sunday morning

I wake up this morning after a rather interesting, wild night out, to a message:
Tant que c’est moi qui paie la soirée je crois qu’il n’est plus nécessaire que tu viennes a l’avenir.

For those of you who don’t speak french, here is a translation:
"You are a total bitch for not wanting to sleep with me anymore, and because I had to go home alone it makes me feel better to leave you nasty messages at 4 AM."




The thing is, even though I know this true translation......





it made me cry anyway.

inspired/ uninspired

i would really love to live life making vanilla cupcakes with butter cream frosting // stitching calico napkins with rickrack edges // collecting vintage frames for my robins-egg walls // baking bread to bob dylan //dinner parties with chicken and dumplings and friends in knit hats //reading magazines with american coffee // local bands and local bars // i miss athens, georgia and my lovely lovely people there // people with curves and bends and singsongs //far sighted friends //The Grit for a sunday brunch // painting parties and band-in-a-box // waking up next to fresh-faced hipsters saying :we've got to get out of this town....: sometimes i think i was born to b-and-b

nowtimes i feel like i am surrounded by robots (robots charged by credit cards)

25 stories

I woke up in the dark, messy rive droite flat of a tall, dark man from Strasbourg with adorable black-rimmed glasses.

He kissed me on the cheek and told me to sleep as long as I’d like, then shuffled out the door in his suit and tie and black attaché case.

( It was so cliché that if I hadn’t of lived it I wouldn’t believe it.)

I slept another hour or something (in awe of his capacity to be not only awake but dressed and out the door at 9.) I managed to find one boot, two boots, pants, bra, my favorite black sweater... drink some water from the faucet, put the champagne flutes in the sink, made the bed.

Right next to the bed, on the floor, was an issue of Playboy, the new French GQ, and an Italian dictionary. It was so cute I had to take a picture.

I left him my card.

its personal

i'm 25 today.
i started this blog when i was 22.

This was my first post

that seems like a long time ago.
xo

n'importe quoi

when I miss you I miss you like my pancreas

when I miss you I miss you like a sunburn
when I miss you I miss you like a blood stain
when I miss you I miss you like chopsticks
when I miss you I miss you like a broken vibrator
when I miss you I miss you like windex
when I miss you I miss you like shoe boxes
when I miss you I miss you like gift baskets
when I miss you I miss you like leap years
when I miss you I miss you like
when I miss you I miss you
when I miss you

I hate telling you how much I miss you.
but I miss you.

tu m'as fait vibrer

i washed you out of my sheets today

i'm not letting you back in


no no no no way no how

resolutions and adjustments to your new model

resolved
that i will stop asking the boy to dinner
when i know
he wants only after-dinner
that i will stop obsessing over
life and love
in new orleans
by online means such as facebook
(when i should be out living real life with real
three
dimensional
people)

resolved that
the way i feel on the 6 metro
at 8 at night, on the way home
crossing over the black seine and
devouring the sparkling eiffel tower
with my soul and my eyes and my fingertips
the way i feel when the woman
at the boulangerie says "bonjour ma biche"
and already starts to cut me a demi-baguette
is the way i will ALWAYS feel

(and resolved that the canadian bitches

won't hurt my feelings anymore)

i miss anna

on the island
when we were really really broke
(too broke for rum)
we made potato curry
and still invited everyone over
to take a bite

paper doll II

the paper doll girl got a paper doll boy
(he had a beret accessory)
and she fashioned him into her lover

instead of dressing him up,
the clothes came off

until the day she
looked
at his one dimensional body
and realized that
no matter how many Gucci shirts she bent over his arms
or how many wine glasses she pasted to his hand
he would always \be made out of

wood pulp and red #5

the party

wendy grey was perpetual jet lag.
susan condor was red wine stained teeth.
martha winters was apathy and over-education.
miriam paul was solitude.
and every night they had a party all together all at the same time in the same place.

wendy would always say “I am so tired! why can’t I sleep?”
and susan would smile sloppily.
martha would nod and be rudely aloof while miriam usually locked herself in the bathroom.

what a strange group of girls they were.

home for the holidays

everyone is prayin' for rain with their eyes up toward that cloudless sky

but i'll just lay down in the cracked clay of lake lanier
and say

"man,
i know how you feel"

and one day you'll be in the NY Times too

The bridegroom’s previous marriage ended in divorce

smile for all the camera flashes, baby

just look at that diamond sparkle.

paper doll I

There once was a paper doll girl. Each time she met someone new, they would pick up the blue polka dot spring dress and place it onto her, bending the paper taps over her shoulders and hips, and stand her up somewhere. Or they would put onto her the tulle and flowers wedding dress. Or the little black cocktail outfit. Or the business suit that had been ripped a little at the waist and pasted back together.

