Drained

I don’t need your explanation.
I got it figured on my own.

I suffered through my separation
You took me broke me into two

Keep me tied to your retention
A tethered ball that you once claimed

Don’t be the one to redefine me
Don’t make me part of you
Go shove aside your sick controlling
My one plus one ain’t you.

I wring myself out after fuming
Repaint my visage in a frame.

Not a matter of what you want
I am a force I can’t control

And as I sit here mis-reprising
A wrinkled snap-shot in my vein

Don’t be the one to redefine me
I’ve got that on my own
My point too clear has got me screaming
Shatters all my bones.

And still you think I’m contemplative
A misery waiting to be drained
It’s proof you can’t begin to know me.
What you see yourself has made.

Farmer

In her land she is required to do so. I know this because I am the reason she is standing on Mourner’s Peak, about to follow tradition.

The tradition is old. Her mother, grandmother, and other village women, told her by example. In her youth she watched the lone figures standing on Mourner’s Peak, obscured in cold shadow as the dawn rose behind them. She saw some of them standing correctly, immobile, with faces raised defiantly. She saw some stand incorrectly, convulsing with sadness, at times too weak to stand. The reputations of these mothers were later tarnished in the village. Their behavior embarrassed the dead.

As a little girl, I was never certain if the dead were really embarrassed by their mother’s performance. But now I know. It is felt that mothers are responsible for the well-being of their daughters, but most importantly the first-born as she will carry on the family reputation, control the land, and belongings. The sons don’t matter much; they provide seed but can do nothing else. It is this daughter, who, after the age of thirty, will be responsible for the mother in return. If anything should happen to this first-born daughter, it is viewed as the mother’s greatest loss, and partially as her fault.

She is on the brown crest of Mourner’s Peak, watching the bright pinks and blues of the mourners gather around and in her house. She smells the smoke of the early morning fires. Her small house of mud bricks and small branches, insulated by straw is below. Her house, like all in the village, faces away from the peak. A small sickle, a scythe, and a wooden pail rest against the south wall of the exterior. The villagers file out of her small house and head south toward the burial hill. The thirty-five of them walk across the brown clay path to the center of the village and congregate near the well.
Before this year there were forty-three of us. This year was hard; she is thinking of that right now. On top of the peak there is a small clearing in the grass where four other mothers have stood in the past month. Their goat-skin shoes pressed the brown grass into the rocks. No rain has come to re-awaken it, to coax it to stand again.

There was not enough food.

She stands with her arms against her sides, fingers stretched pointing to the ground. Her feet are shoulder width apart and her head is raised. The morning sun beats down upon her, heating the bare flesh of her back. It soon floods the valley and tells the villagers to begin the procession. Her other daughters walk before my body silently, while her husband and sons follow behind it, wailing. They wail loudly to show their love; it is their duty. Small wisps of dust follow them. She hears them doing their duty as she does hers, standing silently.

The light in the valley is now yellow, and the villagers trace their way from the village well, through the browning crops to the burial grounds. A hole has been dug in the red earth for me. The four eldest residents of the village lead the procession, clinking small cymbals to tell the ghost world their next resident is coming. They move slowly, in pained sorrow.

She removes her bracelets and her headdress, and casts them into the valley, shuddering slightly when they clink against the rocks below. She savors the silence that remains before her mourning period is now complete. She will waits until they reach the cemetery.

Her daughters lower me into the ground. They at once all stand with their backs to the village and to Mourner’s Peak. They cymbals stop. Breathing slows until there is no sound at all. I enter my new world now.

The villagers now lower themselves on their knees and wait. A small cricket squeals in the distance. The noise of a small thud echoes from the base of the cliff through the valley. The daughters wail.

Steal the words off my lips

I was intimidated, of course, because it is rare that I can find someone so absolutely unaffected by my words—the words over which I labour, the words over which I struggle, slaughter, survive. But you didn’t care; you dismissed me and excused me with my age, my looks, my hope. And to each objection I made, you performed a drunken/hung over dance; your eyes would loll, your mouth would purse, your hands would begin a sentence and then end after the first shouted unspoken word.

You made a wonderful specimen of study; it was rewarding to watch and observe something so willfully self destroyed, yet still living; you were a human running along, fueled by drugs, hydrating your consciousness to oblivion, struggling to forget that which you never decided to understand. You promulgated a declaration of inhuman rights, demanding that everyone remove their worthless dignity, hope, promise before embarking on this journey with you.

You were an exercise in self-loathing and duplicity. Everything you said you countered with “It doesn’t matter;” everything you did you followed with degrading disregard. You said I was sensitive, yet took offense when I said the smell of your shirt was an uncomfortable memory. You didn’t care what I had to say, yet hung on every word I had. Was it your insecurity, your abandonment of life—or were you, as you say, your complete understanding of the world in which you barely exist? You touted your own bravery, you touted your own strength, but crumbled when confronted, relying only on your standard retorts.

You gave up on love, you gave up on happiness, and expected me to follow, and ridiculed me when I refused. You negated me when I decided to speak what I thought; I am glad I spent only a few hours with you.

Nothing you are makes any sense.

Sparkle

He sits in the corner of a gathering—not a party with cigarettes burning holes in the carpet, not a mad house with CDs and tiny Venetian glass candies being inserted into purses or pockets and backpacks; not an intimate gathering wherein the host has spent two solid afternoons agonizing the placement of each of the 8 guests at a dinner table either ostentatiously center-pieced, or stark naked and bare leaving to chance conversation to replace what ought to be. This is a room where 15 people gather, coddled inside of eggshell-white walls and subtle lighting. He sits on the ottoman, black leather with stainless steel legs, framed by two windows with remarkably clean mini blinds, slats pointing up so upper level floors can’t spy these on-goings. The room is decorated somewhat tastefully—meaning a conspicuous absence of bleaching halogen torchières. He talks against his will to a Nagalie whose voice will alternate heavily between whispers and shrill shrewish laughter as secrets, then “punch” lines are both spewed forth like water from a fire hydrant obliterating any possible commentary or mutual exchange. A verbal accident one can’t help but stare at for the sheer majesty of abhorrence.

