i need someone who is happy. i need someone who is positive. i need someone who is optimistic. i guess what i'm trying to say is, i need someone who is not you. i'm sorry. it's not that i don't love you. i just don't know if i love you enough.
-me.
little girl unnamed.
when she was a child, long ago, she had pigtails in her hair. and though she never really liked them, she kept them there because her mother tied them up for her one last time before her mother died. i remember when i saw her, long ago, at her mother's funeral. she still had those pigtails, tied by her mother, in her messy hair. they were short little pigtails, since her hair had started to slip out of the rubber bands.
her mother never had much money. they had been vegetarians, though not by choice. in the summer, celery was the cheapest in the market, and in the winter, broccoli. each bunch of vegetables was always bound together with rubber bands, and that's why she had so many rubber bands around the house. she wore them like bracelets: rusty reds, fleshy peaches, dull purples and bruised greens, all bunched together at her tiny wrist.
her mother had always wanted her to leave her hair to grow to a nice girl's length, but she never wanted hair past her shoulders. she started to chop her own hair every now and then with a pair of scissors, surviving the accidental cuts with an indifferent face. her mother gave up dreams of being able to braid her hair like the most fashionable dolls' hairdo, but still found a light joy in tying those pigtails up.
she never played with us. we thought she either didn't like us, or really liked to stay home with her mother. we never saw her with anyone but her mother. we never saw her father. at that age, we didn't know how it all worked, so we just thought she didn't have a father. well, it turned out that she did have a father, and his name was Greg Furles.
i saw Mr. Furles at the funeral that day, and nobody knew who he was, not even his own daughter. it was a small funeral, maybe twenty or so folks, but Mr. Furle didn't sit anywhere near his daughter. she looked at her mother's body the entire time, until they lowered her into the ground. i saw that when they started shoveling the dirt in, one of her pigtail rubber bands fell off somewhere into the dirt. that was the only time i saw her gaze move. it had started raining then, and i couldn't tell if her eyes were getting teary, or just watery from the sky's tears.
anyway, we don't know what happened to her. we just know that her father took her away a day after the service, after throwing out what little furniture they had in that little apartment out by the curb. the day after she left, we saw her rubber band collection scattered on her mother's grave. well, i guess Mr. Furles made her throw them all away, too, and i guess she couldn't bear to do it, so she gave them to her mother to keep.
analyze this.
today, i finally got out of the house and walked. i stopped in front of a children's clothing store, and remembered that i had a job there. i went inside, greeted the owner of the boutique, and went about my work.
when i was finished with my shift, i wanted to go visit a pet store. i wanted to see puppies. i wanted to buy a dog. i walked until i saw a bunch of my acquaintances on the cement steps of a korean store, all taking care of their own dogs. they acknowledged my presence with "hi" or "hey" and "hello" as i sat down by them, looking at their various dogs. how cute. after telling them that i wanted to go to the pet store, they directed me in the opposite direction. i was close-- just needed to take a left up that street.
yes. now i remember. i've been there before. of course it's in the opposite direction. i've been walking down the wrong intersection.
then i woke up, went to the bathroom, checked my facebook, email, and the new york times, turned off my cellphone alarm and went back to sleep.
i was in the boutique again, except this time, it was like a rite aid or walgreens. i...wait. no, i went inside an isolated deli first. i bought a beer. i choose between a natty light and a bud light, and although i picked the bud light, i ended up walking out of the deli drinking the natty light. beer. but when i went to crush the can for my five cent deposit, i was holding a bud light can. i...asked to buy the cheapest umbrella? flirted with the cashier? she was a girl? i...wait.
i was in walgreens shopping with my mother. we bought snack foods, and i was looking at the longest time at a package of pretzels that was filled with a huge block of pretzel-product, stamped into pretzel shapes. i wanted to eat pretzels, but i didn't buy a bag. they weren't really pretzels. i walked with my mom down the bakery aisle and asked her if she wanted some danishes. she picked them, and though i wanted to pick some other ones, i didn't say anything. after we'd picked four, we began to walk to the checkout.
funny. normally, she'd let me pick. huh.
damn. i really wanted that chocolate one.
