Vomit Buddy
I'll be your vomit buddy
We can pick bushes side by side
or share an alley wall
Lover
I'll be your lover
We can pool our resources
or make something out of nothing
Roommate
I'll be your roommate
We can each pay half
or decide to be lovers
Autobiographer
I'll be your autobiographer
We can impersonate each other
or just trade lives
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A Lie about Postmodern Cookies
(There was a plate of hybrid cookies- like Oreo chunks in the chocolate chip, etc- at lunch today and a guy said "Those cookies are so postmodern.")
Postmodern cookies.
a little joke I
laugh at and
then I want to
throw up want
these cookies
to be in a bar or
a field,
burned in a
bonfire, uneaten
destroyed
cooked-
made by throwing flour
and sugar in
fistfuls, baking in
hellfire
a vicious oven.
and this all needs
edit edit edit (ing)
that's all and I'm
so
so
(or/and maybe I'm just
delirious with hunger
for the hybrid cookies?
I'ts ambiguous.)
I'll stuff my face.
One day I'll claw
out of here.
One day oreos will
do it for me.
Postmodern cookies.
a little joke I
laugh at and
then I want to
throw up want
these cookies
to be in a bar or
a field,
burned in a
bonfire, uneaten
destroyed
cooked-
made by throwing flour
and sugar in
fistfuls, baking in
hellfire
a vicious oven.
and this all needs
edit edit edit (ing)
that's all and I'm
so
so
(or/and maybe I'm just
delirious with hunger
for the hybrid cookies?
I'ts ambiguous.)
I'll stuff my face.
One day I'll claw
out of here.
One day oreos will
do it for me.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Library, Shades of Gray
It seemed like most everyone was stuck in the library while the rain pelted silently away in the courtyard. The thick hushing of the ventilation system drowned out its patter.
A girl in a blue sweatshirt leaned over a table, curled into her physics book looking for equations that would explain what the hell was going on. Who really knew? She wondered. Newton only got so close.
Tap- taps of typing, occasional coughs, pencil scratches broke the air like little jolts of electricity running through the stillness. With its constant yellow light, its perpetual, recirculating atmosphere, the library was suspended like a Jello mold (only wobbling once in a while when someone new came in and dropped their bags of priorities).
Now the girl was in a groove, calculating and after every problem sipping on a can of Arizona iced tea. Outside, twilight arrived in stealth- the rain clouds concealing the change of light, dampening the ray's intrusions. The girl looked up. A boy with a bloated backpack was approaching but still miles away in the stacks. She looked back down; she'd be able to solve this one equation before he arrived.
Attention... the intercom spoke. The circulation desk will be... No problem- thought the girl- I won't be checking out. The boy sat down and pulled out a candy bar. What chapter are you on? 23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
The world outside was a black patter-patter and inside was stale cramped necks and detachment.
A girl in a blue sweatshirt leaned over a table, curled into her physics book looking for equations that would explain what the hell was going on. Who really knew? She wondered. Newton only got so close.
Tap- taps of typing, occasional coughs, pencil scratches broke the air like little jolts of electricity running through the stillness. With its constant yellow light, its perpetual, recirculating atmosphere, the library was suspended like a Jello mold (only wobbling once in a while when someone new came in and dropped their bags of priorities).
Now the girl was in a groove, calculating and after every problem sipping on a can of Arizona iced tea. Outside, twilight arrived in stealth- the rain clouds concealing the change of light, dampening the ray's intrusions. The girl looked up. A boy with a bloated backpack was approaching but still miles away in the stacks. She looked back down; she'd be able to solve this one equation before he arrived.
Attention... the intercom spoke. The circulation desk will be... No problem- thought the girl- I won't be checking out. The boy sat down and pulled out a candy bar. What chapter are you on? 23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
The world outside was a black patter-patter and inside was stale cramped necks and detachment.
The Hand- an early beginning I found, which is better?
Red fingertips and red blood- falling drip drip onto the carpet, absorbing the splash with the silence of a snowfall. The pinky, striaght, suspended off the edge of the dresser where the rest of the hand lay. Elegance in the curl of the palm, the manicure, the mahogony and white carpet equaled beautiful disaster.
The sunrise slanted in, lit up empty space.
Months before, the hand belonged to a body, that of Elmira Ramirez. Heels echoing down the laboratory hallway, she carried a vial of serum to the incubation room.
The sunrise slanted in, lit up empty space.
Months before, the hand belonged to a body, that of Elmira Ramirez. Heels echoing down the laboratory hallway, she carried a vial of serum to the incubation room.
