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Creeping on the Border of Going Away

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 19:41:00 -0400

Screaming about the confines of yesterday, trapped and tangled in vines of repetition.
Seeing through spaces and that everything is the same
with leaves transparent and mundane.

Wings tethering like
the pages
of a book
caught in the wind
with dust lining on the spine.
The sand paper crumbling
and sounding like
seeds
sprinkled
on the fertilizer
of crime.

The itching noise of clocks ticking
at dusk when you’re trying to milk your sleep.
And you fall in and out and you’re waiting
for the alarm to finally beep.
The grimy anticipation of time.
The teenagers growing too fast.
The children knowing too much.
Information becoming the past.

Dreaming about the limits of the future.
Weeping for an outlet that makes sense.
Screaming about the confines of yesterday.
Trapped and tangled again and again.

Reading to Drinkers and Drinking to Books

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 19:50:02 -0400

Reading to Drinkers and Drinking to Books:

The piece I read for this event last night can be found here.

Saint Valentine Was Buried in Rome of this Month Some people...

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 02:31:00 -0500

Saint Valentine Was Buried in Rome of this Month

Some people carry their lives on their backs. I just carry this self-revolving world including good deeds for my siblings that give me good karma. The typical.

Like Eddie McDowd, we couldn’t function without karma whether we were Buddhist or not.

And then you meet those confident people who teach you everything you know. Their ego is inspirational and they’ve got a hint of sympathy so that you know they’re human.

You’re convinced you can do anything. You’re accomplished unrequited, pure love and you’re close to spoiling yourself with infidelity. You have everything. Your career is at its peak, your family is openly proud of you, and your friends are just slightly jealous. It’s perfect.

You’re away from the conventional consideration of following rules and obedience. You’re realistic within yourself, thinking of yourself because no one changes and they instead grow into selfish teenagers and selfish adults. You feel esteemed and self-loving and belonging.

But then that one person, an angel in your eyes, turns infectious and even their apologies sound cocky. And you don’t conceptualize that until for some reason you become down and you’re clawing at something to account it to.

And it frustrates you because you’re the only one who seems to care. You care that that one friend doesn’t want to hang out anymore. You care that the future is dwindling. You can’t fit into your favorite jeans anymore. Things aren’t the same.

Your parents are starting to piss you off like you’re in high school. Your career isn’t worth it. You want to run away and infidelity just doesn’t do it like you thought it would. You’re feeling sat on and so far from self-actualization.

It’s only because you didn’t even think of transcendence. You didn’t think of the unclothed attitude of giving to others humbly. You didn’t think of not minding your pride because it was too vain like an IMAX screen showing close ups of a deteriorating relationship. A relationship much like yourself forgetting about the dog until you find him on the roadside dead. And you’re cursing yourself and cursing yourself again for even getting a dog because you’re allergic.

There’s got to be a way to get past yourself. There’s got to be a way to relieve yourself from it all so that you can give back without feeling unreciprocated and then understand how to give back without feeling guilty.

Some people carry their lives on their backs. I just carry this self-revolving world on my shoulders. So much time goes by and each day feels like a drone but I look back and everything’s changed. And then I think that everything’s changing and my life is improving when it’s not. People stay the same. Just stay in the inferiorized social role you were put in by narcissists admiring confident hot-shots. You’ll get your turn. You’re a step closer to feeling belonging.

A Poem For Tonight Written Right Now I just want to wish Steve...

Tue, 24 Jan 2012 12:03:20 -0500

A Poem For Tonight Written Right Now

I just want to wish Steve Jobs a peaceful death because everyone seems to be wishing him a good trip to hell. I mean, I didn’t know the guy. I just know he wanted to change the technical world. And everyone who owns an iPod or a replica of it should be grateful that the jerk was confident enough to pirate the Silicon Valley. Just like, although the twins pushed on their galley, Mark Zuckerberg went down in history. You have to be selfish. You have to take credit for the originality of coincidences. You have to shout back at belligerence even if it doesn’t make sense and you’re packing your shit at two in the morning going home.

