Everything is ending but this:
#1:
The blunted eye would have missed it all, and fairly so; their pinky fingers barely touched. But the outer-space sparkle in his eyes and her mouth was obvious to anyone who's ever seen a tree struck by lightning. He was stunned, still smoldering, his shell starkly singed. Sparks flashed beneath his skin and he burned blissfully where leaves had caught afire around his face. As the thunderous storm clouds cleared a blinding light shone from where she stood; similarly goddesses shine with celestial power, love and mercy for mortals. When she laughed widely little silver stars glittered between her teeth.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Another Time
The sky white-striped, bruised shins, the hot sun, old tunes permeating the air like an amber whistle, me thirsty, my head stuffed distinctly like it is when I'm sick or sad...
Details don't matter; I am biking 3 miles to surprise him. We exchange a half-hour of horrifying tenderness. I take another route home so things will not be exactly the way they used to be.
Details don't matter; I am biking 3 miles to surprise him. We exchange a half-hour of horrifying tenderness. I take another route home so things will not be exactly the way they used to be.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Rebellion
Today is Thursday and I am very close to someone I have loved for a long time. I’m not a musical man but my heart sings, well, hums maybe. Clichés are underrated in my opinion. Clichés become clichés because people understand them better than anything. In that way they are quite respectable.
I am indulgently dwelling on the image of her entrance. She pushes her way through the door quietly with a bottle of bubbly water in hand, wearing a long soft dress. I can tell she has a headache again because of the tension around her eyes. I always smell verbena when she is near but this is likely to be because of my imagination. The book in my hands feels suddenly too heavy. She scans the room for me and I am honored. What follows is the moment when our eyes meet after years apart but I haven’t been able to describe that yet.
It was challenging for me to contend with my love all this time. When I was younger love intimidated me and I tried to kill it. When that didn’t work I tried to abandon the part of myself where this love lived. Alcohol sufficed most of the time. Of course, since the entirety of my being was consumed by love this didn’t work either, but it took me much longer to realize that.
So I left, desperately. I ran as far away as I could, hoping that my love would starve. However, love is much like mold, thriving in warm dark places such as my heart, and was self-sufficient by the time I had left. She fretted, sending me letters that I burned in the envelope. I grew up and returned but only after I had wasted much time.
Now that I am older I am at peace with this love, finally, letting it take shelter within me. What fascinates me is the reason for its longevity in such harsh circumstances. She was young when I left and has changed twofold countless times, but even when she was almost completely different from herself I still loved her. I believe in a sort of jewel within her, an emerald perhaps; green is pure and fresh. It is almost religion to me and I praise it when I see it reflecting sunlight through her eyes. I think maybe I have loved that jewel for all this time, but being wiser now I understand that I can’t know anything for sure.
The phone shook in my hand when I called her to ask her to meet me and I felt like a schoolboy again. Any bookstore would have done but this one was perfect, an old one with musty titles, about to go out of business. I turned pages blindly for hours. I worried that too much time had passed, that I had pushed my chance out of my fingers. I kicked myself, cursed my stupidity, almost broken when she walked through the door.
My best attempt to describe the moment when our eyes met was that I died and saw the heaven that my religion had promised me. She smiled brilliantly and I slipped back to life. There is time yet.
I am indulgently dwelling on the image of her entrance. She pushes her way through the door quietly with a bottle of bubbly water in hand, wearing a long soft dress. I can tell she has a headache again because of the tension around her eyes. I always smell verbena when she is near but this is likely to be because of my imagination. The book in my hands feels suddenly too heavy. She scans the room for me and I am honored. What follows is the moment when our eyes meet after years apart but I haven’t been able to describe that yet.
It was challenging for me to contend with my love all this time. When I was younger love intimidated me and I tried to kill it. When that didn’t work I tried to abandon the part of myself where this love lived. Alcohol sufficed most of the time. Of course, since the entirety of my being was consumed by love this didn’t work either, but it took me much longer to realize that.
