I see myself in you.

I must have felt my own face before,

The contours and dents of my nose, my chin, 

Touched each of my eyebrows, 

But never did imagine 

A specimen so beautiful

Could remotely resemble what my hands have felt. 

I want to reach forward to you, too

I wonder if your skin is just as soft

You look so lonely, 

You are just as frozen as me,

Eyes locked onto mine.

I cannot help but be intimidated by you;

In this empty world, you are all I have left.

I read in books that there was a time

There was more of us:

Can you talk? Will you answer if I ask

If there are others?

You must be a different species entirely.

I reach forward

To touch you

And your arm moves, too, towards mine

My heart, beating audibly

My hand, stretching farther

And touching nothing but the silvery surface

Of a mirror.

You were so beautiful

"I'm losing it baby. I'm going to lose my fucking mind." Jimmy was

pacing back and forth on the living room floor clapping his left hand

to his thigh while taking deep drags off his Marlboro.

"You're going to wear the rug out pacing like that. Walk around in a

square or zig-zag or something." Lila's plump body was wedged into a

worn overstuffed armchair.

"You need to listen to me." Jimmy slid to his knees at Lila's feet.

His hands were shaking, his eyes wild, darting from here to there and

there to here.

Lila raised a chicken leg to her mouth, dug her teeth in and pulled

the meat from the bone chomping with loud wet chews. Grease slid

down the side of her face as Jimmy's head fell into her lap. She

patted his hair with her chicken-hand. Jimmy was weeping now and the

wetness from his tears spread on her pink skirt.

"It's going to be fine." Lila said spitting chunks of chewed chicken

into the air around his head.

"I don't want to go." Jimmy was blubbering now. He looked up at Lila

with pleading eyes.

"But you promised, remember? And we must always keep our promises."

Lila lifted a strawberry shake from nowhere wrapping her lips around

the straw, sucking so hard her cheeks caved in and she looked like

fish wearing a wig with oily bangs.

Gently, Lila reached out to Jimmy's face with both hands and she

tenderly brushed his tears away. Long ropes of snot hung from his

nostrils.

"He's here!" Lila pushed Jimmy down to the floor. A dark figure in

black robes and no face stood over Jimmy. Wafts of the scents of cat

shit and basil filled the air as the figure moved closer to Jimmy.

Lila lifted her skirt revealing an unspeakable forest of hell between

her legs. And then Jimmy was gone. And the cloaked figure was gone.

But Lila remained. A brand new rotisserie chicken now at Lila's feet.

the wild that rose up

from a bed of ashes. which was

surrounded by chrysanthemums.

and there was

all quiet around it. all summer,

it was the video games and black tea,

and who were you not in love with?

it was just july, only

the seventh month of the year.

yet like lighting lines of baking soda,

nothing makes meaning out of life.

which imitates art, and is

not dependent on what meaning

may be extracted. may tolerate

a misspelling on a napkin

as innovation, because

everyone knows success is stagnation.

play house with a half-box of trojans.

you think that's maybe why mornings

look like bacardi-lolita-fractured-flashes

of shameless moments and briefly loosening

to find the spring has disjointed itself.

now in parts: chrysanthemums, dry brooks

dry ashes. but where was the fire —

and who were you not in love with?

the startled that rose up

from an unloaded nest. where

the children are asleep

in the tip; memories of what is

in the future, which is august.

that is not spring

anymore, or approaching.

that is not feeling, or even aware

of an existence of meaning.

and who were you not in love with?

I love writing when I'm broken. It doesnt matter how messy or horrible the piece is. Most of my genuine pieces are messy, raw. They don't rhyme or have any type of structure. But the pieces where I pour my heart out, where I write it so fast I wonder how the words even came to me, those are the pieces I go back to all the time. Those are the pieces that heal me. Those are the pieces I'm hesitant to share. I'm not hesitant to share them because they make no sense and are kind of terrible but because I feel like a piece of my heart is on paper. Sometimes I wait for bad things to happen because there is no drug in the world that can numb my pain like writing. I lust after that type of numbness, its better than being happy. Feeling nothing at all, feeling like your heart is empty for a short time. There is no hate, love, or despair. For a few moments I just exist. And that feeling of just existing is a feeling I cant get anywhere else. 

There was a woman I knew, Eliza. She did everything she could to avoid leaving her DNA behind. I had to travel with her for work a few times. She was a real nice lady in her 50s. She grew up in a normal home with a normal family in a normal town. For some reason she had this crippling fear that she would leave pieces of herself behind. She brought her own towels and sheets and pillow cases whenever she spent the night away from home. When she cleaned her hairbrush she took every last strand and would set them on fire. That is until the time the smoke alarm went off at the Day’s Inn Schenectady. She stopped lighting crap on fire and started to flush the hair down the toilet. Only then she worried that not all of it would flush away and she'd spent an hour in the can flushing the toilet over and over again, pouring in 2 cups of bleach before every push of the lever.