My sister goes to West Point and so is entitled to cheaper train tickets. And I agree that the twenty bucks to Grand Central aren’t twenty bucks well spent so I tried her method once, got away with it, and tried it again. And so the ticket taker made his way down and took my senior stub or whatever. And his hole puncher is ready, going click click click. And he goes, “Now are you under twelve?” and I said, “Don’t I look it?” So I had to pay that extra plus the on-peak fare. And it’s not like I’m saving the world or anything so who really cares. And I took the on-peak to who knows to where and when. And since the soldiers of America is everyone’s friend, she and her seven-foot boyfriend blends with the other ecstatic children skipping to see the Ring starting at ten. It’s all in the camouflage.

It’s all in the initiative. Who really counts up to the derivative when it’s only you convincing with your self-serving bias. It’s David and Goliath. It’s all in the line moving and you choosing to be number four or number three or number two. It’s the patience expected of you when you’re hurt and the selfless pondering that you’re not capable to retort in return. To react to a child’s account like he discovered a cure for a AIDS. To brave the torturous wrestling in the middle of the day. To, for the sake of courtesy, pretend that their cereal box watches are cool. To not push with more effort on the canoe. To wade helplessly, feet wet in the drowned weeds and the dew feeling bound to the troughs to not expose the tainted rude. But to stand in the shower, thinking, “Man, my boobs really grew.” So you go out on an adventure and make some discoveries, too.

And irate bitches to the left whispering, “Who is that chick? She’s new!” And your flirty smiles and slight lean-ins are painted out to be something lewd. And before you know it, you stole someone’s man and they’re running après vous. And your eyeliner is bleeding and head is leaking but you stick to your attitude.

You have to laugh loudest in the room. You have to stroke gently to the tune. You have to think like those guys rubbing their palms together thinking, “I’m gonna make her my boo.” And that might not be likely but, you know.. do what you gotta do. You have to take it harder on the booze. But don’t start sobbing at the bar because you aren’t Ray Charles; this isn’t the blues. You have to dance smooth and really prove. That you’re someone who gets the joke even though it was too loud and you didn’t hear it, too. And you don’t remember names so you’re like, “Oh, that’s hilarious, You!” And some days, I know, you’re really not even in the mood. But you have to be in the in-crowd or choose to be a mute. You have to be the man. That is, you have to go hard in the paint or no one really gives a damn. And they have to really want fans because it makes them feel included. And avoiding being booted means that you didn’t lose.

And race with the chase to South San Francisco in North California on child off-peak tickets in tall hats made for witches skipping in privileged camouflage, salivating wet, hungry as a dog. Conditioned and aggressive and flaring smoke like a choo. But a body is dead today and all we care about is how he was viewed.

Spruce Couldn’t cross the streetin grey feetor greasy...

Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:15:00 -0500

Spruce

Couldn’t cross the street
in grey feet
or greasy palms.
Slanted trees
and cardboard targeted
like poison ivy
or catching lady bugs.
Underground psalms, malapert.
Homemade creeks
of oily bins.
Blades curve plastic
and dig slippery pave.
Pivoted for homemade tears
under waning breezy days.
Toes cram echoes
and drag cell phones.
“Mijo!” she whistles.
Lighting flies.
It’s time to go home.

The Post Disorder We drank from the same cup, my brother. And...

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 02:27:00 -0500

The Post Disorder

We drank from the same cup, my brother. And she couldn’t bear touch our infant bodies. She was touched first. And my grandmother was livid but she couldn’t live with it so she bought a rug to sleep under. I belonged there, too. It wasn’t news she was afraid. She returned from the war, realizing with her amygdala that fighting must have been a figment of her make believe life. Because her bones, honed with every strain from euphoria, became less hollow for some reason, my brother blamed for his mouth, too. But I prayed for longevity. The scissors that they used to separate me from her womb would be inside me if he left. That’s the difference. She couldn’t bear the repulsiveness. I was barely introduced. So I don’t wait for anyone unless I’m left. Fear induced the tears that left me and the comfort of being close by. Like my grandmother’s lies, darkness filled my body. I took it, unhooking because I, myself, am alive.

After the Trust at Sea She always wanted to be a candle person...

