ms. carene brown, may angels lead you in. tomorrow i will run and run so i can forget that i wasn't there when i should have been, didn't call as much as i should have, wasn't a good friend when you had been an amazing mentor.
i will run from the seductive smile of james franco in cocoa reality, his solid shoulders smoldering in the glittering sunrise on John street.
step step step step and you dwell for a little while on why they can't see that you have been responsible since the womb
that you willed yourself to be fine minus the lack of proper prenatal care
that you were delivered into this world with a block on your shoulder
and a full vocabulary
with melancholy and woe
and that sometimes you just
have to throw it all off
shake and shimmy it off
sprint away
and go.
breathe. exhale. swing your arms. exhale.
you resolve not to let it bother you
not to let them get to you
penetrate the core of your soul
the nymph who needs to keep moving
to blend the pastels of existence with magazine cutout
collage pictures in order to make comprehensible
everything you see.
step
step
step
step
breathe
exhale
step
step
step
step
i will run and run
and when i am done
i will stretch until i am numb.
22.11.09
she smiles sweetly
when i get home
sometimes
i stick my finger down my throat.
bulimia was a choice,
not a destiny
even though senior year
we all told meredith she was worth so much more
it was the lesson of the day back then.
you have to love yourself
if you are going to make it.
loving ourselves meant
you squared your shoulders and
walked with purpose, heels striking
the ground with force
a quick step, long pace.
loving ourselves meant striding along
in almost a light jog with a ferocity
you wore in your eyes and the
tension of your lips
that said to anyone who might
consider screwing with you
mothafucka i'll beat you
with the pointy heel of my
patent-leather stiletto if
you even so much as look at me for too long.
he fell in love with that sexy stepping
the way the wind raged through her hair
and they kissed soft sweet and secret
sweaty, in the ephemeral heat of september
until it didn't make sense
to continue doing so.
once home from dinner
she stuck her finger down her throat
because she'd eaten too much
and she couldn't have his waist smaller than hers
if theirs was to be a successful relationship.
the chaos pulsed in her oceanic eyes
waves of recognition were missing from his
that's fine, she told herself
he was a backup anyway. a side dish
keep it moving.
squared her shoulders,
head up, wind siphoning aggression
from her muscles
through her hair.
sometimes
i stick my finger down my throat.
bulimia was a choice,
not a destiny
even though senior year
we all told meredith she was worth so much more
it was the lesson of the day back then.
you have to love yourself
if you are going to make it.
loving ourselves meant
you squared your shoulders and
walked with purpose, heels striking
the ground with force
a quick step, long pace.
loving ourselves meant striding along
in almost a light jog with a ferocity
you wore in your eyes and the
tension of your lips
that said to anyone who might
consider screwing with you
mothafucka i'll beat you
with the pointy heel of my
patent-leather stiletto if
you even so much as look at me for too long.
he fell in love with that sexy stepping
the way the wind raged through her hair
and they kissed soft sweet and secret
sweaty, in the ephemeral heat of september
until it didn't make sense
to continue doing so.
once home from dinner
she stuck her finger down her throat
because she'd eaten too much
and she couldn't have his waist smaller than hers
if theirs was to be a successful relationship.
the chaos pulsed in her oceanic eyes
waves of recognition were missing from his
that's fine, she told herself
he was a backup anyway. a side dish
keep it moving.
squared her shoulders,
head up, wind siphoning aggression
from her muscles
through her hair.
3.10.09
tidbits and ramblings
we're in a posh hotel room, somewhere a million stories above the city. the room is decorated in neutrals with gold accents and some salmon pink splashed here and there. tasteful, compared to how it sounds. there is a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne on the table in the dining area outside of the bedroom in the suite. two glasses sat empty, waiting to be filled and emptied, and filled again. journey plays and we discuss the ramones. he tells me about the punk concerts he used to see at cbgb, wearing a leather bomber jacket with studs and sporting voluminous hair. we smoke up in the middle of the "living area", right on the floor, while the stereo pulses and throbs next to us. "layla" comes on- the derek and the dominoes version- and i seem to be backed against the couch. our mouths are connected and i feel the stubble on his chin even though he shaved this morning. his breath is sweet with a tinge of whiskey and maybe some fruit, probably the apple tart, and before i know it i'm in his lap and there...oh, there's no going back now.
('cos it already is)
the 15 freeway moves at a peacefully frantic clip and the sun sets ahead of us in brilliant orangeyellows. he's wearing the trunks he swam in and a green billabong t-shirt that i would later bury in the bottom of a box of clothes that i donated to the salvation army.
he handles his car in the kind of way that makes you want to climb over the gearshift and into his lap and just fuck his brains out right there on the 74. there wasn't much to omar, all skin and ultra-lean muscle, but he had a presence that was like the ocean: calm until it wasn't; blue until it turned slate gray. i remember not wanting to continue, to make him stop, but all the same being completely excited that we'd finally gotten around to it.
it's september 5th, 2005 and sticky everywhere in brooklyn. i'm careening down atlantic ave. as a passenger in a navigator that's seen better days. our windows are rolled down and we follow the elevated tracks through the hood, back to my apartment. jack's radio is tuned to some station discussing the devastation of hurricane katrina, the extent of which i will only fully realize when i return to classes the next day and that's on the tip of everyone's tongue. he switches to the cd player. young jeezy and akon explode out of the speakers.
he handles his car in the kind of way that makes you want to climb over the gearshift and into his lap and just fuck his brains out right there on the 74. there wasn't much to omar, all skin and ultra-lean muscle, but he had a presence that was like the ocean: calm until it wasn't; blue until it turned slate gray. i remember not wanting to continue, to make him stop, but all the same being completely excited that we'd finally gotten around to it.
it's september 5th, 2005 and sticky everywhere in brooklyn. i'm careening down atlantic ave. as a passenger in a navigator that's seen better days. our windows are rolled down and we follow the elevated tracks through the hood, back to my apartment. jack's radio is tuned to some station discussing the devastation of hurricane katrina, the extent of which i will only fully realize when i return to classes the next day and that's on the tip of everyone's tongue. he switches to the cd player. young jeezy and akon explode out of the speakers.
12.7.09
25.3.09
the details
The last post-conference round of drinks was winding down. a group of jacketed executives sat around a table with an assortment of glasses in front of them: full of swirling whiskeys and bourbons interacting with melting ice. As the laughter and the barbs died down, most rose to leave the huddle, with the night hours winding down and the restaurant growing ever-quieter. It was hours ago the maitre'd had approached the table to tell everyone the kitchen was closing, and would they require anything else for the evening? They dismissed him jovially with an extra few dollars for his troubles and his patience.
One of the more boisterous men, a trim gentleman with more salt in his hair than pepper, stood up to excuse himself from the table. John unwound his coal gray suit jacket from the back of the mahogany chair. He said his last good nights and departed through the doorway of the restaurant in time to see a woman enter from the muggy silence beyond the hotel's gold-plated revolving doors. She crossed in front of the man to enter the bar across from the restaurant and he yielded to let her pass. Her eyes met his, her mouth was a slight smile as a silken "excuse me" floated between them.