Friday, April 16, 2010
the Letter a
aface
any face
ame
whatever me you please
your face disgrace
as my me
looks for
a
a is missing
a is mysterious
anonymity
a washout but
a is also a substrate
binding
to the others and
unwinding any
mean
ing
amean amy
ameanface
apocalyptic
anarchy
is what a is all about
amess
a
disaster
always comes first
aface always before
aword amouth
we all know
a
any face
ame
whatever me you please
your face disgrace
as my me
looks for
a
a is missing
a is mysterious
anonymity
a washout but
a is also a substrate
binding
to the others and
unwinding any
mean
ing
amean amy
ameanface
apocalyptic
anarchy
is what a is all about
amess
a
disaster
always comes first
aface always before
aword amouth
we all know
a
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Renegade Bench Drag
Aren't you smarter than that? Said a passerby with a tote bag, to The Renegade relaxing on a bench and following slow drag with slow drag. He looks at her without malice and does not respond. Adjusts his arm on the back of the bench as she walks away.
A man comes up, he's in that ambiguous 30s age range, with a short sleeve button-up (plaid) mostly tucked into jeans, and New Balance's in an unassuming gray. He's like an amorphous clay ball that has already started baking a little on the windowsill. He sits down on the bench next to The Renegade. Says, “Smoking?” where his voice changes pitch two and half times in the word, like he started out scolding and realized that and changed his mind and wanted to be conversational and then just wasn't sure in the end. You know, “Smoking?”
The Renegade, he coughs phlemy, allergic, turns his head to face the man then says, “Well because I have this cold anyway, I may as well smoke.” Coughs, drags. Coughs. Glances unhurriedly across the grass. “You know it cancelled out the coffee breath, sort of. Ha-ha.” Ha degenerates to cough and he continues the thought, while ashing the cigarette, “There's a classic combination- coffee and cigarettes.”
The man is picking out a position while he listens, settles for hands on knees and a slight incline towards The Renegade. Is unaware of the tiny furrow in his brow.
The Renegade continues, “The inside of my mouth- maybe now it tastes like Such a poetry slam.”
The man responds. “That would be the pretty- romantic?- version.”
The Renegade had been taking a drag while the man spoke, exhaled with his face turned away but not his eyes, and then said, “Ok, or a truck stop then.”
Quick, is the man, with, “Hey I wasn't judging, wasn't judging” and his words trail while he nods. Both of them look out from the bench, together on the bench surveying the grass. The Renegade lights another cigarette.
“We all die anyway, right?” says the man, and at this, the smoker, The Renegade, he looks at the man who can't decide if he's old or feels old or what- and if he wasn't The Renegade he might have sighed- but he just looks a moment and gets up and hold out his hand with the cigarette.
“You want?”
He walks away when the man takes the cigarette (and the man is smushing it now, a little bit, between his fingers) and, in a couple of seconds when he looks back at the man on the bench he sees a smoky aura rising. And sees him put the cigarette out.
A man comes up, he's in that ambiguous 30s age range, with a short sleeve button-up (plaid) mostly tucked into jeans, and New Balance's in an unassuming gray. He's like an amorphous clay ball that has already started baking a little on the windowsill. He sits down on the bench next to The Renegade. Says, “Smoking?” where his voice changes pitch two and half times in the word, like he started out scolding and realized that and changed his mind and wanted to be conversational and then just wasn't sure in the end. You know, “Smoking?”
The Renegade, he coughs phlemy, allergic, turns his head to face the man then says, “Well because I have this cold anyway, I may as well smoke.” Coughs, drags. Coughs. Glances unhurriedly across the grass. “You know it cancelled out the coffee breath, sort of. Ha-ha.” Ha degenerates to cough and he continues the thought, while ashing the cigarette, “There's a classic combination- coffee and cigarettes.”
The man is picking out a position while he listens, settles for hands on knees and a slight incline towards The Renegade. Is unaware of the tiny furrow in his brow.
The Renegade continues, “The inside of my mouth- maybe now it tastes like Such a poetry slam.”
The man responds. “That would be the pretty- romantic?- version.”
The Renegade had been taking a drag while the man spoke, exhaled with his face turned away but not his eyes, and then said, “Ok, or a truck stop then.”
Quick, is the man, with, “Hey I wasn't judging, wasn't judging” and his words trail while he nods. Both of them look out from the bench, together on the bench surveying the grass. The Renegade lights another cigarette.
“We all die anyway, right?” says the man, and at this, the smoker, The Renegade, he looks at the man who can't decide if he's old or feels old or what- and if he wasn't The Renegade he might have sighed- but he just looks a moment and gets up and hold out his hand with the cigarette.
“You want?”
He walks away when the man takes the cigarette (and the man is smushing it now, a little bit, between his fingers) and, in a couple of seconds when he looks back at the man on the bench he sees a smoky aura rising. And sees him put the cigarette out.
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