have known?
Were they really as beautiful as I remember?

So many details of Israel
I'm sure I've forgotten

Japan, my home for so many years
I must have had some happy times
If I could only remember
If only there were some proof
Would it temper the bitterness?

Our love of visual media
Make modern people vulnerable
To a new kind of Alzheimer's
Whatever skill people of yesteryear had
For living their lives without pictures
We no longer possess
Without our crutch we stumble

Even still
The loss of a window to the past
Is the loss of a happy place
Of a cherished refuge
The loss of loved one

April is National Poetry Writing Month

The Spirit of Hair

My great-great-great-grandmother's hair
Shown to me by my mother
Blond, like wheat, braided
Proof that humans existed before now
Like an Egyptian mummy
Yet real, like yesterday
Cut from my grandmother's head
While she was still alive
Like a samurai who cuts his topknot
Or a jilted Japanese woman
A sign of dishonor?  Or renewal?
Native Americans braid their hair
A way of binding, concentrating power?
Strong like a rope
That it not blow away like chaff
Our hair keeps growing after we die
Is it a vessel for our spirit?
Not yet ready to leave our body?
Our men do not wear their hair long
What remains of them after they're gone?
Their unbroken rope, their legacy?
Their children do not fondle their locks
After they die

April is National Poetry Writing Month


Web of Lies

Poor is the web of lies
Woven with but one thread
Catching but a few flies
This isn't what we dread

The web holds many strings
Greed, guilt, self-hate
For every fly something
Upon the cloying grate

To greed some flies succumb
Toward treasure they grope
Lusting after a crumb
Perish on sticky ropes

Some drown in their own guilt
Heedless of threats of death
By which the web is built
Surrender their last breath

A fly must look within
Something most don't dare
Each thread alone is thin
The web is hardly there

Blinded by careless haste
Most fail to see evil
Or in the final waste

April is National Poetry Writing Month


The Need to Wipe Pee at the In-Laws

Meeting the in-laws for the first time
Everything is very pleasant
I excuse myself to go to the toilet
A bright yellow drop of urine
Waits for me at the edge of the bowl
I imagine my new sister and niece
"Mummy, there was a drop of O-shikko
On the edge of the toilet bowl"
"It must have been that gaijin
Whom your auntie just married"
Is my imagination running wild?
It's such a little thing...this time
So I wipe someone else's pee
For fear of being singled out
I learned a few things that day
And many that I shall never know

April is National Poetry Writing Month

Happy Easter, feast of fertility, Passover, y'all


Parasitic Capacity

A graduate student lecturer
His point inscrutable
Holds forth on a circuitous topic
Like literate cattle
We low to one another
In staring bovine incomprehension
Even the native-speaking 3rd years
Confess their dumbfoundedness
Turns out it was on parasitic capacitances
In high-frequency amplifiers
Of course it was the basis for my final
A taste of French litotes, pas terrible
In real estate and sex
It's all about location, location, location
With electrical engineers
It's all about frequency, frequency, frequency
And doing it in superposition
Male versus female perspective?
Oh, to be a high-frequency amplifier
But without the capacity for parasitism
Is it possible to amplify the output of another
While taking nothing back for oneself?

April is National Poetry Writing Month


詩 The Cheapest Restaurant in Lisbon

Climbing an uphill street
A quest for the cheapest restaurant in Lisbon
What better goal for a starving student?
A deafening "Psssst!" in my ear
Like someone would whisper in a quiet movie house
It's coming from across the street
A woman, black miniskirt and pink top
"You wanna make fuck with me?!"
I say it's against my religion
I meet her again coming downhill
She shows me some Monopoly® money
And asks if it's real American money
She swears and stalks off at my answer
When, at last, the restaurant, they ask me the same
And laugh when I say it was jugete
They say if you build a better mousetrap
The mice will beat a path to your door
I wish I had a product that sells itself
No worries about marketing or billing
Maybe I should have taken her on
Lost my virginity in a deserted alleyway
Somewhere between Boardwalk and Park Place
But I had left all my Monopoly® money
Somewhere along the mean streets of childhood

April is National Poetry Writing Month


A Bird most Fowl

What strange epithets
What strange expletives
We reserve for some sellers

shady dealer
confidence trickster

Some just don't sound well

What about....whore?  slut?

"You seller of Spring!"
"You helpful associate!"

Are these bad because they sound badly?
Or because they do bad things?
Or because we want to feel justified
When we do bad things to them
Like degrade the price of their product
Or feel badly about ourselves?