I was surprised when she met a man. He was one of those guys who was neither hideous nor good looking which suited her just fine. I don’t know where they met but I came to find out that he had this thing where he refused to leave his trash outside the building like everyone else. He would get on the train and go 2 or 3 stops away and toss it in public waste bins. He thought his neighbors might go through his trash and know his business. Not that there was any business to know. He spent most of his time figuring out where to toss his trash and dealing with Eliza’s DNA hysteria. I got used to it after a while and we became close friends before they disappeared back in 2004. I miss them a lot. They were good people.

I went on a few dates with this sexy little man with a mustache and great dance moves. His name was Edgar. I liked him well enough. He was a serious guy but when we danced it was like magic. He just knew how to boogie. On the 3rd or 4th date I got all gussied up because we were going to a supper club to rumba. When he picked me up he slapped me across the face because I was wearing lipstick. After he recovered from my pushing him down the stairs he told me that covering my lips with vulgar paint hides the true color of the lips. The lips on a woman’s face is a mirror image of her downstairs parts (he used the word “pussy,” but I am a lady and don’t use such language). He told me painting my lips meant I was ashamed of my pink palace and he could not be with someone who was that uptight. Well, I was happy to part ways with him. And for the record, my hooha does not look the same as my face lips; it’s way prettier and I am glad he never had the chance to see it.

Strange folks have come and gone over the years. I guess we are all a little strange in our own ways. That’s what makes us interesting. Me? I’m pretty normal. I eat raw ground beef from time to time. And instead of saying “um” I do a scale of “la la la la la la la.” That puts people off sometimes but I've learned to control that compulsion for the most part unless I am really nervous. I also never wear matching socks. I figure one of the pair will inevitably be lost so I am just being proactive. Other than that, I am pretty ordinary.

The day I met Nate was a day I will never forget. All friends start out as strangers. My 3rd grade teacher said that to me when I was shy and didn’t want to talk to anyone. It stuck with me all these years. I was sitting in Union Square Park, minding my business eating rice cakes with almond butter and watching the people when this enormous creature plopped down next to me. He was at least 6 foot 7 and about 600 lbs. A big bloop of a guy, as my dad would have said. He had a kind, round, hairless face. He started talking to me right off the bat. I remember giving him the side-eye at first but was soon drawn into a lively conversation about the color blue and the various shades and how blue can also be an emotion and we just sat there for hours talking about the color blue. Later that night I walked home and I thought about Nate. I thought about him a lot and how he would never slap me for wearing lipstick. I know, I set my standards high but that was the bar I had to measure against.

We met the next day and talked about kitchen utensils. All the different kinds and what they are used for and debated whether wooden spoons were better than a metal ladle or a silicone spatula. I was fascinated with his knowledge of different kitchen tools and his enthusiasm was contagious. He was very orderly with the topics he chose to talk about and he rarely deviated from the theme, but when we did, he would hold up one finger and say “hold just one minute” and switch gears. When he was ready to go back to the original topic he’d say “resume.” It was easy to follow his transitions and he had a laugh like a bird in a gully.

Every day we met up and talked for hours about various things. Squares, how they can be so many things to so many people and that people used to call nerds squares. We talked about olives and the varieties from the ones stuffed with almonds to tapenades and oils and beauty products made with olive oil, but also that olive was used to describe skin tones. On Wednesdays we talked about specific body parts.

Nate was the kindest, funniest man I ever met. We fell in love. Ain’t that something? And while it’s true that every friend starts off a stranger, it is also true you can never really know anyone. You only know what they let you know. I found out on our wedding night that he cried after sex. Not just tears of release but weeping and wailing cries. This really worried me the first few times but then I got used to it. It still made me uncomfortable, just like it made him uneasy when I ate raw meat, but we learned to live with it.

A year after we were married I caught him in the park talking to a pretty little thing. I hid in the bushes behind them and listened as they spoke about the color blue. She was just as captivated as I had been not so long ago. Reality was a blur. Was it really happening or was I seeing a memory from outside of myself? How could my gentle giant run the same scam on another woman? Why was I not enough? My heart thumped inside my chest with irregular hammering beats against my ribs; my face flushed hot and my eyes filled with water.

When Nate got home that night I told him what I’d seen and he didn’t deny it. The girl he was talking to, a blond of all things, was named Rose. And she understood him. And he wanted to be with her. So I left.

You find out someone is a stranger but they are really just like everyone else. Clichéd assholes. I did some sleuthing on Rose. Turns out she had webbed feet and an elongated coccyx bone which looked like a little tail. She was a frog-rabbit. She did freaky webcam sex stuff. There's a market out there for everything, I suppose. A tail and webbed feet? I could never compete with that. And I’m not sure I want to.

