I think too loud
and too fast
and come to conclusions in this
frantic freight-train way,
and worried,
want to share how my world
has crumbled
because of my flimsy discoveries.
I'll throw them at you
because that's what I do,
hoping a piece of a discursive musing
will stick with you
and remind you
that I, too,
can be beautiful,
but I'll leave with only
your jagged smirks
and quizzical eyes;
your face drowning
in a glaze,
telling me that
I should have saved
myself the trouble.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Your Rebuttal
my face is gone
from the photos,
scratched away
so there is only you;
your crescent eyes,
your melon-slice smiles,
still there after
i have been erased.
from the photos,
scratched away
so there is only you;
your crescent eyes,
your melon-slice smiles,
still there after
i have been erased.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
What I Wrote in Philosophy Class Today
I'll change hands
to the metal pair,
so that they'll creak
with their rusted gears
And you'll not
want me to touch you
again.
---
Stand fast...my friend
we'll break...on in.
This time...we'll win.
Patience...Again!
You won't take us back alive
You can't take us back alive
We're fine...I guess.
New cross,...old chest.
New scars...this time.
I'mso glad...you're mine!
---
If I hold
you, don't cry.
I want you
to be happy
with me.
If I hold
you, love me.
I want you
to hear my heart
alive in me.
to the metal pair,
so that they'll creak
with their rusted gears
And you'll not
want me to touch you
again.
---
Stand fast...my friend
we'll break...on in.
This time...we'll win.
Patience...Again!
You won't take us back alive
You can't take us back alive
We're fine...I guess.
New cross,...old chest.
New scars...this time.
I'mso glad...you're mine!
---
If I hold
you, don't cry.
I want you
to be happy
with me.
If I hold
you, love me.
I want you
to hear my heart
alive in me.
Horatio; A Response.
He was always
a crunch-corpse,
piled on the sill,
wobbling in the breeze.
He was always
a friend to us,
never buzzing and
never stinging,
never really a threat
at all; he loved us.
Or, rather,
he lived with us.
If there's even
a difference.
a crunch-corpse,
piled on the sill,
wobbling in the breeze.
He was always
a friend to us,
never buzzing and
never stinging,
never really a threat
at all; he loved us.
Or, rather,
he lived with us.
If there's even
a difference.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Glue of Dogs
Your daschund is a horse.
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies:
sleek-look, smooth-coat glue
that whimper-barks on papers,
sweepingly soft rather than sticky;
that avoids the stiff wet-smell while drying,
inedible with a garbage-mouth taste.
That dog-glue would look loud on a page.
Elmer would shake in his New York boots,
but your dog is not a horse.
Your daschund could be a glue-horse though, a glue-dog,
if those janky, short legs should ever break.
Its patter-steps halted by a snap, then art on a page.
“Cats are just smarted than dogs.” – But they make poor glue.
The glue of dogs is loyal and fast drying. Perfect for Man.
The glue-dogs are more precious and immortal in our projects,
with dog-glue I would make a thousand Picaso-esq collages,
and Cory would see them in a gallery and know
the glue-dogs will serve a purpose. They will exists still.
These cohesive canines deserve what horses get!
Dogs would make glue more beautiful than horses ever could!
Los perros harían el pegamento más hermoso!
We love them living, they beg us to love them dead, to use them dead:
thousands of old pets, sticking together, still loved and used!
Yes!
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies!
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies:
sleek-look, smooth-coat glue
that whimper-barks on papers,
sweepingly soft rather than sticky;
that avoids the stiff wet-smell while drying,
inedible with a garbage-mouth taste.
That dog-glue would look loud on a page.
Elmer would shake in his New York boots,
but your dog is not a horse.
Your daschund could be a glue-horse though, a glue-dog,
if those janky, short legs should ever break.
Its patter-steps halted by a snap, then art on a page.
“Cats are just smarted than dogs.” – But they make poor glue.
The glue of dogs is loyal and fast drying. Perfect for Man.
The glue-dogs are more precious and immortal in our projects,
with dog-glue I would make a thousand Picaso-esq collages,
and Cory would see them in a gallery and know
the glue-dogs will serve a purpose. They will exists still.
These cohesive canines deserve what horses get!
Dogs would make glue more beautiful than horses ever could!
Los perros harían el pegamento más hermoso!
We love them living, they beg us to love them dead, to use them dead:
thousands of old pets, sticking together, still loved and used!
Yes!
Your daschund should be made into glue when it dies!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
A Bad Poem About the Past and Nerves
We were nervous
watching the teacher tell
our parents about us
in class; we watched
through the door
from the safe, sterile hall.
Were we well behaved,
and what would they say
about our grades, and
did we pay enough attention?
Were we right enough,
had we known enough
of the right answers to
show that we had read
and that we had studied?
I get nervous now
when I hear yelling
or crying, especially women,
and I don't remember much
of school or childhood.
I don't remember much
of anything then.
watching the teacher tell
our parents about us
in class; we watched
through the door
from the safe, sterile hall.
Were we well behaved,
and what would they say
about our grades, and
did we pay enough attention?
Were we right enough,
had we known enough
of the right answers to
show that we had read
and that we had studied?
I get nervous now
when I hear yelling
or crying, especially women,
and I don't remember much
of school or childhood.
I don't remember much
of anything then.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
15 Minutes, 10/9
(a twenty something male sits in a room reading a book taking notes. another twenty something enters excitedly. they are friends.)
I've got it!
I'm fine, thanks for asking. How are you today?
What?
Nothing. What are you so excited about?
Just that I've finally got it. I've figured it out.
And what is it that you've figured out.
I know what women want!
I doubt that with every fiber of my being, but I'll bite. What do women want.
Well, no. There's a whole story thing. But I know now!
Okay, okay. What it is?
(the excited one stars to pace.)
Okay, so I'm walking around campus today, right?
Yeah?
And I come up on this skinny, lanky hipster kid. But he's not your run of the mill hipster kid. He's wearing some early nineties bicycle hat and has on these damn-near elbow length bicycle gloves. I should also point out he was on, or, rather, straddling his vintage looking bike.
A bicycle hipster?
Yes!
Okay?
No, but he was talking to a hipster chick! She had on the skinny jeans, the flats, the whole deal, right? But I could tell by the way that they were talking that this bicycle-hipster guy was into this girl, like he wanted her and whatnot.
Right.
Right. But he's got this weird timid thing going on. It's like he's playing shy or aloof so she'll notice him more or something.
Like ignoring her?
Not exactly, but making her push the action. And then it hit me.
What women want?
Yes! And it's not that. This bicycle hipster guy is obviously into this girl. Like, they're friends or whatever now, but you can just tell the way a guy will talk to a girl what he's thinking about. But he wasn't doing anything with that.
Just sort of languidly chatting it up?
Right! Man, that is not how anything happens. The funny part was that she was obviously into him as well. I mean, you can just see these things. But nothing was happening. They should have been setting up a date, or holding hands, or...shit I don't know, making out or something. But nothing was happening.
I follow...
So you can't just sit back with ladies. I've been doing that my whole life. I've got the cute, playful act down. I've got the patent. But there has to be a follow up. With girls I'm always worried about coming on too strong and seeming like an ass.
Isn't there a middle ground?