The gentleman watched the back of Madeleine's silver evening gown glimmer beneath the dim lights of the bar. The draping at the bottom of her back stopped just above the gentle curve and accentuated the shapeliness of her waist. She slid onto a stool and ordered with the bartender. The gentleman turned and walked toward the elevator bank. His reflection caught him in the gold doors of the elevators. Hands in pockets, he turned toward the woman at the bar. He studied her back, the firm and tender muscles, and wondered if she remembered him. In his pocket, he worked his wedding ring off of his finger.
May I sit?
Of course. She smiled. How have you been?
He draped his jacket across the back of the bar stool, perched on the edge. One leg steadied him as the other bent to rest.
You know, not too bad, considering.
Yes, considering. I heard. What happened?
He shrugged. Shook his head slightly. You know, I'll tell you when I knew. She looked at me one day about three months ago, and said there's no going back from here. And I got it. I knew what she was saying. And she was right.
He looked away.
I was sorry to hear it. I am sorry.
He shrugged again. Thanks. Looked at her, a smile playing on his face. Didn't you, ah... have something?
She laughed. Did I ever. Yes, I had "something."
How'd that go?
It went really well until one day he left to get cigarettes and never came back.
She smiled simply, sadly, and shrugged her shoulders slightly, as if to say "these things happen." I've come to accept it. I have four kids to take care of. I have to accept it. Her laugh was filled with irony as she raised her glass to sip.
Four kids?
She nodded. Antonio, Alejandro, Isabela, and Sofia.
John was incredulous. Nothing about her body or carriage suggested she had four children. You gave- I mean- they're all yours, biologically?
Eyebrows raised, Madeleine's eyes laughed. Every single one. They give me a run for my money, that's for sure. The boys, especially. They're at that really mouthy age. Every once in awhile I'll wake up and announce we're going to grandma's. We make the drive, and when we're about ten minutes away I call my mom and tell her the kids have been dying to see her. Meanwhile they'll have been whining the entire time, being sarcastic, fighting with each other. I have to threaten them with Antarctica a few times. When we get to my mom's I leave the car running, get them all out and into her house and take off.
He laughed. That sounded like the Madeleine he knew.
I rarely do that, though. I use grandma only for very special occasions.
Like the one tonight, I see. He gestured to her dress.
We had a gala to raise money for battered women's shelters. I helped organize it and the firm was a major contributor.
He didn't-?
No. She was firm. No. Never. But there are women out there who aren't so lucky.
He nodded in agreement, sipped his drink. Well, you look... won- very- nice. You look very nice.
She played coy; it had been a long time since she'd had cause to.
Thank you.
John and Madeleine sipped their drinks together in silence for a few minutes, until she thought to rise and his hand sought the small of her back.
I'll be right back. She left her clutch on the bar.
For a moment John wondered what he was doing. He told himself he was having a drink with an old colleague, that this is what his wife would want. He told himself they were both adults, that she had four children and their lives were closer than they had once been. You only live once, old man.
She returned and slid onto her bar stool. John noticed her the silver sparkle on her toes. She took a sip from her glass.
Are you at a conference?
He nodded, swallowing his own drink. Technologies in publishing.
Scintillating.
He chuckled. Not exactly a forum on the chemistry of wine-making, but it'll do.
Their conversation stretched through the hours, with the occasional knee-pat or arm graze. Twice his hand moved to her bare back. The muscles ached to be touched, he could see it, could sense it.
When last call had finally come to mean "please leave," John thumbed through a stack of bills and left a few on the bar. He offered his arm to Madeleine. Are you a guest here?
I am. She smiled coyly.
Would you like to have a nightcap with me?
I would.
Her heels made a soft clicking on the marble floors as they made their way to the elevators.
His shoulders were broader than they'd appeared under his jacket, and he was still in good shape for his age. He loosened his tie, removed his shoes. What are you drinking?
7 and 7?
Good choice. It's my specialty.
John mixed their drinks and bent to give Madeleine hers. As she took it, she turned her face up and kissed his cheek.
One of the more boisterous men, a trim gentleman with more salt in his hair than pepper, stood up to excuse himself from the table. John unwound his coal gray suit jacket from the back of the mahogany chair. He said his last good nights and departed through the doorway of the restaurant in time to see a woman enter from the muggy silence beyond the hotel's gold-plated revolving doors. She crossed in front of the man to enter the bar across from the restaurant and he yielded to let her pass. Her eyes met his, her mouth was a slight smile as a silken "excuse me" floated between them.
The gentleman watched the back of Madeleine's silver evening gown glimmer beneath the dim lights of the bar. The draping at the bottom of her back stopped just above the gentle curve and accentuated the shapeliness of her waist. She slid onto a stool and ordered with the bartender. The gentleman turned and walked toward the elevator bank. His reflection caught him in the gold doors of the elevators. Hands in pockets, he turned toward the woman at the bar. He studied her back, the firm and tender muscles, and wondered if she remembered him. In his pocket, he worked his wedding ring off of his finger.
May I sit?
Of course. She smiled. How have you been?
He draped his jacket across the back of the bar stool, perched on the edge. One leg steadied him as the other bent to rest.
You know, not too bad, considering.
Yes, considering. I heard. What happened?
He shrugged. Shook his head slightly. You know, I'll tell you when I knew. She looked at me one day about three months ago, and said there's no going back from here. And I got it. I knew what she was saying. And she was right.
He looked away.
I was sorry to hear it. I am sorry.
He shrugged again. Thanks. Looked at her, a smile playing on his face. Didn't you, ah... have something?
She laughed. Did I ever. Yes, I had "something."
How'd that go?
It went really well until one day he left to get cigarettes and never came back.
She smiled simply, sadly, and shrugged her shoulders slightly, as if to say "these things happen." I've come to accept it. I have four kids to take care of. I have to accept it. Her laugh was filled with irony as she raised her glass to sip.
Four kids?
She nodded. Antonio, Alejandro, Isabela, and Sofia.
John was incredulous. Nothing about her body or carriage suggested she had four children. You gave- I mean- they're all yours, biologically?
Eyebrows raised, Madeleine's eyes laughed. Every single one. They give me a run for my money, that's for sure. The boys, especially. They're at that really mouthy age. Every once in awhile I'll wake up and announce we're going to grandma's. We make the drive, and when we're about ten minutes away I call my mom and tell her the kids have been dying to see her. Meanwhile they'll have been whining the entire time, being sarcastic, fighting with each other. I have to threaten them with Antarctica a few times. When we get to my mom's I leave the car running, get them all out and into her house and take off.
He laughed. That sounded like the Madeleine he knew.
I rarely do that, though. I use grandma only for very special occasions.
Like the one tonight, I see. He gestured to her dress.
We had a gala to raise money for battered women's shelters. I helped organize it and the firm was a major contributor.