I enter the foyer of the apartment complex, get into the elevator, press five. I take off my black leather coat and unwind the black scarf from my neck, pass a hand over my face absently to remove any cashmere trailings left on my stubble. I notice myself as a quick black shadow in the common property mirror. I have not shaved tonight, done my eyes, my lips, or skin before coming here; it is my silent protest against this evening, which to me will feel like a pity party. After weeks of a reclusive existence concerned callers have dragged me out of my winter shell to “meet some people”—all of whom are conveniently located in 5B. The elevator doors open and I smell nachos and popcorn covering—slightly—the smell of musty towels and winter wetted carpet. I tilt my head upward, then feel the hallway light highlighting first the curve of my hair, the shine of my eyelids, my cheekbones, then my progressively prominent jowls. I turn my head and knock.

“Hey! You’re here! Great! I was worried you wouldn’t come! In in in, get in here!” and suddenly the brick wall of “oh shit” vainly attempts to separate me, wall me out, bleach me into the wallpaper, but I’m left as a highly visible brown stain. “Yeah, I said I’d come” cue fake smile “tah dah…” and get dragged into the room.

“Jesus Christ” I mutter to myself as my face lights up and I exclaim “Annie, how great to see you again, and there’s Peter! Really? In three months? Wow! How exciting to be starting a new family!” I tilt my head to one side and smile with my mouth turning down as I always do when happy straggot couples bombard me with wonderful news of their wonderful togetherness. I mock interest, and sustain an internal lockdown on the continual woe-is-pathetic-anti-social-jaded-bitter me speech replay which no longer itches to leap out of my mouth. My own internal speech has ceased to be interested enough in me to do so.

I see a couple standing in the kitchen doorway outlined by stark florescent light who look at me suspiciously. They have no idea who I am, and observably engage themselves in scrutiny. She begins whispering through clenched smiles always associated when forming first impressions. I have no energy to go over to talk to them. I look at her; her hair is streaked with blonde, she wears open-toed shoes with fuchsia nail polish, a black knee length skirt purchased before the onset of her saddlebags, a fuchsia halter top, and a black pea coat. As she shivers her brown lipsticked lips quiver against her sun-stained face. My final analysis is amazement that she is here; after all, there must be some fascinating reality TV show she’s missing. I look at her boyfriend wearing a pale grey sweatshirt with PACKERS blocked across the front, blue jeans worn carelessly, the cuffs pooling around his brown leather hiking boots. Both are stained with salt. He clutches a beer by its throat and holds it securely by his crotch, other hand in pocket. He rocks every once in a while on the balls of his feet, creating an image of a ballerina with a pasty white gut and black threads of hair emerging out of a pink tutu. I’ll remind myself to use that in a story, but will forget by the time I return home.

Next to them, by the hall toward the bedrooms, a pale blond man wearing a baseball cap turned backwards extends his left arm over the shoulder of a woman, pinning her personal space uncomfortably against the wall. He wears a tank top undershirt, revealing things better left unseen; scrawny arms, a scant smattering of brown pit hair, a green tattoo across where a bicep should be. It is composed of letters but spells nothing. His eyes are slower than the rest of his inebriated body, gradually focusing on his object of affection. She wears a purple silk skirt with black floral embroidery, a colour deep enough to complement her mane of brown hair framing her face. She is humoring him. Perhaps he is rich. Is anyone aware it’s winter outside?

Annie is still talking to me. She is wearing a moss green sweater, flattering on no one, punctuated with brown images of deer. I suddenly realize my contribution to our conversation has been a series of well-placed “uh-huhs.” She extends her hand toward my face then touches it; I jerk away a little too forcefully; she looks at me then says, “Silly, it’s just a piece of fuzz!” then shows me a black bit of cashmere. “Thank you” I say, my eyes shooting daggers at Aaron. “Ahem” he says, “uh…let me show you where to put your coat.” I make an excuse to Annie, vowing to return to her in a minute, praying vehemently for spontaneous human combustion. I just now notice Peter was standing next to Annie the entire time, and look at him apologetically, then smile. He is wearing a matching sweater.

Aaron leads me into a currently unused bedroom, lit only by the light of the party, his arm extended, demanding my coat. I hand it to him and the obligatory apologies begin; “Sorry about Annie, she can be a bit talkative, yeah, and sorry I haven’t asked you over more often, but so glad I was able to catch you the other night.” He refers to last Friday. While I was staring at the TV—watching some rerun, I imagine—the phone rang in my hand, startling me such that I didn’t check the caller ID before answering. Aaron’s voice, characteristically unnaturally vivid, began speaking. I held the phone away from my face to look at the caller ID, saw A. Sorenson, then wished I never picked up. I hadn’t picked up the phone in weeks. My world ceased to exist outside what I had hung on my four walls, which incense I’d burned, what clothes lay scattered around.

“So what have you been doing?”
“Aaron, I really appreciate this, but honestly I don’t think I can…”
“Don’t be stupid, that’s what friends are for! Besides, I thought you might meet some interesting people here. Did you know Dan?”

I squint my eyes at the implication of this set up.

“Dan…?”
“The guy with that hot girl in the fuchsia top.”
My eyes relax.
“No, I don’t think I’ve met him before.”
“Really? He lives in your building. Oo, that’s the door.”
He left the room and I asked his exhaled breath “what makes you think I’ve been out of my apartment long enough to meet a neighbour?”

No one understands. So I’ll wait here a minute or so. There exists nothing in that room filling with sweating bodies worth noticing; no one worth making the struggle to talk to. I will wait here. No one will notice. I might sneak out that window, already opened to allow one or two molecules of air to circulate through the apartment. Outside, the street lights turn the world orange sherbet. I look down. Naturally I’m only five stories up. That is not what I’d intended. I’ve stood this way for months, staring out the window, soaking in the coldness of the world outside, imagining all the things going on without me. Nothing is waiting for me, of course, so I imagine the way my body will fall out the window, when I find one of appropriate height. I heard on the news that you can survive up to a five story fall. I live on the 6th. That’s too close to survival, and I hate failure—oddly enough.