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 00:52:00 -0500

After the Trust at Sea

She always wanted to be a candle person but she was afraid of the thought of her home catching fire. Her daughter admired her taste but didn’t mind them with or without her bubble baths. She couldn’t live without her laced dresses, though. She remembered her mother braiding her hair on steps from a house full of the sounds of other people. She couldn’t find consistency and wouldn’t mess it up if she attained it. She couldn’t tell if her best was enough. She couldn’t find where to measure it.

Her cream walls were spotless. The carpets were always dusted. They weren’t infested with the flustering media and what other people thought. They were comfortably austere yet the mother feared dying. Everyday she hung her overcoat, she felt a panging knowledge that she was neglecting something. She prayed that it saved itself so their lives could be spared but the feeling never left her.

One evening, her daughter purchased a set of red tealight candles that smelled gadarene. Her mother tossed them immediately into the Sea of Galilee and prayed the whole night. Her daughter sympathized with her for whatever reason she figured. Its absence remained and daunted her; she couldn’t get it out. She didn’t know how to invite it back to bless her own region. It attacked her with fear of abandonment and neglect. She lived that whole week crying. Her mother was as tense. But, eventually, a glory entered. It centered itself on their pale gold tablecloth. Everything else remained dark. The stark chairs consumed them. The mother inquired about her daughter’s day. She felt the instinct she couldn’t convey yet woke up with, it seemed to relay, was gone. They exchanged words and swallowed in silence while a single luminaria candle flickered between them. The Holy Spirit lived with them ever since.

The P Versus the M He pressured my occipital toward his pelvis...

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 01:54:00 -0500

The P Versus the M

He pressured my occipital toward his pelvis and I flowed into the comfort of his tone. His eyes said deadly; he told me reassured, and positively that his basis expressed a turgid warmth. But he scolded head, choking loving, touching barriers for clarity. And I appealed. Rubbing, sucking, really making him a man. Feeling him run through my body because I was easily the sand with my elevating pulse and my needing a substitute and his upper hand had reassured he was as turgid, too. Because I was only colder, fucking sick in scolding heat. But I took the it in because the heat was deemed the treat. And I had loved it released. It seemed to just defeat. I was blind and closed to audition my instinctive disbelief. Lobes broken but I wasn’t. I mean, temperance too controlled. Boarding on and boarding off. Told lines taught me by rote. And he extracted it too well. Accomplishment so loose. Personally irie. I sourced. He was stingy, too. I wanted in; him in. Coalescence obliviously. And then I shoved him out of danger; frustration. Effrontery. Don’t know where he is now but he misses using me and I cringe by association to know exactly how he means.

And then he came along. Yes, he with the capital H. Not my creator but my savior who broadly, strongly paved. Laughing loudly. Not just heard. Reciting jokes. Had to be there. Ring as soft as listening eyes. Hands aggregating hair. He scolded heat but he was alive and I put the humidity up. And I’m a city girl; my heart’s in winter. Dead-choking us, I dub. I flowed toward his pelvis, he fondled my heart up. I guessed the nude was a pulsing view. I thought that that’s what’s up. Every beat toward his sheets toward the comfort of his tone. He was a man, grown and uplifted; I grew to deal alone. But I would complement. Then I shifted. Pulsated, the mood vexed. It should be hard but I forget that I’m frozen to death.

Remics In passing amorous needs from youthe incandescent beamed...

Sat, 14 Jan 2012 00:31:00 -0500

Remics

In passing amorous needs from you
the incandescent beamed within.
Backs ached pain, eyes faked drapes
fingers multi-picked certainly.

Until virtually descending.
In signing off
behind italicized weins,
Before graffiti summoned away.

In seeing you were it.
In missing you through stupidity
and the windy quadrangle.
Beside vines that wouldn’t reach for miles
to keep us thorned.

In happening for a reason
And overcoming too late
but anything for our forever witty lives.
For our forever glides down Central Park
and absorbing drizzling lakes
and taking pinches from tips of cemented stakes.

In giving away and praying for a re-do
and it growing with my amorous needs
and questioning if I let us be then.

In storing something special.
Tightly bonding the two, strong.
Without courts creeping a force to lose.

