Monday, January 31, 2011
There was a movie about McDonald's about the food and a man who ate a cheeseburger vomited so you should know that it is not good for you. Your floor is covered with trash and all that partially digested meat is sitting with bent legs in your stomach. It spits acid into your sphincter and you are going to die. You are so fat and greasy.
You are spending too many hours killing army people on your Xbox Three Hundred and Sixty Degrees and your dog is so lonely. Buy him a tennis ball and pat him on the head. Do something with your life. All your friends are boys and I think you are masturbating into your socks. Open the curtains it is so dark in here.
Are you a different person in the mirror? I don't like what I am seeing. Look at me I am talking to you. You need to wash your hair and I think you are drinking too much. I see the cans outside. You are not so sneaky as you think you are.
And your bean bag chair is leaking beans all over the place. Is this what makes you happy?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
He waits for her to open the door before backing out. All she can see is headlights. She waves, he's nice. Cute in the face but she's sad. Inside now, she cries and driving home he wonders why the prostitutes refuse to kiss him in the mouth. He offers them more money and they take it but the lips, a kiss, the intimacy cannot be paid for. He wonders if he should have asked her for a kiss. He hugged her and he shook her hand and it was awkward and embarrassing.
She is a woman who he has met recently in a normal social situation. She is attractive, not a prostitute and another day he calls her on the phone from work and they chat about things and laugh about their respective uniforms.
"I will take mine off when I get home," he says. "And I will sleep okay."
"Be truthful," she says. "About the little things. It means a lot to me."
He is honest now and he tells her that he does not sleep well in the night. He eats alone and he wears his uniform until it is time for bed. He is ashamed.
"I am happy about the things you tell me," she says. "In a way that transcends your particular circumstances. You are a good person and you deserve to sleep and sleep in your sheets and on your pillow."
"I am not a good person," he says. "I have paid girls for sex with my own money and I don't know how old they are."
She is surprised by his honesty and relieved. "I have given my boss a blow job in his car," she says. "He is not an attractive man."
"I will ask you a question," he says, "and you do not have to answer it. Have you kissed your boss before or after you have sucked his dick in his car?"
She laughs and she says that she has not kissed her boss before or after sucking his dick in the car. She can't imagine it.
"I think about kissing women in the night," he says. "You or prostitutes or any woman in the world. What it feels like, how it tastes to kiss a person in the mouth with clothes on or at the movies or under the covers or in the snow. And to wake up in the morning and to kiss them again. I don't know this kind of kiss and I crave it."
"I will kiss you," she says. "I will hold your hand and you will touch my face and we will kiss in the mouth and on the lips. You will know and you will understand and we will take off our uniforms and I will be a woman and you will be a man and nothing else. We will be together."
"I won't sleep tonight," he says and he doesn't.
In the morning it is Saturday and she waits for him in the park. It has been a long time and she is drinking coffee and he isn't going to come. She is happy now, later in years and in months. But she sometimes wonders about this man who was so honest and broken and ready to walk through the door to everything. She wants to know if this man is kissing a woman in his bed and sleeping at night. He is nice but all she can see are headlights as he backs out of the driveway in her mind.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
In her bed she stopped and said "it's a wide open road" and you knew just what she meant. It's a wonderful feeling, being over, in the beginning, the third instar of a fly. Sixteen days until you die and now you have come alive. Throw off the covers, punch her in the face. The window, the door, get the fuck out of this place. Get in your car or hop on a bus, go fast, stop, go, there's blood on your knuckles but you can't feel any pain. You didn't really punch her in the face but who she is or was or wasn't has been erased from your brain except it hasn't for the memories of vision, hearing, balance, taste, and smell remain. She's okay and it's okay to wink at your heart and high five your mind when you think about that first day on the train and that dress and her breasts and how she caught you peeking at her nipple.
But you are an excitable cell with action potential. Take off your shirt, turn right, there's nothing left in her of you. It doesn't matter who you're with or if you're not or if you read the paper. All paths have now converged at this critical point.
Yet nothing is critical or important or dependent on anything. Your phase velocity has been irrevocably altered and you are leaving the glass at a most peculiar and intoxicating angle. Good bye little boy, it is time to eat the frog and spit on the toad, for this is your wide open road.