The heavy weight I carry around sinks itself back into me. Using my eyebrows, I lift open my eyes. The only way out is through that room.

A Parliament. Yes. No one will mind if I smoke in here. It tastes like shit as all cigarettes do—we all know this—but for the time being it’s the action, it’s the inhale exhale, it’s the relaxation that comes not necessarily from the nicotine but from the deep breathing. It’s an order of yoga with a side of death. And I’m tired, so very tired, of having to suffer this way, of wanting to die but I can’t because I’m too fucking lazy to plan a way that I find fit.

And there he is. Flawless pale skin, soft ebony hair, eyebrows that beg to be kissed, and faint purple lips tight in their seductive fullness. “Mind if I join you?” he asks, and I say, “Not at all.” I hand him my lighter, looking only at his hands. I watch the flame enter the end of the cigarette, then blown full, the light of the flame blanching his face. He exhales upwards, his breath tousles the forelocks of his hair. I look at his belt buckle, fastening a pair of soft black pants, anchoring his protrusion—providing dual focal points. I can feel him looking at me while refreshing his mouth with vodka. I look out into the room and notice the negative space left where he once sat. I assume he tired of the deficient conversation lacking style, wit, drama. He stands closely enough that I am sure he would tell me all the details while snuggled on my chest tonight.

I turn my head, start to the bed, pick up my coat. He says, “where are you going?” but while I hear him I’ve turned off—I can’t muster the energy to say, “Home” so I say nothing and brush past him into the living room. I’m sure everyone is looking at me while I furtively match my steps with those already marred into the carpet. I finally reach the door, put my hand on it, and leave, feeling my way as the dizziness starts to overcome me. I put my finger on the down button and wait for the doors to rescue me. His voice calls out wait or stop or perhaps desist, but then the doors open and swallow me and shit me out the front door where I can go home and invent to myself what actually happened. It will make more sense this way.

Scented Candles

Apple scented cyanide
Bromide poisons dripped in wine
Pulse inside says all is done

Eden

Eden

For 11 months, exactly, while the garden of my world turned to shit and while I choked on thick phlegm and rotted roots, I held a perfect pink rose. I was entranced by it; held it in my hands, held and turned it under my eyes turned spotlights; watched the delicate veins scribbled across the petals; the dew gather in the cups; nuzzled my nose against its velvet. I carried this rose, wrapped in the softest paper, held it so carefully, shaded it, watered it, smelled it. I obsessed over it; made sure not a single petal became crumpled.

For me it was escape; something to turn to and smell while the rest of the world decayed and left me small and shaking under bedcovers, resentful of the hard winter sunlight, suffering from acidic bullet wounds shot by the mouths of idiots. The rose was powerful enough to deflect everything and render the world peaceful and calm. Perfect.

I was even able to ignore the small tears at the edges of the petals in my zeal so great was my need to assure some perfection in my life. To have some glimmer of hope. To open the box of the day, on my knees, watching the pollution spill out into the day. I prayed Pandora.

And the world did fall apart with angry gashes at a canvas, blind breaking fury, and bruised wrists but my rose remained; scenting the lining of a private pocket; a splash of colour. An artist would paint a child holding a bouquet of cotton candy in a sooty dismal train station amidst the greys and blacks of winter coats.

The vine I’d been growing for three and a half years was slowing choking out the light, bending the flimsy elegant supports under its mass. Roots shot out of the bottom of the pot searching for more liquid, nutrients, air. They found something rotted and feasted; something I removed from the plant long ago, but forgot to discard. The fruit of the vine had long soured. It clung to me like the deep bitter green vines sucking the brick facades of old estates. There was something to be said for the sheer majesty of something so old. There was something to be said for laziness. There was something to be said for sitting down in a corner, exhausted, watching, knowing what was wrong but not being courageous enough to cut it. The tendrils grew at an alarming rate; when first planted I watched daily to make sure each fragile root took, removing the small clumps of dirt that clung to each leaf as it pressed out of the earth. Adjusting the heat lamps, monitoring the soil. Feeling rewarded. Now the tendrils sucked greedily to my neck and bound my arms, pressed into my mouth and down my throat; clamping shut my eyes. Love.

When watching the plant suck greedily my energy and time, I stole the warm, sticky fragrance of the rose. Shutting my eyes; suddenly penetrating the earth around the rose, not the dry unwelcoming dirt of the vine. I could kiss the petals instead of the hash stem. But by opening my eyes, by wiping off, the vine would murmur some indication of satisfaction deriving from either having completed the job effectively or having finished and left it alone. Love.

I need to check on the vine (another moment won’t hurt) I can’t go to the movie with the rose (an hour won’t hurt) what if the vine’s friends see me (it’s dark outside) should I have another cig? (the rose offered be polite) out to coffee again (it’s good to have friends).

I don’t want to check on the vine (damn the rose is sexy) which movie is most conducive to romance? (the vine won’t mind) so these are the roses’ friends (good impressions score!) hey don’t worry, I’ll pay for that (what vine?)

The vine was sensitive. It felt the nervousness in my voice, the overly fragile way I spoke when trying to assuage my guilt. To protect itself from the predator it sensed but could not see, the vine injected its leaves and fruit with poison. Dutiful maintenance became deadly; leaves would be touched while adding water; sap clung to my fingers. The vine’s poisoning of its primary caregiver proved my redundancy. How much longer would I be employed.

I feel your petals. Nurture me. Trust me. Feed me. Tell me my words are your universe. Or at least, let me conclude you said that, after hours spent dissecting the tilt of your head, your smile, your scent, the moonlight. Flatter me. Touch me. Create me. Give me your fantasies, fly my dreams, let me believe you depend on me to protect you, sustain you, warm you. Do these things for me; I promise to reward you I promise to give you myself I promise.

