Tuesday, March 30, 2010

From Africa, With Love.

Did I know the giraffe was going to jump out of the convertible? What in the hell kind of question is that? I don’t speak giraffe. The giraffe did not communicate to me that he was going to jump out of the car and hit his head on the bottom of the overpass. Of course I didn’t know the giraffe was going to jump out of the convertible. Giraffe’s are supposed to be well behaved! At least that’s what I always learned on the Discovery Channel. I don’t even know how he got his seatbelt undone; giraffe’s don’t have opposable thumbs you know. How did I manage to get the giraffe into the car? Why, Mexicans of course. I mean hello you dummy, you know the ones – the ones always standing out front of the home depot? The ones always looking for jobs? Granted, they were a little hesitant at first when I showed up in my cherry red, Sebring convertible with the top down, shouting for them to go on ahead and hop into the back of the car. But you say one word enough times to them no matter what it is, and it’ll become work, work, workwhich of course translates into pesos, pesos, pesos – which in turn becomes pennies on the dollar. Great cheap labor those Mexicans.

Why did I steal it?


Sir, if I have to explain myself than you are obviously too stupid to understand it, and explaining myself wouldn’t make any bit of difference. I don’t need to explain myself. And don’t even bother with all of that, good cop, bad cop mumbo jumbo. Everybody already knows that cops are all assholes. How do I know that? You mean, how do I know that!? Well officer, I once got pulled over for speeding while my wife was in labor in the back of our car – you know, the back of my, cherry red Sebring convertible? Well, when I get pulled over I says to him,

“Officer, you gotta be kiddin me! You gotta let us go! My wife is in labor!”

And he says: “Sir, have you been da-rinking this evening?!”

The nerve!

Anyways, I say to him,

“As a matter-of-fact officer, I have had a couple of da-rinks this evening, because as you see– me and my wife here were at the Applebee’s enjoying our happy hour. And I mean, officer, it wasn’t my first choice to drive, but you see, you can’t just help not going into labor, just about the same way you can’t help not resisting a good sale on Happy Hour drinks! I mean, talk about a bargain on drinks! And I get the Long Island Iced Teas too! Because, you know – you get more bang for your dollar that way. And my wife here, well, she’s trying to be healthy for the baby, so she drinks Cosmopolitans, on account of all the cranberry juice they put in there. You know, the juice is good for the baby.”

So, the officer looks at me, and then he looks to the back seat and says –

“Sir, there is nobody in your backseat.”

And when I turn around it dawns on me that I’d gone and left my wife at Applebee’s. And she was squirming and bleeding and screaming and squirting baby juice all over the place back at Applebee’s. And that’s why, to this very day, our son’s name is: Long Island Applejack Cosmopolitan Rixie.

But back to the original reason for this story. The reason I think all cops are assholes is because – Oh, you mean you wanna hear the giraffe part of the story?


Well, there I was – at Applebee’s – minding my own business and trying to enjoy my Long Island Iced Teas, when there was this party, making this big ole fuss. And I’m just trying to watch some goddamned baseball, but that’s not happening on account of how goddamned noisy all these people are being. And you know how it is with baseball – it’s such a high-octane sport – you need to watch it with your full attention. Anyways, I go over to them and I say,

“Hey folks! What’s all the commotion about?”

And they look at me kind of like, hey, who the hell is this handsome fella? But then one of the girls turns to me and says, (all snooty like, mind you)

“Well, our friend here is going to Africa.”

“Africa!?” I say. “ Africa? Why in the good Goddamn would you want to go to Africa? You know how many people are trying to leave Africa?!”

“Well,” the girl says. “Even if we explained it to you, you probably wouldn’t understand.”

“Wouldn’t understand!?”

“Yes, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Africa. I wouldn’t understand, Africa?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t understand Africa. Now please leave. You’re ruining our party.”

So I said: “Oh, I’ll leave. But I’m coming back. I’ll show you Africa.”

And that’s when I left to go get the Mexicans, to go break into the zoo, to go and steal the giraffe. Because there are giraffes in Africa – get it? And I was gonna take it home and teach it how to shit on command, because I was going to take it to that bitches house and have it shit all over her house and lawn. And possibly her car.



