Thursday, May 31, 2007

a little midwestern soul fer yeh

I Have News for You, by Tony Hoagland

There are people who do not see a broken playground swing
as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don't interpret the behavior
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process.

There are people who don't walk past an empty swimming pool
and think about past pleasures irrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings

do not send their tuberous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others' emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without
unpacking the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?
There are some people, unlike me and you,

who do not yearn after love or fame or quantities of money as
unattainable as that moon;

Thus, they do not later
have to waste more time
defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you:
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.

read more here

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

I am a big brave dog.

Recently, Tristan, my love, and I got matching BFF tattoos. It's an aperture with our initials in cursive in the center. Obviously, I mean, clearly, we took some pictures.

I'm a big brave dog, so I went first.


These are some neat fish that tried to eat my finger when I wiggled it in the water like a worm. It was pretty scary n' shit.

Look at me be so brave.

VoilĂ !

You can tell this arm is Tristan's because it has freckles. He has lots of 'em.

Tristan can be brave sometimes, but rarely as brave as me.

Finishing touches.

I like these guys. Alot.

Then we went out for sushi, on Tristan.

The woman who made our dinner was very pretty.


Black Widow/Fantastical Proverbial Victim

I have had two one night stands in my lifetime and both have ended up similarly. That is to say, both have ended up with the victim of my advances scrambling for their pants, blabbering, almost screaming nonsense unexpectedly at the break of dawn. Once, I was in tears, the other time I was simply spent, happy to have my bed to my lonesome. Regardless of my state, these boys who have little in common with each other outside of being bipedal creatures (well, when they entered, and again when they left), both left panicked, looking a bit frightened. Quite possibly I could have gone easier on the poor chaps. Maybe there was some emotional resonance there that I was unaware of for both of the boys, just coincidentally.

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a bit of a black widow. Praying mantis maybe.

Perhaps this is why I am not exactly one much for one night stands. However, I have no interest in dating, and one can only drop serious bank on flying across country to sleep with an ex every so often, and that business gets a little dramatic and messy anyways.

Sometimes I get so frustrated, I just want to walk out onto the street blindfolded and hope someone kidnaps me, just for an interesting change. It's three in the afternoon, I'm home from work early on my first day of this new job. I think I'm going to pour myself a drink.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Burger and Fries

I know this is the second post in a row of a ridiculous cat, apologies. I am far too exhausted from my travels to post anything substantial for a bit of time to come.

Thursday, May 24, 2007


"I know that this bewitchment by the material pasts of books, with the rare nimbus of fraternity they create in a rampagingly commodified and capitalized human landscape, is hardly just mine—do not scores of Americans engage in “bookcrossing,” registering books on websites and then deliberately leaving them on subway benches or coffee shop tables for others to find, read, and register? One site documenting intersections like this calls it an exercise in “fate, karma, or whatever you want to call the chain of events that can occur between two or more lives and one piece of literature,” the piece of literature in question being the book itself—with a bookmark?—not simply its written text."

Michael Atkinson wrote a delightful little essay about the often forgotten abandoned treasure which marks a reader's place in their world away from worlds. I know personally I have a system of placing the bookmark to help me remember where about the page I was. First I face the bookmark towards the page I left off on. If I am above the halfway point of the page it sits upright, if I am below that imaginary line the bookmark lies upside down as an indicator.

Mr. Atkinson has a lot more specific and insightful things to say on this anecdotal topic. To read on click here <---- .

Christmas Eve

And she said, "I can't feel my toes."

Charles pulled her feet close to him. He vigorously rubbed his hands over her six year old, chuck taylors, which were holding on to her tiny feet by a few tenacious threads. He scooted closer to her placing her feet between his legs. "I think this 'ill help."