then i watched as my mom argued over the price of some things as the worker rang them up. we paid over ninety dollars. ninety dollars for snack foods? for some reason, i was lagging behind, and as mom exited the store, dad walked in. he wanted to return two things. one was an opened box of tissues with only 30 tissues left. they let him exchange it for an unopened pack of 30 tissues. the other was...can't remember.
i never got to the puppy store.
i did, however, go to a mobster's daughter's wedding. this wasn't my first time. i am almost sure that i went to her's last year. and she even asked me if i went to her wedding before as i rode in her car driven by a chauffeur, accompanied by two other unidentified males. yes, i went to your wedding before. last year, maybe? and the events that followed this car ride was almost identical to what had happened the last time i went to her wedding.
as we drove, she instructed the driver to come pick her up near the train, but only immediately after the passing of the train. she said she had to go to the bathroom. but i didn't understand why she was leaving, didn't understand what she'd just said about the train, didn't understand why i was in this car going to her wedding...again? i felt like i had to go to the bathroom too. as she left the car, i got out too. i tried to keep up with her, but it was raining. pouring, really. i lost her. so i kept running and came across a wooden restroom.
i'd been there before. maybe even more than once.
i went inside, pushing on the swing door that divided the entrance and the three stalls. i was about to go into the third stall when i realized that someone was inside that stall. i hate it when someone else is in a public bathroom. and i was in a rush.
where the hell is the train station? where the hell is the mobster's daughter?
i pushed on the swing door, wanting to get out of there, when i almost bumped into an overweight, half-naked middle aged white man who was trying to get in. i squeezed by, moving myself against the wall, trying not to touch him. i ran, stopped at a red light, and saw a train station situated right on the opposite street. i saw a van that stopped there, in the middle of the street i was about to cross, and instinctively knew i had to get in.
you forgot: i'd been through this before.
when the pedestrian light was a go, i ran to the van, and saw that it was packed with faces. hoping there was enough room for me, i pulled on the door and saw that there was ample room. i also saw the mobster's daughter. she was already in the van.
we drove away right as the train passed by. a second later, the train blew up. another member in the van began a soliloquy on something that i can't remember. excited and scared, i listened. when we got to the wedding destination, we all jumped out of the van. i began to walk towards the door to the ceremony location when i saw two men struggle with and anally rape two overweight, middle-aged hispanic women in bright colorful dresses.
nobody else seemed to notice. nobody seemed to want to help. i think i stood there, shocked that this would happen on the streets in broad daylight, right outside of a wedding place, committed by men i rode in a van with...
i...
i walked inside. with images of the two women crying, hugging each other in their shared miseries, i walked inside, looking at the people carrying on their festivities. i grabbed two long ribbons, as i did before, except this time, i took two different colors. red and white, instead of pink. i didn't know what they were for, but i knew from the last time that i had to take two.
and i think that's where it all ended for me.
man, won't you listen
air blowing
chimes ringing
the dog's barking
and God's observing
today seems quiet
bored and lonesome
filled with noise
you don't hear
children are begging
mothers denying
sweets and fun
their will to run
hula hoop's going
jump rope's fast
feet are moving
bodies breathing
man, won't you listen
won't you try
to understand this
afternoon noise?
mouths can speak
mouths can eat
mouths can kiss
but they have no minds
brains can think
brains can solve
brains can direct
but they lack a heart
fingers can point
fingers can pull
fingers can take
but they can break
have you a mind?
have you a heart?
have you anything
that i can't break?
don't touch it. it'll be okay.
my favorite fairy tale used to be hans christian andersen's "the little match girl." i remember having felt pity for the little freezing girl, envy for her sadly good behavior, jealousy for her ascension into heaven. i remember the winter night, the brief, imagined warmth.
i laid it out on the marble countertop after pushing away some dirty dishes and bottles, and took out a box of matches.
i struck a match and put it to the ring. i thought i saw it sweat, but whatever it was, it got licked away by the fire. i watched that match tip burn out, trailing smoke ribbons that grew upward toward the cabinets. i hoped that my smoke alarm wasn't too sensitive, and after looking up, i saw that its little light was no longer blinking. i struck another match. it burned out too.
they all burned out.
the ring's still sitting on the counter. i think it's fine. but i don't want to touch it, just in case i broke it.
today, suicide of a different sort.
when she climbed to the top of the hill, she looked down but couldn't see anything. her flapping scarf was trying to cling to her face as the wind breathed again. she had decided that today was a perfect day for suicide, like any other day. she just didn't have access to any other day.
even if the wind hadn't pushed so strongly and her scarf had not tried to choke and blind her, she would not have seen anything from the top of the hill. she had imagined this scene in her mind beforehand, and had promised herself that she would take that ultimate step to nowhere with no hesitation. not like she had a choice. the hill itself was sliding, breaking, and sinking.