Because nothing says, “Fuck You” like a giraffe does when it’s shitting all over your shit.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Awk. Conversations # 3

The following conversation takes place in the kitchen of a house party.

Hey, does anybody here want to go pick up Casey?
(dropping cocktail shaker into the sink, eyes widening) Casey!? She's in town?
(Squinting profoundly) Yes, of course she's in town . . .
I'll go pick her up! Where is she?
Are you sure you're not too drunk to drive?
Who me? I've only had like, one drink. I've been too busy making drinks to actually have a drink.
Alright well, I'll let her know you're on your way to pick her up.
Excellent! Where is she?
Her house.
Where is that?
You've been to her house before, don't you remember?
I've never been to Casey's house . . .
Yes you have, the house with the pool, remember?
(Widens eyes again and then squints them with a kind of disappointment) Oh . . . you meant, Casey, Casey?
(Annoyed) Yes, Casey.
You know what, actually, I'm drunk after all. I've been drunk this whole time. I can't drive right now. See, that would be absolutely silly.
You just said you've only had one drink . . .
Yea, but, I've been having sips of all these drinks that I've been making, so . . . I'm drunk now.
But you were fine to drive like five minutes ago?
Yea, but, that was when I thought I was going to pick up Casey - not Casey.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Down They Forgot

Their relationship existed on a plane of both conventional and unconventional levels, varying in degree from elaborate romanticisms of quixotic intention, to (despicable) acts of treachery that they would later exercise against one another. They did so without malicious intent, but managed still, nevertheless, to contrive harm to one another. They were both hopeful and na├»ve and optimistic and cursed with the inability to know any better. (This affliction is often referred to as "youth.") They met in high school. He was a transfer student who was drunk on attention, and she was a girl who had recently blossomed but nobody had noticed. As far as her peers were concerned, she was still the same girl from eighth grade who had braces and uneven limbs, and long and gangly forearms covered in thick, dark, bristly hair. Unbeknownst to her peers however, her braces had since been removed, and the dark hair covering her forearms had since faded to a softer, lighter, peach color - consistent with the average color of forearm hair for a beautiful woman’s forearms. She had also since grown into her gangly and uneven limbs by sprouting long and lustrous dancers legs; so tall and lean you could climb them for days and still never reach the top of them. He had noticed her. He had noticed her right away in fact. He dropped everything he was doing on said half-day of school and walked boldly up to her and befuddled her with his brevity when he said something to her she never quite expected to hear.
“Hello,” he said. (That’s not quite it, but trust me it’s coming soon.)
“Hello,” she said, squinting at the strange boy who had a particularly large forehead and an uncannily charming smile. He had one dimple. The boy, who was hardly two inches taller than she was, had bowed legs, and when he walked, his feet faced outward, making him duck like in appearance. Because of this, he waddled more than he actually walked. He operated with almost none of the consistency exercised by most bipedal mammals, and everything about him seemed to be coated with layers of clumsiness and folly.
“I’m ___ ” the boy said, and he stuck out his hand.
“Hello ___,” she said. “I’m _________.”
(In case you couldn’t tell, the names in this story have been excluded because of the story’s personal nature, and I would very much like to protect the identities of the two subjects that the story is based off of. However, if you feel so inclined, you may bubble in the names of yourself and your own significant other, or, if you don’t have a significant other, perhaps just the names of two of your friends, or even just two names that you find particularly entertaining. As a suggestion to the reader, try making the boy’s name monosyllabic, and the girl’s name trisyllabic.)
She reached out and shook the boy’s hand, and when she did, a nervous energy transferred through him and into her body, and she felt suddenly hurried and flushed with anticipation. She turned to look for her sister behind her, knowing she would only need raise her eyebrows to a specific degree to grab her attention – as she and her sister spoke an eloquent kind of unspoken language.
I will explain that further in just a moment.
When Bethany (the girl’s sister) saw the look that her sister had given her, and saw that her sister’s hand was encased with the hand of a boy whom she had never seen before, she knew that her sister needed her assistance.
She rushed to her aid.