Probably just someone else
As I felt you were flawed.
It’s all paradoxical.
You don’t have to reply
or forward.
Just tell me I’m a notch below your less than three.
I’ll file on
as you will be
more mandatory
then he will ever be.

Our Eyes Avoiding the Sparrow My mother gave me life with a...

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 00:54:00 -0500

Our Eyes Avoiding the Sparrow

My mother gave me life with a shove of her breath. I was left from her womb. The stillborn took too long to embrace me, horns undeveloped so I waited. And as I cried, her pores wept with the pain of energy like my father that July night. It was hot, I knew. Nothing could’ve stopped them. But it was six years later when I grew into a beast when her legs strapped around his torso for better reasons, her fist heaping for the food he brought home slapped her dinner in the face. They didn’t listen to the silence of my sister whispering to God, begging that the shoving cop cuffing him wouldn’t hurt him. My father returned home where my grandmother gave him a heart fluttering with every meal she served him and every kiss goodnight. And I might’ve understood why he couldn’t give me one if I was emotionally there to be aware of the wind in their eyes. It choked me years later but I didn’t need it. It was to convince the devil he won.

And I’m sensitive as fuck so everyone told me I was strong so I could shut the hell up. It didn’t work but the supremacy birthed my self esteem while my sisters wallowed elsewhere, trying to find something I wasn’t aware of. I was inured by their hurting retort. Was it food to nurture their eighty pounds? I had it. Was it company to return to me alone? I became lonely. And we pained as a group. Sitting in the chairs my tuition accounted for, I long to be stopped and plead with and shoved with paining energy, pores weeping like I do everyday.

This Is Called My Math Professor Wants to Know If I’m Really...

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 01:06:00 -0500

This Is Called My Math Professor Wants to Know If I’m Really Taking Notes

Yesterday, I talked about Bill Gates and stunted technology. And I was laughing and cosigning and wondering what I was talking about. My professor, with his fingers, spouted ideas I didn’t care about. Supply and demand, the cheese and the ham, the president the man. But I had gotten some sleep so I just crossed my knees while my father left me message after message.

And it’s weird because I usually ignore them whether I’m in class or not. I love the man but I don’t remember hugging him. Everything is confined when I’m around like when I got into his car later that evening and his phone slid underneath my thigh. So he was doing this thing with his right hand but instead improvised it toward the radio. And with his left hand, he went for it, jolted, and then itched his face. So while it was ringing, he was slightly fighting with himself to grab it.

I’ve racked my brain about this. And I’ve never noticed that I cannot call him at all. It’s always, “Hey.” or “You.” or “Yo, dude I need food today.” Meanwhile, my mother is just making progress from their divorce. I could sense it; she just recovered from something he did freshman year in high school.

And of course, that was my fear— to fall in love by the time I was fourteen and sort of elope and start a family and frame these people in this American dream. A few have managed to get me to be infatuated with them and their depth. Even the ones with ~~average-white-guy-penises~~ the what-is-that-a-penis? What is there to caress? They’re like daemons drawing me into death. And a trap where I’m stuck and only left to be impressed. “Wow, you got me.” I usually think, pointing my finger at, yes, at you. And I promise myself that next time, I’m never ever going to be wooed.

I’m not in fazed by these people. People are fazed by Times Square New York. And the grime and the orchestra and the rice on their forks. And the chortles and the work and the need I say more. It’s a fantasy. It’s adrenaline. It’s a motherfucking chore.

Studies show that fantasies are the number three of awful heartbreaks. I was reading a Bureau of some statistic but it said the content was subject to change. Anyway, the first is cunnilingus and it’s a cause I’m going to develop. So many deaths; so many odes go to unions only focusing on fellas. On felacio, on deep throats, on not using the teeth. But I guess it makes sense because sometimes women want to feel meek when they’re clutching to their triceps in the middle of the street. And what I see in a man’s eyes when I’m reaching for his thigh is, “I can’t believe she’s gonna touch it.” And right there, I want to die. And the second is blatant unhappiness. It’s macabre. It’s alone. It’s not returning someone’s call. It’s ignoring the dog with the bone. I mean, there’s lunch and there’s brunch and there’s snack time. Crunch, crunch. I just used an onamonapia because I couldn’t find a rhyme just this once. But I used to get these hunches and I’d throw myself at people. And I wouldn’t feel reciprocated and I’d become very feeble. And I‘d give up. And it’s so annoying because my former roommates hate when I don’t speak to them for three months.