"oh...i guess this is it."
she took a step, having lost her footing under the crumbling rocks.
and she fell.
and fell.
and fell.
and shortly after she thought she had stopped falling, she realized she was actually still falling, and probably would never stop falling. she looked at her passing surroundings with indifference now; she knew she would never stop moving to be able to look at things for longer than a moment. she would see blurs, not understand the blurs, and then, not care about the blurs.
"they are only blurs. nothing more."
~suicide of a different sort, part 1?
grown-up.
when i was in elementary school, i wanted to be a fashion designer. no, writer. no, airline stewardess. no, writer. artist?
when i was in high school, i wanted to be a teacher.
no. i don't want to be a teacher.
i cannot teach your children anything you'd want their little minds to know.
i can, however, babysit them and play with them like a human puppy-dog.
you'll just have to pay me and give me permission to raid your fridge several times during the day.
remember that part in the Bible that goes something like, ask and you shall receive, knock and you shall be answered? let me go track down the original verse. wait, i don't actually know the original verse because it was not written in english. all right, then. let's go with the king james version: Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. matthew 7:7.
now, i don't know exactly what Jesus meant when he said such things, but i do suspect that what he said did not really apply to my case. no matter though, i opened the door anyway. and multiple times. each time i heard that knock, i opened the damned door to doom. i suppose i could blame this all on society and environment and you @#$%ers who pressured me to be normal and standard and conformed to bland joy and ecstasy in glorious sex, drugs and rock-n-roll.
but i won't. i won't blame you, because why would i, when i should blame me? i deserve, above all others, the responsibility of turning on that rusty water faucet and lowering my naked less than desirable body into the mess of regretful lukewarmy goodness. my skin is touching the mold and mildew, melting into the water that is dirty enough not to be called water.
so, like i said, i have been soaking in a tub of disgust ever since last autumn. and though i know that many have bathed in their own filth in this rite of passage, i stare enviously the ones who have not been dunked into this tub. you know who they are. they laugh differently. their happiness has the quality of an imaginary fairy's wings. yet only you and i know these fairies to be imaginary now.
the innocents still believe in their fairies, because they still have their uncorrupted fairies. they see flowers and they think romantic chocolate kisses. we see flowers and...well. you know what you think about and i know what i think about, and i think that's detailed enough.
so i'm soaking here, and i look and what do i see?
i don't see anything.
that's the problem.
lovecrime scene.
love that flows like blood flows down her arms slit like fancy valentines.
(how can i make you move, love)
eyes that dried off on 60 tissues blank before the crier now.
poor girl. she should have known her prince had not yet arrived on scene
on time.
impatience does not wait not waste not want not be not now.
mine.
that child is mine
waking up in a lonely room
on a lonely second floor
the white morning without snow
running through the colorless stills
that child is mine
without a father who would stay
without a father who would say
love you, dear
love you with all of me
love you till the end of time
come away to my castle
and give me a child
that child is mine
with nothing but the colder morning
with too much air
slipping in through the spine and soles
that child is mine
the one without,
nothing at all.
midnight argument.
fucking angry voices down below
chewing on each other's souls
he sounds like someone had
cut him in the eye
while smashing
a smashed wine glass
into his right hand
the unbearable pain of having
then losing
his current one and only
one lustered pearl
that broke free
and broke his necklace
one piece that made him
his beauty broke him
wholly now.
pounding on their floorboards
the linoleum cracks
unable to carry
the stunning structure of
madness spilled
sent the chills up their neighbors
up their walls
the ceiling shook
and my feet felt
for a moment
salted madness
lapping up.
in the end.
in the end, this will mean something to you.
words across this screening page of pixels man-made,
written for your eyes and stranger eyes and unknown eyes,
written for your ears if you are blind,
please have a loved one read it to you.
in the end, this will be all that you can have of me.
this black against white, or near black against near white,
to be read or unread, to be marked or unmarked,
unvalued or invaluable or carelessly forgotten,
is yours.