Everyone loved the paper doll girl because she became whatever they wanted her to be.

plans for 2008

take up courses at the Sorbet (that’s in Parisfranz) in pencil sharpening, cursive handwriting, and the metric system.

work some times for Mr. Vansnuzzlegarf, collecting cans and reading warning labels.

after exams, begin work with Mr. Widdy Lohan, in his low-rise office building overlooking some seines, re-corking wine bottles.

in august, return to Lose-yer-antlers, with new hair color and passport of Lottie Majors.

dip

he used to rest his hand in the dip near above my hip

and push into me, laying behind

and beg me to stay the night

i would reply, with retrospective irony,

that my single-girl ways wouldn’t allow it

anywhere but here, anytime but now

i wish we were playing yam under the mosquito nets
listening to the short-wave radio oh oh

walking on the sky

california postscript

at first: hesitancy: “what are you doing tonight?” three times I said no.

then: frantic: nights on the town, restaurants with rectangular plates and bottles of fancy champagne. he kissed my neck and said pleaseplease: no. my intuition said. no.

we came to rest, subtle, settle, long nights horizontal and afternoon kisses. I gave in with delight: enthusiasm.

then: I put on my thrift store slip under my kimono, painted my toes red (like us: the town) waiting for him. he never came. he still hasn’t come.

he: drives a fast car. i’m back in paris in two months. he tossed me before the expiration date. still haven’t learned to trust my instincts.

weather

you
murky_storm_cloud
moving along
but never getting any sunnier

beaten#eaten#trambled#andhard
a bad egg

r
a
i
n
over other pastures
you're cramping my style.

moi, ce que j'adore...

he has blond curls that wrap around my fingers

i'm enamored with a man from california. and for once i find it difficult to write it out.

one word, plural

fall

eyeliner

bubble

off

sunshine

hips

me

hips

supposed

be

secret

please don't tell anyone that i really really wish he was thinking of me.

- - when;

when you make my knees shake I’ll bite through the orange, rind and all.

when you make my knees shake I’ll tilt my neck back. let go.

rind and all.

little things

to enjoy
the return of
picking out cute knickers
as i dress
in the morning

and all the anticipation
that it
implies.

oh!

Plier

“Pliez! un... deux... trois... Pliez!” said the woman with the tight bun of silver and white hair, black tights and tasseled skirt. She tapped her cane on the wooden floor as she counted and glanced at all the girls in the long, clean mirror as they grasped one hand on the barre and the other arm reached out, long, lean, and fingers delicately separated.

Every girl, in time with the music, slowly bent her knees outward and lowered her body as the woman counted, to the piano music on the record player. “un... deux... trois...” Raising up to the sky. Backs straightened. Necks long. Heads always held high.

“Pliez!”

**

“Like this” she said as she took the next piece of linen from the cabinet. The little girl looked over to her mother and watched as her mother’s hand gently aligned the corners of the napkin and bent it over, creating a crease. Then she bent it the other way, flipped her fingers, and placed it on the gold leaf plate. “It’s easy” she said.

The little girl’s fingers were a little sticky and her nails were uneven and bitten. The dining room table was shiny and smelled of furniture polish. The little girl took a napkin and began creasing and bending. The room was freshly vacuumed and the little dish by the couch was filled with potpourri; it sat on a lace doily. She tried to look poised like her mother, try to cross her legs so that they looked long like her mother’s, tried to caress the linen as her mother had so effortlessly.

“Fold it, baby” her mother said. “Fold it like this.”

**

heat

It’s so hot. It’s the kind of heat that people can’t stop talking about, it’s the only thing that matters. On the radio, at the supermarket, in line at the bank.