Yes! There is! And it's so obvious. You can let a girl know you're into her, sort of drive the action, without being a forward crazy jerk. You can still be playful and cutesy...
Thank God
...without just letting all this potential sit there. There is nothing wrong letting a girl know you're into her want want to get to know her better; physically, mentally, or whatever. People like that. I like that. You have to show interest. Or it goes no where.
And women want this?
Well they want action. Everyone wants action, but if a guy acts he's got something of an advantage I think. And without action, I mean, no one is getting laid.
And that's no good.
(the excited one sits down. he is tired from being so animated.)
Not at all. I'm just glad I've realized this before it was too late, you know? I could have been married by know. I think normal girls, the really worthwhile people even, are going to be a little timid.
No, no. I agree. Forward girls, at least in my humble experience, tend to be a little insane. Lots of fun, but lots of crazy.
Now that I've got the plan, man, all I've got to do is put it in action.
Who's your first target.
Target's a harsh word, I don't intend to shoot anybody. But, since you asked, it's Jamie. I think I'll talk to her.
Nice choice. Godspeed. Now, if you'll excuse me I must get back to my Malcolm X paper.
Well I will leave you too it. I gots a lady to talk to
(the excited one stands up and walks out of the room. the one with the paper raises his fist and calls after.)
Fight the power!
I've got it!
I'm fine, thanks for asking. How are you today?
What?
Nothing. What are you so excited about?
Just that I've finally got it. I've figured it out.
And what is it that you've figured out.
I know what women want!
I doubt that with every fiber of my being, but I'll bite. What do women want.
Well, no. There's a whole story thing. But I know now!
Okay, okay. What it is?
(the excited one stars to pace.)
Okay, so I'm walking around campus today, right?
Yeah?
And I come up on this skinny, lanky hipster kid. But he's not your run of the mill hipster kid. He's wearing some early nineties bicycle hat and has on these damn-near elbow length bicycle gloves. I should also point out he was on, or, rather, straddling his vintage looking bike.
A bicycle hipster?
Yes!
Okay?
No, but he was talking to a hipster chick! She had on the skinny jeans, the flats, the whole deal, right? But I could tell by the way that they were talking that this bicycle-hipster guy was into this girl, like he wanted her and whatnot.
Right.
Right. But he's got this weird timid thing going on. It's like he's playing shy or aloof so she'll notice him more or something.
Like ignoring her?
Not exactly, but making her push the action. And then it hit me.
What women want?
Yes! And it's not that. This bicycle hipster guy is obviously into this girl. Like, they're friends or whatever now, but you can just tell the way a guy will talk to a girl what he's thinking about. But he wasn't doing anything with that.
Just sort of languidly chatting it up?
Right! Man, that is not how anything happens. The funny part was that she was obviously into him as well. I mean, you can just see these things. But nothing was happening. They should have been setting up a date, or holding hands, or...shit I don't know, making out or something. But nothing was happening.
I follow...
So you can't just sit back with ladies. I've been doing that my whole life. I've got the cute, playful act down. I've got the patent. But there has to be a follow up. With girls I'm always worried about coming on too strong and seeming like an ass.
Isn't there a middle ground?
Yes! There is! And it's so obvious. You can let a girl know you're into her, sort of drive the action, without being a forward crazy jerk. You can still be playful and cutesy...
Thank God
...without just letting all this potential sit there. There is nothing wrong letting a girl know you're into her want want to get to know her better; physically, mentally, or whatever. People like that. I like that. You have to show interest. Or it goes no where.
And women want this?
Well they want action. Everyone wants action, but if a guy acts he's got something of an advantage I think. And without action, I mean, no one is getting laid.
And that's no good.
(the excited one sits down. he is tired from being so animated.)
Not at all. I'm just glad I've realized this before it was too late, you know? I could have been married by know. I think normal girls, the really worthwhile people even, are going to be a little timid.
No, no. I agree. Forward girls, at least in my humble experience, tend to be a little insane. Lots of fun, but lots of crazy.
Now that I've got the plan, man, all I've got to do is put it in action.
Who's your first target.
Target's a harsh word, I don't intend to shoot anybody. But, since you asked, it's Jamie. I think I'll talk to her.
Nice choice. Godspeed. Now, if you'll excuse me I must get back to my Malcolm X paper.
Well I will leave you too it. I gots a lady to talk to
(the excited one stands up and walks out of the room. the one with the paper raises his fist and calls after.)
Fight the power!
Liprings
I don't like liprings.
I've been dazzled by the expert way
that eyebrowrings glare off shining faces
and bounce down to the eyes to substantiate
in even the longest of stares and blankest
self aware beauty into a warm capture-look.
But I don't like liprings.
I've been turned-on by the way
belly-bottonrings dangle or shine
their majesty unto torsos, highlighting
the pure sex in the center of gravity,
damning my attention to lusty intention.
But I don't like liprings
I've seen the husk of protesters
turned glamours artist by a nosering,
adding senseless class and old nobility,
Weighting a face-line posture with sparkle
and shamelessly becoming a fetish.
But I don't like liprings.
There's something unbecoming
about kissing a piece of tackle.
I've been dazzled by the expert way
that eyebrowrings glare off shining faces
and bounce down to the eyes to substantiate
in even the longest of stares and blankest
self aware beauty into a warm capture-look.
But I don't like liprings.
I've been turned-on by the way
belly-bottonrings dangle or shine
their majesty unto torsos, highlighting
the pure sex in the center of gravity,
damning my attention to lusty intention.
But I don't like liprings
I've seen the husk of protesters
turned glamours artist by a nosering,
adding senseless class and old nobility,
Weighting a face-line posture with sparkle
and shamelessly becoming a fetish.
But I don't like liprings.
There's something unbecoming
about kissing a piece of tackle.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
15 Minutes, 9/7
(a man in his mid-thirties enters a living room where a teen in watching t.v.)
Did you find a date yet?
What? What do you mean?
Eve told me. Did you find someone to go with yet?
What exactly did Aunt Eve tell you?
She told me about the prom. You really ought to go. It might seem silly now, but as the years wear on these things get more important. You think about them, you know?
No. Why would she tell you?
Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about Eve. Get a date.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver. This always happens. Let me just do this my way.
First off, watch your mouth. Second, no.
No what?
I don’t like your way. Your way’s no fun. Go find a date and go to your senior prom.
Please, could just leave me alone. Just this once. I don’t want to go to prom. Really. It’s stupid. I don’t like the music, I don’t like to dance, I don’t really like the people I go to school with so I really just don’t want to go.
You just can’t find a date, can you?
Tarver, please!
What? I was ugly AND unpopular in high school. I still managed to snag a date to both junior and senior prom though. I even got laid.
Should I clap? What do you want from me? This isn’t a big deal. Just stay out.
Look, you can’t fool me. If you were that pissed you would have ran off to your room by now. You’re still here pretended to be angry at me, though, so it’s obvious you want my advice with the ladies. That’s fine. Your Aunt Eve is a beautiful lady that I happened to trick into loving me. I have the secrets, big guy.
(the teen turns off the t.v. and fully addresses the man.)
Would you like me to leave? Would that send the right message? I could go slam my door and yell or something, but I thought I would try to present myself as calm and serious, but that doesn’t work with you. I’m not going to prom, okay? That’s that.
That’s that. Okay.
(the teen turns the t.v back on. The man waits a moment before continuing.)