i cannot carry it across the water or under land.
i cannot take it with me to somewhere in nowhere,
out of your existence or depth of field,
burned through the years you ceased to recall,
then exhaled by seasonal forgetting.
but here you can love it for a while,
or hate it for a while,
but just for a while.
you won't have it either,
after you breathe.
the way your laughs bounce off together
the walls of everything around you
in the parking lot at night
from my window
i hear your happiness echo
against the car hoods and tree bark
off each soldier of green summer grass
and the cement step that broke my skin last year
it travels from down two stories
against all these surfaces
to knock on my skinny windowpanes
with their broken shelter screen
my dreamcatcher is off duty tonight
and your echoes invite themselves in
though i have no means to afford this luxury
i cannot afford to be bothered tonight.
wake up.
today, in my dream, i pushed open another door.
i don't remember its color, or temperature, or weight.
when i pushed on it, it made no sound. no creaking, or wood cracking, or paint chipping.
i never got to step into the room closed off by the door. i didn't see any light coming from behind.
i thought i smelled a different scent of air, maybe softer and clearer. kind of like cherry cough drops.
but not quite.
it was sweet and medicated, and reminded me of a hallway in my first school.
a white hospital and mandatory immunization shots.
the bathroom on the first floor of my second school.
sleep.
maybe i never smelled this before. those memories don't seem to go together at all.
so i pushed open this door, and there was this smell, and i never saw the room or anything, really, but this smell...
i smell it now.
hiking.
"hiking is the greatest addiction. i wish my wife enjoyed hiking too, but she doesn't." he paused, and looked at me. i didn't quite know how to respond to the low regret in his voice, or the way he shifted his gaze to the ground. like he was afraid they were telling me too much. "it's a shame. hiking is wonderful."
i let out a chuckle through my nose, as if i were trying to exhale away settling dust in front of my face. "yeah," i muttered softly, and watched the dust ride on my breath.
shut up.
i think, at this point, you should shut up and just listen. i want you to listen to that sound that is coming from the old light bulbs overhead, and listen to the way your ears want to turn their reception off. listen to the sound of nothing in particular, because when you shut up, you can hear what is actually happening. if you shut up, you can hear the eerie sounds of cars being driven to insignificant places, rushing down the street to catch that turn of yellow light. but it does not really matter, because this is a small town, and it is past midnight, and there are probably no other cars near you. unless, there is a police car behind you.
but there is no police car behind you. you do not hear one, even if you do shut up.
some cars drive slowly. they take their time going down the road, the rubber against the cement that is too hard and hot for bare feet to walk on, and too rough for soft knees to fall on. they have no problem going slow, because they do not need to feel like they are flying on land. if you shut up right now, you can hear one go by on the road visible from your window when the leaves die and fall come autumn. then another one, going slightly faster. it sounds like a turning jump rope going over your body. then another one, slower and slower. red light. green light.
the light bulbs remind you of the time you stuck your finger into the electric socket behind the television shelf. you probably cried a little, but you have no memory of that actually happening. what you remember is what your mother told you. she told you that one day, when you were little, you stuck your finger into the electric socket behind the television shelf. you have no memory of that actually happening. but it would make sense to remember that you were shocked, and electricity went through that finger, and you cried from the unexpected unlasting pain the way children do when they experience unexpected unlasting pain.
and behind the sound of moving cars, you can hear time. that does not actually make sense, but you know that time does move, or at least, people say time passes. and you know that when something moves, it most likely makes some kind of sound. you do not always hear the sounds, but it makes sense that the sounds still do exist. when people ask unanswerable questions, it makes sense that you have no satisfactory answers. when people ask you, "if a tree falls in a forest, but no one is there to hear it, does it still make a noise?" you give them a blank look after briefly thinking about a tree falling down unto the leafy earth. it makes a horrendous sound as its wooden life breaks and its fibers shred themselves into forced separation, landing broken with indignity and death. you see it falling down, and you hear it falling down. you wonder why the people said no one was there to hear it fall, because you heard it fall just now. you heard the noises it made over eleven seconds, the noises of an unprompted, imagined but authentic death. and you still hear the little noises of the dried leaves cracking off under the weight of the fallen wooden soul, now. brittle sounds produced by unexpected unlasting pain.