He didn't-?
No. She was firm. No. Never. But there are women out there who aren't so lucky.
He nodded in agreement, sipped his drink. Well, you look... won- very- nice. You look very nice.
She played coy; it had been a long time since she'd had cause to.
Thank you.
John and Madeleine sipped their drinks together in silence for a few minutes, until she thought to rise and his hand sought the small of her back.
I'll be right back. She left her clutch on the bar.
For a moment John wondered what he was doing. He told himself he was having a drink with an old colleague, that this is what his wife would want. He told himself they were both adults, that she had four children and their lives were closer than they had once been. You only live once, old man.
She returned and slid onto her bar stool. John noticed her the silver sparkle on her toes. She took a sip from her glass.
Are you at a conference?
He nodded, swallowing his own drink. Technologies in publishing.
Scintillating.
He chuckled. Not exactly a forum on the chemistry of wine-making, but it'll do.
Their conversation stretched through the hours, with the occasional knee-pat or arm graze. Twice his hand moved to her bare back. The muscles ached to be touched, he could see it, could sense it.
When last call had finally come to mean "please leave," John thumbed through a stack of bills and left a few on the bar. He offered his arm to Madeleine. Are you a guest here?
I am. She smiled coyly.
Would you like to have a nightcap with me?
I would.
Her heels made a soft clicking on the marble floors as they made their way to the elevators.
His shoulders were broader than they'd appeared under his jacket, and he was still in good shape for his age. He loosened his tie, removed his shoes. What are you drinking?
7 and 7?
Good choice. It's my specialty.
John mixed their drinks and bent to give Madeleine hers. As she took it, she turned her face up and kissed his cheek.
18.3.09
a daydream
white bikini, beige sand. blinding sun.
tanned feet, purple toenails.
bleached hair dancing on shoulders, tangled into waves by salt water.
multicolored towel as barrier from the heat-containing beige sand.
cute guy, best friend, on the towel adjacent.
killer abs, bright smile.
she still wouldn't fuck him, he's too close.
he gets up to get a beer, "you want one?"
"sure. thanks."
this is how they know themselves: in relation to the ocean, in relation to the sun. the sand is a nuisance, but tolerable.
his phone rings. "yeah. sup dude.... oh...oh. you're here?... where are you?... you're walkin up? okay. we're in...we're by...yeah, number five.
she looks toward the boardwalk, the parking lots, and sees a figure she thinks she recognizes. her heart beats a little faster and it's then that she says out loud "i think i'm gonna go in the water."
she walks out to the water, board tethered to her ankle, and wades in away from tension that figure was bringing.
...
the two men look out to where she is in the water. her hair shines through its heavy wetness, her muscles line up in lovely symmetry to the earth. a wave overtakes her and they see feet. she bobs up, throws her hair back, and swims back out.
"i haven't seen her in a minute."
"how long's it been?"
"ahh. long time. ... she doesn't know i'm here, does she?" he said it with the weight of disappointment and looked at his hands.
"nah. i told her brian and danny were coming." he waited. "i mean, she doesn't really like them, so she should be a little happier, right?" He laughed, nervously.
"yeah, you know her, though. woman can hold a grudge."
"fuck yeah she can. how you been man? how's the baby?"
"my man. he's good. growin every day n' shit. said daddy the other day man, i thought my ears were gonna melt, you know? like, you live for that stuff." he looked out to the water again. she stood on the board and held the wave at bay. for a few seconds the two managed a peaceful coexistence while the stormy saltwater ceded control of the universe to her. he thought back to the last time they'd seen each other...
"how's jess?"
he came back to his patch of sand. the beer he held, water dripping down the sides of the bottle. "she's good. we don't talk much, beyond lil' guy."
"ya'll okay though?"
"yeah. i mean, as good as we can be when we both work two jobs and barely get enough time with our kid, you know?"
"damn man. that's rough. i'm not ready for that yet. two jobs? i can barely handle having one. all that dress code, be on time, answering to people shit, man. i don't know how you do it at two places."
"gotta, man. gotta. gotta feed my kid. gotta pay the rent. gotta keep gas in the car. gotta keep the woman happy." he laughed that secret man-laugh of misery.
...
submerged for the millionth time, she decided it was probably not best to be in the water when her mind was on other things.
"sweet mother of god." she adjusted her bottoms under the water, threw her hair back, and gave her body to buoyancy. the sun was too bright to encourage thought. she paddled her arms in a lackadaisical kind of way, hoping she'd get to shore eventually. why did james tell me the phone call was from brian? is brian even coming? he and danny would be a distraction, even though i don't much like either of them. but of all people on this earth, the last person i wanted to see was mike. God! i could kill james. her butt grazed the sand; she was near shore. she stood up and walked out of the water toward james and mike. still no brian or danny. damn. james' cut body, dark brown skin vaguely turned her on, but not in any significant way. the lust stopped at his navel. the dark chicano next to him was another story entirely, though. the story of her and mike was an epic, a greek tragedy originated in a small town.
once on solid sand she ripped the velcro cuff from her ankle and tucked the board under her arm. bits of water clung to her skin, he hair dripped a steady stream down her back. she could feel her white bikini top was too loose, but figured she could make it back and ask james to retie it.
mike watched her walk back toward them. she glittered. he missed her glisten, the scent of her skin in the morning. her smell of sweat and suntan lotion. he missed rubbing aloe into the crisp skin on her back when she spent too much time in the sun. his complexion was dark enough to avoid sunburn, for the most part- she wasn't so lucky.
damn, she looks good. james couldn't remember if he'd ever seen her so close to naked before. i wouldn't mind a piece of that. but not really. but look at that ass though. damn.
she was back to camp. digging water out of the cooler she and james had brought.
"hey, look who came by." james wasn't good at subtle.
she tried to put a good face on things, take her voice to an octave that suggested happiness and surprise. "i know. look who it is." she took a swig from the bottle and opened the cooler. "do we have any more sandwiches? i'm starving."
tanned feet, purple toenails.
bleached hair dancing on shoulders, tangled into waves by salt water.
multicolored towel as barrier from the heat-containing beige sand.
cute guy, best friend, on the towel adjacent.
killer abs, bright smile.
she still wouldn't fuck him, he's too close.
he gets up to get a beer, "you want one?"
"sure. thanks."
this is how they know themselves: in relation to the ocean, in relation to the sun. the sand is a nuisance, but tolerable.
his phone rings. "yeah. sup dude.... oh...oh. you're here?... where are you?... you're walkin up? okay. we're in...we're by...yeah, number five.
she looks toward the boardwalk, the parking lots, and sees a figure she thinks she recognizes. her heart beats a little faster and it's then that she says out loud "i think i'm gonna go in the water."
she walks out to the water, board tethered to her ankle, and wades in away from tension that figure was bringing.
...
the two men look out to where she is in the water. her hair shines through its heavy wetness, her muscles line up in lovely symmetry to the earth. a wave overtakes her and they see feet. she bobs up, throws her hair back, and swims back out.
