Finding the Song’s Singer

Aaron is telling a story, told to him by a guy who worked with Rat and Roy Simmons, the bastards who stole his lyrics and made the awful pop song.


Dennis found the singer in a coffee shop two blocks from the studio. He was running late that morning, in a huge hurry to get to the studio and talk Roy out of firing a lyricist who had dared collaborate with another producer. Dennis ordered a large black dark roast with two espresso shots. He received a small latte. He sent it back. He received a medium latte with a note on the cup. “Sorry I effed it up–Kimmy.” And a huge smiley face. When he sent the second cup back, Kimmy appeared, filled with excuses and apologies. Dennis dropped the cup she gave him.

“I took one look at her and said aloud, ‘Eff me,’” Dennis said. “She looked like a slightly harder, taller mix of Christina Aguilera and Shakira, with Britney Spears’ pigtails. She’d altered her coffee shop shirt with a notch to show off her chest and tied it in the back so it would hug her stomach. She smiled at me and I didn’t need coffee anymore, my blood pumped so hard. She put her finger near her mouth and my dick twitched. She turned around and her ass made me weep with joy.”

Kimberly Smith, soon to be known to the music world as Kymmya D’Oro (she wanted a name that sounded “expensive and shiny”), appeared on the scene like a fully-formed lightning bolt gift from the pop gods, a teenage daydream, night dream, and wet dream. She was nineteen but looked fifteen, with huge cobalt eyes that seemed to lock on yours at any angle and hold them, natural blonde hair that twisted and curled like someone had rolled her around a steamy bed for hours, and a body that a budding porn star would pay many thousands of dollars to a plastic surgeon to have. She dripped sex, sang (with a little Auto-Tune help) like she was three thrusts from cumming, and smiled like she was an equal believer in unicorns and porno movies, chastity belts and all night orgies.

Kymmya D’Oro looked like someone had spent years constructing her in a pop star laboratory, sweating over every important detail, reworking her until she was done. Add in some trampy clothes, a little work to get rid of a couple of tiny pimple scars, and she was ready to burst forth from an album like one of the Four Horsemen of the Music Apocalypse.

Dennis laughed. “It didn’t matter that she was so dumb that she almost forgot how to breath sometimes, or that she got scared one day because she didn’t want to get ‘struck by thunder.’ I waited until she got off work and gave her fifty bucks to go with me to the studio. I walked in to Roy calling me everything but a Catholic saint, but when he got a look at her his jaw took a trip to his waist. ‘Roy,’ I said, ‘meet the girl who’s going to sing that song.’”

I Could Sleep with You Here

I Could Sleep with You Here


Even at three AM we’d make love if I awoke,

startled wide eyed by that ongoing dream—

you know the one, where that shadow

thing chases me into that dark place

and tries to grab me with those bony hands.

I’d rattle back to the world panting,

my heart strumming a steady bass

to shake the open bedroom window.

You’d feel me behind you, huff and puff,

body beat and beads of sweat clinging

as I pull your back toward my front.

You would wiggle your ass into me,

moan and murmur sleep soaked words,

maybe half lost in a Scarlett O’Hara

dream, my Gable grin shuddering you

as my valiant South rises again,

my night fear melting with the heat

of my now nighttime fever of lust.   


I could sleep with you here,

Even with sleep no longer considered

as your fluttering hand guides me home,

cup and ball, olive and pimento, puzzle pieces.

Our hair drowsy with sex sweat

after we crash and mold and wow at the room

with our Handel choruses of I love you

and please fuck me harder baby

and come closer so I can touch you in me.

When your back to sleep body is a slick lullaby

with every soft sound you strain to bring alive.

You giggle once, piercing air and opportunity,

twist your eager to arch back along my landscape

as our hum and heat and a cricket chorus

drop us back to the beckoning clock hands,

at the point the weary body insists on what

the heart and cock and pussy protest.

Foggy morning

P1040904 P1040911 P1040915 P1040916 P1040917

I’m back!

I’ve missed the blog, and talking to you on it. Now that the craziness has faded, I want to post something here every day.

I woke up very sad today, and ended yesterday that way. I miss you like crazy. Add to that the high, then crash of Antioch, and your man feels low. I know I’ll readjust.

Tuesday I start counseling. I’m dreading it, which probably means, in my experience, that I should do it. I always feel like I don’t know what I’m doing in there. I know my problems, know a lot of their bases in my life, but I’m not good with opening them to a stranger. Still, I’m committed to it, if I can be happier.