So I left, desperately. I ran as far away as I could, hoping that my love would starve. However, love is much like mold, thriving in warm dark places such as my heart, and was self-sufficient by the time I had left. She fretted, sending me letters that I burned in the envelope. I grew up and returned but only after I had wasted much time.
Now that I am older I am at peace with this love, finally, letting it take shelter within me. What fascinates me is the reason for its longevity in such harsh circumstances. She was young when I left and has changed twofold countless times, but even when she was almost completely different from herself I still loved her. I believe in a sort of jewel within her, an emerald perhaps; green is pure and fresh. It is almost religion to me and I praise it when I see it reflecting sunlight through her eyes. I think maybe I have loved that jewel for all this time, but being wiser now I understand that I can’t know anything for sure.
The phone shook in my hand when I called her to ask her to meet me and I felt like a schoolboy again. Any bookstore would have done but this one was perfect, an old one with musty titles, about to go out of business. I turned pages blindly for hours. I worried that too much time had passed, that I had pushed my chance out of my fingers. I kicked myself, cursed my stupidity, almost broken when she walked through the door.
My best attempt to describe the moment when our eyes met was that I died and saw the heaven that my religion had promised me. She smiled brilliantly and I slipped back to life. There is time yet.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
A La Mode
we do surely trust desire,
forced to walk this cold old road
forgetting how the heart will tire
of gravel offered a la mode
that French fashion found its place
in cavities and old boutiques,
leaving hearts without a trace
of sympathy for flushed pink cheeks
sticky with vanilla cream,
brain freeze eyes that flow with tears,
red meat soles that ooze and gleam
raw from pebbles, hopes and fears,
mercy cannot live for those
that French fashion comes and goes
forced to walk this cold old road
forgetting how the heart will tire
of gravel offered a la mode
that French fashion found its place
in cavities and old boutiques,
leaving hearts without a trace
of sympathy for flushed pink cheeks
sticky with vanilla cream,
brain freeze eyes that flow with tears,
red meat soles that ooze and gleam
raw from pebbles, hopes and fears,
mercy cannot live for those
that French fashion comes and goes
Monday, June 23, 2008
Follow
There are no good moments fighting the wind, lips to fingers, fingers to air, blindly finding direction. Sand scattering erodes boulders and soft tissue. The Sphinx, its nose crumbling, lips chapped, eyes dry. Tunes come and go, lips to fingers, fingers to air. The wind is quiet.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Flesh Trappings
The flesh is a formidable enemy. Sleep with one eye open lest it attack during the night while your guard has been let down. Mental asceticism will reduce the risk of psychic ambush. Keep your loved ones close, lock up your valuables, protect your memories; the flesh will prey on these commodities without compassion or mercy.
There are a number of harms to be done to the flesh in self-defense. Interrupting the blood flow will debilitate it, and the methodical removal of digits will reduce it to binary code. With brutal discipline, the flesh can be stopped along with its tyrannical reign. Remember that the flesh wants you, but doesn't need you.
There are a number of harms to be done to the flesh in self-defense. Interrupting the blood flow will debilitate it, and the methodical removal of digits will reduce it to binary code. With brutal discipline, the flesh can be stopped along with its tyrannical reign. Remember that the flesh wants you, but doesn't need you.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Metal
Occasionally I find myself drawing pits of black eyeliner around my eyes to see what it looks like, or salivating over skulls and bones, or getting thrills from Tarantinian carnage, or writing accidentally about death and guns, or cracking my bones to violent music. This is my evil side.
I recently sacrificed flesh to my evil side, jamming a nasty spiked ring through the curve of my ear. It deserves such a gesture of honor. Now I have something tangible to blame.
I recently sacrificed flesh to my evil side, jamming a nasty spiked ring through the curve of my ear. It deserves such a gesture of honor. Now I have something tangible to blame.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Synecdoche No.1
Again, for no one.
I breathe like crumpling paper,
a sodden feather: the blood in exodus to my head,
blushing pink around my iris, my tongue
is wicker, my skin is bone, you win! With the
gravity of your eyelashes you do
invert me; the in outside withering,
I am a trophy of rigor mortis, eyes wide,
limbs cracked, the dry mouth that longed to speak.
