27 April 2005

so far

This is all I know about Dr Oliver[Oscar] OO

He was born in Russia.

His father a novelist (he existed in a book before he took his first breath). His mother a ballerina.

His mother, in a cult, believed God lived on Mars. Tragic to my Oli, but a child, she perished in a rocket headed straight to her savior. Pirouettes in space.

The book about the incident touched millions in Russia, the millions in Russia from the touching brought thousands with the two men straight to America. Do you see? Novelists love tragedy.

This shattered my love’s dreams of being an astronaut.

Sustainable agriculture in underdeveloped countries. His path in lieu of stars and (mommy)martians. My love bottles wine in linen. Africa [stamp] Asia [stamp], mais oui bien sur l’europe.

Dr Oliver[Oscar] OO and his diamond ring. He asked ‘if I lived in your tummy, would you eat enough to maintain me?’ Ahhh love.

22 April 2005


No that is not on sale. This register says so. The light, it goes over these lines here, see? and it says its not for sale. I don’t care that it was on the shelf. I don’t care if your friend bought one yesterday, I said that this isn’t for sale. Don’t make me come out from behind this register. Yes I know you want it. You think you want it. But, in fact, it is not on the market. Look what I’ve done now, my register is abandoned. If there were people in line behind you they would probably be offended. You are damn lucky there is no one behind you right now, because normally there are lots and lots of people there. Hundreds. Seriously. NOT FOR SALE. That price tag is fake. Or maybe its for someone else.
Ok take it, its yours. Its free.

20 April 2005

lost in translation

“Standing on your toes brings you closer to the sky” says the ballet teacher to the fifty pink legs and twenty five black torsos. The breeze through the room is the same outside the library where the bible beating prophet stands on his grassy soapbox. “Jesus is listening,” he says. “Are you talking?” Heaven is not the same. It is lost in translation.
"To stand on the fingers of your leg brings you closer to skies" says the professor of Ballet to the fifty pink legs and twenty-five black chests. The breeze by the sector is same as outside the library, in which the striking prophet of the bible is on his lush soapbox. "Jesus listens," he says. "He is speaking to them." The sky is not identical. It is in the translation.
"That position takes you to the sky, your toes” tells the teacher of ballet to 50 pink feet and 20 and 5 black torsos. The breeze through the room will be the same outside the archives, where the prophet who beats of grassy bibles is on his soapbox. "Jesus hears that to him you are speaking." Paradise
is not the same. It is lost in the transfer.

17 April 2005

as long as we're being candid

Being in another country is a different kind of lonely. After everything else dissipates, I am still glad we had London.
Maybe drunk on whiskey on a hostel room bed wasn’t how I had envisioned it happening, but happen it did.
I remember the next day, in a record shop in Soho, you said “about last night…”
“I know you have a girlfriend,” I said, “and it won’t happen again.”
Looking back, I wonder if I actually believed those words as I spoke them, or if I just wanted the impossible to be true.
Being in another country is a different kind of lonely. What I remember most is the rain in London.
I shared your umbrella, allowing me to snuggle close to you under the guise of escaping the raindrops.
No one could know about our secret romance.
If you could call it a romance. Being in another country is a different kind of lonely.
.for Jason.

15 April 2005

.its called vulnerability.

around him she has no skin
it falls off and jumbles around her ankles, making it clumsy to walk.
she sees him contemplating her veins
ogling her fallopian tubes
“are you looking at my liver?” she asks sheepishly.
“no” he says, and she believes him
because he still has his skin.

it might as well shine silver.

14 April 2005

[Hide And Go Seek]