As the boy shook the girls hand, he felt as though he had suddenly disappeared. Before she turned unexpectedly, without warning, he was rising from the bottom of the ocean, staring at the sun as he floated upwards, at it’s light, glittering off the center of a hundred angry storms, ripping apart a turbulent teal surface. As he floated, the boy held his breath, as though to prevent himself from drowning.
The sister (Bethany) appeared next to the girl and smiled curiously at the boy, as if to ask him what his intention with her sister’s hand was. (He was still shaking it.)
“Holy shit, there are two of you,” he said, feeling the girl’s fingers slide from his grasp.
They were mirror twins, meaning their fertilized egg spilt late – around 9 to 12 days – and if it had managed to spilt any later, the girls would have been conjoined; hence the brilliance of their bond unspoken.
The girl and her sister rolled their eyes at this statement, in unison, but in opposite directions – one rolled left and one rolled right – because for as long as they could remember, they had been ridiculed, harassed, gawked at and marveled at, sought after and teased, and berated with questions regarding the abnormality of their zygote. This boy was no different than all the other boys before him.
“Yes, we’re twins,” said the girl, exasperated and disappointed.
“Which one is the best?” asked the boy.
This was the statement that had befuddled the girl. This was the question that the girls had never before received as twins. It caught them off guard. They had often compared themselves to one another, feeling inadequate in regards to certain genetic traits that had been dominant in one twin and recessive in the other, (fuller lips, a thinner face, ect.) but no one had ever dared ask them about it. No one ever demanded that they make the decision about whom the better twin might be.
“What do you mean?” asked Bethany, although she already knew damn well what he meant.
“I mean, which is the best twin? Between the two of you?”
“We don’t think about that,” the girls said, in unison.
“Well,” the boy said. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Without hesitation, as the boy seldom hesitated and often acted out of impulse, (A trait the girl would later learn to both love and hate about him) he turned around and backed into the girl, bending down to pick her up from the back of her long, slender legs – which he noticed were both soft and firm – and he hoisted her up onto his back.
“Hey, you there!” The boy shouted to a blond haired youth walking by the unfolding circus scene. “Grab this girl’s sister here and throw her onto your back!”
The passerby smiled, and for whatever reason, perhaps because he was influenced by the boy’s infectious personality, he tossed the girl’s sister onto his back. While it wasn’t mentioned in that exchange of dialogue, it must be said that the girl was adamantly protesting that she be put down immediately. However, it also must be noted, that through the inflection of her voice, the boy recognized that the girl was smiling as she said this. Bethany couldn’t help but notice her sister’s sudden enchantment with the situation, so she also put up a faux struggle.
“What now?” asked the blond.
“Now, we race!” said the boy. He hopped the girl up higher onto his back and turned to run straight across the middle of the school’s courtyard, while the girl bounced and laughed and smiled on his shoulders. The girl, who hadn’t known the boy for more then four minutes, was all at once excited and scared and nervous and hopeful. When they reached the end of the courtyard the boy set her down, turned around, and smiled.
“It was nice to meet you,” he said, grinning, his dimple carving so deeply into his cheek that it could have been filled it with a large marble.
He turned and walked away.
They would not speak again for another year.
That was unconventional.
However, as beautiful and heartfelt and as innocent as their relationship had begun, unfortunately, much like life, it would end ugly and twisted and sour. Ultimately, it would become so violently unrecognizable, that the children mentioned in the beginning of the story, would never believe they turn into the people mentioned at the end.
But we’ll get there.
In the year that the boy and the girl didn’t see each other, they often thought about one another, wondering about where they might have been and what the other might have been doing. They would catch themselves thinking back to that one frivolous memory that they shared for a handful of minutes on a single afternoon. They lived completely separate lives. The girl experimented with drugs and alcohol and had her first sexual experience at a party with a college boy whose name she never learned. They were kissing on a bed when he put his hands up her shirt, and he began moaning into her ear as he kissed the side of her neck. The girl felt embarrassed. When he did this, she raised her eyebrows to a certain degree and was hopeful that her sister might come in and rescue her. When she didn't, the girl closed her eyes and thought back to the time that a boy ran her across a courtyard. The boy, who was socially awkward and especially nervous around crowds, tried to compensate for the fact by also experimenting with drugs. This