It’s so hot your hand gets the best part of the popsicle and the little girls do double dutch on the sidewalks 1-2-3-4. The thoughts are slow and there is that time of day where nothin’ can be done but lay your poor body down, its too hot to make love, gotta love with your eyes instead. And those double dutch girls squeal when the ice cream man comes ringin’ his bell- it’s too hot to think about serious stuff, just decide which rum to put in the mojitos and move your straps to the side so you don’t get white lines on a strawberry tan. Its too hot to do anything in the kitchen but slice sour fruit for the lemonade and open take-out boxes, the chocolate left on the counter has melted and my lip gloss and my motivation.

It’s the kind of heat that makes you paralyzed. Sitting like an ice cream scoop that fell out of the cone, slowly melting and spreading over the ground. In front of the air conditioner. In front of the freezer. Half floating in the cement pool. The nights are sweaty when you wake up in damp sheets and hope there’s a breeze on the front porch, cool glass of water but even the water out of the tap is warm like the streams out of the sprinklers running for the black-eyed susans but mostly the double dutch girls and all the boys are cute because they are deep brown and glistening, in this weather everyone has a subtle southern accent. Let’s go dancing if it dips under 95 on saturday night.

...

What did Mr Wren say? Words are loneliness. I left a couple of words for you on the tablecloth last night- you covered them with your elbows. – henry miller

i buy my happiness in pretty little bottles and in the morning i have a happiness hangover

I don’t have anything beautiful to say. I just have to write how perfect this moment is, right now, in it. Day after Bastille Day, waking up in the afternoon, making a half-ass omelet and blood orange juice. My hair is tied back in a handkerchief, and I am doing laundry and dancing in the kitchen to Billy Joel’s greatest hits that I found in the living room. The yellow drapes make the whole apartment full of sunshine even at dusk, but right now the light it at its most perfect.

I can’t forget this feeling right now. Paris makes me so happy. Paris
(Its all going to be worth it). makes me so happy.

hey hugo

pavement dance
to touch your back with my fingertips like feathers, like yellow feathers
and breath on my thighs
like lovers
like

2 dollar carnations
like these boulevards and the despondency in them
the wretchedness
ballet flats floating like waterlillies
jesus is parisian
and I’m going to sleep well with my face smashed against your awkward elbow
all day long.

could you please step into my sleeve? my pocket?
immediate and close, so close

because your funny eyebrows
your funny feet
the rosebud tongue on earlobes and vocal chords.

this whispering is childish
gorgeous. don’t stop. stay like that
kiss my collar bone while I make you out of paper maché,
paper maché and bubble gum
and white rum and dictionary pages.
morning glories and

something red.

bored in london

is the best kind of bored.

be optimistic

Exami Nation.

i am
dangerously close to cutting off my hair
and skipping the country.

i'm too poor for the salon,



but i've got a magical ticket
to londontown.

(junejunejunejunejune)








[this gig is so tragically un-hip]

a love poem for a frog

if i had to pick
between you and the commerce clause
i would pick
you
any day,
baby.

fermented grape juice

He peeled her thin arms from around his neck. He stood. Wavy hair. He brushed his hand across his forehead. He stepped forward, turned around and smiled at her. She sunk back into the couch, cuddled in the deepest layers of blanket, and held her wine glass up to her face. She looked at him through the glass, bent and red, cloudy.

“I love you.” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

Then he was gone.

It doesn't take a sandwich to choke

Its 82 degrees in New Orleans, and breezy. Its around 11 AM and I’m sitting in my European Legal Systems class, physically, but mentally I’m planning my afternoon. So many possibilities: I could go to the bubble tea café and read my new Breton book; I could go to the park and listen to some music in the grass; I could go to the corner of Carrolton and order a latte and a bowl of strawberries- work on my contracts homework and plan my French lesson.

I could go to the market, buy some fresh shrimp and invite the girls over for early dinner on the porch. I could forget about contracts completely and take the bus down to the French Quarter, spend all afternoon trying on new spring dresses that I can’t afford....

“Ms. Peacock?” says my professor, interrupting my thoughts.

“Um.... yes... um...” I try frantically to remember the last thing he said, where we are in the book, what my name is... nothing is coming.

“Ministère Public?” he says, peering over his glasses as I attempt to read everything in front of me at once.