The thing about daylight savings is that it takes so long to get dark in the summertime. And as kids in the suburbs we didn’t care that the farmers had an extra hour to tend to crops. Our overalls were for fashion and the only gardening I did was when my mother made me help her weed the cherry tomatoes on the side of the house.
Getting dark at a later time seems like it would be a good thing for young children, but for us it was torture because the second the sun slipped down behind the horizon we could have the thrill of playing Hide-and-Go-Seek in the dark.
Hide-and-Go-Seek is for little kids, unless its in the dark.
Once the last hint of twilight left our cul-de-sac I would walk to my friend Leslie’s house at the beginning of the neighborhood and we would assess the collection. Any kids were welcome, preferably with flashlight. We would look at the motley crew in our midst and either bang out some teams or decide that its each man to himself.
Leslie’s house was the meeting place because she was situated between our neighborhood and the park where other kids lived. She also had patches of trees and other niches, perfect for little bodies. In the daytime we jumped on her trampoline with no shoes, sometimes with the sprinkler running.
Leslie looks at me and I know its time. I turn to a rough looking older boy. He is about 12, maybe 13 and his hair is matted around his forehead from playing baseball at the park. His name is Gregory and I think he’s the bees knees. “You’re it,” I say with an air of self-endowed authority. “Now turn around and count to 10.”
He closes his dirty hands around his eyes and begins to count. “1…2…3…”
I grab Leslie’s clean 10 year old hand and we run to our favorite hiding place, the tool shed. I crouch behind the lawnmower and Leslie attempts to squeeze in beside me.
“8… 9… 9 and a half…. 9 and three quarters…”
In a desperate act Leslie flees from my side, squeaking something about not being hidden enough. She halfway closes the door behind her as she escapes. I am now alone. Its very, very quiet. I become acutely aware of the loud sound of my breathing and wipe something off of my shoulder. Was it a spider? Probably just a mosquito. I scratch at the thought of it.
I hear a loud, high pitched scream outside the tool shed. The little kids always get caught first. They giggle when ‘it’ comes near them and give themselves away. I wonder if Leslie found her salvation.
I am leaning, sitting on my ankles, my knees against my face. A small glimmer of moonlight comes through the crack in the door. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness and I can now make out rakes, shovels, and old gardening gloves around me. All of a sudden the door opens and Gregory enters the shed. I automatically stop breathing. I stay as still as possible.
“I know you’re in here!” he proclaims loudly. I say nothing. I have fallen for that one before.
He is so close to me I could reach out and touch his leg right above his white athletic sock. As I contemplate this he moves over a step even closer. I can see his sweat. I swear he can hear my heartbeat.
I see him looking around, but seeing only darkness. He pokes at a shovel and jumps back when it tumbles over. I stir a little in my 1 square foot of hiding. Its quiet again. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him. Or kiss any boy. We are alone in the tool shed, only he doesn’t know it. My fingertips touch my lips in all their chipped nail polish glory, and then he leaves. He has no idea he has just inspired romance in my 4th grade mind.
More moments pass that seem like years until I hear Leslie belt out
“Come out come out wherever you are!!!”
I emerge from the tool shed to the same group of scraggly kids that I had run away from. “You won!” they shriek.
“You were in there?” asks Gregory. “That’s totally rad. I mean, I totally knew that.” I blush before I turn around and begin my countdown:
“1… 2…. 3…”

13 April 2005


A petite young blonde mysteriously turned into a puff of smoke yesterday in Smithtown. The townspeople were devastated.
“She was a lovely girl. Nice trim figure. Smiled a lot. Never would have guessed she would turn into a puff of smoke” remarked a neighbor.
“Her papers were quite orderly” said her American Literature teacher. “She never even asked to borrow the stapler. It’s a real shame about the puff of smoke thing”
The incident occurred during a quaint backyard luncheon. No children were present.
“How do you explain to someone how you feel after the girl you love turns into a puff of smoke?” said her boyfriend from beneath his baseball cap. “I mean, she smiled a lot. She really liked kittens, too.”
Her teary-eyed employer said “She was the best cashier I ever had. Her lunch breaks never exceeded thirty minutes.”
A vigil will be held tomorrow afternoon. The puff of smoke, unfortunately, was not secured.

12 April 2005

even sylvia plath took a lover

i want you to be my catharsis
i want you to take me until my body shudders
and i want the bruises to prove it

08 April 2005

taking the pest

What are you doing with yourself Miss Blew? What are you doing with your knife?

My knife is going just fine, take me very much.

It is not sublime! You have to take the pest!!

I am afraid to snake the pest. The pest is so daunting.

The pest is your knife now.

Is this pest the pest I am smirking of?

Yes! That pest! The Less Satisfaction Ample Temperance pest!

I don’t snow why this pest is so deported anyway. It is, after all, just a pest.

Without this pest, Miss Glue, you will not have a slaw office.

I never said I wanted to have a slaw office! I never really wanted to be a slayer. I want to glee the world. I want to see other pantries. I only want to snake the pest so I can go to slaw school and have a good exploration.

Regardless Madam, the pest must be taken. You can’t change the pearls. That’s just how knife is.

06 April 2005

[AA] I bleed myself of you

[when we were happy]
blue eyed
green eyed
lazy day
hazy lazy hazel eyes day
your arms in my arms in
my hair your hair
leg knee tummy hand
hum along whisper shout
or just be quiet
shh so quiet
either way i'm a disaster

no more songs about you.

04 April 2005


Pish posh miss joan divine, do you think those high heels don't cause blisters? Because they do and there is nothing you can do about it but suffer for your vanity. So keep your head up and run that victory lap as fast as you can because putting all your eggs in one basket means no omelets today. "Sometimes the best response to an argument is to offer no response at all" said Hollihan and Baaske, but what do they know anyway? Tisk tisk and 4 more to go.

02 April 2005

ode to paris I

bare feet
to me you are bare feet
lightly slapping the cobblestone
(i like it when it hurts a little)

i am patent leather stilettos
you are bare feet

01 April 2005

to virginity.

I have lost my virginity.
To be unsuccessful in retaining possession of; mislay
To be unable to keep control or allegiance of
To consume aimlessly; waste}
Though I lost it some time ago, it is just now that I have started to miss it.
I looked under the bed. In the closet. In the top drawer under the socks.
I looked in London and Paris and Hong Kong again.
I’ve lost it.
You see, I didn’t appreciate it much when it was around, but I have a newfound respect for it and would like to see it returned to me.