"i haven't seen her in a minute."
"how long's it been?"
"ahh. long time. ... she doesn't know i'm here, does she?" he said it with the weight of disappointment and looked at his hands.
"nah. i told her brian and danny were coming." he waited. "i mean, she doesn't really like them, so she should be a little happier, right?" He laughed, nervously.
"yeah, you know her, though. woman can hold a grudge."
"fuck yeah she can. how you been man? how's the baby?"
"my man. he's good. growin every day n' shit. said daddy the other day man, i thought my ears were gonna melt, you know? like, you live for that stuff." he looked out to the water again. she stood on the board and held the wave at bay. for a few seconds the two managed a peaceful coexistence while the stormy saltwater ceded control of the universe to her. he thought back to the last time they'd seen each other...
"how's jess?"
he came back to his patch of sand. the beer he held, water dripping down the sides of the bottle. "she's good. we don't talk much, beyond lil' guy."
"ya'll okay though?"
"yeah. i mean, as good as we can be when we both work two jobs and barely get enough time with our kid, you know?"
"damn man. that's rough. i'm not ready for that yet. two jobs? i can barely handle having one. all that dress code, be on time, answering to people shit, man. i don't know how you do it at two places."
"gotta, man. gotta. gotta feed my kid. gotta pay the rent. gotta keep gas in the car. gotta keep the woman happy." he laughed that secret man-laugh of misery.
...
submerged for the millionth time, she decided it was probably not best to be in the water when her mind was on other things.
"sweet mother of god." she adjusted her bottoms under the water, threw her hair back, and gave her body to buoyancy. the sun was too bright to encourage thought. she paddled her arms in a lackadaisical kind of way, hoping she'd get to shore eventually. why did james tell me the phone call was from brian? is brian even coming? he and danny would be a distraction, even though i don't much like either of them. but of all people on this earth, the last person i wanted to see was mike. God! i could kill james. her butt grazed the sand; she was near shore. she stood up and walked out of the water toward james and mike. still no brian or danny. damn. james' cut body, dark brown skin vaguely turned her on, but not in any significant way. the lust stopped at his navel. the dark chicano next to him was another story entirely, though. the story of her and mike was an epic, a greek tragedy originated in a small town.
once on solid sand she ripped the velcro cuff from her ankle and tucked the board under her arm. bits of water clung to her skin, he hair dripped a steady stream down her back. she could feel her white bikini top was too loose, but figured she could make it back and ask james to retie it.
mike watched her walk back toward them. she glittered. he missed her glisten, the scent of her skin in the morning. her smell of sweat and suntan lotion. he missed rubbing aloe into the crisp skin on her back when she spent too much time in the sun. his complexion was dark enough to avoid sunburn, for the most part- she wasn't so lucky.
damn, she looks good. james couldn't remember if he'd ever seen her so close to naked before. i wouldn't mind a piece of that. but not really. but look at that ass though. damn.
she was back to camp. digging water out of the cooler she and james had brought.
"hey, look who came by." james wasn't good at subtle.
she tried to put a good face on things, take her voice to an octave that suggested happiness and surprise. "i know. look who it is." she took a swig from the bottle and opened the cooler. "do we have any more sandwiches? i'm starving."
16.11.08
the things they carried
On her back, constantly, unceasingly, is a large homemade wooden basket. Over time, the basket has been stained by rain, dried by consistent sunlight.
She carries babies in her basket. Tiny babies with almond shaped eyes and fine dark hair. She carries suicides and biological parents. Alcoholics, whores, the mentally ill. She carries lost boys hiding sadness in their liquid eyes who brawl their loneliness away. She carries car accidents. She carries knives and limes and weeds and socks.
And then there are the dark days, the days she isolates herself because she 'just can't face the world today'. She can't walk outside for fear people will see her failures all over her face. Some days she hears him tell her mother she won't get into college...that she's gained a lot of weight...that it was her fault, their fighting. She wants to believe she's better than what he tried to do, but some days she just can't.
Her basket gets heavier, and strangely, she says less than before.
She carries babies in her basket. Tiny babies with almond shaped eyes and fine dark hair. She carries suicides and biological parents. Alcoholics, whores, the mentally ill. She carries lost boys hiding sadness in their liquid eyes who brawl their loneliness away. She carries car accidents. She carries knives and limes and weeds and socks.
And then there are the dark days, the days she isolates herself because she 'just can't face the world today'. She can't walk outside for fear people will see her failures all over her face. Some days she hears him tell her mother she won't get into college...that she's gained a lot of weight...that it was her fault, their fighting. She wants to believe she's better than what he tried to do, but some days she just can't.
Her basket gets heavier, and strangely, she says less than before.
11.10.08
10.9.08
today, on "how catholic are you?"
in the latter days he gets worried. he wakes up at every movement, every squirm in the middle of the night. "you okay? baby?" it'll last for another four days. five, tops. as tomorrow comes and goes, this is so trivial. so everyday. women do this every. day.
if you were still catholic, how would we handle this?
we wouldn't be here.
how so?
catholics don't believe in immodest behavior.
ha! that doesn't prevent anything. did that prevent you from immodest behavior during your most devout days?
silence. victory.
if only victory felt just a little bit better.
if you were still catholic, how would we handle this?
we wouldn't be here.
how so?
catholics don't believe in immodest behavior.
ha! that doesn't prevent anything. did that prevent you from immodest behavior during your most devout days?
silence. victory.
if only victory felt just a little bit better.
20.8.08
my own "short song"
his voice tells it so perfectly: "lo-fi/ ultrasound/ like a note you had to sit down to read"... somber and quiet, almost whispering while he tells her story. "you are not a morgue/ you are a factory of mudfights and beauty/ and if your assembly line goes on strike/ just negotiate/ and it will start working again"...
what began as clarity of thought, as crisp and cool understanding has devolved into emotional mess. it's late-night nausea and sobs that quake your body while you do your best to keep them silent because you know he too had a long day, and is now halfway to sleep. it's when your arm grazes his forearm, for no other reason than you can feel the veins there...and they feel strong. or when you catch yourself staring at his perfectly shaped skull... thinking about how it looked when it was so much smaller, soft, just a light covering of hair.
but you remember you have to get up in the morning and you keep those tears behind your eyes so no one else can see it, the anguish festering in your throat, the dreams of betrayal and gut-wrenching crumple that haunt you in your half-awake sleep and keep a vise-grip on your daytimes.
things to contemplate on the beach.
"graves are things we walk upon/ and must walk away from...
.../ we are missed."