“Yes, Ministère Public... they um,” I look down and see a footnote I’ve underlined, so I read what it says: “In France, in certain manners, the party must inform the ministère public of the pendency of the proceedings, so that it may give the court its opinion.” I look up at the professor to see if thats anywhere close to what he wants.

“Well, that is true, but why?” he asks, still peering.

“Because of...” I look for anymore clues from my notes. “Because of public interest.” I say. Even I don’t know what I am talking about now.

“What does the ministère public have to do with public interest?” he asks.

The girl next to me tries to put her pen down on my book near the spot where the supposed answer is, but this just makes me more nervous. Does everyone know this answer? This is an impossible question! No one could possibly know!

“They, um, the, um... Ministère has to do with public interest because... They, um....” I look up to him, my eyes pleading with him to stop asking me this question.

“What is their function, Ms. Peacock?” he asks again.

A voice behind me says “Professor?”

“Yes Mr. Johnson.” he says.

“The ministère public can act as the government’s attorney and intervene in the public interest, kind of like.....” he continues, a brief but concise explanation on the organization.

“That’s right, Mr. Johnson” says the professor.

I look down at my book again, and see, on the page right in front of me, the first paragraph highlighted, and to the side, where I had written in my favorite red pen:

Functions of the Ministère Public: 1. act as gov’t attorney in criminal proceedings and otherwise, 2. (sparingly) intervene in any litigation to represent the public interest.

on the subject of why my life is currently boring

how come you never call anymore?

have recently come into a lot of money

traveling around eastern europe in an old white van

painting grafitti on city walls with my naked body

law school

starting a revolution in New York with 6 dollars and a megaphone

a vow of silence to represent the struggle for reproductive rights

on a reality TV show embarrasing myself, but at least its network

eloped in Turkey under cherry trees, currently blind with love and lust

book tour across the western united states with alice notley

what are you up to?

stupid

Sasha worked with Benjamin at the grocery store. Sometimes he bagged groceries for her line, and she got to talk to him for a few minutes.

“Hey Benjamin” she would say “How is it going?”

“Oh Sasha, you know...” he would say.

She knew. She knew.

She liked his shoulders, not too broad. Not too skinny. A perfect hanger for his grocery store uniform. She liked when he said “you know...” to her. Like she knew him well enough to know, like they didn’t need to communicate really, just you know.

Benjamin didn’t have a lot of friends at the grocery store. When he was alone in the stock room he would put on his headphones and listen to U2. Sometimes he talked to the girl in the deli named Stella. She had long black hair and no stomach. Sometimes he bought a doughnut and walked along the sidewalk of the strip mall.

The first time she saw Benjamin outside of work they were in a dive bar down the street. She didn’t expect to see him. He was drunk.

“Hows it going Benjamin?”

“Oh, you know...”

She was in love.

That night she slept with Will.

She didn’t mean to, she just didn’t have enough money for a cab. And when he offered to share one, he looked different. Maybe it was the dim cab light. Maybe it was the house rum and diet coke. Maybe it was you know. She took him home.

The sex was bad.

Will worked in the produce department. He was not serious about his job. He was very attractive. He was not good in bed.

Sasha was not happy about sleeping with Will. She didn’t go to work for three days. He called her the third day. He was drunk. “No Will” she said. “Why?” he asked. “You know.” she said.

He didn’t know. He wasn’t very bright.

The next time Benjamin bagged the groceries in her line, her eyes were burning. Her hands were a little shaky. “I’ve got a secret, Ben” she said to him.

“Yeah?” he said.

“I slept with Will” she said. She turned bright red.

“Oh?” said Benjamin. “Wow.”

“I know,” she said. “He was bad in bed.”

"I slept with Stella.” he said. “But don’t tell anyone. You know.”

“Oh” she said. “I know” she said. She didn’t mean it. Her heart dropped to the bottom of her shoe.

i'm sorry i'm not.

there was a reason i had to be someone else
in those fishnet stockings and stacked heels for you:
there was always much more than an ocean between us.
always much more than an accent
that kept you from understanding.
i wish i could say i’m sorry.
i’m sorry i’m not. i’m sorry. i’m not.

baby ears

your mouth is opening closing opening closing, but you’re just talkin at yourself, sugar. the sun is on my cheeks and I’m eating dried mangos waitin for the bus downtown.

