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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
Have a seat I already poured you a drink You have it neat right I’ve seen you in here Most nights of the week I know you noticed My notice I’m sorry If that made things Uncomfortable I don’t want it to sound Like I’m angling for more I’m curious I confess What a beautiful woman Well you know the rest I ducked my head Ostensibly shy To get a better look It is what she expects And I aim to please When it costs Nothing to do so Though the flattery Left me unmoved I smiled anyways Wide and full of teeth Aiming for friendliness I never miss the mark Except today I apologize this is on me I clearly overstepped my bounds Hope this doesn’t make you I just thought She trailed off stupidly All but wringing her hands In consternation Darting away with relief When another customer walked in I should have called her back Accepted her oblique insinuations A drawn out flirtation That would keep me in style Until she realized I had No intention of delivering What my mouth promised She’d seen me here Most nights for weeks Drawing her out Making her want I was always selling Except today It must be old age When a young thing like that Stirs in me pity Instead of dollar signs Yet something about the keenness Of her glazed gaze Roused my dormant conscience I throw money on the bar Leaving her to hustlers With more ambition And fewer scruples |
Death comes with the setting sun. The question has an answer: her husband, the vagabond, was right all along - constant travel can outpace the reaper. |
"Don't leave me," she mouthed at the comma his sleeping form made. "I know you want to. But don't leave me." He'd been retreating for months now. Wearing a groove between them with his slow pulling away. The evidence unmistakable now. Confidence replaced his middle-aged fatigue. He spoke to everyone except her in short snazzy sentences, a new jazziness of character to go with the sharper, stronger man leaving her behind. It was the children of course. Their leaving. With them gone, the flood-waters of his discontent surged over the barriers of her love. And there was someone else. Not that he'd said, or even hinted. Yet how could she not know? The glow in his eyes died when he came home. Her shrillness was a mask for desperation. It chased him from her arms. Still, she could not stop herself, not even knowing the spectacle she'd become. A harridan. Her mother. Wasn't she replaying the damned, doomed story of her childhood? He stirred uneasily in his sleep. Even with the lights off she knew the folds of his face like the workings of her insides. Do you love him? The thought caught her off-guard. Of course she loved him. She'd loved him since before they'd even met, his letters to her sister the highlight of her week. But do you love him? Wherever it came from, she couldn't unthink it. Or are you afraid? True enough. She was not meant to be alone. She was not one of those women built for independence. Involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to him. Had familiarity bred contempt in both of them? She turned that treacherous thought over in her head. Was it possible - even a little bit - that she no longer loved her husband? That her anxieties stemmed from fear of growing old alone? That last one propelled her straight up in bed. He turned over and burrowed himself into the warmth of the pillow away from where her body had been. "It's ok, I'm getting up," she whispered. "The bed's all yours." Though she needn't have bothered whispering. Short of an earthquake, little woke him. Including the alarm, which was on her side of the bed. Even though he always had to be up earlier. Another of the little resentful accommodations their marriage rested on. Even while asleep he's trying to escape me. I might as well let him be. If she was going to keep thinking these thoughts, she needed hot chocolate, and damn the calories. My marriage is over. She tried the phrase on for size, letting it rattle around her brain unimpeded. As she traipsed down the kitchen, the truth of the words settled into her stomach. Her marriage was over. The rest was just picking up the pieces, moving on. Now that it'd finally come, the end of life as she knew it didn't seem that dire. Nothing copious amounts of sugar and milk couldn't solve. Hugging herself tightly, she managed a wry grin in between the tears. They'll enhance the chocolate with a little bitterness. |
Chin up, she says, lethargic with laudanum. Things are only unbearable the first time. Look at me love. I survived, cheerfully even. I did worse than you. I screamed myself hoarse then. No cause for it. It never helps. You can bear more than you imagined, more than should be possible. Bear more than you hoped, in the midst of despair. Nothing's unbearable the second time around. You've already borne it; the shock is gone. That's why it makes you stronger. Have a sip, life goes down easier. |
A life bounded by Mondays except for the ones that resemble Tuesday |
Ending a whisper under the patella plain cotton white and black crisscross socks a repository of dimpled cafĂ© con leche calves panties which dream of snow blanket the pubic mound silver bells dangle in the valley of budding breasts milk-chocolate nipples imitate peaked Hershey’s kisses peer shyly from beneath whitish pink lace cups bubble-gum lip-gloss slicked lips parted in wet whimsy a gem forest lines earlobes downy with vellum hair coal dark mane pleated into handholds looking for today something like seventeen |
On a couch deflated by months of late-night television serenades purveyor of not sleeping just resting my eyes sleep two cushions crookedly abut each other. Curled up under decorative pillows and fleece blankets the drone of the ever-present air-conditioner harmonizing with laser guns and gravity hammers, shivers result from alternately roasting and chilling. An unexpected kiss dusts her forehead. Eyes ablaze with alien mayhem he reaches underneath the mountain of blankets, squeezes her naked thigh playfully. More kisses brushed over startled eyelids sleep-dampened cheeks, chapsticked lips. Time for bed sleepyhead. Memories of months where his absence denoted his presence stray shaving cream damp towels dirty socks strewn across the bathroom floor the crooning television frightening the air-conditioner buzzing badly meant she could only fall asleep when he sat as the counterbalance that lined the cushions straight just so. |
cash out hoard copper buy gold keep diamonds the apocalypse comes sorry we only accept Spaghetti-Os |
A touch of arrogance is not a problem; how could that matter to a pearlescent world, ripe for plundering, beckoning you in? By all means come along striding confidently in the knowledge that you will always be wanted, nepotism run amok while unemployment runs rampant. No surprise there – when has it ever been about what you know? |
a billboard for philosophy classes in complex numbers, the clean streak across dirty window panes, an overhead and incorrect history lesson about the Dutch correlations between championship rings and ice cream trucks, champagne corks and shelled peanuts, private schools and uneven sidewalks wet warm wind from a subway grate, stiletto heels break a mother’s back, beer bottle grown grass a five-foot tall electric Star of David, winking at drivers the whole year round |
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