I’m not mended. I was planted and my veins are a bit red. You’re probably gonna get to itching so I advise you to look ahead.

But if we had to blame someone, I think my mother is the best candidate because she troubles my sisters and me on the P. And our hormones are raging. And she’s just such a D. And my father contradicting by not telling me to move my thigh. And this kid in South Florida who taught me how to get high. And Mark Bellison on the television who taught me how to lie. And the nuns at my parochial school who really, really tried. But it wasn’t enough and so, sadly, I eventually had to die. Too wrapped in the fantasy of art and animation. And colors and food and ~~Ninja Turtles~~ hallucinations over there. And I get scared and I curdle and I sit and I glare. And I get to thinking that a plant did this and it just isn’t fair.

Live With It I hated high school but I miss it because I hated...

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 02:16:00 -0500

Live With It

I hated high school but I miss it because I hated it. I’m drawn to this teenage angst that gives me a reason to complain. Everyday I walked or took the bus, I debated what the meaning of my existence was. But at least, in Florida, commuting is less than laundry alone. I mean, I go through fifties weekly now. And don’t even get me started on my phone bill. But, in high school versus now, I think I just had a case of the downs. Not retardation, I mean confusion. You could see it clearly in my disgruntled brows. But I’m inching twenty soon so the only thing that disappoints me is when I try to be frugal with Chinese food for weeks and I find that I’ve run out and then the bathroom really reeks. And I’m exposing my habits in the privacy of a boudoir and I forget that girls don’t pee or burp or fart. Or pick their noses or their weggies apart. So forget what I just said. I’m as sweet as a Sweet Tart.

There were general waves and people I joked with. And boys grabbing me at the waist where I stared at their hands confused. And so I was either a prude, one of the dudes, or neither when I mused them something crude. Like this one kid, his name was Terrance. We call him Haze now. He was going off about some bitch he fucked around town. And so my enthusiasm, amazed to hear the rest made him a little uncomfortable. So he wrapped the story up, exclaiming something about sleep. And I walked away feeling like a creep. I thought it was how people became friends. I wasn’t aware of my gender role or a self-concept or anything. Sometimes I’m lucky being finicky or slapstick.

Like when I used to ride to class on my friend Niko’s wheelchair. It had a motor and the turbo helped a ton. You should ask him for the express to Period Three. Plus his wheelies.. his wheelies were mad fun.

But when I came to college, I was presented with this freedom of inevitable likelihood. Because the freshman had no choice when we were hoisted like ship flags. And so I made sure to make as much boisterous noise. As I wanted. While we staggered to voice our every detailed highlight. But it didn’t help, even laughing and making fun of people we didn’t like. So I returned to home and instead discovered that I was unwillingly on a social strike.

I slept through my classes and sat on my ass and. I didn’t cover my GPA like it was the life I wanted to achieve. And so my grades were slacking. The days were lacking. The substance didn’t matter to me.

And I keep the whole bit about being born with Tourette’s to myself because it’s hard enough I have to confine myself tense like a mime or something. Except for a few seconds ago when I said it out loud and it echoed through this room and there this empathy throughout the crowd. Regardless, I was the no one. I never gave anyone hugs. I would’ve but they weren’t stuffed animals, meaning I couldn’t command genuine love. That’s real. You know, I watch my mother and my stepfather. She yells, “Babe!” and it seems the garbage cans line up faster than her tone thereof.

But I’m not mad at the fact that I was surrounded by one-track minds. I miss the pettiness and the, “Where’d you get that from?” We were all so easily impressed. We were animals and so standing on our hind legs was a step up from pounding on our chests when we came into the classroom and beatboxed on the desks. Yes, it was like Sister Act. One and Two. Because we were all that mattered. And our grades mattered, too.