had ended disastrously for him. Because the selection of drugs that he experimented with was of a particularly dangerous variety, he overdosed. When the drugs began to take hold, and his eyes rolled back into his head while he heaved with convulsions, he could have sworn that he heard the girl laughing. The last thing he remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was the feel of her weight on his shoulders. The girl started listening to punk music. As a result, she began dating the lead singer of a local punk band, “Everything Is Shit.” The boy went to a Detox center in the mountains and wasn’t heard from for a month. He learned how to play guitar and began writing terrible songs. When the next year finally came, and the boy and the girl had accumulated an unsettling amount of experiences that made them both cringe and burn when thought about, they were assigned to sit next to each other in a French class. When they saw each other, they smiled.
When the boy realized he was interested in her, he was unsure of how to approach her. Because she was intelligent, she was also intimidating to him. He was often at a loss on how to speak to her. One day, while experimenting with new ways to initiate conversation, he was stricken with a brilliant idea. He found her sitting alone along the east wall of the school one day looking down at a book between her lap. He called out her name, and with a calculated underhanded toss, he lobbed a water bottle above her head. When the girl heard her name being called, she stopped what she was doing to look up, only to be hit square on the nose with a bottle. She threw her hands over her face and when she pulled them away there was the faintest touch of blood on her fingertips.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” she asked him, before sliding herself off the wall and marching towards the bathroom.
The boy’s logic was sound. She had spoken to him.
The first time the girl realized she was interested in him, she had abandoned plans with her boyfriend to study French at the boy's house. They didn’t study anything. She chased his cat.
When he could tell that she was getting bored and contemplating leaving, he suggested that they go for a walk. He took her to a rickety old dock by a river, and when the sun began to set on the water he spun her around to face him and kissed her.
The first time he knew that he loved her they were laying in the back of a van. He smiled at her with his eyes half open in the dark and he kissed her soft, parted lips, elated that he finally felt comfortable amongst the grooves and curves of her body. He carefully eased off of her and watched her eyes glow between flashes of light, as the van rocked slowly past streetlights on the highway. They had been dating for two weeks. He told her that he loved her, as he often did things compulsively. This made her uncomfortable, so she told him that they shouldn't see each other anymore. After three days of not speaking, the boy had decided he’d had quite enough, and he showed up at her house one night drunk and uninvited. Knocking on her window, she opened it for him when she recognized who it was, and he quickly scrambled through it and collapsed onto her floor.
“What are you doing?” she hissed in an intense whisper, fearful that he might wake her parents. Standing over him, she began to giggle as he grinned stupidly up at her.
“I’m not sorry I said it,” He said drunkenly, before closing his eyes and splaying on her floor. “I meant it. I love you, and you love me too. And if you don’t yet, you will. I promise.”
He opened his eyes and looked up at her and smiled. “I missed you,” he said.
She smiled uncontrollably back at him, at his amorous display of stupidity. “I missed you too,” she said.
This made him smile even wider. She could have jumped into his dimple if she wanted to.
She didn’t realize that she loved him until nine months later. He had assembled a group of "musicians" to perform at a local battle of the bands. As each member played music off time with one another, he laughed it off and smiled and people cheered. She realized that the boy was a fool, but he did what he loved, and he did so unapologetically. Everything he was passionate about made him happy. She realized that he loved her in a way that she would never understand, and for that, she loved him. She loved him for being able to love her with such unrelenting fervor.
Two weeks later, they slept together for the first time - after prom.
All of that was conventional.
