somethin’ for the ladies
“I bet you wanna know what it’s like to be under the gaze of me at my manuscript, pearling little self-love sizzlers on the frying paper. GUESS WHAT! I wanna know too. I bet that feels reeeaaal nice.”
The laptop swallowed every inch of those words with machine professionalism.
2:58 pm • 1 March 2014
So much ceremonial surrounds the coupling of DNA. And then there was a zip line.
“Are you gonna ride that thing?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t wanna die falling into a fountain from three storeys at a wedding. I flat refuse to be that guy.”
2:36 pm • 1 March 2014 • 1 note
My friend looked around at the women everywhere: “So many balloons and I don’t have a party.”
“How can you say that?” I asked.
“Since when are you a feminist?” he asked.
“No, I’m saying…” What was I saying? “I’m asking why I can’t write like that.”
“You’re not me.”
11:05 pm • 9 October 2013
“If you practice hard enough, all your games will be mild training.”
“But coach, if all life is training, then the “Big Game” is death.”
The whistle rattled affrontery across his jersey-ed chest: “You can philosophize in one hand and shit in the other. Let me know which fills first.”
10:58 pm • 9 October 2013 • 1 note
“In my head I pour out words enough to fill valleys. I commit rapid love hari-kari and it’s all over so fast that maybe the imagining is enough. I think it’ll have to be, at the rate I’m going.”
“Maybe,” pencil shavings dripped on the desk as he answered. “Maybe.”
10:33 pm • 9 October 2013 • 1 note
I looked at her and couldn’t pull my eyes off that caked make-up face. She was a terrible nuisance and pain that I wanted to store inside myself by being inside her. I wished no one was there. Then I could’ve hit on her. Then a story could’ve been written.
8:23 pm • 9 October 2013
I don’t know. We’re spinning. Make it stop. I’m nauseous in general. Sometimes my head in the clouds dangles my feet in the air and right in your faces they end up.
No tengo idea que es eso. I start with breakfast for two. Twice I changed someone’s axis completely.
9:57 am • 4 September 2013
She was my “rainbow-slick oil spill.” The story flecked, arresting sunburn:
I overspilled all Earth, painting her: “the grace of a tarred heron” with choking, oil eyes.
I was on her an iridescent sickness, not a lover. I’m “uninterrupted time”. I was object-me, expressed over light for Her.
3:54 pm • 2 September 2013
And then despite plot, after character development, their story collapsed. The theme evaporated, and even the ending disappeared (thankfully)—alternate pages torn out of a movie script.
Couldn’t be helped: their story’s fault lines now pool together marbled colors in the hold of the heart, ballast against tomorrow and anything.
3:41 pm • 2 September 2013
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I like Indian food but I’m really sad when I eat it.”
“I’m not a good enough cook to make it myself.”
“I’ve never been a good enough anything to be cocky about it. That’s why I became a writer.”
Eating continues. Silence.
10:41 am • 4 August 2013