(quoted enclosures the beauty of derrick brown)
what began as clarity of thought, as crisp and cool understanding has devolved into emotional mess. it's late-night nausea and sobs that quake your body while you do your best to keep them silent because you know he too had a long day, and is now halfway to sleep. it's when your arm grazes his forearm, for no other reason than you can feel the veins there...and they feel strong. or when you catch yourself staring at his perfectly shaped skull... thinking about how it looked when it was so much smaller, soft, just a light covering of hair.
but you remember you have to get up in the morning and you keep those tears behind your eyes so no one else can see it, the anguish festering in your throat, the dreams of betrayal and gut-wrenching crumple that haunt you in your half-awake sleep and keep a vise-grip on your daytimes.
things to contemplate on the beach.
"graves are things we walk upon/ and must walk away from...
.../ we are missed."
(quoted enclosures the beauty of derrick brown)
11.7.08
el mar, redux
the diamonds on the surface of the river are not diamonds at all but glitter, the kind you once sprinkled over construction paper for a school project but that inevitably failed to replicate the sea because paper does not undulate or shift, it can only create the illusion that it does.
for realists,
that was never good enough.
for realists,
that was never good enough.
the fear
rose petals on rose water bright easter egg earring
you are the sunshine of my life
shiny shoes and the guttural guffaw of contempt!
our sorrows are nothing more than a mustard seed
caught in the grinder of some fierce beast's recipe for spicy watercress and fowl.
she told him 'no' enough times in one hour that his asking eventually turned to begging,
begging to pleading, and her 'no' wasn't on principle anymore so much as it became merely a game.
he traced a scar that ran between her shoulderblades
spanned them like a zipper.
if only he could pull apart those jagged edges and crawl to the warmth they concealed.
it's impossible to make those memories good. a specific image, a single excerpt of an entire scene most purposefully deleted from the annals of a brain's history, flashes at an unexpected moment, shows itself when it's not welcome. and this time, with just a little bit more power than the last and vast amounts of insight in comparison, i understand. but just because i can acknowledge that doesn't mean i agree. and what should mean more, should be more prominent that anything is that you didn't run and hide from me , i left. i picked up and got out, escaped everything threatening to consume me whole.
but that doesn't make the stinging stop. it's not an ache anymore- thank god- but maybe a pinch every now and then. it doesn't help we know the routines we fall into and are almost powerless (or are we?) to stop them. til that day in another half-decade or half-century from now, farewell. we'll meet again, this much i know. and we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
you are the sunshine of my life
shiny shoes and the guttural guffaw of contempt!
our sorrows are nothing more than a mustard seed
caught in the grinder of some fierce beast's recipe for spicy watercress and fowl.
she told him 'no' enough times in one hour that his asking eventually turned to begging,
begging to pleading, and her 'no' wasn't on principle anymore so much as it became merely a game.
he traced a scar that ran between her shoulderblades
spanned them like a zipper.
if only he could pull apart those jagged edges and crawl to the warmth they concealed.
it's impossible to make those memories good. a specific image, a single excerpt of an entire scene most purposefully deleted from the annals of a brain's history, flashes at an unexpected moment, shows itself when it's not welcome. and this time, with just a little bit more power than the last and vast amounts of insight in comparison, i understand. but just because i can acknowledge that doesn't mean i agree. and what should mean more, should be more prominent that anything is that you didn't run and hide from me , i left. i picked up and got out, escaped everything threatening to consume me whole.
but that doesn't make the stinging stop. it's not an ache anymore- thank god- but maybe a pinch every now and then. it doesn't help we know the routines we fall into and are almost powerless (or are we?) to stop them. til that day in another half-decade or half-century from now, farewell. we'll meet again, this much i know. and we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
20.6.08
non
#1
My glitter bug
sparkler, glistening
under the eternal weight
of a leaden cozy
a prison of nostalgic glue traps
and dead poets.
We found beauty
creativity
intellectual motivation
in the semi-obscure crevices
most gloss over,
at best.
We loved as deeply,
as stickily,
as an oil well of rubber cement
bouncing around our syrupy pain
and pasty isolations
until the day we woke up
and simply cared no more
for conventional flatware,
the art of our
caucasian predecessors.
It's a new world now!
Change we can count on
is marching nowhere
is marching in circles
following
the same leaders
who won't remember
your name
or the details
of your story
a year from now.
#2
I married a closet ese
when the real one didn't work out.
It wasn't easy to convince him
to give up the Old English
lettering in favor of a simple
white gold band
but
after some coaxing
he agreed, if
I would promise to
learn to make mole
and taquitos
like his mother
and to name our
first son Francisco.
The latter,
I must say,
is a promise I don't intend to keep.
#3
This five-day work week is killing me!
I want to wrestle around
on the living room rug
you know,
the one we buoght at Target
but that my love insists is
"from the Orient. Ming dynasty."
I think he got lucky with the name-
he couldn't separate
Chinese from Japanese eras
if you gave him a flux capacitor
and a map.
On that Oriental Target rug
I want to absorb a body
I can feel grow and squirm inside
behind the thin skin
that covers the guts
behind my midrift
so I know what it is
to have my organs bunched
up under my ribs
so I can rub my belly
when he throws 'bows
because lunch was not to his
standards
or when she curls up
in anxious hesitation
about what lies beyond
her pink placental walls.
So I can finally understand
the exhuberant
agonizing
don't-touch-me-or-I'll-crush-your-arm-to-gruel-and-feed-it-to-the-dog
joy
of nature's ultimate
battle of the sexes:
Childbirth.
Give me every child
you never wanted.
I'll bring them forth with
fanfare and splendor befitting
your royal ancestral name.
For Jenny:
My dear it's been too long
since I observed and envied
one of your blushing curtsies.
Since your laugh decorated
the blandest corners of life
Since the colors wrought
by your hand stripped
night of its fear, leaving
only sincere security.
There are not enough holograms
in all the galaxy
to make up
this distance that has persisted
past necessity.
I miss you.
My glitter bug
sparkler, glistening
under the eternal weight
of a leaden cozy
a prison of nostalgic glue traps
and dead poets.
We found beauty
creativity
intellectual motivation
in the semi-obscure crevices
most gloss over,
at best.
We loved as deeply,
as stickily,
as an oil well of rubber cement
bouncing around our syrupy pain
and pasty isolations
until the day we woke up
and simply cared no more
for conventional flatware,
the art of our
caucasian predecessors.
It's a new world now!
Change we can count on
is marching nowhere
is marching in circles
following
the same leaders
who won't remember
your name
or the details
of your story
a year from now.
#2
I married a closet ese
when the real one didn't work out.
It wasn't easy to convince him
to give up the Old English
lettering in favor of a simple
white gold band
but
after some coaxing
he agreed, if
I would promise to
learn to make mole
and taquitos
like his mother
and to name our
first son Francisco.
The latter,
I must say,
is a promise I don't intend to keep.
#3
This five-day work week is killing me!
I want to wrestle around
on the living room rug
you know,
the one we buoght at Target
but that my love insists is
"from the Orient. Ming dynasty."
I think he got lucky with the name-
he couldn't separate
Chinese from Japanese eras
if you gave him a flux capacitor
and a map.