Hey, whose that cute girl with the short hair your bring over here? Ask her.
Elizabeth? She’s my friend, like one of my best. I’m not going to ask her to go to a stupid dance that she probably thinks the same about as I do.
Fine. Yeah, you’re probably right. What do I know? You know…yeah. Proms are sort of silly. You just dress up to dance and have a good time. I mean, nobody likes looking good and creating memories. And who would even want to go to a stupid after-party, because who honestly stays at the dance the whole time? And really, who wouldn’t want to be let off the hook from their curfew for a night because of a special occasion that a certain uncle finds vital to a young person’s life. I mean, really? YOU. ARE. STUPID.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver.
(the teen storms to his feet and out of the room)
Where are you taking that sailor’s mouth to?
(leaving, the teen answers.)
I’m getting the phone.
(the man answers to himself, smiling.)
God damn right you are.
Did you find a date yet?
What? What do you mean?
Eve told me. Did you find someone to go with yet?
What exactly did Aunt Eve tell you?
She told me about the prom. You really ought to go. It might seem silly now, but as the years wear on these things get more important. You think about them, you know?
No. Why would she tell you?
Look, it’s fine. Don’t worry about Eve. Get a date.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver. This always happens. Let me just do this my way.
First off, watch your mouth. Second, no.
No what?
I don’t like your way. Your way’s no fun. Go find a date and go to your senior prom.
Please, could just leave me alone. Just this once. I don’t want to go to prom. Really. It’s stupid. I don’t like the music, I don’t like to dance, I don’t really like the people I go to school with so I really just don’t want to go.
You just can’t find a date, can you?
Tarver, please!
What? I was ugly AND unpopular in high school. I still managed to snag a date to both junior and senior prom though. I even got laid.
Should I clap? What do you want from me? This isn’t a big deal. Just stay out.
Look, you can’t fool me. If you were that pissed you would have ran off to your room by now. You’re still here pretended to be angry at me, though, so it’s obvious you want my advice with the ladies. That’s fine. Your Aunt Eve is a beautiful lady that I happened to trick into loving me. I have the secrets, big guy.
(the teen turns off the t.v. and fully addresses the man.)
Would you like me to leave? Would that send the right message? I could go slam my door and yell or something, but I thought I would try to present myself as calm and serious, but that doesn’t work with you. I’m not going to prom, okay? That’s that.
That’s that. Okay.
(the teen turns the t.v back on. The man waits a moment before continuing.)
Hey, whose that cute girl with the short hair your bring over here? Ask her.
Elizabeth? She’s my friend, like one of my best. I’m not going to ask her to go to a stupid dance that she probably thinks the same about as I do.
Fine. Yeah, you’re probably right. What do I know? You know…yeah. Proms are sort of silly. You just dress up to dance and have a good time. I mean, nobody likes looking good and creating memories. And who would even want to go to a stupid after-party, because who honestly stays at the dance the whole time? And really, who wouldn’t want to be let off the hook from their curfew for a night because of a special occasion that a certain uncle finds vital to a young person’s life. I mean, really? YOU. ARE. STUPID.
Damn it, Uncle Tarver.
(the teen storms to his feet and out of the room)
Where are you taking that sailor’s mouth to?
(leaving, the teen answers.)
I’m getting the phone.
(the man answers to himself, smiling.)
God damn right you are.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
The Mercenaries
We clutch plastic guns,
belly-crawling on beige carpet
draped in our father's flannel,
with underwear on our heads.
Invisible villains are killed
as we whisper through the enemy lines
invading the kitchen cabinets.
Later, we capture the laundry room.
The mission is accomplished;
we belly-crawl down the hall.
Passing Tiffany's bedroom,
we reach homebase.
We reload our weapons,
sharing the orange darts.
We agree on new emergencies
with underwear on our heads.
belly-crawling on beige carpet
draped in our father's flannel,
with underwear on our heads.
Invisible villains are killed
as we whisper through the enemy lines
invading the kitchen cabinets.
Later, we capture the laundry room.
The mission is accomplished;
we belly-crawl down the hall.
Passing Tiffany's bedroom,
we reach homebase.
We reload our weapons,
sharing the orange darts.
We agree on new emergencies
with underwear on our heads.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Things I Remember from the Dreams Where I Die
The faint taste of oranges whisper-hushes its way into conversations; I fail to realize the problems with this. Forgive the weakness of my concentration.
You. You are always there. You have a trip-wire tongue and will never kiss me. I've tried to save you many times; rarely am I successful.
The melting kelly green of hyper grass that grows only where I cannot imagine concrete.
A tall, elderly man who is my grandfather, but is nameless and so frighteningly vague.
The empty sense of nobility in self-destruction drapes itself around my shoulders.
Falling for dangerous lengths of time is typical.
Tears. Genuine tears without hyperventilation; just loss. Always loss.
And that ironic waking satisfaction.
You. You are always there. You have a trip-wire tongue and will never kiss me. I've tried to save you many times; rarely am I successful.
The melting kelly green of hyper grass that grows only where I cannot imagine concrete.
A tall, elderly man who is my grandfather, but is nameless and so frighteningly vague.
The empty sense of nobility in self-destruction drapes itself around my shoulders.
Falling for dangerous lengths of time is typical.
Tears. Genuine tears without hyperventilation; just loss. Always loss.
And that ironic waking satisfaction.
15 minutes, 9/1 (2)
(two men in their early twenties are in a car driving to a theatre to catch a movie. they are close friends.)
What time does the movie start, again?
9:30. But I want to be there by 9.
No, totally. I hate missing the previews.
Thank you! Christ, it is so annoying when people can't get to a movie on time. Let alone when they drag me into what ever evil plan they have for settling their blood-lust for being late.
You know, I don't even like to miss the fun little trivia slides. There are all so outdated, but it's still fun. That, and all of the advertisements are hilarious. God, that dentist one is too funny. The apple's teeth in that cartoon are way too damn huge.
Yeah, no fruit should have teeth that big.
Or teeth at all, but I'm willing to digress for a good time.
You know you always made me late to movies?
Oh God. Don't say it, please.
What?
I know where this is going, and I'm going to just delete it now before it even gets out into the world.
Okay, grand poo bah, what was I going to say?
You were going to mention, for what would undoubtedly be marked as the near-infinite time, how Vera would make you late to movies.
So?
So? So? It's played out my friend. You guys broke up three months ago. I think the time for peppering you friends with bitter remember-rants has long since passed there.
So I can't make a relevant comment about the conversation we're having. Thank you for editing my speaking habits, I've been meaning to have less control over my motor functions lately.
Suck my cock. I just don't want to hear about Vera. And it's because I'm a good friend.
You ask me for oral sex because you're a good friend, too?
I see how pissed thinking about her makes you. And since you can't call her up and brake up with her again, there really is no reason to bring her up at all. It sucks for me to hear about it, and it sucks for you to think about, so just don't bring it up.
Shit still bothers me, though.
Why? Just let it go. She is out of the picture.
Not entirely.
What do you mean? I thought you guys were done-zo?
Were are, she's just not out of the picture.
Explain to me this picture, because with as much as you complain about Our Lady V, it could be an interesting portrait.
I mean I still see her around. She's friends with all of my friends. She unavoidable.
Okay.