April is National Poetry Writing Month

The Emptiness of Fullness, the Fullness of Emptiness

The accumulation of who I am
Like a museum of pieces carefully chosen
Or a comfortable home full of deliberate debris
Or a hoarder's lair
Full of things I'd rather be rid of
Yet cannot throw away
Or a garbage dump
Growing ever more toxic
Until it all must be wiped clean away
The composite me
Something to be treasured?
Or simply thrown away and forgotten?

April is National Poetry Writing Month


The thrill of looking at the menu
The choice could not be more clear

Chinese music wafts through the air
For the customers?  Or to kill the girls' boredom?

The girl next door from Harbin
The industrial wasteland that drove her here

A welcome like no other
I am truly myself

Pale pink towels washed a thousand times
The shower rinses away the day's memory

Intimacy purchased can still be intimacy
Friendship can cross language and culture

The most beautiful words in the Japanese language
Aomuki Kudasai

The impossible touch
What was life before this place?

A precious gift comes within easy reach
But then becomes craved, needed

April is National Poetry Writing Month

Soapland Denied

Euphemisms brimming with cuteness
Brimming with imagined delights
Little piles of salt, folded paper
Guard the door, a whispered curse
No fakku, no fakku
The front desk scolds
Ascribing unseemly lusts to the unclean heathen
Hope shines like through a barely open door
Alas, the manager appears
Intones the once-stinging refrain
Now merely a slap on numb flesh
Gaijin dame, gaijin dame
A priest exorcising demons
A talisman held at arm's length
No foreigners
We don't want your kind here
No shoulder to cry on
No sympathetic ear
Why would you want that anyway?
That's not for you
That's not for people like you

April is National Poetry Writing Month


The Tyranny of Antiseptic Words

Shall I have beef or fish?
Which wine would go best?

Would you like fries with that?
Not having fries is also a choice

Paper or plastic?
Snip it off or leave it on?
Which would look better?  Which will women prefer?
Your child's future sexual happiness
Extirpated by the cruel knife of thinly-veiled sadism
Instead of the jaundiced eyelid of indifference

I've always preferred "manic-depression"
Which hell for you today?  Hell or hell?
In numb living death or coals-walking frenzy
All your friendships, loves and dreams
Agonizingly exterminated before your eyes
Why don't these people get it?

Doesn't he act oddly?
Don't let's think about his inner life
I don't feel like I'm asleep
Why can't I wake up?
I can see across the chasm
To that undiscovered country
Of the lives and feelings of other people
Even if there were a bridge
Would I think to cross it, or dare to?

Why'd he do it?
The slap in the face
Proof that we can't truly know one another
We who are left behind
Are just as alone as he was
The hot rush of blood
The mute urgency of suffocation
Oblivion's perfection tarnished
By the need to leave a body behind

Words fail us
Even when we try to wield them
To penetrate instead of hide
To strip bare and make love to the stuff of reality
Not leave it bedecked in garish garments
The work of marketers, apologists, and spin doctors

Words fail us
If we are numb to the horror
Numb to the cuteness

Sitting in the waiting room of existence
Trading pleasantries with the Evil
Seated right next to us

Everyone needs sugar-coating
We mustn't make a scene after all
I'm sure they know what they're doing

In the embrace of antiseptic words
We hug another word to our guilty breast
The only true sin

Happy Birthday, Hugo! 

April is National Poetry Writing Month

When Winter Last

What if Winter and its doldrums
Were to last forever and never end?

How do we know which laying down
Is our last, our deathbed, our end?

That cold, that weary affliction
From which we shall not rise again?

Winter does not grip us, it spurns
Leaving nowhere to put our feet

Once in Springtime naked we lay
With joyful ease, warm breeze and sun

Now thick layers keep us apart
Stained with grime of our resentments

Kisses once given in fullness
Now rare and icy in the chill

Pressing of bodies, warm embrace
Longed for, yet not, in Winter's sway

Will the snow ever melt away?
Is our last Spring now behind us?

The final time with a lover
You know only in looking back

The Winter of our discontent
There is no path back to past Springs

Is there a Spring in the future?
Can a frozen heart thaw again?

April is National Poetry Writing Month


When You're Ridiculously Tall

You're in especial danger from falls
When you're ridiculously tall

No one would ever call you "small"
When you're ridiculously tall

When a lightbulb needs changed,
You must answer the call
When you're ridiculously tall

In low doorways you're forced to crawl
When you're ridiculously tall

You're always picked first at basketball
When you're ridiculously tall

You can see into the neighbouring stall
When you're ridiculously tall

You're often mistaken for a pillar or wall
When you're ridiculously tall

These are some of the things which may befall
When you're ridiculously tall

April is National Poetry Writing Month
The author is over 6' 5" tall

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