And then I was interrupted. I journeyed, abandoning my vine, letting it run wild, exhaust itself without my presence. I ran free, hoping the vine would be fine, not really caring if it weren’t—I told myself. I watered it for the last time, wrapped the rose in gauze and silk and put it in an ebony box, and ran, from planter to field to box to pot to find a new place to start new roots. I had an image the entire time of an adequate space where I could begin. I found it; room enough to grow my rose and add more plants. I annexed this plot of rich soil. I installed a tall wooden fence, thinking this barricade would allow the phoenix a chance to rise from its ashes. I supplied a hose, brought implements along, and began. My dear rose I placed in the very center of this new plot. There it would be the focal point; the point that I could see from anywhere in the new garden and feel the beauty.

I did not count on the fence blocking the light, killing everything in it shadow, rendering tracts of land useless. The rains came and without cover the soil eroded into small gullies and troughs, meandering pathways grew under the fence, pulling soil from fence posts, weakening the structure. The hose leaked and was too short; soaked some areas, left some to dry in the sun and be carried by the wind. The ground was compact under a few inches of topsoil; implements and muscles wore out digging and turning. Weeds came. In my mind the empty plot quickly transformed from dull into delicious; at my hands it went from tame to savage. My rose was obscured from view by a tall thicket of weeds.

In one corner of the garden, next to the fence which divided a neighboring garden from mine, a clump of carnations began to grow. The carnations were unwelcome in the general scheme of the garden, but the flowers were too distracting; I couldn’t destroy them. I decided to keep them <> and work on more pressing issues. The carnations smelled as old flowers do; faint, dry, slightly bitter. They spread quickly and soon looked as though they’d lived there for years. They enticed me with their flashy colours against the dark brown and grey.

As the other plants failed I was astounded that the carnations thrived; they required little attention and responded well to my occasional attention. I felt their petals and pretended they were my rose. I felt rewarded by them; my first success since the vine. I resolved to keep them and protect them. They were a welcome relief from the vine; without too much of my care they were content to grow and provide me with bright distraction. They were not my rose; the elegance and simplicity of my rose is incomparable, but they were the only beauty I had.

Soon my excitement for the carnations waned. Sitting in the dark elegance of night with my rose I wondered how the carnations got there. I went to the corner where they lived so tightly against the fence. I peered through the slats of the fence and my question was answered; an aggressive, larger bunch of them lay visible. My carnations weren’t growing just for me; they’d come over to fill an empty section I had; this was why they required little attention; they were already tended, minded, worshipped by another. I felt stupid. Why had it taken me so long to realize? I felt guilty for keeping the carnations, but there were the only happiness I had; surely the owner of them could understand and not mind that they, of their own volition, came to add colour into my garden.

Touching them soon became stolen pleasures. I touched them, understanding they were not mine to touch, but they rewarded me and I had the space for them to grow. One day while tending my borrowed pleasures, a hiss and blast of water shot through the fence. It was intended for my eyes but landed on my legs. A voice pressed through the fence and told me to keep my hands off those carnations. They were not mine. I was not entitled to their enjoyment. Stunned, a little shocked, I went to the fence and peered through at the squat fat troll holding the hose. I was amused. I was competing with that for the luxury of a flower no better than a weed? I walked away from the fence saying nothing back to the patch of weeds a few feet away and began digging them out. The troll screamed a little more, complained a little more, as if the carnations were the sole prize in the universe. They were something I could do without. Later that evening armed with a shovel I dug out the clump of carnations and tossed them over the fence. Soon all that remained was a hole.

Many times I thought of apologizing to the carnations, to at least offer them an explanation for my behaviour. But weeds and time pressed on pulling me away. Rains came and the hole which once held the carnations leveled. A small impression remains.

The maintenance of the garden became prohibitively expensive. I found work. I funneled money into the garden; fertilizers, weed killers. The work kept me away from the garden 12 hours a day, released me back to my garden for weekends and midnight strolls.

Autumn came. I covered the rose, solitary, sitting in the middle of the garden untended, thinking of it on occasion, too tired to wander out into the garden to watch it. Hoping it would be fine.

Curiosity got the better of me and I returned to the garden where the vine once grew. The vine was fine. It did not collapse under its own weight, it was surviving nicely without me. It had lost a few branches, some leaves, but those that replaced that which was lost was vivid, green, vibrant. I began to feel surplus to my own life.

And after all was said and done, and the boots had come and trampled on the garden and the frost had bitten anything green with insidious vigor, I returned to my rose, the rose I’d neglected because of life. I went to it, still in the center of my garden. I raised the protective cover. A vine had wound its way around the rose, twining itself thickly and powerfully around the base of the stem. I feel to my hands and knees and tried pulling the vine away. The vine secreted its stickiness over the browned stem, contorting the straightness of the stem into a wild twist. It was impossible to see and separate where the vine ended and the rose began. I touched the dried brown petals and they cracked and crumbled quietly under my caress until all that was left was a yellowed stem and thorns.

The worthlessness of the garden fell in around me. Abandonment was what it cried; it humoured me long enough but wanted to be returned to nature. The morning came and I wrapped the hose into little sections, stacked the implements, shut but did not lock the gate, and left it.

The El

El

The conductor at the front of the train, where I typically sit, is banging around in his filthy steel cage, pounding his fists against the door, screaming “mother fucker” and “son of a bitch.” I have a good—meaning not dripping in fresh urine or smattered in miscellaneous grey matter—seat. I can handle the man vaguely responsible for my life being a raving lunatic, and resist the urge to get up and move cars. It is comforting, in an off-handed way, to know that he is restricted by automatic shut down brakes to speeds under 35 MPH.