Okay. And we talk sometimes.
Okay. And?
And what? I'm trying to be friendly. There's nothing wrong with that.
You guys are sleeping together aren't you?
What?
You're sleeping with her again, right?
We're not together or anything.
But you are having sex.
Perchance.
Hell, man. You are a walking contradiction.
How so, Mr. Moral High Ground?
Please. It's not like there's anything inherently wrong with what you're doing. You're just a dumb ass for doing it and you know why.
Enlighten me.
Because you hated that relationship. I like sex as much as the next guy, but I'm not an emo whiny ass like you. I can see it now. You're going to mistake all the wonderful sex with your ex as this crazy idea that things might work out again. You're an idiot and you're torturing yourself.
What makes you think it wouldn't work out?
It had a shot. A long one if I remember right. And you complained your way through that. Do yourself a favor and stop living in your fantasy world where revisiting old flames will somehow develop into this ridiculous fairytale that you somehow passed over the first time.
People change.
Not likely.
What time does the movie start, again?
9:30. But I want to be there by 9.
No, totally. I hate missing the previews.
Thank you! Christ, it is so annoying when people can't get to a movie on time. Let alone when they drag me into what ever evil plan they have for settling their blood-lust for being late.
You know, I don't even like to miss the fun little trivia slides. There are all so outdated, but it's still fun. That, and all of the advertisements are hilarious. God, that dentist one is too funny. The apple's teeth in that cartoon are way too damn huge.
Yeah, no fruit should have teeth that big.
Or teeth at all, but I'm willing to digress for a good time.
You know you always made me late to movies?
Oh God. Don't say it, please.
What?
I know where this is going, and I'm going to just delete it now before it even gets out into the world.
Okay, grand poo bah, what was I going to say?
You were going to mention, for what would undoubtedly be marked as the near-infinite time, how Vera would make you late to movies.
So?
So? So? It's played out my friend. You guys broke up three months ago. I think the time for peppering you friends with bitter remember-rants has long since passed there.
So I can't make a relevant comment about the conversation we're having. Thank you for editing my speaking habits, I've been meaning to have less control over my motor functions lately.
Suck my cock. I just don't want to hear about Vera. And it's because I'm a good friend.
You ask me for oral sex because you're a good friend, too?
I see how pissed thinking about her makes you. And since you can't call her up and brake up with her again, there really is no reason to bring her up at all. It sucks for me to hear about it, and it sucks for you to think about, so just don't bring it up.
Shit still bothers me, though.
Why? Just let it go. She is out of the picture.
Not entirely.
What do you mean? I thought you guys were done-zo?
Were are, she's just not out of the picture.
Explain to me this picture, because with as much as you complain about Our Lady V, it could be an interesting portrait.
I mean I still see her around. She's friends with all of my friends. She unavoidable.
Okay.
Okay. And we talk sometimes.
Okay. And?
And what? I'm trying to be friendly. There's nothing wrong with that.
You guys are sleeping together aren't you?
What?
You're sleeping with her again, right?
We're not together or anything.
But you are having sex.
Perchance.
Hell, man. You are a walking contradiction.
How so, Mr. Moral High Ground?
Please. It's not like there's anything inherently wrong with what you're doing. You're just a dumb ass for doing it and you know why.
Enlighten me.
Because you hated that relationship. I like sex as much as the next guy, but I'm not an emo whiny ass like you. I can see it now. You're going to mistake all the wonderful sex with your ex as this crazy idea that things might work out again. You're an idiot and you're torturing yourself.
What makes you think it wouldn't work out?
It had a shot. A long one if I remember right. And you complained your way through that. Do yourself a favor and stop living in your fantasy world where revisiting old flames will somehow develop into this ridiculous fairytale that you somehow passed over the first time.
People change.
Not likely.
15 minutes, 9/1
(two older teens are in a bedroom staring at an open lap-top at a desk. a boy is sitting in the desk's chair while a girl looks over his shoulder.)
No, this is stupid. I can't make her spin clockwise, damn it.
Calm down. Just move something in front of the screen.
(she waves her hand in front of the screen.)
See, clockwise. Okay....okay, yeah she just switched back to counter-clockwise.
I can't. She won't change for me. I can't believe I can't make the ballerina spin the other way.
Maybe you just have to relax your eyes, like one of those hidden picture dealies.
Is that what you're doing?
No, not really. I'm just sort of telling my brain to switch her around.
Why can't I do that?
Why are you so worried about how the ballerina is spinning?
It's a test thing. A right brain vs. left brain test. If you see the ballerina spinning counter-clockwise then you're left brain, and if she spins clockwise then you're right brain.
What if you see her doing both?
I can't get her to switch. I'm left brained. This is not right.
Why are you worried about the side of your brain? Just go with the flow.
No, see, it's not like that. I'm left brained, but left brainers completely go against who I am.
Like an enemy sort of thing? Oh no!
No, I'm serious. Here, right here. It says that left brained people are more logic oriented, can see the details, focused.
Those are nice.
Yeah, but the right brained people are described as feeling, emotional, creative, big-picture oriented. I always saw myself as a right brain person.
I guess that makes me a centrist. Well, buck up. It's not the end of the world. Not yet, anywho, that's 2012.
Why can't I make her spin...
Just relax. All you have to do is change your life plans. Listen, just stop writing poetry, stop drawing those cartoons you do, and just pick up engineering and statistics. This way you can actually have a fulfilling career that does something for society AND will pay you a decent wage. Win-win, homeboy.
That's horrifying.
(he closes the computer and leaves the computer desk.)
I mean, I know what I'm into. I'm creative. Artistic. Right?
Sure.
I can be an artsy type. That's who I am. That's who I've always been.
That's the spirit, tiger.
Besides, no I think I'm right here. That's just one test.
It WAS on a news site. A BRITISH news site. They are pretty prim and proper with their reporting.
Yeah, but millions of people probably did the same test. And who knows whether or not it's even accurate? It's the Internet, after all.
Yeah, but the Internet is pretty much the one collected spot for all of human knowledge and experience.
Oh, God. I'm really not meant to be an artist am I?
I have the feeling this is about more than just the ballerina.
My mom is thinking about sending me to State.
But she said you could go to the institute. I thought that was a done deal?
It was, I thought.
But State has NO creative writing program. Like, at all. And why wouldn't she send you to Tech? It's right there. Tech even has a respectable English department, and I say that unbiasedly though proudly of my future Alma-mater.
I don't know. I was excited. Everything was good. The Institute was here, you'd be at Tech, we could still hang out. I could stay at home. I don't know what happened. I think it has something to do with "life experience" or something. She's putting me into a dorm.
That, all respect to your mother, is bullshit. You don't need a different area code or zip code for 'life experience.' You already got into the Institute, right? Just go. That's all you've been talking about since, literally, sixth grade.
I can't do that to her. She's my mom. And she's paying for it. I, honestly, have no leverage.
But you can talk to her for Christ sakes. This was your thing.
I know. I know. I don't know what's going on any more. Everything is dying.
No, this is stupid. I can't make her spin clockwise, damn it.
Calm down. Just move something in front of the screen.
(she waves her hand in front of the screen.)
See, clockwise. Okay....okay, yeah she just switched back to counter-clockwise.
I can't. She won't change for me. I can't believe I can't make the ballerina spin the other way.