On that Oriental Target rug
I want to absorb a body
I can feel grow and squirm inside
behind the thin skin
that covers the guts
behind my midrift
so I know what it is
to have my organs bunched
up under my ribs
so I can rub my belly
when he throws 'bows
because lunch was not to his
standards
or when she curls up
in anxious hesitation
about what lies beyond
her pink placental walls.
So I can finally understand
the exhuberant
agonizing
don't-touch-me-or-I'll-crush-your-arm-to-gruel-and-feed-it-to-the-dog
joy
of nature's ultimate
battle of the sexes:
Childbirth.
Give me every child
you never wanted.
I'll bring them forth with
fanfare and splendor befitting
your royal ancestral name.
For Jenny:
My dear it's been too long
since I observed and envied
one of your blushing curtsies.
Since your laugh decorated
the blandest corners of life
Since the colors wrought
by your hand stripped
night of its fear, leaving
only sincere security.
There are not enough holograms
in all the galaxy
to make up
this distance that has persisted
past necessity.
I miss you.
28.3.08
when you gonna make up your mind
shiny and smooth
she reminds him of new leather.
patent, even.
california stars light the
glitter in her eyes to new octaves
and he's blinded
for a split
second
while he gathers his bearings.
he'll never have them again,
not with the way she looks at him.
he sat at the bar, despondent. he was dressed for her, dressed to take this last plunge with her, and there he was, drinking black on the rocks after black on the rocks, pounding them back like it was two a.m. the sun shone brightly outside. he looked at his watch. noon. he thought about getting up. thought about all the people he was letting down. thought about how much he was letting her down. his glass was nearly empty. i could leave now, he thought. staring into his glass, he swirled the ice and water around and held back the urge to walk out. he signaled to the bartender for another. "you sure, buddy?" the woman asked. he nodded once in assent.
her mother sat in the pew next to her brother and father. it had taken everything she had to get out of bed this morning, on time, sitting there without assistance. she heard nothing around her.
the t.v. in the bar was showing protest in Europe over human rights violations and exiled leaders. he saw the violence, but couldn't place it. the fear crept back, taking over again. he felt heavy.
her mother looked for him, the man she recognized from pictures in emails. her eyes rolled over face after face in the nearly-full room and were familiar with very few people. in the background guns n' roses played. she lost it, right there in front of everyone, the wall of fleshly cement could no longer function. her son was close enough to catch her as she began to fall, and with his sister's father righted her mother back in the pew. she realized the man wasn't in the room.
he wore the blazer she used to slip notes into. a note for everything, she'd leave them there to tell him to have a safe flight, to feel better, to have a good night at work, to just say she loved him. he reached in the pocket and pulled out the one that had been there from weeks before. reading it again he crumpled it in front of him and left it in his empty glass. he tossed money on the counter and got up with conviction, stepping hard-footed towards the door, transferring a cigarette from his pocket to his lips with the deft grace of an addict.
proceedings began and she was numb. someone handed her flowers after they spoke and her only reply was one of murmured disgust: "i hate mums." there were plenty of harmonic mumbles, hushed wisps of pity and condolence. she didn't process that they were directed toward her.
the bartender wouldn't serve him another when he came back in. he stared at her for a minute, contemplating whether his next movement would be to just take another or to leave without a scene. he looked at his watch. she'd still be there. he still had time. he stood and watched the breaking news concerning the police forces sent in to quash the rioters, thought for a second, and walked back outside. he stopped to put on his sunglasses and light a cigarette as he made his way up the block to the next bar.
(layla, eric clapton's unplugged version; sweet child of mine by g&r; winter by tori amos)
she reminds him of new leather.
patent, even.
california stars light the
glitter in her eyes to new octaves
and he's blinded
for a split
second
while he gathers his bearings.
he'll never have them again,
not with the way she looks at him.
he sat at the bar, despondent. he was dressed for her, dressed to take this last plunge with her, and there he was, drinking black on the rocks after black on the rocks, pounding them back like it was two a.m. the sun shone brightly outside. he looked at his watch. noon. he thought about getting up. thought about all the people he was letting down. thought about how much he was letting her down. his glass was nearly empty. i could leave now, he thought. staring into his glass, he swirled the ice and water around and held back the urge to walk out. he signaled to the bartender for another. "you sure, buddy?" the woman asked. he nodded once in assent.
her mother sat in the pew next to her brother and father. it had taken everything she had to get out of bed this morning, on time, sitting there without assistance. she heard nothing around her.
the t.v. in the bar was showing protest in Europe over human rights violations and exiled leaders. he saw the violence, but couldn't place it. the fear crept back, taking over again. he felt heavy.
her mother looked for him, the man she recognized from pictures in emails. her eyes rolled over face after face in the nearly-full room and were familiar with very few people. in the background guns n' roses played. she lost it, right there in front of everyone, the wall of fleshly cement could no longer function. her son was close enough to catch her as she began to fall, and with his sister's father righted her mother back in the pew. she realized the man wasn't in the room.
he wore the blazer she used to slip notes into. a note for everything, she'd leave them there to tell him to have a safe flight, to feel better, to have a good night at work, to just say she loved him. he reached in the pocket and pulled out the one that had been there from weeks before. reading it again he crumpled it in front of him and left it in his empty glass. he tossed money on the counter and got up with conviction, stepping hard-footed towards the door, transferring a cigarette from his pocket to his lips with the deft grace of an addict.
proceedings began and she was numb. someone handed her flowers after they spoke and her only reply was one of murmured disgust: "i hate mums." there were plenty of harmonic mumbles, hushed wisps of pity and condolence. she didn't process that they were directed toward her.
the bartender wouldn't serve him another when he came back in. he stared at her for a minute, contemplating whether his next movement would be to just take another or to leave without a scene. he looked at his watch. she'd still be there. he still had time. he stood and watched the breaking news concerning the police forces sent in to quash the rioters, thought for a second, and walked back outside. he stopped to put on his sunglasses and light a cigarette as he made his way up the block to the next bar.
(layla, eric clapton's unplugged version; sweet child of mine by g&r; winter by tori amos)
15.2.08
we join you in progress
to avoid redface and fidgeting outside while he has a cigarette before he walks back in to smile and scurry around at the feet of others. to avoid the accusatory glare, the gasp of surprise, the strong reaction against, the wishing for opposition and instead whole-hearted support. to avoid having to go it alone.
i know... said fiona apple. but did she?
painted ladies colored with dust of chalk and a complicated outer blanket of self-loathing, arrogance and sad. melancholy is more difficult to explain than plain old sad.
(originally written on nov. 13, 2007. this does matter.)
i know... said fiona apple. but did she?
painted ladies colored with dust of chalk and a complicated outer blanket of self-loathing, arrogance and sad. melancholy is more difficult to explain than plain old sad.
(originally written on nov. 13, 2007. this does matter.)