He watched her dance. He met her family. Her father overheard them in her bedroom one night after he had snuck in through her window. Enraged by the sound of teenage copulation coming from his daughter’s room, he assaulted the door with a cannonade of fists. The boy, panicked, rushed into her closet and covered himself with a tutu, as it was the only thing available to him for which to cover his nakedness. The father, blind with rage, punched open the bedroom door, and entering the girl's room, demanded to know were the boy was. He was fully prepared to attack him for touching his daughter - his beloved little girl. The girl simply quivered under her covers and the father turned to the closet. Throwing open the doors, he decided that he was going to choke the boy; possibly to death. As he reached out to grab him, the boy, who was stood naked and helpless in the girl’s closet, looked at the father and smiled. The father suddenly couldn’t find it within himself to clobber him. The physical reality of seeing the boy standing naked in front of him, smiling, covering himself only with with the thin, pink fabric, conflicted the father so much that he forgot how to be angry. He let him go.
However, he did keep the boy’s clothes, forcing him to drive home in nothing but the tutu.
The boy and the girl broke up. He kissed someone else and hated it. They got back together. When the girl thought that she was pregnant, she made her sister punch her in the stomach as hard as she could. She did not have a baby.
He graduated from high school and did not get into any colleges.
She had another year.
She graduated from high school and moved out of state to attend college.
He continued to love her with indomitable ferociousness, and despite being several states apart, they stayed together . They began to drink too much in separate states. Cracks began to form in their relationship. He got drunk and kissed other girls. She became involved with another man. Presumably, his appeal to her was that he was a corporate man, as he waited tables at the Outback steakhouse. The boy meagerly scraped by waiting tables at a mom and pop pizzeria. When she visited him they popped pills together and rolled around on the floor. They laughed. When he visited her, they took mushrooms together and laid down on the floor and stared vacantly at the ceiling. He told her that he loved her. All she said was,
And then she kissed him. It tasted funny because she had been licking the walls.
One night, while they were apart, the boy felt particularly lonely and depressed about the pressures of adulthood and newfound responsibilities. The weight began to heave down heavily on top of him. She called him that night crying and said,
“I want to move back home. I want to be with you.”
She gave him something to live for. He saved and planned and prepared, and six months later he flew to pick her up and bring her back home with him. The night before they moved, he caught her sneaking out under the garage door. She was going to say goodbye to the other man that she had been seeing. The boy told her to go because he loved her. He was a fool who loved her too much and he wanted nothing more then for her to be happy. When they came home together, she moved two hours south and attended a new college and did not have any money. They did everything they could to make it work, but when it was never enough, the boy began to drink heavily.
One night, it was his birthday, and when she drove up to see him, he went out on his own and left her at the house. When he returned, looking straight past her, he walked down the hallway and crawled straight into bed. When she pulled up the sheets to climb in next to him, he rolled over and pushed her out.
More cracks formed.
Every time they had sex they were trying to prove something. He was drowning. For the first time ever, she loved him more than he loved her. They went to a wedding. She caught the bouquet. When the garter was thrown to him, he let it bounce off his chest and land on the floor. He walked away unabashed. He found her in a dry bathtub later that night with her arms folded across her chest. Her makeup was smeared, and it dripped down her cheeks. She looked beautiful and sad. They made love on the bathroom floor apologetically.
They did not see each other for one year.
The boy continued to drink uncontrollably until one day he realized that he was alone. He quit drinking and a veil was lifted. He remembered the girl. He remembered what she looked like and what she laughed like and what she felt like. He wondered what had happened to her, where she went, and where she lived. He called her on the phone and they talked for four hours. He smiled. His dimple began to carve its way back into his cheek. She said that she would like to see him again, so he drove two hours to see her, smiling the whole way down. The world was better again. He was better again. He was smiling and feeling so much better that the entire world could have fit into his dimple. They met at a restaurant. She came with a man.
The man made her smile.
The boy got up quietly from the table and left his dimple and the world behind him in the restaurant.
That night, the girl turned over in bed and wrapped her arm around the man that she lay with, turning her mouth upwards unknowingly while she slept. She dreamt that she was being carried. As she was, she smiled and laughed and gazed across an endless blue sky.
Two hours away, the boy lay awake in his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the weight that sat so heavily on his shoulders.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Full bar, extensive menu

