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

still true

boose bed-eh ; or tall dark and handsome

I had a dream that he
came to my house and I wasn’t wearing underwear
and we made love in the stairwell
and everything I touched was turning purple
purple walls
purple stairs
he lifted me up
and he looked like
I mean amazing
like amazing
when I woke up I was so sad because
my bed was empty
only me and the
cat clawing at the door

and when I told beth she said ‘ew’
but then again
she didn’t see how amazing he looked
Oh god those persians
there are no persian men in new Orleans.
begou desperate?

jive

kitten is so passive: wishes only for that sparkle when dangling,
hardly outside reach of his playful little bat;
lay it down without a battle and
y a w n : goes distant
Each fresh cat knows the play which is a play, after all.

how un-characteristic

I see lollipop laughing light little petticoats, giggle giggle giggle and you wear that shirt so well. I see wind in the trees (all leaves, all leaves) and books upon books upon your faded leather jacket. You strut, I know it, I know you, page 576 lets study over drinks. At the risk of being lame, I claim comparative negligence the way you’ve been pulling me, on the pull, not pulling my hair but pulling my cliché. Bottom line, footnote time, you’ve turned my brain to mush and I’m an instant gratification kind of girl.

I was never one to hang on to nothing: I’ve just got to kiss you before Christmas.

candid curry

We were supposed to be at the restaurant at 7:30, but Sylvia, Lane, and Eugene rolled up to the Plex around 8 to pick me up. I had been watching wheel of fortune and reading Elizabeth Cady Stanton, killing time and not studying.

I had asked Sylvia if she wanted to go out to eat Thursday night, told her I needed some curry in my blood and have you heard of the great Indian place on magazine street? She more than agreed, needed some korma therapy, but said she had to break a date with Eugene to do it. I said ‘tell him you had plans with me and you forgot, invite him along even…’

Sylvia, Eugene and I all have something in common, lack of wheels. Transportation. Vehicle handicapped. I had told her I would meet the two of them at the restaurant by scooter, my Babette. But nights in New Orleans by scooter are chancy-- the potholes could swallow you whole and the drivers and martinis… so I was happy when she called and said Lane was coming and he had a car.

Its like 1950s bohemia, the way we covet the cars.

Lane is blond and curly and has a light southern accent that makes me feel comfortable. I had met him at the barristers ball, I know, but I don’t remember a word I said to him because I had been friends with gin that night, trying to get the most of my $200 dress. Eugene is quick and funny, he’s got a look like a candy cane.

We went to Indian curry and split dishes and talked about the dems taking the house and senate, pedagogy and small southern towns. Weekends. Clubs. Life in excruciating general.

Lane is from Louisiana. Eugene’s from California. Sylvia is from Boston. I’m from Atlanta by way of the world. Afterwards we dropped Eugene off at someone’s house, for him to continue the rest of the night in reckless abandon no doubt. Sylvia just glows. Like always. She is so beautiful. Everyone falls in love with Sylvia. And you can’t even hate her for it, because she is so genuine.

Lane said he has some friends that I could meet. I ask him if they speak a second language. I don’t usually sleep with guys that speak only one language. He asks if this has any connection to me asking him earlier if he remembers any Italian from his year in Florence. I tell him I don’t date law students. He says it isn’t too late for him to drop out.

It’s a good night.

everyone deserves a twenty-second chance?

late night calls from the ex
I miss you I love you I will always love you I’m sorry

So, what are you wearing?
[ Rinse, repeat. ]

red

i sit in the big big room
watching paint become wet
he is cherry kool-aid in every possible sense.
every possible sense he is.
cherry kool-aid.
i’m sitting in the big big room
drawing sonnets on the inside of my thighs.
sonnets for no one
no one to read them.

autumn series (working stages)

[Autumn I]

I lost it in autumn
Those corduroy pockets made my freshman head spin
You played me ditties
On your glitter guitar
And we made love for hours on your little dorm room bed.

[Autumn II]

The bus stop
End of the road // other side of the earth
Autumn winds send crunchy leaves flying;
my brother and I would run to catch them,
Dropping lunch boxes and notebooks in passionate lunges before the bus would come,
where Luke would sit next to the boys who would
pull my hair , laugh too loud-and
A few years
and bus routes later,
ask me to the homecoming dance.

[Autumn III]

Avignon
And those yellow van gogh trees all around.
But mostly I remember
Smelling fall in the air
walking to get a beignet, a café,
And waxing WWI in the dingy, damp computer lab all day when I could have been in it.
19 year old hearts are like peanut brittle,
broken and devoured by indifferent little boys.

[Autumn VI]

Our bicycles were magic and my backyard a plantation
I’ll be Melanie and you’ll be veronica
our little hands will be frozen,
from escaping down hills, bike tires spinning like little girl madness;
Or from washing mud pie pans
In the chilly pond water.

devastating crush

You’re pretty dreamy

so can we just skip right to the stage where we are laying naked together on Saturday morning listening to NPR?

when did i love you become hard

Helena found Sam on the side of the house, sitting on a rock and smoking a joint.

