Wishing you and I were like gap teeth that could be squeezed together by braces.
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Wishing you and I were like gap teeth that could be squeezed together by braces.
Posted in Uncategorized
She loved him because he paid her in big wads of cash fastened by string. Money like that was heavy. She felt it lumping around in her purse when she walked to the bank. And since he was very old and sometimes forgot to pay her, she decided to love him regardless, no matter what. Besides, he always remembered the next week and compensated her well for his mistakes. Also, the job was relatively easy. The old man didn’t require much love. He had already lived a long life full of love. Which was lucky for her because she was lazy despite her indulgent taste. Who could blame her for liking cashmere sleepwear and pungent, imported cheese? Expensive taste is a virtue in an overcast city. Like religion. And like an honest (rich) housewife she knew when and where to spend her money. She could credit her mother for this, but she wouldn't. Before her mother disappeared at sea, she lived like a slob. Somewhere inside her was her mother’s taut, pointed finger shaking furiously at her, jabbing her organs. Tsk Tsk, echoed in her mind like a ringing phone. She had spent her whole life trying to tune it out, among other things. When the old man died she went to his funeral after a disappointing visit to the dentist. Her flossing efforts had not paid off. Three and a half cavities, mocking her previous three. Since she was the only whore in the funeral parlor everyone stared. No one offered an excuse for her appearance. Which didn't stop her from leaning over the floral arrangements and smelling the peonies, her bulbous breasts glowing in the foliage. But it meant she shouldn’t stay long. When she passed the solid oak casket with the old man's body inside she didn’t resist putting her hand on his stiff chest and petting his silky green tie. Grey wrinkles in the fleshy make-up made him look pickled. Or perhaps it was the downer lighting or the drugs from the dentist, but it didn’t matter, she felt sorry for him. That night she went home and ordered too much sushi. When the bell rang, she answered the door wearing only her bath towel and a pair of crass flats. She tipped the young delivery boy an extra two bucks and watched from her window as he mounted his bike and rode away against traffic. It was a Monday. On Friday she received a letter in the mail. Inside the envelope clung two yellow post-its. One from an old woman’s shaky pen: “You filthy bitch. You sucked him dry.” The other in his patient, elegant cursive:“I’m sorry for this and everything else. In the end I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing.” She tore the first post-it in half and threw it away. Then she carried his note to the fridge and stuck it beneath a magnet spelling out Happy Holidays in tiny reindeer bodies.
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I got used to your skin. I crawled out of sleep to answer a call and you were gone when I crawled back. The skin of youth reserved for me. The mold of a pig underbelly left hanging. Clothes in the closet hung callously. Moths in the armpits. The pig wandering the hillside leaving little plaster tracks in the grass. A plaster of your skin. The armpit of youth. I crawled in. A call. You were gone. I got used to it.
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THEY WENT TO THE END. BUT THE END WAS NOT FAR ENOUGH. SO THEY TURNED AROUND AND WENT TO THE END AGAIN.
Posted in Pant Poems
A mild voice standing out in a crowded room. Fan in the third-story window ready to jump. Future wins written all over the sidewalks. Emptiness in the dust of cigarette skin. Ready to cope. Something past in the past. Remember the night we froze ourselves in the lake between dinner and the party? Your light-yellow jacket still hanging on the nail in the hall for everyone to see, resembling only a part of your shoulders.
Posted in Pant Poems
We woke the ceramic tiger, that is, he stretched and yawned and licked his gigantic tooth, which meant he was capable of anything. So we backed further into his cave and found our ceramic selves and hid behind them and never returned to each other.
Posted in Pant Poems
A bouquet of plastic flowers laid perfectly on the cement outside the apartment building like it had been delivered to that spot on the pavement.
Posted in Pant Poems
Build a mountain next to the sea. A mountain lasts. Add enough warm water. Remove unnecessary rocks and salt heavily. Knead courseness into dough caves and dig east for wave-effect. Cover with cool hand towels. Drifts should peak. If the mountain needs more time, wait. If another appointment arises, go ahead. The forests will form naturally.
Posted in Pant Poems
getting so serious The cicadas dried into their skulls like rattles or dumptrucks; clothes on the line calculating the speed of growing grass, factor heavy rain; and left-over soup cans turned to bells with weathered spoon dongs, turning to rust spots over the garage door, which no longer opens with the touch of a red button. Boxelders.
Posted in Pant Poems
The dishes are stacked. Meaning two or three months have passed. I avoid them by washing each new dish immediately after I use it. It's getting harder to maneuver under the faucet because that's where the pile is wavering. It's keeping all my other things very clean.
Posted in Pant Poems