There was this one kid, his name is David. And it seems I’m remembering everyone now. He would ask questions to correct our Government teacher. He was the pedantic Screech of Monarch. That was the name of my high school in Florida. I went to Trinity Catholic just before. So whatever gives me more credit I’ll claim. Just understand that I’ve been to public school and back, praise the Lord. But this David kid, he traumatized me. He is the reason I think I can’t keep up. I would say, “Hey, David what’d you do this weekend.” And he’d say, “Repair my seatlug.” And I’d say, “Dude, shut up.” I mean he is the fault of the negative connotations but I guess I am in part to blame.

So maybe it wasn’t me but my intolerance for socialization; for pain. For a while, I connoted it to maybe a social anxiety deriving from my syndrome. But, either way, the palindrome says one thing and one thing only. It’s that I miss not giving a shit. So call me depressed, I’ll live with it.

Infertile Naturalists Blades embedded on seatsas legs spread...

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 02:17:00 -0500

Infertile Naturalists

Blades embedded on seats
as legs spread out
seeping the sheets.
Baking inspirations and
treating concentration.
Heat pens the pages.

Leaves flutter through
intertwined wires,
invisibly concealing headlights.
Slashing shadows,
stabbing granite.

They texturize the dirt
and burn, stuck to the pave.
Breathing hair pre-heated in thick humid.
The breeze filled into the flickering leaves.
A never-ending story of patient sunshine
concluded with a stubborn air.

I think I'm gonna have to do this over. I forgot the tags when I made this Tumblr two months ago. I don't think adding them now will do any good unless I get some people to listen to my work and make up lost opportunities.

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 20:24:01 -0500

Gille de La

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 17:30:58 -0500

Gille de La

Knowing Exactly What to Say There was one day I found my...

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 17:25:00 -0500

Knowing Exactly What to Say

There was one day I found my sister crying and I asked her what was wrong. My mother later told me that it was probably PMS. I asked her what that was and she explained it to me quickly. We weren’t that far apart in age so I guess she supposed I partly knew. But I didn’t. I assumed it just a state of vying for attention and I was suspended. I just felt that I wasn’t that audacious. I never cried during movies except after Final Destination when my sister claimed that the legs of our bed looked suspicious. I wanted to, though. I practiced shifting my monotony. It was a weird, insecure deterrent. And I guess I was fonder with having someone evoked over me. I thought the idea of being devotional was as great as seeing the Haitian flag on TV because no one really noticed Haiti yet. So I waited for that feeling to become a current.

And when I was a sophomore in high school, I met a guy named Renan. The minute he told me he wanted to reach my heart, I think I fell in love. He always adjusted his hugs. He made use of the hovering and slight shoving that came with being in bed together. He told me it would be better if he split my shirt down the middle and then proceeded to operate on the two parts surrounding it. From then, I knew that he was long term material. But his bellowing chest seemed superior to my mousy inputs to opinions he provided and explained. I think that was the problem. He never looked me in the eye. I never confided in him so my amazement divided and I learned to be quiet. I never complained. He was intensely into Jostein Gaarder and Robert Frost and BrainyQuote.com. I figured it made us reasonable. Because I was always in search of a person who thought harder than his erection when he noticed that I was more than lips and hips and fingers and tongue.

He noticed it in hindsight but I don’t think he ever tried to understand why I tried not to be beautiful. His reaching and directing hands never ceased as he saw when I got into his car. And like curiosity is good for, we ran faster than the traveling of David Aardsma’s balls. And I mean that literally. He thought with his pants ever since. We were sitting at a stop light and I swear he wanted to take my virginity right then and there. I wasn’t afraid. I guess I wanted him to wait for whatever reason would make it more moral. I snuck out one night and he did it. I think it made him proud when his pushing fingertips to my chest insinuating me to lie down told me to relax. I was relaxed. I guess the epicness of it was shocking me so much that it was being blocked out. I can’t really remember it. It happened so fast. And he breathed in my ear heavily. I felt his beating heart scream, “Alas, we’ve experienced the pleasure of a female that’s exceeded the domains and the contrast of screens and the papery feel of magazines! Indeed, we are developed!”