12.2.08
california.
if you love enough you lie a lot...
i keep thinking maybe i'll run into the two of you, and the baby. That I'll have to be civil, nice, even, to keep things on an even keel. it has yet to happen- our tide, after years of ebb and flow, has finally gone out.
you are happy to see me, but timid, i know. miles of sparkle sand, as though someone was dolling you up for prom that's been replaced by a wedding just blew sparklesprinkle all over you, let it tinkle from their palm down into your hair and over your shoulders and it's covering your every part until you shine so delicate bright in the sun that we were blinded and mesmerized. He could only hold you for so long until you pushed away again, an endless back and forth that no one wins.
i can remember pre-smog coastal horizon. this is inland sky now.
the look you give me hasn't changed that much- now, perhaps, there are more questions, more wonderment.
will you be my wife?
no, i don't think so. thanks.
it was good to see you- to lay past ghosts down, gaze with fresh eyes and a separate context. when's the wedding? why did it take so long to tell me? there's safety in your arms and heart and i can see why she loves you the way i never could, and good for her to be able to do that.
he'd grown up, filled out his frame, grown 8 inches. smiled and mouthed words, looked miserable on that couch. Strength in whispers, a familiar pale face among the millions of cousins and aunts and uncles.
ocean, your only flaw is that you have no institutional memory. high tide to the right of the pier. i have no sandwiches today. hair's short, sky brown. i miss the boys in the summer.
(tori amos, jackie's strength; carla bruni, l'amour; fergie, it's personal)
i keep thinking maybe i'll run into the two of you, and the baby. That I'll have to be civil, nice, even, to keep things on an even keel. it has yet to happen- our tide, after years of ebb and flow, has finally gone out.
you are happy to see me, but timid, i know. miles of sparkle sand, as though someone was dolling you up for prom that's been replaced by a wedding just blew sparklesprinkle all over you, let it tinkle from their palm down into your hair and over your shoulders and it's covering your every part until you shine so delicate bright in the sun that we were blinded and mesmerized. He could only hold you for so long until you pushed away again, an endless back and forth that no one wins.
i can remember pre-smog coastal horizon. this is inland sky now.
the look you give me hasn't changed that much- now, perhaps, there are more questions, more wonderment.
will you be my wife?
no, i don't think so. thanks.
it was good to see you- to lay past ghosts down, gaze with fresh eyes and a separate context. when's the wedding? why did it take so long to tell me? there's safety in your arms and heart and i can see why she loves you the way i never could, and good for her to be able to do that.
he'd grown up, filled out his frame, grown 8 inches. smiled and mouthed words, looked miserable on that couch. Strength in whispers, a familiar pale face among the millions of cousins and aunts and uncles.
ocean, your only flaw is that you have no institutional memory. high tide to the right of the pier. i have no sandwiches today. hair's short, sky brown. i miss the boys in the summer.
(tori amos, jackie's strength; carla bruni, l'amour; fergie, it's personal)
27.12.07
querulous and noncommittal commitments
one kiss, thinking of the name. i don't want something like "kelly" or "rachel" or "jennifer". those names are good enough for some people, in certain places, born to a certain kind of parents, but i want a name that reflects the both of us. especially if he'll have my eyes- and you know he will. i propose nicolas. you consider, thoughtfully, your eyes pacing with the permutations of possibilities running through your head. to further my case, because you are silent, i bolster my argument with your family history and accounts of your ancestor the famous Spaniard general. it won't do, you say.
and why is that?
because that is my father's name, you say.
i acknowledge this by moving my head onto your chest. the light above our heads burns too brightly, and i contemplate getting up to turn it off, but i don't want to disturb the comfortable equilibrium we have established right here. there are only so many moments like these we get to own before the illusion disassembles and we're left clutching a pillow while we try in vain to get to sleep at 2 am. i hear your stomach growl.
i'll make breakfast?
what time is it? you ask.
7:30.
might as well. i don't think we're going to sleep anymore.
i get up, the perfect excuse to turn off that god-forsaken light. you perch yourself on an elbow and watch me dress. your brown skin looks a little crisper next to the pure white of the comforter and i enjoy the way your torso twists.
can you bring me some orange juice? i hear.
of course. hold on.
i gather eggs, cheese, onions, garlic, butter and peppers and dump them on the cutting board next to the stove, then glide to the cupboard and grab you a small mug. i need to start living like a grown up with real dishes-- families don't drink every beverage from mugs. upon delivery of the juice you thank me, as a good man should, and gulp it before rising to find your clothing. it's cold in my room.
the pan is hot and i toss a pat of butter in. it sizzles and swishes around. in a shallow bowl i combine the eggs and cheese with a splash of milk and beat these with a fork, adding a pinch of pepper for flavor. pepper's better than salt. sauteeing small chunks of garlic and onion takes no time, and the diced green pepper is added to my egg mixture. you walk from my room, tucking in your shirt, as I pour the eggs into the pan.
What did you put in them? You ask.
You’ll see. I smile.
It smells good. Can I have more juice?
Why are you asking? You want juice, have juice.
I didn’t want to be rude.
You wouldn’t be.
Wait, were you asking so I’d get it for you?
You hug me from behind. Maybe, you whisper in my ear.
Let me get these eggs done. I don’t want them to burn.
Come on, woman, multitask!
I give you my Look, and you saunter off to the couch to pick up the Time graced with Putin’s face.
There is no kitchen table in my apartment. There isn’t really even a kitchen. Most of the lights don’t work because my roommate and I just haven’t bought lightbulbs in awhile and I choose to heat my house via the oven because the landlord pays for the gas. It’s a long step down from your hacienda in cuernavaca.
The eggs are done. I take the pan off the burner and grab a plate. Today I actually have corn tortillas. I heat a couple over the flame and toss them on your plate, scraping the eggs next to them. Take some Valentina, some Tapatio, a fork and napkin, and head over to your nook on my couch.
Orange juice is forthcoming, I say, as I hand the plate down to you. You look up, as though you didn’t see me standing there, and move to put the magazine down.
Thanks, babe.
Tell me if they need anything.
It’s too silent in the apartment and I’m still thinking of names when I start to wash the dishes.
Baby- you aren’t going to eat?
No. I’m not hungry.
You have to eat something. Make some eggs.
I’m really not hungry.
Yeah, but, that’s not… it’s not good.
I know. But I really just want to lay down.
You shouldn’t do that, either.
Oh my god. Stop dictating.
I’m just saying you should stay active.
I know that, but I’m tired. My back hurts.
I walk over to the couch to pick up your empty bowl and you grab me around the hips, kiss my stomach and look up in my eyes.
and why is that?
because that is my father's name, you say.
i acknowledge this by moving my head onto your chest. the light above our heads burns too brightly, and i contemplate getting up to turn it off, but i don't want to disturb the comfortable equilibrium we have established right here. there are only so many moments like these we get to own before the illusion disassembles and we're left clutching a pillow while we try in vain to get to sleep at 2 am. i hear your stomach growl.
i'll make breakfast?
what time is it? you ask.