I breathe like crumpling paper,
a sodden feather: the blood in exodus to my head,
blushing pink around my iris, my tongue
is wicker, my skin is bone, you win! With the
gravity of your eyelashes you do
invert me; the in outside withering,
I am a trophy of rigor mortis, eyes wide,
limbs cracked, the dry mouth that longed to speak.
Monday, April 21, 2008
On Anarchy and Outer Space Chaos
The face is our center of gravity, the blown-glass core of the universe. If one facet of the face is wrong the whole solar system is tossed out of balance, sending planets and asteroids hurtling through the inky void. Imagine a mouth without lips, or an eye without lashes. It only takes one skewed eyebrow to doom everything we cherish to the black hole.
Sometimes music isn't about sounding good. There's music with resonant harmonies and curling melodies and rhythms that ebb and flow like the tide, and there's music with pain. Not poetic pain like a single tear running down a lover's cheek, but blind pain, boiling pain, pleasurable pain, ripping pain, pinching pain, stinging pain. Music like what happens when you make white-knuckled fists and open your mouth and close your eyes.
So if you've already stuck a safety pin through your cheek, stick another one in. Gouge out your eyes, break off your teeth, cut out your septum, rip off your ears. Then sink your fingers into the soil and hold on for your life.
Sometimes music isn't about sounding good. There's music with resonant harmonies and curling melodies and rhythms that ebb and flow like the tide, and there's music with pain. Not poetic pain like a single tear running down a lover's cheek, but blind pain, boiling pain, pleasurable pain, ripping pain, pinching pain, stinging pain. Music like what happens when you make white-knuckled fists and open your mouth and close your eyes.
So if you've already stuck a safety pin through your cheek, stick another one in. Gouge out your eyes, break off your teeth, cut out your septum, rip off your ears. Then sink your fingers into the soil and hold on for your life.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sweets
There is a sound like knees being skinned on concrete as she runs her mascara brush through her mousy eyelashes. Her lip gloss is the color of strawberry ice cream after it falls in the dirt; her eyeshadow is the color of bruises from a bully.
She deepens the artificial blush on her cheeks. There is a sound like tricycle tires deflating as she breathes. She's ready to fall in love.
She deepens the artificial blush on her cheeks. There is a sound like tricycle tires deflating as she breathes. She's ready to fall in love.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Proof
I snuggled under the blankets. Then, realizing I'd overheat later, I peeled off the top comforter. As I rubbed my legs together to get warm, I had a startling moment of clarity: I'd rather be unsatisfied now and satisfied later than satisfied now and unsatisfied later.
This was so important that I wrote it on my hand so as not to forget. It applies to heat-induced dreams about vampires, sleepless nights annotating literature after procrastinating, waiting for dessert, and finally opening presents on Christmas.
Hopefully it applies to the rest of my life as well. Let dissatisfaction reign.
This was so important that I wrote it on my hand so as not to forget. It applies to heat-induced dreams about vampires, sleepless nights annotating literature after procrastinating, waiting for dessert, and finally opening presents on Christmas.
Hopefully it applies to the rest of my life as well. Let dissatisfaction reign.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Ectoplasm
#92... These blog posts add up. I need to catch myself in a net.
Fictional Interlude (not quite right)
I've got a little bird
I'm gonna take her home
Put her in a cage
And disconnect the phone
"It’s not easy," she said, strung out and tearless. "People think it is, but it’s not. My face is completely covered with acne, and I’m still beautiful. I’ll always be beautiful, no matter what. I can’t escape it." She gave up on the Rubik's cube in her hands and tossed it away. "It’s horrible."
"You’re outdoing yourself," I said.
She was my friend now. Her parents’ beauty had blended harmoniously in her and her younger sister, two sets of green eyes with dark lashes. Even now, consumed by unattractive self-pity, she was stunning. Furthermore, she was right.
"I’m on Zoloft," she said. "Did you know that?"