I look across the way, thankful for my sunglasses preventing the detection of my gaze. I tilt my head toward the window, while focusing into the train, on the woman three rows away wearing white stretch pants. She is leaning on her boyfriend who is wearing green medical scrubs. Her legs are splayed open, menstrual blood stains a pigeon blood Rorschach test on her crotch. Bird. No, plane? No…iris? Her hand travels up and down the growing mound of her boyfriend’s non confining pants. She brings her mouth down over the erected fabric, then sees a man eyeing her distastefully. As she flips from mild mannered crack whore to Jekyl and Hyde crack whore, I turn off my walkman. Now I can properly hear her scream at him about her addiction to crack, her right to suck off anyone she wants, that he’s a fucking faggot for watching her suck dick, and will get his ass beat if he don’t treat her with some respek.

I vote respek-fully to get off the train and wait for the next one. Once the train rumbles, sparks and squeals away from the platform, I get a good view of the alley down below. Emerging from the shadows is a very pregnant woman with two large men in sweatshirts and Adidas pants. She languidly holds a plastic bottle of 5 o’clock vodka at the throat with two fingers, periodically taking swigs and sharing, politely of course, with the men. She takes out a slightly crushed box of Marlboro reds, from which she pulls what looks like a Marlboro light. The filter is not brown but white. One man watches her light it. The other puts his hand around her, exploring her pregnancy, her breasts, and her vagina. The next train arrives, and I get back on.

On the seat next to the door sit two blonde Evanston Heiresses.

“Oh my god” she says while taking off her Fendi sunglasses, three seasons old, chosen for the logo, not the style. “Where I went for vacation was so hot. It was like, a gadgillion badgillion degrees.”

“Oh really? How hot was it?” her friend asks, lipsticking her collagen.

“It was so hot, you didn’t even have to blow dry your hair.”

“WOAH. So, like what did you do? Get out of the shower, let your hair air dry, and *then* go out?”

“Yeah.”

“Woah, that’s weird.”

“I know!”

The smell of marijuana distracts me. I look toward the small cubicle formed by the false driver compartment. A blur in a beige knit hat and silver denim jacket eight sizes too large is hunched over the front, blowing smoke respectfully outside. I look at the heiresses. I can no longer hear them; their conversation has dissolved into the following dialogue:

I’m stupid.
Not as stupid as me!
I’m twice as stupid as you!
Oh, you wish.


“Doors closing” says the man on the el, and I imagine who he is, and what he looks like, where he is, and if he can answer a phone within the entire metropolitan Chicago area without someone saying, “hey, you’re the guy on the el.” He’s got a comfortable and sexy voice, the voice of someone in his 30’s, strong jaw, someone athletic looking, virile. And thick black hair. In actuality he’s probably a cockeyed balding short acne scarred obese man, a chain smoker, with no leg.

I get off. Thank god. Just 8.5 mins to my apartment, and I can shut out all of this. Walking past an alley, I hear glass breaking. A woman stumbles out, wearing a t-shirt, a hot pink bracelet, earrings, flip flops. She leers at me, twitches, then takes her bruised and scarred left hand and lifts up her t-shirt over her shoulder. With her right hand, equally bruised, but not as scarred, she graciously pushes aside her labia majora to reveal to me her labia minora. Almost stumbling, she thrusts her hips forward, slurs, “Want some?” to me, then falls on top of a car parked on the street.

I murmur “Oh, You Wish” and run home. There I can consider these intimate revelations in the comfort of my own glass of vodka on the rocks.

Screw the rocks.

Wineglasses

She died nine months ago today. A flip of the Far Side calendar proves it.

The things you notice; the things you don’t. I never tired to count the days—didn’t want to be reminded. Except, that’s all there was to do. They said, “Take up a new hobby—garden, paint; cook. Call us if you need us. Take a trip; visit the kids.” Well, you can’t dig holes deep enough to bury grief. Flowers grow up to remind you of birth, and of course, death. Painting starts as landscape but ends up as black holes, spreading across the canvas with each frustrated stab. Can’t cook away emptiness; can’t spice it away. Can’t cook like she could. As for calling—never got past holding the phone in one hand, dialing one, area code, and the first two digits. Always the first two digits. And the kids look just like her—especially Rachel. Even has the same laugh.

Today they are coming because of the tradition she started. “Tom, now that you’re retired, we really should have a yearly party. The Regmans do it, the Verkaufsmans, everyone does it. How would we look if we always went to their parties and never had any in return? I don’t want to be known as ‘that woman.’” I told her we’d look independent, and unique, and it didn’t matter anyway because she’d always be MY woman. She laughed at me dismissively, toyed with her earring.

That was seven years ago. Tonight, in pairs, they will come for the eight time. After the funeral they asked if I’d keep the party. Rachel answered, told them I’d love to. I suppose she thought it’d be nice for me to have a yearly pattern—give me something to do, some occupational therapy.

The first pair’s RSVP arrived a month and three days ago, when the winds were blowing sand into the mail truck. The mailman covered his face with a brown scarf and black glasses, his body with thick blue jeans, even though it was 90 degrees. The letter’s stamp seemed measured in place, perfectly aligned ¼ inches from the edges. The stamp was of a bird, scientific name written underneath it. The address was etched in fine script, each word spaced evenly from the other. The second letter, addressed in fluid, looping script and a casually adhered colorful stamp, came the day after the rain put the coyotes all on prowl mode. The last one had to be picked up last weekend. Registered mail, with eleven stamps showing the US flag. Came with a bundle of photographs of Helen, of Helen and Me, of Helen with the Kids, but Helen nonetheless, looking great. Took one look inside and left it, ensconced in tan bubble wrap, DO NOT BEND gashed across in red ink, on her nightstand and turned off the light.

The fine script always surprised me, coming from a doctor. I joked with him about it all through the years were roomed together in college, him hunched over biology books, hair being messed by one hand, writing neatly with the left. He said he’d start a trend. Who knows. Makes a damn fine living, though, in Palm Springs, catering to movie stars, men and women, afraid of the wrinkles. Second letter was written in black fountain pen. It was signed with the same fantastical “S” that hundreds of black-clad Vogue readers see on the chrome and glass doors of her gallery, New York New York. And the last, written slanting left instead of right, by the hand of the man responsible for alleviating the discomfort of hundreds, thousands, of lives in LA. At a price. Earthquake insurance.

