Thursday, March 23, 2006


why do we need to rewrite history? i'm talking mostly about personal relationships. there's two directions we go, the smear of something ordinary until it becomes beautiful, or the taking back/deletion of something with potential. this is why i hate potential. potential means what I shoulda, woulda, coulda done.

Friday, March 10, 2006

lock of hair

let's imagine i have a lock of her hair. for every 5 black strands is a silver strand. they put the color of stars in her hair. its day, im on cloud 9.


i have a hard on between the tears of my jeans as her hands roll up through the holes onto both of my thighs. i'm not going to ask this time. i'll clean my room til its ready for sex at a moments notice. i'll get the three day test cause i like her and there's no truth to tell, not yet.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

3 women

you saw her sunday, trolloping, it never seems like she's walking like a normal person. she trollops wearing new four dollar shits, hand me down cardigans, a smile for her next step under a yellow umbrella. you tell a friend, my god, that's d. on the sidewalk. can we go back and pull over? and that's what you do, say hello, and then you wear a stupid grin for the next 2 hours.
you've got a triple load of fresh laundry, when she's walking the other direction up another road. its still raining. wearing boots, she's almost as tall as you , nearly 6 ft. her skin doesn't need makeup, her lips are as purple as they are red, the closer you are the more years of worry appear, not in line but in the form of her smile as it melts. the song i'll stop the world and melt with you plays in your head. the right song but its not for the girl you get hard for. its not for her.
you tell her the secrets of psych wards, anorexic love, a desire to thin away to nothing. she will hug you and ask the right questions with bars of a building under construction dripping metal raindrops. she holds the umbrella above the two you. its just conversation, just an hour, and then just an invitation to meet her wednesday.

she's late again. she had breakfast, skipped out of the house. you were late too by 45 minutes, she's late an hour and a half. perfect timing is best shared between the too late.

everything you ever wanted to talk about: middle school paintings, your audience, the value of poetry, the relationship of your dream girl to her dad. you are so simple. she is so otherworldly. just once, you graze her legs and deny your purpose, having no idea how anything from your dreams is trolloping through the world.


a professor's face lights up at the mention of j. he's been sitting with a secret crush on the girl who says your writing kills. writing is too often a way to get people to like you, but what if she craves the writing and not you. what if you'll never fuck her all night because fucking involves too few words.


you leave her in the drizzle that's not even there. you lie, she lies. you walk, she walks. you leave, you are lucky that she waits. its time to visit the ward again. 1 anorexic reminds you she's leaving tomorrow. she's 80 pounds and looks healthy, comfortable, happiness in her new flesh. w is sleeping in her room. she sleeps 12 hours a day, takes naps at the most opportune times, visting hours. sleep is a way to avoid disappointment. both of you know.

you are happy just to play cards without using money, with a girl you don't have to let win. her arms are as thin as prescription vials. she's the only one here who doesn't need a sleeping pill, she's conserving energy, trying to sleep heavy, gain 11 pounds in 3 weeks.

she tells you about her heart, you remember it feeling like hot shower steam coated the inside and felt like radiation on your side. she says the doctors worry of irregularities, and because it is raining, you wonder if her heartbeat is like a raindrop, a letter on a keyboard, a story that might end midsentence.

as you leave the other anorexic is sobbing. she'll be there tomorrow after all.


in a bookstore j is waiting for you, reading high fidelity on a chair the two of sat on when books were still, have you read this? do you like this? will you like me?

now the book is open and she's reading chapter 8 and you want her to finish the chapter to get to a bar where things will almost be right again. when your finger can roll along the edges of her lobes. but when you lift her face to find her lips the hesitation makes you give up. and when she slumps against you there's no kiss goodbye, just her, j flung against you saying she'll see you, and now its your turn to say, see you when?

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

big lump of money

next time i decide to blow 5 figures i'm going to do it in a way that gives me the best half hour of my life.

Monday, March 06, 2006


The waitress is wearing pink, and any waitress wearing pink can be offered money for sex. Or at least flirted with. She sets the tray down, and it’s too hot. The steam condenses on the ceiling of a metal lid and drips onto your diner breakfast, a Denver omelette so yellow and oily you can already feel clots working through the veins on your arms like catches on a zipper.
“Watch your fingers while I clear this out,” mouths Miss Pink and as you remove your fingers from the checkered tablecloth, yes there is tablecloth in this place, you feel the grazing of her fingers on your forearm that grants you permission tonight.
The table cloth is red and white and probably cleaner than the nearby motel bed sheets even after four family dinners, kids included. But it’s two or three hours past midnight and she’s waiting for you to notice the empty booths, the blood red booths in every corner. “So set it anywhere you like,” you say as you become alert to the heat of her pores and shortness of her breath. She makes a move for your lap and says, “So anywhere yah?”
Nod your head yes. You didn't see this on the menu, how much is it?
She guffaws and because she is someone who guffaws you notice her face gets older the closer she gets. By the time she is reaching onto your lap she is 55 years old and occasionally samples senior citizen platters. You are 39 and hungry. Your body is advancing into calorie counts and high blood pressure and weekend yoga. Your wife has planned a surprise party for your birthday though you’ve explicitly told her a party would make age a big deal, and the fear is a big deal will lead to a big mid life crisis.
The eggs on the table glisten so you hand Miss Pink the fork. Because she is getting older and you are not, she feeds you, and wipes the yellow dribble off your chin.

Sunday, March 05, 2006


the shaky mumbles of addicts as they orbit trees in the sidewalk and the lone dealer of gravity amongst them shuffles the contents of bags to prorate the stay of his tenants. the cycle of their seismic patterns as they search for a place to open a bridge to heaven.