Saturday, April 9, 2011

Chips and beer, alone but here.

How much is too much?
Do you bloggers shy away from the personal grit of your lives during posts, or spread those words around like hot grease? I've stared at that tightrope, and the height belies the fall. I find it odd - and fitting of today's society, that people I spend 40 or more hours a week in close quarters know less than you, fellow reader.

But I also find it odd to spend two hours in an alternately hot/cold black room in the evening, smelly and full of 60 or more people, quietly sitting-but-not-touching, so close to each other! All staring at a huge panel.

But hey, movie theaters are really popular, no?




On to other things. A little begining I much like, in the way you like the looks of someone on a bus or a train, but then less as they approach you. Maybe this story isn't as tall as I thought when I first spotted it.  Maybe this story was better as a romance-that-never-was. I'd like to finish it someday, but it's already quite three weeks stale. 
 
     “If you read me David Sedaris again, I am going to puke.”
This is a declarative sentence, I think inwardly. Third grade English teacher is beaming rays of eternal sunshine at me.
     His face was like a nude-color flower closing petal by petal until nothing was left but the tight bud of a mouth, “I thought you liked me reading to you?”
     “Yeah, well, I thought I liked having ovarian cancer because all of the free jell-o. But guess who’s charging?”         
     “You are a BITCH. And I hope cancer eats itself out of your PUSSY. “
That was a very declarative sentence, and I cannot argue with it.  I try to push my self farther back into the pillows, like a fluffy grave that will hide me. 


Someday little sentence, someday. You will have legs, and we will learn to tango. 

Saturday, April 2, 2011

And I shall call her "Mrs. Buttered Toast"

     I have strangers going through my room, while I sit mute downstairs. I am making up names for a pet I don't have and eating expensive pineapple, (it's out of season here). 
     In fact, thirty-seven minutes prior found me searching for said pineapple among the monied hipsters and professors at the local, organic City Market. 


    I walked on my toes amid crowds of dreaded heads, expensive leather, the onslaught of patchouli, wave after wave. It was my treat, this golden fruit. Tax return snugly nested in my account, I was ready to yank out its feathers and force it to fly. Get my golden fruit, you filth. 
Fly. 


     Now I eat in silence, cubes of soft gold-yellow disappearing to the rim of my mouth, falling to the soft dark of my middle, leaving faint smells of Hawaii, Florida, Cuba on the pink of my fingers, sliding into the open cracks on my knuckles, making red go snap! Here, bitch!
     I hear measuring tapes cracking. I wish they would go. Harvest some pineapple or something. Be useful. 






I could use a new country, maybe Brazil

where the sun knives my skin, paring it down to the flesh of a peach
where even saudade is an overripe taste, a bearable linger like the
sun through the skin of leaves.