It was the wreckage behind them that was keeping them alive for the time being. The flames were maybe six feet high, and were showing no signs of going out. A massive wave of heat was hitting their backs and a third of their faces, but even still, their appendages were suffering the early onsets of frostbite. As, always with winter air, it seemed thin to Charles. He became worried more so about what happens to a pair of lungs when left unsheltered in below zero weather for too long, then about the survival rate for fingers and toes. For the first couple of hours, this was how he occupied his mind out there. Moving from one hellish end to another for various body parts he had never before considered losing. Garish, well yes. But the roads were long and his cell phone smashed. He could smell the distinct bouquet of burning flesh from the passenger in the other car. Charles vomited a bit, in the rear of this mouth, when he realized the source of smell. He swallowed it though, so as not to upset Clara.

"It's lookin' like these flames will go on 'till mornin', and by then someone will, no doubt, come down this road." Clara didn't respond. She gets quiet when she's upset, Charles reminded himself, she'll talk when she's ready. Charles picked up her tiny delicate little precious hands and placed them between his knees.

The air was getting increasingly more pungent with the smell of burnt flesh. It was impossible not to notice at this point. Charles was sure he must have seen the man's face before they hit him, but try as he might, he cannot place an image to the smell. He imagined movies, where it all happens so slowly and people are given opportunity to make eye contact with one another. Something Charles swore to never tell Clara or any one else for that matter, was how he really didn't feel bad for the other driver. He didn't feel sad. Charles just wished he would stop smelling so awful.

Charles touched the back of Clara's neck. He noticed it was quite cold. He spun around moving her closer to the fire. He held her close to his body, because he thought she could use the heat he was making. He once had a girlfriend call him a human furnace, which she meant as a complaint, but he always interpreted as a compliment. In a way, he thought, if something happens to her, I can use her as a blanket.

Charles felt guilty for thinking that, and he squeezed her lifeless body a little tighter.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

What we cannot see.

Moments ago, I finished reading Pobby and Dingan, by Ben Rice. Putting my normally dramatic statements aside, I absolutely wept while reading the last page. If you are in the mood for not necessarily succinct writing but rather pungent and economic sentimentalism, this is the book you must go buy. It has a complete child-like abandon in its sweetness and a sort of desperate necessity to avoid and maybe, possibly even gives a big fuck you to modern cynicism. Go 'head, get all nostalgic 'n shit.

Apparently, there is a movie made of this book called Opal Dream {clicky click}. I have not seen it so I cannot vouch for it in any way, but here is a still from it.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Early Bird

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I can sit straight up, five minutes before the alarm goes off. Hop out of bed, maybe spring is the right word, and go brush my teeth. I comb my hair or take a shower, make my coffee, drink a glass of water. Feed the cat. If there is a boyfriend in my bed (there isn't) at this point I pounce him, giggles abound. After getting shrugged off by the cranky not-so-morning-type-person-boyfriend I drink my coffee, read the news, check my favorite blogs and read my email. I pet Delores for a while so she feels cared for. I turn off all the lights my roommates may have left on the night before. I let the dog out, and then let her back in. If time permits, I will often make breakfast and do the dishes. Then I drive to work.

This is not one of those mornings. When I woke up my heart was beating so hard and fast that I thought my body would vibrate apart. I could barely hit the snooze the four times that I used every ounce of my vibrating being to stretch my arm out and slap that god forsaken clock. I'm nauseous. My eyes keep watering. I cannot forget the dream I had last night that involved tiny bugs living in my teeth. I cannot cannot cannot stop shaking. I'm skipping coffee and breakfast this morning. There are things growing in my stomach I'm sure. Little monsters. I never used to feel like this in the morning. From what I gather, this is how most people start the day. I'm not quite accustomed to it as of yet. I suppose I better get accustomed to it.

This is pretty asinine isn't it?

I don't know what's worse; that I wrote this all of the way through, or that you read this all of the way through.

Fuck you, I think.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Thank the scattered stars I found you, my love.

These photographs of me were taken by none other than Tristan Rutherford Allen the Great. The world will most likely never understand a bond like the one I have with this man. My soul-mate and best friend, my everything and all. He is a man who's life knows no cliche.

The fourth, for one reason or another has surfaced to be "our" holiday. We spend it side by side every year. No doubt, someday our love will be historical.