The dining room lights haven’t been turned on since Rachel insisted we set out hors d’oeuvres “in case they’re hungry” after the funeral. I asked her plain and simple to tell me who’d eat after burying someone. Death isn’t the best appetizer. She said it’s what people did. Shawn looked at me to tell me to just let her act out her impulse. But the impulse is gone now, and the light fixture I loved but Helen hated collected dust, even though the antlers were covered by some old pillowcases. Bulbs didn’t burn out.

The china cabinet wasn’t opened since, since I’ve no one to entertain. Hinge needs oiling. Baccarat, Waterford, Orrefors, Lalique. She had good taste.

Baccarat. Bought those in Chicago for the 25th anniversary. Her eyes told me I made a good choice. I like them. Simple, modern looking. They take the light and shove a little patch of it on your mouth as you drink. At dinner parties, Helen used to let that light wander slowly down her chest as I watched. If someone caught a glance, she’d shift the patch right back to her mouth. They’d be bad for the doctor’s wife—might shoot a ray of light up under her jowl and we’d see some scar he overlooked. No reporters here, might be OK. Thick four-sided stem. None of us has arthritis that bad we can’t grip smooth crystal—yet. Heavy; they might dampen the mood. Mouth of the glass is a little narrow; might keep us tight-lipped and make the silence drown us. Frosted, like winter windows. A little unseasonable.

Waterford. None of us is Irish. Better still, none of us is Catholic. Hallelujah. Wedding gift from her Catholic parents. Wrapped in white paper with a card that said something about God and our union, to last forever. Forever. Small flecks of light bounce off the cut stem. Might highlight someone’s liver spots. “These are the standard glass,” said the in-law, Maureen. “Everyone has them.” Maybe they’ll have them too, and think it a little slice of home. Then they might stay. A little stuffy, like the doctor’s office, burgundy leather overstuffed chairs, carefully selected store-bought art on the walls, and beige silk lampshades. Don’t want to add more discomfort.

Orrefors. We bought these—rather, she bought these while I was with her—on our trip to Sweden. Hell of a time getting those shipped back to the US. Look like little bits of candy in the stems, yellows, blues, greens. Look like the flowers in glass paperweights. Her eyes lit up in the showroom, watching the light invite the colors to dance over the black marble floors and white walls. She was beautiful, standing in a field of glass, radiant. She attracted the attention of Sven Palmqvist, the designer of that particular Ravenna pattern. After that point I knew we’d be walking out of there with new glasses. I didn’t mind. The gallery owner would love them. But she’d talk about them in conjunction with some art she’s showing now, lah-dee-dah. Get the conversation moving, at least. A little youthful for the collection of raisins and prunes tonight. Won’t go with the table, plates, scenery. It’ll look too out of place.

Lalique. Good for the insurance man. His wife’ll like the name. I won’t like the wife. She could tie them to her head and float them back to LA. Frosted art deco designs. Bought on the 30th anniversary in Paris. She burst into the hotel room and dragged me to the store with her excitement. They were the same design, Eden, we saw on our honeymoon but couldn’t afford. Rachel said she wants them when we’re dead. Tick…tick… Two naked intertwined nymphs form the stem and hold up the glass, like Atlas under the weight of the world. Or Atlas under the weight of the conversation. Atlas shrugs. The earth topples. Insurance man might like that metaphor. ‘cept, he doesn’t know what a metaphor is.

Each works for some reason or other. Baccarat for me, bad for the wrinkled. Waterford for the doctor, bad for the conversation. Orrefors for the gallery owner, bad for the setting. Lalique, good for insurance, bad for existence. All of them for Helen.

She would walk in right about 10 minutes ago, look at me, drop her shoulders, mock disapproval, then point directly into the cabinet. She’d know. Wouldn’t be standing here staring like an imbecile trying to figure out what kind of glass to use. It’d all be planned now, the whole thing, down to napkin holders and salt cellars, with time left over to nibble on hors d’oeuvre with red nails wrapped around a glass of Vouvray.

Out of the dining room window is a perfectly framed view of the Wyoming mountains meeting the flat prairie. I look at the exact spot where the rock meets the hard place. There’s nothing green, there’s nothing lush. The air tastes like dirt and the coyotes leave bones in the yard. The whole house is an extension of her, each pillow in the living room still smells like her perfume, each guest towel is still in place from where she put them, each dimple of her high heels still in the carpet in her closet. I paid for all of it, but it’s not mine. A few crumbs in my easy chair, magazines on the floor, socks on the bedroom chaise—these are mine. But that doesn’t count for much.

The Orrefors. Yes, definitely the Orrefors.

Thin Doors

The obsessive compulsive woman living next door to me woke me up again this morning. Every day when she leaves for work she locks her door, then pushes and pulls it shut five times. These five bangs are a nice snooze alarm; they happen a few minutes after my alarm goes off. Her back door, attached to her kitchen, mirrors mine, and at night I can see when she’s hungry. Her kitchen light turns on with five blinks. I can see when she’s done, because her kitchen light turns off with five blinks. Sometimes I leave my apartment the same time she does. I follow her down the stairs. She pauses after descending five steps, then again after the 10th. She descends four more, takes one step into the lobby, then pauses again. I smell her perfume, Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche. It was discontinued in the US for five years, then relaunched a year ago.

The woman who lives next door to me is obsessive compulsive. When she’s in the kitchen she turns the light on five times to cook, then turns it off five times when she goes to bed. When she leaves her apartment in the morning at 8:10, she pulls her door shut loudly five times. She is my snooze alarm, making five loud bangs five minutes after my alarm goes off. When I have to go to work early, I follow her out of the building. Going down the stairs she pauses after every fifth step. She smells like Rive Gauche perfume, which I’ve smelled only on five women; my mom, my sister, the woman at the buffet line in Marseilles, and a gay man who lives around the corner.