"No," I said. "Good for you."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" she asked, her eyes narrowing poisonously.
"I’m glad you’re seeking a cure for your problems," I said. "You also seem to be pleased with those problems. So, good for you."
"You’re being condescending again. But yes," she conceded, "I am pleased. Don’t you think depression is attractive?"
"Yes," I said.
"So maybe I can win you back," she said.
"No," I said, "you’d never have to win me back."
"What do you mean?"
"There’s nothing to win," I said. "You won it already."
"Do me a favor and don’t say shit like that."
"I love saying shit like that."
"You think I don't know that?"
"Not really, but why should I stop?"
"It’s fucking annoying, you know."
"I know."
Her brow furrowed as she played with her fingers. "It’s because shit like that makes me think I still have a chance with you," she said.
"I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. You’re naïve to think you’ll never fall in love again."
"You’re being condescending again."
"I don’t care."
"It hurts me not to be with you," she said in a strained voice.
"I’m flattered."
"You’re a dick."
I knew she was in pain when she left. Even if she never saw me again, she would still be beautiful.
Fictional Interlude (not quite right)
I've got a little bird
I'm gonna take her home
Put her in a cage
And disconnect the phone
"It’s not easy," she said, strung out and tearless. "People think it is, but it’s not. My face is completely covered with acne, and I’m still beautiful. I’ll always be beautiful, no matter what. I can’t escape it." She gave up on the Rubik's cube in her hands and tossed it away. "It’s horrible."
"You’re outdoing yourself," I said.
She was my friend now. Her parents’ beauty had blended harmoniously in her and her younger sister, two sets of green eyes with dark lashes. Even now, consumed by unattractive self-pity, she was stunning. Furthermore, she was right.
"I’m on Zoloft," she said. "Did you know that?"
"No," I said. "Good for you."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" she asked, her eyes narrowing poisonously.
"I’m glad you’re seeking a cure for your problems," I said. "You also seem to be pleased with those problems. So, good for you."
"You’re being condescending again. But yes," she conceded, "I am pleased. Don’t you think depression is attractive?"
"Yes," I said.
"So maybe I can win you back," she said.
"No," I said, "you’d never have to win me back."
"What do you mean?"
"There’s nothing to win," I said. "You won it already."
"Do me a favor and don’t say shit like that."
"I love saying shit like that."
"You think I don't know that?"
"Not really, but why should I stop?"
"It’s fucking annoying, you know."
"I know."
Her brow furrowed as she played with her fingers. "It’s because shit like that makes me think I still have a chance with you," she said.
"I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. You’re naïve to think you’ll never fall in love again."
"You’re being condescending again."
"I don’t care."
"It hurts me not to be with you," she said in a strained voice.
"I’m flattered."
"You’re a dick."
I knew she was in pain when she left. Even if she never saw me again, she would still be beautiful.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Fucking Americans
Savasana, the corpse.
"Take this time to seal your practice with stillness," he enunciates.
But I am thinking about sex. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
"Take this time to seal your practice with stillness," he enunciates.
But I am thinking about sex. Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
The Bitch Walks
David Bowie was always the Lizard King for me; I didn't see it in Morrie. I walked for a long time today. Walking as a means of transportation lacks glory, whereas walking as a means of journey is luminescent with empowering Emile Hirsch appeal. As far as love goes, all I have is turning down.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
7 For All Mankind
Sins, it must be. What else justifies the prestige and snobbery wrapping itself around my ass? It's all in how you wear it, I've been telling myself. That, I suppose, is the challenge.
I try to figure out what's happening around me by listening to music. I forget myself, I forget faces, I put the other earbud in and wait to remember. Meanwhile, I have thickfreakness; I have blurred visions and singsong signs and a 180-degree turn with third-degree burns. I hold my breath.