-What are you doing? I made macaroni and cheese.

-Shhhh, he said, and motioned across the lawn, to a lit window. In the window was a woman, late 20’s or early 30’s. She was facing away from the two of them, standing in front of a mirror and concentrating hard on lacing herself up into a black corset. She tugged at the laces with red fingernails, then twisted to try to see her back in the mirror. Tug, twist. Tug, twist.

Helena sat down next to Sam and they watched together for a moment in silence.

-That looks difficult, said Helena.

-She’s been at it for 10 minutes, said Sam.

The woman was pretty, as far as they could tell. She seemed nervous.

-Have you spoken to Pierce? Helena asked.

-Pierce. Pierce. Don’t you ever talk about anyone but Pierce? Said Sam.

Helena turned to look at him, his profile lightly lit by the streetlight. He put the joint to his lips and took a long drag, making the tip glow bright like a lightening bug. Then she followed his gaze back to the window. The woman was in the corset now. She put her hand down the inside of the front and pulled up her breasts, adjusting and pulling until she had two perfect half circles spilling out the top.

-I just thought you might want to talk about it, she said.

- Well, I don’t. He’s not interested anymore. Meesha said she saw him dancing for hours with some undergrad, then they disappeared, said Sam, between puffs.

-That doesn’t mean---

-That’s enough, ok? Please? Sam reached down to the grass and pulled out a clump, letting it slip through his fingers back to the soil.

The woman disappeared from the room for a moment, and came back with a big glass of dark red wine. She stood in front of the mirror with the wine glass in her hand, leaned forward and said something to her reflection. Then she leaned back and laughed a little, took a sip of wine, and posed with her hand on her hip.

- I’m going to Nashville next weekend, said Helena. I’ve got work there. I won’t be back for a few days. Can you water the plants?

-Do you love your plants? said Sam.

-Love? My plants? said Helena.

- Yeah. Do you love them? Sam chuckled a little at the corset clad neighbor, who was frantically fluffing her hair.

- You are being ridiculous, said Helena. Why are you watching that poor woman?

-Why are you? Sam asked.

- I asked you first.

- It makes me feel real, he said.

- Don’t give me a film school answer, she said. That’s such shit.

- It does, he said. I think I love her, he said.

-Love her? Said Helena. That’s news. You’re changing sexuality by the day now?

- I didn’t say I want to have sex with her, he said. I said I love her. I don’t want to have sex with everyone I love. Do you want to have sex with your plants?

- Umm, I -

Helena didn’t finish her sentence because a car pulled up in the street and a tall, lanky man emerged. He had a grocery store bouquet in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He walked to the door, rang the bell, and the woman jumped. She had been alternating between talking to her reflection and putting on mascara. She hastily threw on a short black dress over her corset and stockings, and ran to the door, disappearing from view.

- I think you should know that Pierce called me, said Helena.

- Oh, said Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

- He misses you, she said.

- Oh, said Sam, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Suddenly there were two people in the bedroom. The man had removed his jacket and the woman was pulling him by the hand. She went to her dresser, where she had left the big glass of dark wine. She lifted up her glass to him, other hand still holding his, and said a few words before he leaned in to kiss her. He reached his arm around her waist and put his other hand behind her head. She dipped. She stood back up, secured her wine glass on the dresser, and unzipped the back of her dress. The top slid off to reveal her carefully laced corset and carefully positioned chest.

Helena reached for the joint.

The man looked at the woman, took a sip of her wine, and then turned off the lights. The room went dark and so did the little pool of light that had shown on the grass in front of the glass. Helena sighed.

- Fucking romantics, said Sam. They spoil all the fun.

- I think the macaroni is getting cold, said Helena.

the only living girl in new orleans

I

Everyone is really unhappy when they are drunk.
Dot felt sick in the car and Anne said “I called the Christian hotline once when I was drunk. They said $4.99 to pray for me. They asked me for my credit card number.”

by the way he had looked at me I know he is thinking about sheets and pillows.

and casseroles, and flannel pajama bottoms and late mornings.
The bouncer told me he has a masters degree in sociology
And Anne called the Christian Hotline, so we know…

The kids. and me. Hookah café. friday night. grumbling and black heels and french quarter frustration. And sadness in the cockroach cracked streets.

II

At the german party

It was 4 AM
And one of the hosts told me ‘someone threw up in my sink, brandy’

The look on his poor face.
-‘I’m sorry honey. It wasn’t me.’ I was sober. (the only one)

Lovers making out on the balcony but I want to leave. I tell her five minutes and go back inside.

And in the living room
No furniture but a futon and folding table with a laptop
Wobbly disco ball and sappy love song
It could have been atlanta or paris or stuttgart
The beautiful two are slow dancing, pressed, high heels on big toes, kissing collar bones, oblivious

Not everyone is sad when they are drunk

old poem new language

La robe courte

des baisers humides

Mon corps trahit
ses hanches :familier

cheveux tordus draps blancs
un désordre négligent