I set my alarm to go off every day at 8:05. I normally go back to sleep. At 8:10 the obsessive compulsive woman who lives next to me wakes me up. I hear five loud bangs when she jolts her door shut to be sure it’s locked. The staircase leading outside is next to my front wall; I can hear her make five creaks down the stairs, pause, then creak five more times, until she leaves the building. Sometimes when I have my windows open, her Rive Gauche perfumed air flows under my door and into my room. Sometimes if I hear her in the hallway I wait for her to pass before leaving my apartment. I don’t want to interrupt her cycle. If my back door is open, sometimes I can see the light from her kitchen turn on five times, remain on, then turn off five times.

Obsessive compulsive disorder affects the woman who lives next to me. When I’m at my computer, working or looking at porn, I can see her kitchen light turn on five times. I imagine how much stress this adds to the pull chain on the kitchen light and wonder how many times she’s had to replace it. There is a store down in Roscoe Village that sells beaded chains; the owners have a minivan whose license plates say BEAD LDY. I wonder if she’s gone there to buy more pull chains. Yesterday, I had to leave my apartment early. My neighbor was pulling the door shut five times as I passed her. She carried her garbage in a white plastic bag. In it, I could see a flattened blue, silver, and black box that packages Rive Gauche, the perfume by Yves Saint Laurent. I thundered down the steps before she did so I could make it to the early meeting at work.

My obsessive compulsive neighbor, the woman who lives next door, wears Rive Gauche perfume. This morning I was leaving at my usual time to go to work; she was leaving at the same time as well. This is an hour later than she normally leaves. I was locking my door as she exited her apartment; I said, “Good Morning!” She looked at me, then stepped backwards into her apartment, closed the door, then opened it, walked out again, and said “Hungh.” She turned to lock her door. As she was locking it I said, “How are you?” She made another noise; with full body she leaned into the door jam and pulled her door shut; I counted one, two, three, four. Four. She didn’t close it a fifth time. She looked at me, one eye was trembling. I unlocked my door, went back inside my apartment, then closed it. I heard a fifth bang. The refrigerator started humming, and I realized I was holding my breath. I heard five creaks down the stair, a pause, then five more. I exhaled and left my apartment.

Loud

Hot; urgent, on your knees—
Plunder me blank ecstasy
Blue mooned turgid breeze
Lost delicious maybes

Grey; hard; desire me—
Bend, take; sincerely,
Broken walls; trembling—
Silence makes this easy

Silver me, patiently—
Every neighbour violate
Never a scream here—
Bleed the Sirens

Swallowed

Teardrops echo lakes of empty
Swallowed by the contented toad
Louder than the dreams I speak
Louder than my voice that screams
No more

Slashing down through my skin—
Rape me keep trying
Rip me out through my soul
Pray me to die
Repression cocked as your weapon
Your Laramie--
I cross that line

Beaten wasted in this system
Clawing, scratch begging more
Neutered dreams what I can’t say
This silence made of screams we all abhor

Quash me keep trying
Burning bush scorching our soul
Eyes open wide—scrubbing piss stains off of my cheeks
Cat’s Cradle me with dead lines
You measure me
You close my eyes
Blindness set to perfection
I close my eyes
I gouge my eyes

Burning

Burning patiently
Through stains of you in thought
Drowning in a game of shame
Daydreams tie me in knots

Needing you when I am lonely or
Yearning so hungrily
Hectic, headstrong back to the dreams
I dream of you so sadly

I wander through my world, kicking over stones
Someone’s laugh or hair or smell
There appears your ghost
Mocking me you never leave me,
Opaque windows in my mind
Resentment is your spotlight—
Anger serves you applause

No stubbled face won’t rape my place don’t claw between my thighs
No moonlight walking devil talking poetry that cries
No football field no heartless spiel no anguish in the dark
No punching fists no more bruised wrists no words dead to impart

These ghosts of you
Of slow dissolving love
Still never will be was

Figures

It was one of these days...weeks…months…years…when the overwhelming evidence of life really being a joke hit me faster than I could typically lie to myself, rationalize, and say, “I think I finally have this figured out.” –but then I found that I don’t. So I said “Fuck it” and floated off my brain into another time and space to find my friend for her comfort, time, and familiar face. We went to Leona’s, you see—
it’s where we go when trekking to tasty food is out of our realm of feasibility.

By all means set to bitch about having bitten my tongue and bartered my way through life’s lengthy line, with buttkis to believe in, suddenly you appeared to me, skipped ten beats in my heart, and for the first time in a while I thought my life was about to start. “Oh yeah,” I said; “Bring it On!” and went from feeling filthy frustrated to fabulous faggot in five fucking seconds flat.

Blatantly hoping you’d buy into what I wanted bought, I made sure you connected my companion to lecherous lesbianism. I made clear you knew she had her salt lick at home with luck laying waiting for licking. At dinner’s end—what did I eat I wonder—I grabbed a doily and wrote what I wanted witty: If I were cheap and sleazy, I’d leave you my phone number” then, reversed to the randy side, “Maybe just a little around the edges.” My number written on doily dead center—bam, boy begotten.

Forgotten you were until I realized you appeared February 28th. At work chewing clandestine candy cautiously while clients sulked in sullen stupidity, I thought of the open mic I finished. My words wove around woeful self pity about February being my magical month for love. The whole blasted month was blessedly barren but for our fated Friday, the 28th. Cosmic crush construction can’t be contrived.

At Leona’s, later, lustful, and languid, I finagled finding you again. I sat down, saw you with tables to attend to, and with me to notice. I pretty packaged myself pretty well; I was the summation of all sexy skin, ravishing in red, bold in black, pining in pin stripes, wanting waiting watching. You brought me a drink, setting into substance my next subject of conversation. A pause, a response; Yes, you would drink with me that night. Glory alleluia, thanks be to God, let’s speak in tongues. Oooh Tongues.

How flagrantly forward you were! For hours your ferocious body language attempted to obliterate me, overwhelm me, ostracize me form our—your—conversation. During drinks I waited for my words once so well rehearsed, but whose perfection, poise, and posture wandered away while I watched your eyes. Like a lap dog I performed and paid premeditated compliments on your eyes, smile, luxuriously alluring chest hair, but mostly your eyes, those orbs of beauty, the antithesis of all that is Average Honkey and Bitch. Utterly unique, those eyes hewn from ebony, inlaid with onyx, set in torturous temptation.