Maybe you just have to relax your eyes, like one of those hidden picture dealies.
Is that what you're doing?
No, not really. I'm just sort of telling my brain to switch her around.
Why can't I do that?
Why are you so worried about how the ballerina is spinning?
It's a test thing. A right brain vs. left brain test. If you see the ballerina spinning counter-clockwise then you're left brain, and if she spins clockwise then you're right brain.
What if you see her doing both?
I can't get her to switch. I'm left brained. This is not right.
Why are you worried about the side of your brain? Just go with the flow.
No, see, it's not like that. I'm left brained, but left brainers completely go against who I am.
Like an enemy sort of thing? Oh no!
No, I'm serious. Here, right here. It says that left brained people are more logic oriented, can see the details, focused.
Those are nice.
Yeah, but the right brained people are described as feeling, emotional, creative, big-picture oriented. I always saw myself as a right brain person.
I guess that makes me a centrist. Well, buck up. It's not the end of the world. Not yet, anywho, that's 2012.
Why can't I make her spin...
Just relax. All you have to do is change your life plans. Listen, just stop writing poetry, stop drawing those cartoons you do, and just pick up engineering and statistics. This way you can actually have a fulfilling career that does something for society AND will pay you a decent wage. Win-win, homeboy.
That's horrifying.
(he closes the computer and leaves the computer desk.)
I mean, I know what I'm into. I'm creative. Artistic. Right?
Sure.
I can be an artsy type. That's who I am. That's who I've always been.
That's the spirit, tiger.
Besides, no I think I'm right here. That's just one test.
It WAS on a news site. A BRITISH news site. They are pretty prim and proper with their reporting.
Yeah, but millions of people probably did the same test. And who knows whether or not it's even accurate? It's the Internet, after all.
Yeah, but the Internet is pretty much the one collected spot for all of human knowledge and experience.
Oh, God. I'm really not meant to be an artist am I?
I have the feeling this is about more than just the ballerina.
My mom is thinking about sending me to State.
But she said you could go to the institute. I thought that was a done deal?
It was, I thought.
But State has NO creative writing program. Like, at all. And why wouldn't she send you to Tech? It's right there. Tech even has a respectable English department, and I say that unbiasedly though proudly of my future Alma-mater.
I don't know. I was excited. Everything was good. The Institute was here, you'd be at Tech, we could still hang out. I could stay at home. I don't know what happened. I think it has something to do with "life experience" or something. She's putting me into a dorm.
That, all respect to your mother, is bullshit. You don't need a different area code or zip code for 'life experience.' You already got into the Institute, right? Just go. That's all you've been talking about since, literally, sixth grade.
I can't do that to her. She's my mom. And she's paying for it. I, honestly, have no leverage.
But you can talk to her for Christ sakes. This was your thing.
I know. I know. I don't know what's going on any more. Everything is dying.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
15 minutes, 8/31
(two men are in an old pick-up truck driving down a south Texas highway in the haze of the afternoon heat. Big Buck wears old jeans, beat-up brown and black cowboy boots, a worn out cowboy hat, and a red pearl-snap shirt. Dave wears a black t-shirt, khaki shorts, a green poker visor, old white Vans canvas shoes, high-top socks, and big aviator shades. Buck has a week's stubble and is heavy set, but not overweight. Dave is clean shaven, skinny, and smoking a cigar. Buck is driving.)
So tell me Buck, in lou of having no radio in this tank, how long have you lived in the myriad heat of this listless desert?
Whole life. I like it. It's nice.
Nice? There is nothing here to trust! Just sand and sparse weeds. It's wild man, and I don't know how you stand it.
I do alright. It calms you down. Where did you say you were from, anyway?
Me? Oh, Buck. You know, it's funny you should ask. I'm from a beautiful place with trees and grass. Plenty to trust up there, and the strangest part is where I'm from, we actually have seasons!
Alright, where is it?
Missouri! Cheers.
(Dave grabs under his seat, pulls out a fifth of wild turkey and takes a swig before putting it back.)
Missouri is my home, the land that I love, and what not. Now, don't get me wrong, Texas is dandy and fine. Fine and dandy. An alright vibe for a visit or quick job like so...
Right.
...but it is no place for weirdness. Not my type of weirdness There really are no safety nets out here, man. A man like me, I need as many nets as I can get. You never know what trouble will follow you, stalk you, or hunt you down. Especially when you're flirting with trouble. You need nets. Buck, as I hope you can tell, I am not in the circus. I will impress no one performing without nets. Do you sort of get what I'm saying?
I suppose. I would guess you're just a little high-strung though.
What do you mean, good sir?
Well, down here, trouble ain't no different then it would be in, say, a place like Missouri. It's just the setting is different. There are different rules to how you have to handle yourself.
What do you mean by different rules?
I mean, you...well, it's like this: You seem worried. And seeing as how on this particular errand we're running we're saddled up as partners, that's grating on my nerves a bit.
Look man, I'm cool. I didn't mean I'm not cool. I'm fine for what we're doing here.
Ok, but listen. You're jumpy. That's no good. You might be able to be jumpy and, shit, what do the Jews call it...neurotic? You might be able to pull off neurotic up in Missouri with those St. Louey gang bangers. But down here, it's not like that.
How is it down here, Buck?
It's Hell. The Mexicans don't give two shits either way. The cops are in on everything and hate everyone. It's hotter than the devil's nut sack which drives all the outsiders batshit, no offense...
None taken.
...but everyone tries to stay cool. If the Mexicans are cool, which I would say they got a natural, tough coolness to them anyway, then the cops can stay cool, and if the cops are cool, and the Mexicans are cool, well then we gotta be cool or someone's gonna want us real dead real quick just for not being cool. So you're either cool because you love Texas, or you're cool because you don't want to get shot in the face.
I don't want to get shot in the face, Buck.
(Buck pulls a .357 magnum from under his chair)
Then please cool the hell out, stop your weird shit-talking, and listen to the sounds of the road because you're grating on my nerves, alight fella?
Yeah, sure, yeah, that is...uh, yes, not a problem.
Alright then. No offense.
None taken.
(He keeps the gun on Dave for a moment then puts it back)
Where the hell did Boss Acuna find you anyway. I usually run with a tough looking mean Mexican sum bitch who doesn't know English and can't piss me off for talking anyway.
Well, I met him in Houston, I think he...
I didn't mean that to have an answer.
Oh rhetorical, ok I get it. Sorry.
(Dave is obviously nervous and complacent. He stares out the window still smoking his cigar)
We need gas. The next station I gotta top off. I don't know how many more we're gonna see. Hopefully there's one around here.
(Dave looks up to see if Buck was talking to him, Bucks eyes are on the road. Dave keeps his eyes out his window.)
(time passes. they continue on.)
(Eventually they pull up to an old gas station)
Hey there spaceman, wake up. I'm gonna go pay for this and take a piss. You pump it. You want something from inside.
No, I believe I'll be fine.
Suit yourself.
(Buck walks into the station where there in an attendant at the register. He is an elderly, but alter man.)
Howdy there, how can I help you?
Howdy. I'm just getting some gas on, looks like pump three. Do y'all have a pisser?
Yessir, right around back.
Cool beans. Say, real quick, you seen any trucks come through here lately? Any big rigs, I mean, for that chain of Aucna Mexican restaurants?