I pulled my pants on and he drove me to my house. He asked me if it hurt. I didn’t want to tell him that it didn’t because I remember I made sure to make him feel like he was on Extenze or something. I told him it didn’t because it had something to do with me being a gymnast. I wanted to have an honest relationship. But I never told him that I didn’t care about his dog Max or his juvenile revolutionary ideas. I mean, who cares if you change the traditional Spirit Week? Just do it. No one is going to remember homecoming. I mean, who goes to homecoming anyway? It was forty bucks of a hundred kids in formal-but-not-prom-formal attire dancing to looping synthesizers and maybe guitars. I tried hard with my hands to get him to understand that my heart was more to the right and my eyes were higher than my vagina. But I never told him to shut up. That was problem number two.

But as he strutted toward me and kissed me on the face, I was happier that he attained relative self-actualization. But that’s when I noticed my own deprivation. I mean, he was sixteen. He wasn’t that younger than me. There had to be something wrong with me. He said, “Don’t worry. It’ll get better.” like he was Dan Savage or something. I waited. I decided that I was delayed. I couldn’t get the words churning passive irate oration out. And it was too late because he broke up with me. I took it back. I wasn’t lacking. And I think his newfound respect influenced him not to answer when I attempted civility with him. And I think his newfound respect influenced him not to answer when I rang him thirty times more. I didn’t care if he ended up locking the door. At least I would’ve gotten the words out.

A few days passed and it offended me. His profoundness didn’t defend me. For some reason I imagined him taking virginities around town. And then I thought of my sister and called him forty times within the hour. I glowered watching chick flicks, getting sick quick over weeping. I reached a need I doubt is implied by Maslow and don’t even think is a need. It was attention. I followed his every conversation on FaceBook, smelled every fabric I lied in his bed with, I listened to every song that explained my anger. That is Alanis Morissette and a little bit of Ani DiFranco. And it occurred to me after the lines, “I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner. It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced. Are you thinking of me when you fuck her?” that I was PMSing. It was a token of everything Wilson Philips and Destiny’s Child and BeingGirl taught. I was actually a woman. His insecure ignorance to my mascara-smudged face made me feel evolved. My hair felt thicker, nails felt longer. And it was delicate and all until I realized that I actually needed for him to respond.

The third guy I slept with tried a move on me that made me cry. I blamed him for his selfishness. I blamed him for his reliance. I threatened him a few times but he didn’t budge. And when he finally answered, neither of us had anything to say. So we shrugged and tried again. And then he changed his mind. And I tried to look for the pretty Plato essays that must’ve intersected us. And then another month passed when twelve-hundred more calls were made. And then we were faced again, hatred burning for the pain. I knew he knew there was no way the heart that he marred with his hyper hands was irrational. It was more than his consideration to my vying mental state. But I think he studied Bradley Cooper’s debonair to find the right words, “Pull yourself together, bro.” We both knew he was winning.

It’s been over a year, but I thank Charlie Sheen for reminding me.

And I just want to be ironic by ruining irony and stating the irony of the title because I never know exactly what to say. In fact, I’ve probably painted myself in a light to make you all believe that I’m more Amy Fisher than average, however average Amy Fisher is. But I guess it gives me a type of control. He never expects when my next twenty consecutive calls will unfold. And he never knows when they’ll end. And whether it’s hindered, wrong, or misconstrued, I’ll always have a sense of “J’aurais du le dire.” No, “L’esprit de l’escalier.” I always hear it. It never comes out. I’m never right. I’m bi-losing. Whatever.

13 Oct. Performance at eGarage.tv in Long Island City

Sun, 09 Oct 2011 21:10:00 -0400

This Thursday, I will be performing at the eGarage.tv Theatre in Long Island City. It starts at 9:00. Click on the link I have embedded in the word “eGarage” to purchase tickets. And then plug the address 44-02 23rd Street, Studio 104 into your Maps or Navigation application. And then respond, if you please, the event here. This my first legit show. I don’t really know what else to say but that I’m really giddy. Giddy like a schoolgirl or a motivated horse. I would love it if the whole world came just so I’d know Steve Colman would be there. But you come out because plenty of talented artists will be performing, too.