Don’t lay your method on me, man

Sometimes I can’t tell
if the water in the faucet is getting warmer, or my fingers are just getting numb.

in

Its my fault for

Taking your call

Late late.

Unlocking the door

Its my fault for

Letting you in.

Kissing you hard.

Against the wall.

Letting you in.

The Majestic

4:30 AM.

The Majestic. My last night in America.

We order hash browns, coffee, some biscuits and apple pie. The party hadn’t been boring; we had just left before the others started to split. The four boys with me and Shy can be summed up perfectly by their names: Carlos, Eliot, Ryan, and Ben. They really embodied those names.

We had only just met them at the small, packed apartment and became fast friends with the help of a few cocktails and a joint. The Majestic is packed. Labor Day weekend. The tiles on the wall are white and yellow, or at least they are supposed to be. The waitress is too polite to be working the graveyard shift and I can tell the boys aren’t going to tip her enough already. Someone pushes someone near the cash register and all the testosterone in the room jump out of their seats. About 10 minutes later I see blue and red lights flashing in the parking lot.

The hash browns swim in their grease and ketchup and salt. Perfect for my coming down. The boys were thinking about getting laid. Shy just wants her pie, and I am thinking that this is a perfect night to be in America.

***

Having a sandwich in midtown, Shy and the afternoon. Back in the country again. July.

“Hey look, it’s that guy” she says. It’s Carlos. “Hey!” she calls out.

He comes over and looks a little confused, then says “hey” and sits at the table with us.

“We’ve met before, right?” I say. “The Majestic? Last year?”

“Yeah,” he says. “The Majestic. That magical night at the Majestic.”

That magical night at the Majestic.

shrink and disappear

in the bathtub with scores of spicy tall candles++ my ancient little gas heater
cozy as a happy little fetus in the only warm place++ this drafty old house
i tipped some wax from my candle into the honeyed bath water
(it blobbed up in red shiny clumps and) said
‘you should read nothing but anais nin for seventeen days’
far be it from me to question that kind of authority.

a character study on a friday night

Her glasses were cat-eyed, of course.

She entered the small restaurant with a ding-ding and walked straight through to the cash register in the back. It was a thai restaurant but had a diner feel to it, the way the fluorescent lights were too bright and the only music was a soft drone of something indistinguishable coming from the kitchen.

She came in out of the drizzly rain, of course.

The short man behind the counter asked her ‘can I help you,’ of course.

She thought ‘sigh’ but said ‘I placed an order.’ The man went to grab a paper bag near the kitchen.

She was coming from work. Friday night. At long last. She was going home to her little green maple street shotgun house and her fuzzy puppy named Eliot, of course.

She looked down at the bottom of the counter where a million shoes had kicked the oddly chosen light blue paint, then over to the table of students attacking a small plate of spring rolls.

On the wall was a photograph of several preteen asian men in matching outfits with a pastel backdrop in a gold frame. Outside there was some lightening.

‘Here you are ma’am’ he said and she handed over some money out of her patchwork shoulder bag.

It was coconut soup, of course.

to: you

Thanks to everyone who still comes here to read. I really appreciate you all. I've resolved a few things, not necessarily for the new year, but just as well.

I am going to start writing everything under a nom de plume from now on. I guess it was pure narcissism that kept me from doing that before, but I need to be careful as I transition from the world of globetrotting on my own handful of dimes to (hopefully) globetrotting on someone's payroll.

So I picked one, and I hope you like it (let me know!) I picked Lucie because I once had a dream that I had a little girl and I named her Lucie, and Peacock is a family name on my mother's side.

Also I have decided to start submitting again, bc I've been scarcely published these past few years. I am going to try to submit a few pieces a month (I know that's not a lot, but its more than the 3 pieces I submitted in the past 9 months).

I hope everyone is having a fab 07.

suburban holiday

merry christmas y’all come
on inside

white zin showers and

credit card burn-
out of the ‘Cold’
because the game’s on
the =big as the interest rate=
television
and the rice crispy
treats
are cooling on the oven

70% off designer shoes in gas puddles with milkshakes and pop piano ballads on the FM

and it was 2007 minutes in heaven
with a champagne chaser and

remote

control