We ascended Granville in Grand Style, your arms wrapped warm around me on the escalator, my lips pressed against yours—instinctively locating home. Kissed blind, we stood under the heat lamps through three full cycles at 2am; three trains passed, on the coldest day of the month. I kissed you French, called you mon chamade magnifique, purred into your year, nuzzled against your fur. After 47 minutes of crisp Kelvin kisses, I pulled you into the fourth train. In its heat I found the heat of your face. We continued our languorous lip lock, you muttered “your stop” I grunted agreement. We got off at yours, where we stood for two more trains to pass. I stood for stability, I stood for you, I stood for us; your legs both wrapped around my hips. With dedication I discovered you wore no underwear; my two fingers touched you, frantically felt you taught and tender. Locked in this embrace of pulsating frenzy, your head tilted to the left, my fingers tilted into angles I can’t readily recreate, we annihilated everything around us, ensconced in consumption of convergent climax. “Uh, Excuse Me! Which way north and which way south?” The voice of a derelict man entered our vacuum. You broke free from my mouth, tersely stated “That way—south. That way—north,” then resumed. You multi-tasker.

Multi-tasking, though popular with corporate society, becomes difficult in life, becomes a difficulty to juggle, becomes a rut difficult to break. While I was busy experiencing electrification, you were busy eradicating me, the unexpected event, erasing me from your mind so your world would return to normal. I prepared to invite you into my life, implode on you, my impossible craving. The emptiness I had force fed full of rationalizations and justifications and proverbs and cynicism; yes this emptiness decided to contract and through my body coursed the negative energy in positive reverse. I turned you into a religion, stopped resenting the perpetually engaged. I smiled at work. I sang songs about thirteen men and me the only girl in town openly operatic on the train. I relived our moments, relieved at not having defiled my slowly smothered scruples. I crooned on crested butte, but to you my croon was but an echo, weakening as destined distance decried.

You taught me this tragically when you thrust me trembling against an alley wall, introducing me to your throat. You defied Ms Manners and talked with your mouthful; you looked up, misty eyed from the gag reflex, and whispered “You’re so sweet.” With feverish fanaticism you finished and fiendishly wiped your face on my coat. Instead of feeling vehemently vanquished and victoriously virile I vainly envisioned the vexation on my dry cleaner’s face. You smiled sweetly and sumptuously, then secretly scaled the stairs to your studio, and left me silently sentimental.

Theory

You call because your guilty conscience finally ate away through the thick crust of stupid that embraces, ensconces, and equates you. You whimper on the phone saying that you understand why I was mad at you so long ago, but now you want to make amends, you want to make things better, that you’re really truly sorry.

I say to you, “You may be sorry or not, I don’t really care. You just want to get your sorry off of your chest and have me say it’s OK and I forgive you. I’m not going to do that.” Welcome to my grudge, take a number, have a seat. No not there, that’s where Ill Will sits.

But you tell me I’m being unnecessarily cruel and that you really really need to apologize. You whine and beg and want me to hear you out. Fine, I’ll hear out your stupid. And after folding the phone shut and reclining into my pillows I wonder why I will.

Those better at managing human relationships than I tell me that second chances are good. They tell me that people do, in fact, change; that people are good, that people want to better themselves, and that for me to forgive and forget is good for me. I need to accept that people are flawed; doing so will make me a better person. I accept the flaws of these orators, but apparently they don’t realize that.

To prove that people change, they never go for the obvious examples. They never cite stories of truly reformed Jeffery Dahlmers or John Wayne Gacys or “hair folically challenged devotees of pre World War Two German politics.” No; to prove their point that others can change, they tell me *I* am too narcissistic, that *I* am unforgiving, and *I* hold people to standards that are way too high. An assault on my character is proof that people can, and do, change.

So I resolve to test their theory, mostly because they present another “what if” that I need to destroy. I’ve tested their theories before, on all of you. There was the time when I told you I was dating someone and you suddenly had the hots for me down on your knees, then elbows. That was the theory called “Y’all are whores.” When you used an experience of yours, specifically to make yourself appear glamorous and arrogant, do you remember how you cowered then worshiped me when I told you I’d done the same thing, but better, with five stars, glitterati, the press, and in Gucci? That was the theory called “Y’all are tacky bitches.” Remember when I treated you like shit and you kept coming back for more? That was the theory called “Y’all idiots.” And all those theories kept proving my own suspicion: Being Bitter is Justified.

So I go and meet you. We sit down. And you’re nice to me, you pay me compliments, you comment on my weight loss, how remarkably wonderful my skin is, etc. But it ends there; every ensuing moment of the conversation/monologue is spent talking about yourself. You tell me what I did to you has changed you. You’re now a better person because my abandoning you made you a better person. I don’t realize, you tell me, that I had such a profound effect on your self growth and healing. To finish proving you have changed, you tell me that I mustn’t hold onto my preconceived notions, that I shouldn’t be arrogant, and I should accept your truth and not be so skeptical.

You look at me with such pride; you want me to congratulate you. I say, “Good for you.” I get up to leave, but you grab my wrist and pull me back down. You tell me you’re better now, you’re fixed; you’re not like you were. You smile. I pull my tongue off the roof of my mouth. I suspect what you’re about to do, but I hear their voices saying second chance second chance. Your hands are suddenly pressing down hard on my shoulders, your knees are on my wrists in my lap, your crotch is in my face and you’re telling me I want it.

I press my head forward into you as far as I can; you lose balance but grab onto my hair and neck; nails digging into my scalp. I drop my right shoulder to the ground and you fall off of me, then stand up and come at me again, gladiator style. I make a fist and punch you in the diaphragm; you back off, wheeze. I get up and leave resolutely and deftly. I vaguely hear you call after me, but it’s windy, and I don’t care.