Along with all of that poetic dribble, he is my muse and collaborator. Here is a music video he made and while I find it dreamy and visually verbose, it only scratches at the surface of the wealth of his talent.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

These are physicists.

John Ellis

"If you take astrophysics seriously, there has to be some unseen stuff out there."

Fabiola Gianotti

"Either we find the Higgs boson {click me}, or some stranger phenomenon must happen."

Jim Virdee

"Our judge is not God or governments, but Nature."

Read on ---> here.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

a cold wind blows tonight, by noah cicero

Vasily had hope yesterday.
He sat with his sister Sasha at the kitchen table eating Taco Bell, Sasha says, "Vasily, I don't care if you get a whore. I've been making good money lately at the bar. You should."
"I know, but money, it will be gone."
"I'll give you money."
"No, the money, it will be gone, I'll die. Death."
"No, listen, you need to get laid. It has been months. Your self-esteem is withering away."
"Like the state."
"No, Vasily, not the state. Quit fucking thinking about the state. The state doesn't care about you, stop thinking about the state and start thinking about your penis. Your penis is more important than the state today."
"I'm very busy right now thinking about the state."
"No state, penis, think penis."
"Damn, I'm looking into your eyes and your eyes are thinking of the state."
"Okay, let me think, penis."
"Listen, take your check and go the strip joint and find a girl that will do a private with you for 200 dollars."
"But money."
"Fuck money, your penis needs this."
"My penis is lonely. A cold wind blows over my crotch. My penis resembles the steel mills of Youngstown, once populated with energy and labor, now abandoned and unused, rusting, falling apart, with leaky roofs and broken windows."
"You are so fucking dramatic. That's your problem, you out dramatic the girls and girls don't like that. They like to be the masters of drama, and there you are being all poetic and weird all the time."
"My soul is an unpicked strawberry."


Vasily goes to the strip joint.
It is wonderful in there.
There are women in bikinis and beer.
Vasily gets some mexican beer. He doesn't drink American beer because it gives him gas. He is convinced that American beer gives everyone gas, but Vasily is so nervous all the time making his ass tight that instead of just farting he gets bloated and hates himself.
A Puerto Rican girl comes over named Janisa.
Janisa is short, skinny, has mosquito bites for tits, and is a fine looking person.
Vasily has gotten dances from Janisa before, so Janisa knows he will probably get a dance.
Janisa says, "You want a dance?"
Janisa dances for Vasily.
When Janisa leans back and puts her head near Vasily's mouth, Vasily says, "You do privates?"
"How much?"
Vasily knows they always say 300, he also knows they will go lower.
Vasily says, "How about 200 and no sex."
"All right."
Janisa says, "Just wait for me outside when we close."
Vasily has to sit there for another hour, waiting, waiting, waiting, to get some loving.
He sits there, orders more beer.
Plays the touch machine.
He imagines Janisa's little Puerto Rican body naked and curled up next to his, her soft brown skin, her pretty long dark indian hair, her skinny little arms tangled up in his.
This makes Vasily very happy.
Vasily has not gotten laid in a long time. He needs this. He needs some loving, or he may die.
No one has died from not getting loving, but life feels very hard without it. Life can drag without loving, life can weigh a lot without loving, poverty, sickness, and trying to show up to work on time and care about work enough to do a good job to not lose the job seem so much easier when one is getting some loving.
But Vasily is getting no loving.
So here he is, purchasing time with a lady.
He has chosen Janisa and not the other girls, not because Janisa is the prettiest, because there are prettier ones, but because she has the best personality. Or a personality that he prefers.
Vasily dreams and dreams of the night ahead, of nakedness, softness, and eventual orgasm onto the Puerto Rican ass.
The bar finally closes.
Vasily goes outside and waits in his car.
He sits there holding his penis, getting all stupid with desire.
Janisa walks out and goes to her boyfriend's car. He doesn't hear what they are saying, but he obviously says something like, "Get in the car, we're going home."
Because after a minute of talking, she gets in the car and leaves.
Vasily sits in the parking lot, Janisa is gone.
The loving is gone.
He sits there.
He thinks about punching the steering wheel of his car.
But he realized he thought about it, and therefore has lost its power.
So he drives out the parking lot to a local 24 hour super market, buys an expensive brand of mint chocolate chip ice cream and goes home.
When he gets home Sasha is sitting at the kitchen table writing, Sasha says, "Where's your whore?"
"No whore."
"Oh Vasily."
Vasily opens the mint chocolate chip ice cream and eats it. He decides that tomorrow he will rent five movies of considerable length, go home, order a large pizza that will last him the whole day, watch the movies and not leave the house, or pick up the phone.