I try to figure out what's happening around me by listening to music. I forget myself, I forget faces, I put the other earbud in and wait to remember. Meanwhile, I have thickfreakness; I have blurred visions and singsong signs and a 180-degree turn with third-degree burns. I hold my breath.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Tile
Have you ever filled your mouth with water in the shower and bent backwards slightly and closed your mouth slowly to let the water stream down either side of your face? Probably not, but that's not the point.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Skid
beer
hit from a joint
drag from a cig
half of a beer
hit from a joint
hit from a joint
the sky
two thirds of a beer
pee on rocks
the dark
window open
window closed
window open a little
window closed
hit from a joint
drag from a cig
half of a beer
hit from a joint
hit from a joint
the sky
two thirds of a beer
pee on rocks
the dark
window open
window closed
window open a little
window closed
Saturday, February 16, 2008
O.M.M.
This is how the album begins:
When I met you I was just a kid
hadn’t built up my defenses
so I gave my heart completely
Vaseline over the lenses
memories don’t go away
I remember every day
I never ever stopped wondering
Wondering if you still think of us
I don’t need a photograph
cause you never left my mind
No you never left my mind
I remember feeling like a ship
whose captain was too drunk to steer
and you watched as I was sinking
waving sadly from the pier
It’s such a burden to carry ’round
the vestiges of dead dreams
and I don’t want to make a wake out of my life
I just have to let you go
When I met you I was just a kid
hadn’t built up my defenses
so I gave my heart completely
Vaseline over the lenses
memories don’t go away
I remember every day
I never ever stopped wondering
Wondering if you still think of us
I don’t need a photograph
cause you never left my mind
No you never left my mind
I remember feeling like a ship
whose captain was too drunk to steer
and you watched as I was sinking
waving sadly from the pier
It’s such a burden to carry ’round
the vestiges of dead dreams
and I don’t want to make a wake out of my life
I just have to let you go
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Hospital Beds
Questions arise.
Why do I feel so unattractive? What kept me from getting bad vibes in January? Why am I not ready for my license test tomorrow? Why does this guy talk to me like I'm being quarantined? And why does my head hurt so... damn... bad?
Why do I feel so unattractive? What kept me from getting bad vibes in January? Why am I not ready for my license test tomorrow? Why does this guy talk to me like I'm being quarantined? And why does my head hurt so... damn... bad?
Saturday, February 2, 2008
No Mysteries
“I want to cause you more pain than you’ve ever felt,” he said.
“Fair enough,” she said.
Magically, she could taste everything: the molten liquor of adrenaline, the swirling saltiness of fear, the spiced chocolate of passion, and a strong bitterness. She tasted the threadbare carpet below her feet and the hushed air above her head; with her navel, she tasted steel.
They stood nose-to-nose, iris-to-iris. Their eyes were the same color, a greenish blue found in choppy ocean waters. Between their dueling minds, nothing much was ever needed to be said.
When the gun trembled in his hand, just once, it was a sweet and sour taste she didn’t understand. His eyes revealed nothing as he steadied himself with icy resignation. She inhaled and he exhaled. Both of their watches had stopped.
He pulled the trigger. She was flooded with the taste of water. Lead met bile, love met hate.
“Fair enough,” she said.
Magically, she could taste everything: the molten liquor of adrenaline, the swirling saltiness of fear, the spiced chocolate of passion, and a strong bitterness. She tasted the threadbare carpet below her feet and the hushed air above her head; with her navel, she tasted steel.
They stood nose-to-nose, iris-to-iris. Their eyes were the same color, a greenish blue found in choppy ocean waters. Between their dueling minds, nothing much was ever needed to be said.
When the gun trembled in his hand, just once, it was a sweet and sour taste she didn’t understand. His eyes revealed nothing as he steadied himself with icy resignation. She inhaled and he exhaled. Both of their watches had stopped.
He pulled the trigger. She was flooded with the taste of water. Lead met bile, love met hate.
Friday, February 1, 2008
What Now, Mr. Jagger?
This week, I got exactly what I wanted. I dropped Spanish and took on Writer's Craft. It was an impulsive decision, carried out brutally.
"I wonder if this will be a trend," she said, looking pointedly towards Menlo Park. I wonder also if getting what I want is what I need.