Naw, can't say I see any stop by. Maybe one's passed by, but I don't recall. Mind me asking why?
Nothing important, I'm just following one a bit. A friend of mine is driving. Anyway, pisser?
Right back yonder.
Thank you kindly.
(back outside Dave is filling the tank and leaning against the door of the truck. he is thinking aloud.)
Yep. Yep. Time to get weird.
(Dave opens the door of the truck and pulls out a long bag and an expensive suit case. He sets the suitcase down with care just behind the truck and starts riffling through the long bag)
(Buck exits the bathroom, pays the attendant and starts to head back outside)
What the hell are you doing.
(Dave pops out from behind the truck with a shotgun)
Rocking
(BANG.)
And Rolling.
(BANG.)
(Buck is dead. Dave casual walks into the station holding the gun open like bird hunter walking with gun safety in mind.)
Excuse, old timer, open the register, please.
What the hell is this?
Wrong answer.
(He lifts the gun. BANG.)
Time to build a net.
(Dave takes his time messing with the register but fails to open hit. BANG. The shot opens the register.)
Bingo was his name-o.
(Dave fills his pockets with a surprising amount of cash and then spends time choosing a bag of chips and a tall can of beer, which he bags himself. He casually walks out of the station and sets his snacks in the truck. He loads the long bag into the truck and then the expensive suit case. He pats his pockets, missing something thing)
Keys.
(Dave takes the keys off of Buck and heads back down the highway in the opposite direction singing "On The Road Again" at the top of his lungs.)
(the gas station is still and bloody.)
So tell me Buck, in lou of having no radio in this tank, how long have you lived in the myriad heat of this listless desert?
Whole life. I like it. It's nice.
Nice? There is nothing here to trust! Just sand and sparse weeds. It's wild man, and I don't know how you stand it.
I do alright. It calms you down. Where did you say you were from, anyway?
Me? Oh, Buck. You know, it's funny you should ask. I'm from a beautiful place with trees and grass. Plenty to trust up there, and the strangest part is where I'm from, we actually have seasons!
Alright, where is it?
Missouri! Cheers.
(Dave grabs under his seat, pulls out a fifth of wild turkey and takes a swig before putting it back.)
Missouri is my home, the land that I love, and what not. Now, don't get me wrong, Texas is dandy and fine. Fine and dandy. An alright vibe for a visit or quick job like so...
Right.
...but it is no place for weirdness. Not my type of weirdness There really are no safety nets out here, man. A man like me, I need as many nets as I can get. You never know what trouble will follow you, stalk you, or hunt you down. Especially when you're flirting with trouble. You need nets. Buck, as I hope you can tell, I am not in the circus. I will impress no one performing without nets. Do you sort of get what I'm saying?
I suppose. I would guess you're just a little high-strung though.
What do you mean, good sir?
Well, down here, trouble ain't no different then it would be in, say, a place like Missouri. It's just the setting is different. There are different rules to how you have to handle yourself.
What do you mean by different rules?
I mean, you...well, it's like this: You seem worried. And seeing as how on this particular errand we're running we're saddled up as partners, that's grating on my nerves a bit.
Look man, I'm cool. I didn't mean I'm not cool. I'm fine for what we're doing here.
Ok, but listen. You're jumpy. That's no good. You might be able to be jumpy and, shit, what do the Jews call it...neurotic? You might be able to pull off neurotic up in Missouri with those St. Louey gang bangers. But down here, it's not like that.
How is it down here, Buck?
It's Hell. The Mexicans don't give two shits either way. The cops are in on everything and hate everyone. It's hotter than the devil's nut sack which drives all the outsiders batshit, no offense...
None taken.
...but everyone tries to stay cool. If the Mexicans are cool, which I would say they got a natural, tough coolness to them anyway, then the cops can stay cool, and if the cops are cool, and the Mexicans are cool, well then we gotta be cool or someone's gonna want us real dead real quick just for not being cool. So you're either cool because you love Texas, or you're cool because you don't want to get shot in the face.
I don't want to get shot in the face, Buck.
(Buck pulls a .357 magnum from under his chair)
Then please cool the hell out, stop your weird shit-talking, and listen to the sounds of the road because you're grating on my nerves, alight fella?
Yeah, sure, yeah, that is...uh, yes, not a problem.
Alright then. No offense.
None taken.
(He keeps the gun on Dave for a moment then puts it back)
Where the hell did Boss Acuna find you anyway. I usually run with a tough looking mean Mexican sum bitch who doesn't know English and can't piss me off for talking anyway.
Well, I met him in Houston, I think he...
I didn't mean that to have an answer.
Oh rhetorical, ok I get it. Sorry.
(Dave is obviously nervous and complacent. He stares out the window still smoking his cigar)
We need gas. The next station I gotta top off. I don't know how many more we're gonna see. Hopefully there's one around here.
(Dave looks up to see if Buck was talking to him, Bucks eyes are on the road. Dave keeps his eyes out his window.)
(time passes. they continue on.)
(Eventually they pull up to an old gas station)
Hey there spaceman, wake up. I'm gonna go pay for this and take a piss. You pump it. You want something from inside.
No, I believe I'll be fine.
Suit yourself.
(Buck walks into the station where there in an attendant at the register. He is an elderly, but alter man.)
Howdy there, how can I help you?
Howdy. I'm just getting some gas on, looks like pump three. Do y'all have a pisser?
Yessir, right around back.
Cool beans. Say, real quick, you seen any trucks come through here lately? Any big rigs, I mean, for that chain of Aucna Mexican restaurants?
Naw, can't say I see any stop by. Maybe one's passed by, but I don't recall. Mind me asking why?
Nothing important, I'm just following one a bit. A friend of mine is driving. Anyway, pisser?
Right back yonder.
Thank you kindly.
(back outside Dave is filling the tank and leaning against the door of the truck. he is thinking aloud.)
Yep. Yep. Time to get weird.
(Dave opens the door of the truck and pulls out a long bag and an expensive suit case. He sets the suitcase down with care just behind the truck and starts riffling through the long bag)
(Buck exits the bathroom, pays the attendant and starts to head back outside)
What the hell are you doing.
(Dave pops out from behind the truck with a shotgun)
Rocking
(BANG.)
And Rolling.
(BANG.)
(Buck is dead. Dave casual walks into the station holding the gun open like bird hunter walking with gun safety in mind.)
Excuse, old timer, open the register, please.
What the hell is this?
Wrong answer.
(He lifts the gun. BANG.)
Time to build a net.
(Dave takes his time messing with the register but fails to open hit. BANG. The shot opens the register.)
Bingo was his name-o.
(Dave fills his pockets with a surprising amount of cash and then spends time choosing a bag of chips and a tall can of beer, which he bags himself. He casually walks out of the station and sets his snacks in the truck. He loads the long bag into the truck and then the expensive suit case. He pats his pockets, missing something thing)
Keys.
(Dave takes the keys off of Buck and heads back down the highway in the opposite direction singing "On The Road Again" at the top of his lungs.)
(the gas station is still and bloody.)
Saturday, August 30, 2008
15 minutes, 8/30
(two college students, one boy and one girl. America average with a hint of passively-hip defiance. they are in the hall of a dorm building.)
No, you're right. She's usually wrong. At least with names.
But my name is easy.