I went to bed last night sad. I needed you there, wanted to wrap my arms around you so badly. I made the mistake of watching this news story about a woman who blogged her dog’s last day on earth, with pictures – playing in his favorite spot, eating hamburgers…I wish I could’ve done that, even though I know we visited all of Coop’s spots a lot. It’s still pretty raw with me and that wonderful pup.

I thought of a short story idea while I went for a walk. The ideas are constant these days, like there aren’t enough years to write them all down. Sooner or later I’ll need my mind to rest, but not today.

I woke thinking of you, like every other day. Today, it was your hands, and how I wish that I could lie in bed and rub them, the way you like.

I should be kissing you right now.

First day

Today was the day I began to lay the foundations for change. My goals:

To write more, to cook more, to eat less and better, to shave and shower every day, to make my bed each morning, and more. Some seem silly but they’re about trying to have more focus and discipline.

Number one on the list is to get myself right as a more functional human being. To put to bed the anger and tendency to shoot myself in the foot. I call the counselors again tomorrow, hoping someone will return my requests for appointments. Being counselors, I’d hoped at least one of the two I emailed would respond…guess I’m the guy who would get put on hold at the suicide hotline, no literal meaning.

Today I did cook and those other things. And I wrote, most of the day, since I didn’t leave the house. With stuff I incorporated and new writing, I added over 4300 words today. As I wrote about Aaron missing Mara, I thought of you. I changed their first kiss to him initiating it, like in reality.

As I wrote about them I was frantic, almost like by telling their past I could rewrite my future. I know I can’t, but the thought is a good one all the same. So many stories. So much of us in the characters. I’m glad they get a happy ending. Someone should in this world.

Off to sleep here. I do miss you so. I hope your day was a good one.

First day back

It felt strange to be home. Except for a grocery trip. I stayed in and caught up on yard work, wrote, read. I started on the Sinclair short stories. Out of 4 so far, 2 aren’t short stories at all. Damn writers.

Last night I had my recurring nightmare. It starts at an old farm like place, where I’m finding old collectibles with two people I can see, but don’t know who they are. It’s creepy, but benign as I find the relics. The. It shifts to a creepy basement, where I see someone hanging, then all kinds of evil ghostly presences. Then I wake, my body humming with terror. Last night it crept me out to go use the bathroom. I felt five.

I wrote down my list of changes today. Talk about long! Still no reply from therapists, so calls Monday.

I’m thinking of you and hoping you’re well. So sorry, Moira. I’m so sorry.


The trip home was uneventful. I was delayed out of Newark, but since I had a long layover in Charlotte, it didn’t matter. I drove home with windows down, sunroof open. The fears hit me as I walked to my car. Coming here, back to the house, alone. I’ve kept myself busy since I got here, bed soon. It’ll be nice to sleep in a real bed with my pillow again.

Your comment about me making the lasagna rolls nailed me. I like nothing better than cooking for you. It was nice of you to say.

Tomorrow I get to write down all the things I worked on in New York, and catch up around here. It’ll be a bit strange getting back to “normal.”

I hope your fireworks exploding went well. The air is thick with it here.

On the way home

I went down the the seaport until it rained. It’s nice down there – a bit touristy, but the boats are beautiful and the air is cooler, with the breeze. I took my last subway ride and then had a nice Italian dinner and a few glasses of wine, as I watched the people pass. I fell asleep reading, and woke with stuff scattered on the little bed.

This morning was about saying goodbye. I walked to the river and sat in a park and wrote, went to the park across from the hotel and sat there. Greenacre Park is in my top 5 places I’ve ever been. The two times I’ve stayed at the Pod, I’ve spent a lot of time there. It’s almost like meditating, watching the waterfall flow.

I’m not ready to come home. I looked into staying a few more days, but the cost was immense. I think coming home will make things with is really hit hard. The first few days I was stunned, disbelieving, then I’ve been here, but when I get back to Danbury, to what will always be OUR house, I think the real struggle will begin.

This trip I’ve written as much about the changes I want to make as I have fiction. In New York, I’m at peace. It feels like home, in a way. I feel right there. I should’ve skipped Vegas and just gone to NYC. I need to figure out a way to make Dayton like my little New York, if I can. I have some ideas.

I haven’t gotten (2 inquiries so far) a counselor to return my emails, so I’ll work on that tomorrow. I have 3K in my HSA account, so hopefully that’ll get me going.