"I wonder if this will be a trend," she said, looking pointedly towards Menlo Park. I wonder also if getting what I want is what I need.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Politico
I'm watching the Democratic debate because it's interesting, like a grotesque dance. Clinton seems calm, speaking with the coolness that may be expected of her as the Gorgon she's reputed to be. Obama pauses and stammers, and it would be easy to call him out as a demagogue. I don't know much about politics.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Turn It Out
I straightened my hair last night after 12 hours of not knowing that it was all I needed. Today I felt really terrible, overexposed and oversaturated. I don't understand why I had to listen to You're a Woman, I'm a Machine on a loop - DFA seems incompatible with feeling really terrible. Maybe it's because the opening bass crunches of "Little Girl" remind me why I want a tall guy that I never see.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Doc Frank
As God is my witness, I got so stoned that the Onion wasn't funny. Cue the horrified screams, the thunderclaps and lightning bolts.
In other news, I generally have no idea what the fuck I am doing.
In other news, I generally have no idea what the fuck I am doing.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Quicksand
I'm all themes. I'm jealous of everyone. I'm too young to die; with one big push, I will come back to life.
Give me white
Ground to run
And foregone
Lets me knife
Knife me lets
I will get
What I like
Ground to run
And foregone
Lets me knife
Knife me lets
I will get
What I like
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Fucking Black Francis
Edie was filing the tips of her fingernails into perfect curves.
"I think Black Francis would rape me," she said, pausing to study the nail on her index finger.
Kelly chewed her mouthful of apple slowly and swallowed it. "Why is that?" she finally asked.
"Well," Edie said, resuming her work, "I think I would be like 'oh cool, Black Francis, you're so edgy, yeah, let's totally fuck' and then we'd start fucking but he'd get really intense, I think, and then I'd be scared and I wouldn't want it anymore but he'd keep going and yeah, that's rape, I guess."
She emitted a blasé sniff, and the accused screamed wildly from her boom box. Kelly examined the speakers as if to look at his face, frowning with concentration.
"Is he hot?" she asked, biting into her apple.
"No," Edie said.
"Hmm," Kelly said.
"I think Black Francis would rape me," she said, pausing to study the nail on her index finger.
Kelly chewed her mouthful of apple slowly and swallowed it. "Why is that?" she finally asked.
"Well," Edie said, resuming her work, "I think I would be like 'oh cool, Black Francis, you're so edgy, yeah, let's totally fuck' and then we'd start fucking but he'd get really intense, I think, and then I'd be scared and I wouldn't want it anymore but he'd keep going and yeah, that's rape, I guess."
She emitted a blasé sniff, and the accused screamed wildly from her boom box. Kelly examined the speakers as if to look at his face, frowning with concentration.
"Is he hot?" she asked, biting into her apple.
"No," Edie said.
"Hmm," Kelly said.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Jungle Juice
I met a man in a Fedora. I met a girl who fell in love with me and then asked my age. No one likes me, but some people love me.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
One of These Fine Days
I am deferred; they have stuck their collegiate nose right up at me. "It's a very dangerous thing to get exactly what you want," the voice enunciates in my ear.
I can appreciate that, grudgingly. But what's the worth of never getting exactly what you want?
This wooden Buddha on my desk is genuinely amused. I rub his belly and he just laughs, showing small pointed teeth. It seems like he sees nothing with his strangely carved pupils.
Should I keep tearing out my hair and risk being ridiculed, or should I shut up and eat mattar paneer when I get it?
Wayne Coyne and the Buddha want to end the conversation, but neither of them will look me in the eye.
I can appreciate that, grudgingly. But what's the worth of never getting exactly what you want?
This wooden Buddha on my desk is genuinely amused. I rub his belly and he just laughs, showing small pointed teeth. It seems like he sees nothing with his strangely carved pupils.
Should I keep tearing out my hair and risk being ridiculed, or should I shut up and eat mattar paneer when I get it?
Wayne Coyne and the Buddha want to end the conversation, but neither of them will look me in the eye.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Yeah! P.A.