Jodie?
What?
(beat. eye contact.)
Do you want to come watch t.v. with me?
I don't usually watch much t.v. Sure.
(they start walking to his room)
But she knows what she's talking about.
Professor Croner?
Physics, yeah. You're just ambiguous with her for a while.
That's not bad. I hope.
What else are you taking?
Philosophy 101 with Majors, some sort of science class. Spanish I think. Two intro literary surveys.
You're an English major.
Yes.
You should take Waters. Or McCasey. And Steve...Steve...what was Steve's last name?
You'll have to get back to me on that.
Steve....Steve...I'll have to get back to you on that.
(they reach the room. they stop at the door.)
So have you ever sat on a fufa?
No. What's that?
It's a giant bean bag but instead of beans it's filled with memory foam. NASA invented it.
So it's a memory foam bag?
No. It's a fufa.
(he opens the door. they walk in. he closes the door. they stop.)
Jodie?
Yeah?
(they start kissing. they kiss toward the fufa. they kiss their way onto the fufa, awkwardly. they stop.)
You taste like cigarettes.
Fufas are comfortable. Do you think I'm pretty?
You write poetry.
I do.
(they start kissing. they stop.)
Do you want to read my poems?
Of course. Now?
(they start kissing. his phone vibrates in his pocket)
That feels...good.
I should answer this.
(beat. eye contact.)
Never mind.
(they keep kissing. it keeps vibrating)
No, I have to answer this.
Yes.
Hello? Hey sis.
(he covers the phone. to Jodie:)
It's my sister.
Good.
(back to the phone:)
Hi. How is everything. Okay. When did you get out of the hospital? Oh. Well. When did he get out of the hospital. Good, that's great. Congratulations. Of course. No. No, champagne is always funny. Yeah. Yeah, right. Not for him. Okay. Well, thank you. No, no. It's fine; I don't smoke. No, that was Howard. I wish he would too. Okay. Okay. Well, indeed and back to you. I love you. Bye.
(he hangs up. beat. back to Jodie:)
I completely forgot she was pregnant.
What's her name?
It was a boy.
Your sister?
She had a boy. Her name is Catherine.
What's the baby's name.
It's a boy. His name is Peter. I'm an uncle.
You sound worried.
More confused.
Things happen for a reason.
Do you like Thai food?
No. Curry is good.
Right.
(they start kissing)
No, you're right. She's usually wrong. At least with names.
But my name is easy.
Jodie?
What?
(beat. eye contact.)
Do you want to come watch t.v. with me?
I don't usually watch much t.v. Sure.
(they start walking to his room)
But she knows what she's talking about.
Professor Croner?
Physics, yeah. You're just ambiguous with her for a while.
That's not bad. I hope.
What else are you taking?
Philosophy 101 with Majors, some sort of science class. Spanish I think. Two intro literary surveys.
You're an English major.
Yes.
You should take Waters. Or McCasey. And Steve...Steve...what was Steve's last name?
You'll have to get back to me on that.
Steve....Steve...I'll have to get back to you on that.
(they reach the room. they stop at the door.)
So have you ever sat on a fufa?
No. What's that?
It's a giant bean bag but instead of beans it's filled with memory foam. NASA invented it.
So it's a memory foam bag?
No. It's a fufa.
(he opens the door. they walk in. he closes the door. they stop.)
Jodie?
Yeah?
(they start kissing. they kiss toward the fufa. they kiss their way onto the fufa, awkwardly. they stop.)
You taste like cigarettes.
Fufas are comfortable. Do you think I'm pretty?
You write poetry.
I do.
(they start kissing. they stop.)
Do you want to read my poems?
Of course. Now?
(they start kissing. his phone vibrates in his pocket)
That feels...good.
I should answer this.
(beat. eye contact.)
Never mind.
(they keep kissing. it keeps vibrating)
No, I have to answer this.
Yes.
Hello? Hey sis.
(he covers the phone. to Jodie:)
It's my sister.
Good.
(back to the phone:)
Hi. How is everything. Okay. When did you get out of the hospital? Oh. Well. When did he get out of the hospital. Good, that's great. Congratulations. Of course. No. No, champagne is always funny. Yeah. Yeah, right. Not for him. Okay. Well, thank you. No, no. It's fine; I don't smoke. No, that was Howard. I wish he would too. Okay. Okay. Well, indeed and back to you. I love you. Bye.
(he hangs up. beat. back to Jodie:)
I completely forgot she was pregnant.
What's her name?
It was a boy.
Your sister?
She had a boy. Her name is Catherine.
What's the baby's name.
It's a boy. His name is Peter. I'm an uncle.
You sound worried.
More confused.
Things happen for a reason.
Do you like Thai food?
No. Curry is good.
Right.
(they start kissing)
15 minutes, 8/29
(two young men outside of a garage converted into a one-room apartment. they're at the beach and dressed like hip kids with a dash of beach style. they are not oppressively cool)
So when do you think they'll stop?
€I don't know. Do you want to take a walk?
Maybe after we eat. I think a walk would be nice after we eat. The weather's nice.
€Yeah.
Should we go in now?
€I don't hear anything.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
(they enter. there is a couple in the one room apartment)
You guys hungry?
$Yeah, sure. Where did you guys want to eat?
€Chris said Italian sounded good.
Yeah, I'd like pizza. Pizza has been sounding great lately.
$That's fine. We can do Italian. Sara, is that fine with you?
@Whatever.
$But which place though? Felini's or Cafe Fresco?
@I'm not that hungry.
$But you could eat. We're going to eat, are you coming with us?
@I don't know. I guess. Whatever.
$Sara, we have guests. Chris and Paul are our guests. They want to eat.
@That's fine. Okay. Whatever. Where are we going then?
$Do you want to go to Felini's?
@That's fine.
$I thought you said you didn't like their crust.
@Honestly, John, it's fine. I don't care. Let's just go.
(she storms up, grabs her purse and shoes)
Alright then. Pizza time.
€Felini makes me think of cats.
Italian sausage is Italian for cat.
$That's stupid.
And yet still so sickly true.
€Do you think Felini is a man or a woman?
@Can we go?
$We're coming. Calm down. Do you have my keys?
@No, I don't have your keys. What did you do with them, I thought they were on the counter the last time I saw them.
$What?
@On the counter, your keys are on the counter. Let's please go.
(she leads the pack out the door. Chris and Paul lag a little behind just outside the door. John and Sara argue muted to the Neon in the driveway)
€What are the odds of this being this uncomfortable the entire time we're at the beach?
Why are they so pissy? I thought they were okay now?
€They were fine the last time I was down here.
A few months ago?
€Yeah. It was all rainbows and assholes. Not this passive aggressive hell.
Did they breakup? Is that why she left?
€I don't know, it's weird. She had to go back and see her family or something. I guess living together just did what it does. Their relationship didn't help.
What do you mean?
€I mean the whole open thing. They're all against these gender roles or defining their relationship in conventional terms I guess. Technically they were never together how you would call it. Now, they told each other they loved each other and had plenty of sex...
Naturally.
€...but they never considered themselves a couple. No boyfriend/girlfriend thing.
He seemed really excited about that at first. It sounded shady to me.
€Yeah, I told him it was a recipe for weird, but he thought it was great. I guess when they started driving each other crazy this summer things just went to hell. It's not like they developed a real support system to handle the hard patches of a relationship.