Miserable is a good word to describe how I feel. It’s not your fault I feel that way. I was the one who subjected myself to it. It was one of those things I had to convince myself to do. I convinced myself it would be a good idea. Oh, it will be just like the good old days, I told myself. We’ll pick up right where we left off – it will be amazing, it really will. But it was torture. Ten months is a long time. I was the only person in the room dumb enough to think things can go back to normal. It was like smashing a vase. We all just looked at the pieces and tried to remember what went where.

            Remember when this went together?

            Remember when that went together?

Because why would you take all that time to glue a busted up vase back together, when you can just get a newer, less complicated vase? Sure, the broken vase will have character, but you can’t put any water into it. It won’t hold anything. It will just leak, and nothing you put in there will live - it'll just wither up and die. No one wants that. No one wants this shitty, busted, broken vase. I do. But no one gives a shit about what I want. No one should, because it’s all spilled milk. I’m fucking crying over it. I really am. And everyone in the room is recoiling, with down turned mouths and furrowed brows and their asking, “Why doesn’t he just pour himself a new glass of milk? Why does he have to be such an ass about it?”

            Because fuck another glass of milk.

            I wanted THAT glass of milk.

That’s when I was happy. I’m not desperate though. I’m too proud – too stubborn. I’m not about to drop to my hands and knees and suck the milk off the floor. I’d be crazy to do that. I would cut my lips. I’ll just stare at it and wait for someone else to clean up my mess because I refuse to be held accountable for any of this.

            What am I talking about?

            What are you talking about?

I know exactly what I’m talking about. I just need to cover it up with a clever guise, because people who know me, have probably already figured out what it is that I'm talking about. And they’re thinking, “Oh Ian, God, you’re such a mess. What happened to you?” I don’t know. I really don’t. Nothing is where I left it. From socks to people I’m in love with. Not that you can compare the two – but I just want to point out how fucked everything is. I can’t find chords to charge things. Everything around me is dying. The electronics can be brought back to life, which is fortunate, and most people I know probably have a good sixty-seventy years before they go, but the prospect still makes me uneasy. Makes my stomach twist.

            Did you know blond is spelled that what when you describe a boy?

            And blonde is for when you describe a girl? Fucking German people, right?

Boy I hope somebody laughed at that, but who am I kidding, no one reads this shit. Here’s another one for you.

            State governments can fine you for velocity. For when you can’t get away from something fast enough.

And then they ask you why you were going so fast. Does it matter?


“Why were you speeding, sir?”

            “Because life is shit, officer.”


            “Why were you speeding, sir?”

            “Because I hate myself, officer.”


            “Why were you speeding, sir?”

            “I was hoping to get into a head on collision, officer.”


            This is, of course, overdramatic, but – sometimes you feel like this. Maybe. Maybe I need to see a shrink so he can analyze my relationship with my mother. She force-fed me biscotti and eggplant Parmesan growing up doc, fuck, am I gonna die? Is this why I’m so unhappy? Because I gagged on marinara sauce as a youth? Who are you kidding? Who am I kidding? Who are you people? Who decides this shit?

            What in the hell is going on?


Why don’t they tell you the transition into adulthood is going to be like this growing up? Why don’t they warn us about existential crises in the fourth grade? Do they think this shit is funny?

Accountability is a bitch.


Tuesday, March 16, 2010


I'm drunk
right now? 
you bet your ass right now. 
Anything you'd like to say? 
There are things I would sure as fuck like to say. 
Oh? like what? 

I love you. 
plain and simple. 

I don't love you anymore. 

Oh yea? 
Well that doesn't change anything. 
I love you. 

Plain and simple. 

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Everything in this room is a reminder of how much better I used to be
From the TV to the carpet to the busted lamp shade
I'm surrounded by things
that are used to seeing me in much better moods,
with much better people
I'm surrounded by things
that are used to seeing me with you
How has this happened?
at this time in my life, this isn't what i pictured
Maybe It's time I get the hell out of here

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

This decade, only later

"What are you thinking about?"
She asked me
I sipped my beer.
I was thinking about an old girlfriend and
about her nose. About the way it 
crinkled when I told her something 

I'm thinking about flamingos, I told her
I Lied, I did - to make talk, small. 
Pink is such a ridiculous color for a bird, I said.
God must have a very funny sense of humor, I said.
"Colors are all science," 
she said 
and she flapped her mouth
"They are all just pigments being reflected by the sun." 
You don't think God is very funny?
I asked 
I do not believe in god,
she said.