It is 11:02 PM, and I have three empty glasses, a yellow marker sticky with Screwdriver, a towel filled with tufts of Pete's hair, and crumbs of strange cheese. What I no longer have is a large spool of cotton ribbon. I bet you would like to know what happened tonight.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Heads Unimpressive Without Shoulders
He was an ugly man with Costello glasses. I remember the color of my hair, an unnatural shade of brown. I remember the box that the dye came in.
The apartment stank of frozen potstickers. His cat knocked over a crusty bottle of rice vinegar; we drank rum from thimbles. I lost hope, and rightly so.
The apartment stank of frozen potstickers. His cat knocked over a crusty bottle of rice vinegar; we drank rum from thimbles. I lost hope, and rightly so.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Lucky
Marvelous vibes, but I append the past terms of vibe definition:
d) Vibes are subject to change between day and night.
The only concrete New Year's resolution I made was to always use toilet seat covers in public bathrooms. OKAY!
What's new today is a friend in kombucha, and by the way, THE BLACK KEYS ARE COMING.
"Anna Karenina" sounds like a death mask, a funeral march.
d) Vibes are subject to change between day and night.
The only concrete New Year's resolution I made was to always use toilet seat covers in public bathrooms. OKAY!
What's new today is a friend in kombucha, and by the way, THE BLACK KEYS ARE COMING.
"Anna Karenina" sounds like a death mask, a funeral march.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Wave #71
My legs are hairy. I cough deeply and recoil. I don't have to know about the lack of splendor.
We play Rock Band for an hour. We get by on Medium and spend our money on pants and earrings for our sinewy, enthused alter egos. The clock shines 11:46 as we play the last forlorn notes of "Creep". We return to the couch.
Our parents chat with the TV tuned to the news channel. On the screen, sexy circus freaks dance with glitter somewhere in San Francisco. I pick up my crocheting. The hat is grey, a gift; I can tell him that I finished it in 2007. I race through the last stitches, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.
2008 comes through the open door, looks around, wipes his feet quietly. Weariness fades the features of his face. He likes the dark, and he lays down on the couch slowly, resting his head on my knee. They clink champagne flutes filled just to the point that they satisfy tradition, seeming not to notice him.
"Hey," I say.
He tilts his head back. "How are you?" he asks.
I feel fever in my eyes. I look at the smoldering coals in the fireplace, my ankle in its nubby sock, the tail of my cat as he retreats from human company. "Good," I respond.
He plays with my toes, looking at the screen. "Go with the flow, babe," he says.
I see the notes in green, yellow, red, the occasional blue. I forget what my fingers are doing and watch myself playing. I mess up, ace the chorus, mess up, manage a bonus. The plastic clicks add up.
My wrist aches. 2008 passes me a lavender soda. Lavender, of all things.
We play Rock Band for an hour. We get by on Medium and spend our money on pants and earrings for our sinewy, enthused alter egos. The clock shines 11:46 as we play the last forlorn notes of "Creep". We return to the couch.
Our parents chat with the TV tuned to the news channel. On the screen, sexy circus freaks dance with glitter somewhere in San Francisco. I pick up my crocheting. The hat is grey, a gift; I can tell him that I finished it in 2007. I race through the last stitches, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.
2008 comes through the open door, looks around, wipes his feet quietly. Weariness fades the features of his face. He likes the dark, and he lays down on the couch slowly, resting his head on my knee. They clink champagne flutes filled just to the point that they satisfy tradition, seeming not to notice him.
"Hey," I say.
He tilts his head back. "How are you?" he asks.
I feel fever in my eyes. I look at the smoldering coals in the fireplace, my ankle in its nubby sock, the tail of my cat as he retreats from human company. "Good," I respond.
He plays with my toes, looking at the screen. "Go with the flow, babe," he says.
I see the notes in green, yellow, red, the occasional blue. I forget what my fingers are doing and watch myself playing. I mess up, ace the chorus, mess up, manage a bonus. The plastic clicks add up.
My wrist aches. 2008 passes me a lavender soda. Lavender, of all things.
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