That's a shame, you know?
€It really is.
Well, I'm going to enjoy this pizza, this fine beach air, and make John take us to the beach tonight because I want to have a good time.
€Oh yeah, the beach sounds amazing. I want to get in the water, I was thinking about that earlier.
Definitely. Pizza and swimming should be amazing. I can't believe how good it feels out here.
€It's hot, but it's a good hot.
Totally. Have they made it into the car yet or are they still trying to out piss each other?
€Well, I suppose since no one seems to wonder why we're not in the Neon yet that they're still pissing.
Let's just stone both of them and end their misery. Our misery. Whatever. I just want a tan and some damn pizza.
So when do you think they'll stop?
€I don't know. Do you want to take a walk?
Maybe after we eat. I think a walk would be nice after we eat. The weather's nice.
€Yeah.
Should we go in now?
€I don't hear anything.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
(they enter. there is a couple in the one room apartment)
You guys hungry?
$Yeah, sure. Where did you guys want to eat?
€Chris said Italian sounded good.
Yeah, I'd like pizza. Pizza has been sounding great lately.
$That's fine. We can do Italian. Sara, is that fine with you?
@Whatever.
$But which place though? Felini's or Cafe Fresco?
@I'm not that hungry.
$But you could eat. We're going to eat, are you coming with us?
@I don't know. I guess. Whatever.
$Sara, we have guests. Chris and Paul are our guests. They want to eat.
@That's fine. Okay. Whatever. Where are we going then?
$Do you want to go to Felini's?
@That's fine.
$I thought you said you didn't like their crust.
@Honestly, John, it's fine. I don't care. Let's just go.
(she storms up, grabs her purse and shoes)
Alright then. Pizza time.
€Felini makes me think of cats.
Italian sausage is Italian for cat.
$That's stupid.
And yet still so sickly true.
€Do you think Felini is a man or a woman?
@Can we go?
$We're coming. Calm down. Do you have my keys?
@No, I don't have your keys. What did you do with them, I thought they were on the counter the last time I saw them.
$What?
@On the counter, your keys are on the counter. Let's please go.
(she leads the pack out the door. Chris and Paul lag a little behind just outside the door. John and Sara argue muted to the Neon in the driveway)
€What are the odds of this being this uncomfortable the entire time we're at the beach?
Why are they so pissy? I thought they were okay now?
€They were fine the last time I was down here.
A few months ago?
€Yeah. It was all rainbows and assholes. Not this passive aggressive hell.
Did they breakup? Is that why she left?
€I don't know, it's weird. She had to go back and see her family or something. I guess living together just did what it does. Their relationship didn't help.
What do you mean?
€I mean the whole open thing. They're all against these gender roles or defining their relationship in conventional terms I guess. Technically they were never together how you would call it. Now, they told each other they loved each other and had plenty of sex...
Naturally.
€...but they never considered themselves a couple. No boyfriend/girlfriend thing.
He seemed really excited about that at first. It sounded shady to me.
€Yeah, I told him it was a recipe for weird, but he thought it was great. I guess when they started driving each other crazy this summer things just went to hell. It's not like they developed a real support system to handle the hard patches of a relationship.
That's a shame, you know?
€It really is.
Well, I'm going to enjoy this pizza, this fine beach air, and make John take us to the beach tonight because I want to have a good time.
€Oh yeah, the beach sounds amazing. I want to get in the water, I was thinking about that earlier.
Definitely. Pizza and swimming should be amazing. I can't believe how good it feels out here.
€It's hot, but it's a good hot.
Totally. Have they made it into the car yet or are they still trying to out piss each other?
€Well, I suppose since no one seems to wonder why we're not in the Neon yet that they're still pissing.
Let's just stone both of them and end their misery. Our misery. Whatever. I just want a tan and some damn pizza.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Oh Lady
Oh lady,
you can’t justify
the ever growing morose
stains on those satin lips
you lie and call
your own
any longer.
Why had the boys
all over called themselves
criers at your feet
if there had not been
something there
for them to want?
And only now
you bay at a moon
you feel you deserve
and you let your toes curl
like fancy hair cuts.
Smile for me then,
and laugh a little louder,
scream a hyena-chuckle for me,
because I’ve let go.
I had thought
I would let you drown
in a pool of my regrettable
victories, but I see now
you’re filed in a deeper drawer.
Somewhere closer to a heartstring,
once plucked;
forever resonate.
And happy.
you can’t justify
the ever growing morose
stains on those satin lips
you lie and call
your own
any longer.
Why had the boys
all over called themselves
criers at your feet
if there had not been
something there
for them to want?
And only now
you bay at a moon
you feel you deserve
and you let your toes curl
like fancy hair cuts.
Smile for me then,
and laugh a little louder,
scream a hyena-chuckle for me,
because I’ve let go.
I had thought
I would let you drown
in a pool of my regrettable
victories, but I see now
you’re filed in a deeper drawer.
Somewhere closer to a heartstring,
once plucked;
forever resonate.
And happy.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Miserable Youth
At times,
I forget about the languid charm
In your inbred breath
When we would entangle
And talk about how we might
Glorify the certain mundane
Of our futures.
Your hopeless dreams,
While romantic,
Were a silky wine
Drugging me into believing
What I might accomplish,
And I helped to spin
What we knew where looming lies
While we coddled in jersey
Or satin sheets.
We were roustabouts,
Stinking of bad sex,
But with scrap-iron stomachs
And a masochistic flare
For dangling unpromised boons
Upon ourselves and knowing,
Just knowing,
How the cosmos would bend
To our steely provocations.
We sealed ever prayer
In sweat drenched kisses
And posted every corner
With the riches
Of our miserable youth.
I forget about the languid charm
In your inbred breath
When we would entangle
And talk about how we might
Glorify the certain mundane
Of our futures.
Your hopeless dreams,
While romantic,
Were a silky wine
Drugging me into believing
What I might accomplish,
And I helped to spin
What we knew where looming lies
While we coddled in jersey
Or satin sheets.
We were roustabouts,
Stinking of bad sex,
But with scrap-iron stomachs
And a masochistic flare
For dangling unpromised boons
Upon ourselves and knowing,
Just knowing,
How the cosmos would bend
To our steely provocations.
We sealed ever prayer
In sweat drenched kisses
And posted every corner
With the riches
Of our miserable youth.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Wither-Sheets
You bleed pneumonic blood
on the stale wither-sheets
of old verses that your grandparents
would read you to sleep with.
The feather edges of the works,
stained in your stoic gripes,
now flounder amidst
the wrangled yards of your childhood,
failing and draining
like dying, yellow grass.
Your machine-smile
slowly devours the romance
while your eyes engineer through
long-since memorized fantasies
that were left to crumble
in the fetid hope of
‘grown-up,’ ‘professional,’ and ‘mature.’
on the stale wither-sheets
of old verses that your grandparents
would read you to sleep with.
The feather edges of the works,
stained in your stoic gripes,
now flounder amidst
the wrangled yards of your childhood,
failing and draining
like dying, yellow grass.
Your machine-smile
slowly devours the romance
while your eyes engineer through
long-since memorized fantasies
that were left to crumble
in the fetid hope of
‘grown-up,’ ‘professional,’ and ‘mature.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
