Black book

from TheFeatheredSleep

hijacked amygdala

Apparently

men can gather bed notches and

this elevates them socially

whilst women of the same history

are sluts plain and simple

therefore

I am a whore

not because you tell me so

or for any notches or black books

but for the raspy feather in my chest

when it tickles

I gather up my fancy

and I imagine

all the rides I’ve taken

which is as far as I go today

given my propensity for not coming back

but there was a time

I let four boys into my room

not all at once or even

in the same afternoon

they were as different as

the rules for men and women

one I found ugly and angular

his penis was a sharp hungry thing

that burned the desire out of me

another was vain and glorious

a cheshire cat apt to lap his own cream

his was large and…

View original post 349 more words

Peter: The Little Girl in the Wall

First published as Wild Kingdom on April 14, 2015.

Warning: The content may be triggering.

Lions stalk the plains of Africa, roaring and eating up deer, then the Rock of Gibraltar appears behind a man that lights a cigarette and promises money to people that die.

“That’s the strength of the rock!” he says.

Peter thinks about the little girl with scissors.

Mother says she hides in the walls until she hears a little
boy talking too much.

Then she pops out, holds him down, and cuts out his tongue!

Mother says the little girl has scissors as long as Father’s arms.

But the little girl can’t hear a drawing, Peter thinks.

Mother’s in the kitchen having coffee with Earline.

Earline is the lady that lives next door.

Mother says Earline is PG.

Peter goes into the kitchen to show Earline his pictures of
people with breasts.

Earline blushes and says what a little man Peter’s become.

Mother heaves a burdened sigh and shakes her head, “He’s so difficult Earline! One of his uncle’s gave him a book about the natives of Africa; now he draws tits on everything.”

Mother smiles patiently at Peter: “Go to the living room, sweetheart and we’ll look at your drawings later.”

Peter returns to the living room. where the flies chase each other around his chair: one of them drifts sluggishly to the floor.

Peter snatches it up and rips off it’s wings.

Then he drops it to the floor to see what a fly without wings can do.

A screenshot of VR avatars staged to represent a child alternate named Peter, a protector alternate named Bobby and a storyteller alternate named the Narrator
A screenshot of avatars staged to represent a child alternate named Peter, a protector alternate named Bobby, and a storyteller named the Narrator. Please click this link for an explanation of alternates and their function.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

Inherit their voice

from the Feathered Sleep

TheFeatheredSleep

2012610_1809dSat facing away from the sun

an old man wipes years from his eyes

drawn over with cataract like milky bath water

he strains to see the outline of motion

where are all the old men? He thinks

once so barrel chested and neatly trimmed

with mustaches and shiny hair like Cover Girl teens

where are all the eighties queers who painted beaches

with tight abs and tiny shorts in tropical shades?

now half empty, the beach longs for color

only rotund women with bristly chins

unkempt hair chopped without thought

some with children or children’s children

placing sensible shades and thick UV factor 50

on slow-moving parts of themselves

in previous years you could

reach out and paint a rainbow

in their courage of being twenty

though lesbians and gay men do not

always a palate make

such contrasts in their expression

these women without restraint

mopping the brows…

View original post 805 more words

…and feel ashamed…

Art by Rob Goldstein
Writings from homeless people in Clarion Alley

At night I hide beneath my blanket like a
boy afraid of the dark and feel ashamed.

I hear sweet music and remember
something good and feel ashamed.

I see photos of murder victims and wonder
what they thought in those last moments
and feel ashamed.

I walk past weddings and imagine the bride #
and groom screwing and feel ashamed.

I reach for the ghost of a long dead
lover and feel ashamed.

I open my eyes to discover that I’m
still alive and feel ashamed.

(c) Rob Goldstein 2016