yes. it makes a noise.
and time moves. warping like that unmicrowaveable plastic plate you placed in the microwave, melting as it stands still on a turning table. it is being made to dance one last number before you realize your mistake and push the open button without pressing "clear" first. you do not feel the microwaves hitting your face but they do. you look with a look on your face as you smell the plastic scent of the death of an unmicrowaveable plate. it looks hideously beautiful. and that should not make sense, but it does, because you know what it means to look hideously beautiful. you know what it means to be warped in time and to melt in heat. you were made to dance once, before you were broken down and became hideously beautiful.
so, time moves like that. you do not see it move just like you do not hear the tree fall. but you do see and hear the light bulbs wearing out, singing in that hideously beautiful voice as they burn through thousands of hours without rest. and you hear those rubber wheels tear themselves up on cement roads. when they hit a bump, you hear them give a shout from their hollow guts. it calms you in a disturbing way to know that when they have traveled over enough roads, that unexpected unlasting pain disappears.
if you shut up, you can hear all of that.
happy perfect yes.
1.
you have been happy
but you are not happy now.
you have been sad
but you are not sad now.
2.
you are fairly certain it does not exist.
you think i am full of rotting butterflies
when i say this and when i say this
you crinkle a little.
3.
sit.
stare.
sleep.
still.
4.
solve.
undefined
piecemeal
limit of infinity.
5.
greener leaves
pinker flowers
pressed in a book
that was never written.
6.
sorry
never did
come
so cheaply.
7.
lightly in the morning you woke up to find
a quiet girl on your arm dressed in
the half of your body
that belonged to her.
8.
yes it's perfect
yes perfect
yes i remember
yesterday was perfect.
9.
the noises he made as he rattled you while you watched him
work away
to stop the dot dot dot
the dot dot dot-ing.
10.
i won't say no
can't say yes.
cotton end.
bed of cotton
swallowed whole
i turn to side of rest
a time spent in rain
in window seeped wet iron
rusted grey never turned silver
branches whipped in weather
beauty babies
dropped in wombless times
moving shapes in glass
unbroken yet so willed
ropes do not hold
covers do not keep
seasons do not wait
for each other's life
howls of an unknown bird
repeat on melted days
pleas through the tunnel
shout after shout
carried by lightning
moments in passing
become the end.
today.
midnight peanut butter
in the oven
toasted bread
organic soy milk
but no one knows
it took two
hours too long.
think about the man
and how he stood
using his feet
to be brave
in front of machines
made by logic
of a mindless yes
they said
you cannot
one against
breaking waves
and hearts on
the ground cradling
dying words
firm skinned
fear of height
atop the city
of downward eyes.
wash the dishes
take out the trash
wipe the counter
scare the mice
turn off the light.
why do you
why do you speak as if you had no soul,
as if you have never stubbed your toe,
then swore and cursed at the bloody hole
why do you speak as if you had no past,
as if you never went too too fast,
then burnt your mouth and lost your taste
why do you speak as if you had no mind,
as if you were built to ask these things,
then why and what and how, i don't understand
why do you speak as if you had no mouth,
as if you were put on mute,
then gave up on God
why do you speak to as if you were not me,
and even when you are,
you still can't see
the why and what and how
it all came to be.
season of mourning doves.
on vacation
far away
from the people
who loved your face
dying on this island
fearing assassin suns
near the shallow end
the water blue and odd:
mornings are warm
nights are warmer
but you have never been
so cold and lone.
why,
ships never came
to rescue you,
Helen of nowhere
frozen, wondering
if he were born
or has yet died,
Paris of never.
goodbye from last year.
on your goodbye
i'd pull you in,
tell you i love you
and only you
and only you.
happiness
on your lips,
on my lips
smiling fools
were in fashion
this time
last year.
only and ever
and never
forever
i do.
in june
that never came
i fell asleep
at that stop
and i was robbed
(the fault was mine)
i took the thief
and made him do it.
your last walk
is my goodbye
i have nothing
in my mouth.
only happiness
belonged to you
belonged to me
in happy times
rain on nights
art and theater
like an actor
i fell and sobbed.
bear loves honey
but eats man too
love to love love
hate just as sweet.
you understand.
the way suns
rise and fall
incessantly.
goodbye
from last year:
always yours,
with love.
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