I took her home and kissed her below her waist 

We slept together, 
Because we were     unfamiliar. 
And it made us both thirsty
I asked her, 

Why don't you believe in God, anymore? 

She poked at a 

"I do not believe in god anymore because 
I work 
in a hospital," 
she said. 
And today I watched a man take his 
last breath
his last shuddering     breath, 
and all at once his skin
changed color and he died.
 I said

She started to cry.

I rolled over and held my breath 
until I fell

Monday, March 8, 2010

My friend says he hates roadside cemetaries because they remind him that he's going to die.

I hate watching the sky because its infinite size reminds me that I'm going to live forever.

Don't be mad,

Because four hours
is a long time
for anybody to
have something
pressed against their ear.
Only to realize that
This is the
somethingth time
I have made this mistake.

That's why.

That's why,
When it finally snowed
in Columbus,

I took the time,
because I forgot
how much
you hated not having
in your bed.

When both of our feet
suspended themselves . . .


We were
helium balloons.

We were
And we thought it would be a good idea.

Now that you're happy though,
Now that you're happy again,
I should say.
Now that your lips pull
back into that
sweet, wet
smile that isn't mine
(Not that I can't make
you laugh,

not the way he can).

Because that was my idea,
I knew
it was Inevitable.

That's why.
That's why
I was drunk
that time I kicked
you out of bed.

"I'm sorry -"
I had said.

was all I had to say for myself.
And you were so upset,
And that glass you gave me
Is still in my freezer.
"I love you,"
It says.
"Happy Birthday."

At my sisters wedding,
you slapped me
(I was drunk then too),
And when you
stormed off,
I closed my eyes
Felt the
The whole world

Spinning past me,
A carousel.

And all I ever
wanted was for
the world to
stop spinning,

So that I could
catch you.
I never did.

And I thought about
you with my eyes closed,
And often still do.

I found you
later on
in a dry bath tub

with your arms folded.

It took so long
for me to dry out.

"I'm sorry -"
I had said.

was all I had to say for myself.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Readily Unavailable

And I realize(d)!
At least
I('ve) manage(d) to 
Of course
Only after I had sworn to myself
Against the better knowing(s) of my consciousness
That I was
 in fact
In Love with this girl. 
Her name
By the way 
The girl standing here before me
Is one that I have become
Incredibly familiar with.
To that regard, in which
I (have) so disregard(ed) it
To be
It is
At least
By its very nature
At least
It is to me. 



Since you’ve managed to dry up my tongue
I must have another drink.
But, everything we drink here makes us  thirstier
And so, we'll dance!
And so, you dance
And so, when you dance
I swear
That I am (un)inhibited.

I am Frazzled!
No! I am Bankrupted!
                                                                        By the very Glib,
                                                                                                            And frivolous,
Nature of our conversation(s).


But I will dance too
Because I am in love
With what it is
That you are singing.

And I will laugh too
Because I am in love
With what it is
That you are saying.

And we will brush our skin too
Because we are in love
With how it is
That we are feeling. 

And we will be young too
Because, we are in love
With how much it is 
That we don't know any better

We won't know any better.
Until you fall down, of course.
Because you jumped into my arms
I was the one who scraped my knee(s).

Let’s go home now
 I will say
            And I will wave.
Let’s go home now 
I will hint
            And I will wave.
Let’s go home now
 I will beg
            And I will wave.
Until there is another exchange of currency
                                                            For more of a mess
                                                            To be poured 
Down our throats.

But, now, there are no mechanics!
What, what, what, did I miss?
Because, no matter how frivolous and glib and playful I
May be, by my very nature . . .  

Is a domineeringly Tantamount animal
By its very Nature.

how did I miss that you were too?
And so madly, too?
Not with me.