Pimp to the mouth-breathers

Soul Food

I went to eat a burger
then thought about the cow

Reached for some chicken tenders
but pondered on the “how”

A fish stick was the bees knees
before my goldfish in his bowl

Think I’ll just go eat a carrot
and pray it hasn’t got a soul

Marilyn Remembering

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Death and old magazines are supposed to dominate this blog, and while we’ve had plenty of the former, the latter has slacked. Here’s a 1972 Life Magazine, Remember Marilyn, which - for its title and cover - only has a meager four pages in the back devoted to old Norma Jean. (Who, incidentally, spelled her name Norma Jeane).

I don’t think I knew that Marilyn was briefly married to a guy named Jim Dougherty at 16, as page 73 points out. A look at Dougherty’s 2005 L.A. Times obit reveals that the marriage was one of convenience, or in Marilyn’s case, of not being wanted. She was living with friends of her mother - then in a psych ward - and the friends wanted to move back to West Virginia, but would have had to abandon the then 15-year-old Norma Jeane.

"She would have gone back to an orphanage or another foster home, so her foster mother suggested I marry her," Dougherty said in a 1990 interview. "We decided to get married to prevent her from going back to a foster home, but we were in love."

The magazine has several pictures I’ve never seen. One, taken just two years before her death at 36, shows a wet, ghastly looking Monroe in a nude bathing suit. The sun’s angle forces her to squint, casting her pupils into shadow above a Joker grin.

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This ethereal black and white photo was taken after Marilyn told photographer Milton Greene that what she missed most out of life was not having a high school yearbook photo. 

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Th last page has her in a robe, looking out a window, with her left hand up against her cheek. The photo is one that Marilyn included in an album she assembled a friend’s birthday. Beside the photo, in four different colors of crayon, Marilyn writes: “this is my favorite.” As an afterthought, the dot over the red “i” in “this” has been changed to a white circle to match the “i” in “is.”

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She liked the photo - Life says - because it reminded her of Norma Jean(e).

Good Friday, Pilsen, 2013.

Bird, with the first Easter lily bloom behind him. 

Bird, with the first Easter lily bloom behind him. 

Mad Marriage Musings from Chloe and Stave

Me: Like, I don’t get why I’d have to ask only my female friends to be in my bridal party. Some of my closest friends are guys. It’s all a load of shit.

Stave: Right, when I get married, my bridal party - or whatever you want to call it - will be gender blind. How do people still cling to this stuff? I don’t get it. 

Me: Like, live your life people. Live your freaking lives.

Stave: Life is too damned short anyway. Like, we are all going to die. At any minute. And the world is going to explode and go away and then it’ll all be over. So do whatever the hell you want with your wedding.

Me: Preach.

Reasons Why Not

Can’t and won’t and
why and how
Objectifiers of the now
placing fault upon the “must”
It’s in the heart that one should trust

IL love you forever. 

IL love you forever. 

What Lady, What Lamb

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I’m at the Metro again, watching Lady Lamb the Beekeeper tend to a roomful of hornets. Happy drones guzzling beer, swaying, paying homage to the queen on a Thursday.

Her voice is less like honey and more the stabby, other end of a yellow jacket. A threatening barb that knows how to deliver over and over.

She wears black pants, boots, guitar. She spits black and lets black dribble out the side of her mouth. Her eyebrow quotation marks bend in and away from one another guiding her eyes anywhere anywhere other than to whatever stringed thing she happens to hold in her hands. 

She strums you through birds being born and suicide love splats. Over rivers and past fuck yous. Until finally her honeycombed bee eyes see you into a reverse fairy tale. Where you listen, helplessly, as those two chubby German kids get gobbled by the witch - then break free, skipping and singing only to be eaten up again.

Fur

I will not let you go
No further than my cat
Little pet upon a string
Trained rat
I’d rather you fat and useless
than leaving