7:30.
might as well. i don't think we're going to sleep anymore.
i get up, the perfect excuse to turn off that god-forsaken light. you perch yourself on an elbow and watch me dress. your brown skin looks a little crisper next to the pure white of the comforter and i enjoy the way your torso twists.
can you bring me some orange juice? i hear.
of course. hold on.
i gather eggs, cheese, onions, garlic, butter and peppers and dump them on the cutting board next to the stove, then glide to the cupboard and grab you a small mug. i need to start living like a grown up with real dishes-- families don't drink every beverage from mugs. upon delivery of the juice you thank me, as a good man should, and gulp it before rising to find your clothing. it's cold in my room.
the pan is hot and i toss a pat of butter in. it sizzles and swishes around. in a shallow bowl i combine the eggs and cheese with a splash of milk and beat these with a fork, adding a pinch of pepper for flavor. pepper's better than salt. sauteeing small chunks of garlic and onion takes no time, and the diced green pepper is added to my egg mixture. you walk from my room, tucking in your shirt, as I pour the eggs into the pan.
What did you put in them? You ask.
You’ll see. I smile.
It smells good. Can I have more juice?
Why are you asking? You want juice, have juice.
I didn’t want to be rude.
You wouldn’t be.
Wait, were you asking so I’d get it for you?
You hug me from behind. Maybe, you whisper in my ear.
Let me get these eggs done. I don’t want them to burn.
Come on, woman, multitask!
I give you my Look, and you saunter off to the couch to pick up the Time graced with Putin’s face.
There is no kitchen table in my apartment. There isn’t really even a kitchen. Most of the lights don’t work because my roommate and I just haven’t bought lightbulbs in awhile and I choose to heat my house via the oven because the landlord pays for the gas. It’s a long step down from your hacienda in cuernavaca.
The eggs are done. I take the pan off the burner and grab a plate. Today I actually have corn tortillas. I heat a couple over the flame and toss them on your plate, scraping the eggs next to them. Take some Valentina, some Tapatio, a fork and napkin, and head over to your nook on my couch.
Orange juice is forthcoming, I say, as I hand the plate down to you. You look up, as though you didn’t see me standing there, and move to put the magazine down.
Thanks, babe.
Tell me if they need anything.
It’s too silent in the apartment and I’m still thinking of names when I start to wash the dishes.
Baby- you aren’t going to eat?
No. I’m not hungry.
You have to eat something. Make some eggs.
I’m really not hungry.
Yeah, but, that’s not… it’s not good.
I know. But I really just want to lay down.
You shouldn’t do that, either.
Oh my god. Stop dictating.
I’m just saying you should stay active.
I know that, but I’m tired. My back hurts.
I walk over to the couch to pick up your empty bowl and you grab me around the hips, kiss my stomach and look up in my eyes.
29.11.07
you're dark blue
you hold hands in the rain and trip lightly over puddles. the collar of his raincoat is raised to shield his bare neck from the drippings of an icy sky, and he gazes from deep eyes full of awe thinly veiled as emptiness. hard to imagine that his eurocentric demeanor could be concerned with the recent spike in mexican deportation, you lean in to kiss him for no other reason than you like the fanning of his eyelashes as he stares unblinkingly at the exquisite shape of your eyebrows. bourbon and cigarettes linger on his lips, his fingers are bony and long. he bites his nails to keep dirt from getting beneath them.
inaninstant! you're off! and running! your coat traaaails behind you, eagerasitis to catch up. for some it might be difficult to break into a sprint in three inch heels but you think nothing of it, shrieking with delight as you hear him mumbleyelling in spanish "loca" this and "que demonios estas haciendo?" that. your heel slips and for a moment you appear to lose your footing until you're surprised by actually hitting the sidewalk. "you see?" he shouts after you. he breaks into a light jog as he comes to the rescue. your skirt's wet, stockings ripped. "easier for me" he says with a laugh. he takes the bags from your arms and pulls you up in the crook of his, assisting you in your limp homewards. "que pasa mamita? que pasa?" you shake your head and smile the "i'm okay" smile. he kisses you on the nose.
home and between the safety of flannel sheets peppered with bold snowmen you're welded to one another in the most natural of manners. you move in one fluid, unceasing motion, a sentient counterpart to the aggressive and relentless and inn.finn.it pacific. outside, the clouds have stopped wringing their hands and little fingers no longer drum on your windowpanes. the indigo of predawn is setting in, traveling its reverse path through the spectrum, and you two are still enjoying the undertow. high tide approaches, threatening it's arrival with a delicious rolling back of the eyes, more spanish mumble, the tide's coming in and if you don't move you'll be drowned, devoured by sea creatures, those carnivorous anemones and sneaky cnidarians, the tide brushes your toes and the window in which you could have stopped it has closed, leaving you tossed! about! the waves!
he has stopped moving: succumbing... at last. bits of energy, full of pluck and entrepreneurial ambition, linger within you.
intertwine as you untangle
and drift into the pleasant silence of sleep.
inaninstant! you're off! and running! your coat traaaails behind you, eagerasitis to catch up. for some it might be difficult to break into a sprint in three inch heels but you think nothing of it, shrieking with delight as you hear him mumbleyelling in spanish "loca" this and "que demonios estas haciendo?" that. your heel slips and for a moment you appear to lose your footing until you're surprised by actually hitting the sidewalk. "you see?" he shouts after you. he breaks into a light jog as he comes to the rescue. your skirt's wet, stockings ripped. "easier for me" he says with a laugh. he takes the bags from your arms and pulls you up in the crook of his, assisting you in your limp homewards. "que pasa mamita? que pasa?" you shake your head and smile the "i'm okay" smile. he kisses you on the nose.
home and between the safety of flannel sheets peppered with bold snowmen you're welded to one another in the most natural of manners. you move in one fluid, unceasing motion, a sentient counterpart to the aggressive and relentless and inn.finn.it pacific. outside, the clouds have stopped wringing their hands and little fingers no longer drum on your windowpanes. the indigo of predawn is setting in, traveling its reverse path through the spectrum, and you two are still enjoying the undertow. high tide approaches, threatening it's arrival with a delicious rolling back of the eyes, more spanish mumble, the tide's coming in and if you don't move you'll be drowned, devoured by sea creatures, those carnivorous anemones and sneaky cnidarians, the tide brushes your toes and the window in which you could have stopped it has closed, leaving you tossed! about! the waves!
he has stopped moving: succumbing... at last. bits of energy, full of pluck and entrepreneurial ambition, linger within you.
intertwine as you untangle
and drift into the pleasant silence of sleep.
18.11.07
you can rely on me honey (or can you?)
WHAT kind of fuckry is this?, you ask. wedged between rocks and walls and no one to hear you scream your repentance. the sun is still rising behind those glitter-lined clouds and you don't know who to call first.
While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:
*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer
What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?
In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.
...
And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.
...
In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.
Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.
(jesus, etc. and radio cure by wilco)
While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:
*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer
What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?
In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.
...
And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.
...
In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.
Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.
(jesus, etc. and radio cure by wilco)
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