I’ve read all of your FB posts and they make my heart jump. I was happy to hear about you at Young’s. It’s somewhere I always wanted to go with you. I can’t believe Yellow Springs and Antioch is only a week away. I’m nervous and excited. This is my first big time go around with writing.

A full day of travel. I’m supposed to land at 9, so I’m hoping for that. Then, home to a house, and to me, most of all. Me who is tired of being me.

I’m sorry. I’ll always say that at the end of these posts. I’m deciding to prove that I love you by trying to get better. I’m sorry I had to lose another crucial part of me to do that.

New York, Wed. evening

I’m sitting in the hotel lobby, reading and people watching. It’s raining, and more rain tomorrow, so I’m not doing my usual – walking around the city and people watching. The pattern is constant when I travel alone. Get up and go, walk a bunch, come back to the hotel and nap and rest a bit, then hit it again. With the heavy rain, that’s curtailed.

I love this hotel mainly for the park across the street, which is one of the sweetest slices of heaven there is. It’s peaceful, because the guy who watches over it doesn’t hesitate to kick out running kids or people being too loud. I love him.

Tomorrow may be indoor activities, maybe the Museum of Natural History. I was going to go to the Bronx, to the Botanical Gardens, but the weather won’t support that.

It’s been a good trip. Mentally, emotionally, I’m not right at all, and prone to crying at strange times, but I’m sure the people on the subway thought I was just nuts. There are plenty of those on the subway.

When I get home, it’s time to figure out what life will be. I obviously know some of what it won’t be – you. You think you’re not good for me. It’s true in parts. I end up wanting you so badly that I always lash out, taking out on you the things I knew to be true – we aren’t full time, you have another life, and I can’t hold it together for any length of time when we only see each other on occasion. I tried so hard to stay in the moment, but when we started talking about Miami and marriage and a life together again…all the old demons started plaguing me. I fought my ass off against them, tried everything in my toolbox to keep them at bay. I lost. You lost, and I’m sorry I’m not stronger, have rarely been the man you imagine me. I sabotage. I subvert. And I let my hurts and sadnesses overwhelm me, and my anger control me, especially with a bottle of wine in me. I truly believe the alcohol is the trigger. With you, anyway.

When I get back, counseling and life reassessment. I’m working toward being less of an “I don’t give a fuck what happens to me” guy. Unemployment is drying, no job prospects, and a feeling of not giving a shit are a dangerous combination.

I guess I want to feel right again.

On the Humans of New York FB page, I read this today:

“I’m always sad.”
“Are there certain thoughts associated with the sadness?”
“No, the sadness is under the thoughts. It’s like when you’re on a camping trip, and it’s really cold, and you put on extra socks, and an extra sweater, but you still can’t get warm, because the coldness is in your bones.”
“Do you hope to get away from it?”
“Not anymore. I just hope to come to peace with it.”

I want a little more than peace with it. It’s time, it’s so fucking past time for my head to pop out of my ass. I’m not worth a damn to anyone like this, most of all myself. The self-loathing and self-doubt and lack of confidence and lack of drive need to change. The anger needs to be cleansed.

I am so sorry you had to endure all that I shouldn’t be. A day won’t pass that I don’t think of what I’ve done to you, and shake my head as I hope you’re doing well, and that you never have to feel my brand of sadness again.

New York, Wednesday

Yesterday I went to Central Park, explored the area around the hotel, and saw James Maddock perform at a club that made Canal Street seem like the Fraze. I snapped hundreds of pictures, some of places I’ve never seen before. St. Pat’s is under major construction. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate in any way for me to do so, but I lit a candle for you.

This morning I went to the 9/11 memorial and museum. I’m still reeling from it. They posted quotes on the wall. One May, calling his mother, said, “It’s okay. Something hit tower 1, but I’m in tower 2.” Of course, minutes later…people were crying all over the place. There was a lot to cry over.

The Pennsylvania crash displays hit me hard. The people who rushed the cockpit and crashed the plane, knowing it was to die or to let the terrorists win. I realized that I am not a courageous person. I’ve never been brave. I am skating on the thin ice of my life hoping to avoid making any cracks, but still aware of all the fissures behind me.

Today is the first day I’ve dared to miss you. The last few days, I’ve told myself how undeserving I am of any missing, or loving, or feeling. But today, it’s hopeless to resist it. The ache is too strong. I’m sorry for all I did. I’d give anything to take it back. Another moment when I get to look back and think, that nights changed my world, and not for the better.

I hope you’ve been able to enjoy the days, somehow.

I’m sorry.


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