a little jem found on jobless bitch (click)

With us it's always intense.

Like camping.

Monday, May 14, 2007

A golden cheeseburger atop a steep crest.

My entire body aches. I worked very hard this weekend. I honestly treasure days like this when even lifting my fingers to type is very laborious and everything feels like an uphill endeavor. The nature of days like this adds a sentiment to every tiny, minute little thing that happens, when everything feels like an effort. All that is reaped is worth its weight in gold. Even if what is being reaped is lifting that cheeseburger to your mouth.

Today my mind, well, my mind gleans what my over-worked-underpaid-allergy-ridden body can barely produce. And it is ripe.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Family Totem

John Grider recently gifted the ladies at my house with this fantastic mural on our garage.

I reccomend you take a longer gander at his mind-fucking work here (click), or read an interview of him at OUR ART SITE DOT COM (click), or you can just go to his damn website (clicky click).


It exists. More on this subject later.

For now, links!!!






Monday, May 07, 2007

Sunday traditions lead gemini hearts to the river-front.

Sunday afternoon has become a great and unfortunately short-lived tradition with my adorable ex-lover James. We see an early movie, eat food and hike around by the industrial river-front in St. Anthony Main. One thing James and I always accomplished with much grander and sophistication was enjoying quite inventive and exciting dates, between all of the petty squabbles and whatnot. In the wake of this romance and the recent revival of friendliness due in part to my leaving and desiring not such a sour note, we have commenced one of our best traditions, as previously stated, of watching a movie together amongst other things. Friendship with an ex has its ups and downs, its emotional pulls and exaustions, but to elaborate no further, it is fruitful beyond a doubt. Here is a glimmer of such events:

After Juicy Lucy's and a package of epically apropriate gifts from James to myself, he and I head to the river and find a particularly apocalyptic looking spot.

The beers come out as well as James' smug-as-fuck grin (don't be fooled, this is a near permanent feature).

I poured one out for my homies, and when I say poured one out, I mean accidentally kicked my beer over acting like a buffoon on a rock.

James pours out one for his homies, and when I say for his homies, I mean because he had a tummy ache and didn't want to finish it.

James thinks making that "beer mug" with his fingers is suave and cool. Who's the buffoon now?

After a bit of sitting, James got sqirrely.

Where's Waldo?

This is the same creep that once left a message for me after a week of dating saying "Woman, how'm I gonna fill you wif babies if you don't answer yer phone?"

Post-apocalyptic grungy little hippie child, as my dear friend Livia described me in this photo.

This is one dashing kid any little birdy should consider herself lucky to have (and a fabulous poet to boot).

After loitering at the river-front, our tradition lends itself to the local theatre, the St. Anthony Main. Quiet Lovely.

And now for good measure . . .

A sprawling abandoned parking lot, typical to the midwest. How I will miss.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Random act of sweetness.

In the last two weeks I've been told by three men that they are indeed in love with me. This melodrama is wearing me thin. Yesterday I made two lovely men, two of the most beautiful men, very upset, at different times, while trying to be sweet to them. The wake of my sensitivities for some reason can be brutal and nothing makes me sadder than their sadness. I quite selfishly feel like a failure. Today, if any of my friends who read this are tuning in, I could really use a random act or maybe just reckless risk that involves sweetness.