My Baby, My Darlin'

"I was made for you"
Happy Birthday, Mike!

Late night flights in and out of consciousness

Pills enough to make me feel ill. Cash enough to make me well.

Whimsical Writings

This defines so many aspects of everything I've ever experienced:



Please, please do this (rules of healthy conduct for me to follow):
1. Please, do NOT go to sleep at 7AM (or not at all. I know you think you're getting shit done, but your body is screaming "EXHAUSTION! EXHAUSTION!")
2. Please, do NOT attempt to walk around barefoot in the city. It isn't a better alternative to shoes (though fuck, those ones you wore yesterday tore up your heels). Also, people will probably think you're a hippie or just homeless.
3. Please, know your drinking limits. Your liver's just gonna go along with what you're doing, even if it's slowly deteriorating. You need to show some restraint (though your 21st is fast approaching, making posting this rule rather useless).
4. Please, please...MORE CHRONOTRIGGERPLAYINGHAPPYFUNTIMES! YEAH! (that didn't make any sense. I apologize).

Confession Weather

We sit out on the porch, sipping our wine in silence. You've grown taller yet so have I. There's so much to talk about but neither of us say a thing. I think we both know it'd be a futile endeavor. Then, just like that, you make a comment about the humidity. Why couldn't we have drank inside? The flies are growing irksome. You follow that comment up with a poor transition into worldly affairs. What do you think about the oil spill? I shrug and make a drunken, incoherent reply. This reassures you that I'm paying attention so you keep talking. Did you hear about the Icelandic Prime Minister marrying her girlfriend? What about the mother of two in Iran who's to be stoned to death? And that 86-year old bedridden woman in Oklahoma who was tasered by police because she took an aggressive posture in her bed? So funny.

At this point, I'm barely registering what you're saying. I simply nod my head, my thoughts moving on to a song I can't remember the name of but whose lyrics are clear in my mind. You move on to your life. School is going great. Every night this semester you've blazed and gotten outrageously high. Your professors totally love you. The only downside right now is that your photography skills haven't shown any improvement.

I think you're pulling at straws here.

What of what you're saying am I going to care about? What will I affectionately respond to? Red or white? I think the answer's pretty clear to you but you keep going. Family's moving soon. Last summer's fling doesn't show any desire of wanting to return to where you two left off. Your voice has changed. Drastically low, soggy and sad. Lyrics aren't so clear anymore. What was the name of that song again?

Then you ask the question that sobriety prevented you from conjuring. The snake in the garden: "At what point did you know you were in love?". That one I registered. It was the way you asked, eager for the truth yet sub-consciously doubting your ability to handle it. I stroke the rim of my wine stained glass, run a hand through my hair. It'll be hard but someone's gotta do it. Finally, after a long enough pause, I reply: "I don't quite know. It's hard to say, really. I guess it happened after I wrote him a long letter in February when we decided it would be best if we were just friends. It was when I finished writing it that I realized this was the first time I had ever written a boy a letter about how I felt. What was that? No, the card I made for you on your eighteenth birthday doesn't count. This was different. Why? Well, I guess it was my naked desperation. I wanted him so badly to understand that no matter what, I didn't want to be without him. It didn't matter if we remained just friends. I've never met anyone like him before. After I realized that, there was no going back. I was in love."

You sit there quietly for a few minutes, fiddling with a stray hair. It's a sign of anxiety. I've struck a chord and I know you'll never admit that that was difficult to listen to. You already knew that he and I have been dating for a while now. You knew, yet the after-effect didn't become apparent until after the first "Yes, I do" to your "Do you love him?". It was like this night was premeditated, a live-action roleplay of what's been going on in your head for weeks. You then get up and sit right back down. You're pretending to seem unsure of how that really affected you but don't worry, I already know. I'm beginning to feel like an awful hostess so I offer you some more wine. You ignore the munificent peace-treaty and instead begin reciting new words you don't know the definition of that you encountered in a book composed of philosophical essays that I think you told me about a week ago. Magnanimity. Truculent. Cantankerous. Lugubrious. Your intoxication has certainly deepened but there's more to it. There's always more to it with you.

When you're finally finished, we're both silent for a long while. Then I begin humming the song whose name I can't remember. Soon the hum develops a voice and I'm quietly singing the lyrics. Slow, steady, fervently. Then, shortly after I begin singing, you begin to sing along with me:

Rain is millions of tiny speech bubbles unused
The collected breaths of mutes
And all our silent exhalations
Where we should've put words
Or words we had no one to tell
Emptied from clouds like clearing horns spit valves
Coming back to us now
To remind us what we meant to say
Or that we meant to say something

P.S

"While it is not true that sharks do not develop cancer, they do have a remarkable cancer shield."
http://www.elasmo-research.org/education/topics/p_bite_on_cancer.htm

Cancer shield: You must be level 75+ in order to equip

Sorry, guys.

Try, Try Again

I know you're a serious lady
Living off a teacup full of cherries
Nobody knows where you are living
Nobody knows where you are
-The National


Free People has a full staff (they'll hold onto my application in case someone leaves/gets fired). DeComp didn't think my work appealed to their magazine, which is fine. That was a shot in the dark, really. Sometimes it takes a shitload of misses before you make a strike.

In other news, I wrote a few more poems. Yeah! Awesome! Cool! Now I'm trying to find some good reads for the summer. Any suggestions?

Bile and Lemonade

She is softly cloaked in shyness

and secrets he could not extract

by simply touching her thighs

with his sauce-pan hands.

She is speaking in tongues.

Lipstick-smeared honesty, fingers

fluttering to her throat, gasping for air.

He stares at her tiny breasts.

She is leaving him, newsprint future

full of expensive jewelry and taller

buildings. She is scared of heights.

He wonders about the bill.

She is gone in a cloud of Chanel, a

gift that he did not give to her. Now

he sits with the bride of quietness.

No sawtooth grin. He is still hard.

Later on he’ll return home and

have too much beer and jack off to

the scent of Chanel she left on his skin.

Then he'll go to bed and try not to think.

Such are the great moments in mistranslation:

asked for dinner, got dessert.