It's fine. Now I just stick to myself. Life is complicated enough with the people you know, or think you know. My sister likes to watch those YouTube videos of women whispering nonsense and scratching their scalp. Strange, but she’s no stranger. After Nate, there were no more strangers for me. I’m happy this way. I can't help but think about Eliza's obsession with leaving some of herself behind. She took it to a literal level with the DNA part, but the truth is, as we gather more of ourselves we inevitably lose bits too.

Here we go. The letter I want to write but never can. The ultimate fuck you to be kept for the record as long as we both shall live and then some. We'll skip the formalities and the "How have you been?"s if that's alright with you. I'm sure it is. Lord knows, you wouldn't want to hurt me or anything. I hope you can understand that, despite it being about five months, I'm still hurt. But don't think you're news. Don't mistake this letter as we still talk about you. Don't think you are anything more than a sledgehammer that shattered seven years of good memories.

Shall we start at the beginning or the end? Let's be spontaneous. Let's start at the end. That accurately portrays it, don't you think? Now, let's imagine you're in a slumber. Not quite a deep slumber, but the REM is just coming into the picture, you're melded to your bed, drool is trickling. Good right? Nice, wonderful picture. And your phone rings. Now, you don't answer your phone often but it's your grandfather which is odd. You pick up the phone, expecting to hear some old person eccentricities like that he's outside with seven pounds of fruit and you need to unlock the door or something like that. But, in your almost asleep stupor, you make out the words "Call the police" and "So-and-so is choking your aunt." So, let's let that simmer. How would you feel? What is your first thought? What would you do? Probably what I did, which was jump up and tell someone.

With the 'rents dispatched, what you you do now? Would  you go about your day? I sure as hell didn't. I paced and shook and murmured like a crazy person until I decided I couldn't take it, took something, and went to sleep. Fast forward 2-4 hours. Your kids are at our house. Besides the little one, they're shaken. Now I know they aren't all yours but after seven years, you kinda get used to saying it. Where was I? Ah yes, the part where my room was monopolized. My aunt, who you jut tried to kill, had to lay down. My brother's bed is too small, my parents like their space, and my room is fresh for the taken. You can call me selfish and I can call you an attempted murderer, so let's not call

names. Especially since I know more about you than you realize.

In case you were wondering, things are fine with them. They live far far away and do school and have moved on. Five months. Isn't that a record? Five months and they forget seven years. I'm sure they still think you you. Not in the loving memorial way but in the nightmare. The way that gives you goosebumps and visible chills when you think of it. That spontaneous way that makes you ache and look over your shoulder. And the worst part (for you anyway) is that this is your fault. Do you think of that wherever you live? Do you cringe at the thought of it? Do you cry about it? I bet you do.

how dare you come into my thoughts again, you insignificant jerk? You ruined them. Even though the facade is fine, the reality is that you cracked deep down below. That will never be fixed. I hope you think of it every day. I hope it eats you up inside. And in conclusion, eat a bag of shit. Bye! :)

I started working on my book again

Flipped the script, changed the direction

Why is it that inspiration

Sparks from somewhere deep within hidden

Thoughts

That unravel the deepest feelings in our hearts

A pop

Bursting the bubble, letting the thoughts ooze out

Instead of acting out

We write it down

The experiences, the thoughts we write them down

Somehow we live through the words we write down

The readers live through the words they read out

And those become the best-sellers that sell out

Okay, so before I type what I need feedback on, I'll explain the situation. This was a dream I had last night. And I'm thinking of turning it into a series of short stories. I'll give it the title of The Adventures of Abraham and Darius. Or something along those lines.

I only remember some of it so I'll give a short description of them and then I'll give a little excerpt of the dream, or at least what I remember.

Abraham Alexander:

Narrator. Gangling. Red haired. Wide eyed, thin-lipped, mustache, and a jutted jaw. Originally a college professor at Oxford. Aloof unless in the company of friends, danger-loving, drinker, go-getter, sometimes humorous. 

Darius Day: 

Side kick. Stocky. Brunette. Deep-set eyes, full-lipped, bearded, and square jaw. Originally a bar keeper. Danger-loving, humorous, impractical, sometimes inhibited, stubborn.

Okay, time to give the excerpt XD even though my memory is slowly fading, eh I'll wing it I suppose. 

The Adventures of Abraham and Darius:

Excerpt of the boat ride in menacing ocean.

...Waves crashed against the boat, promising death with every impact. I'd told Darius that we should have turned back a while ago, but he refused, saying that at this time of year the ocean was at its calmest.

"Are you sure this isn't the time of year that is considered most dangerous to travel on the ocean?" He nodded.

"And you did research on this, yes?"

"Erm well, not exactly."

"What do you mean not exactly?" I asked, turning to him.

"I just decided to trust my instincts on this one." He rubbed the back of his head and frowned.

"WHAT DO YOU M-" 

"Well, we haven't gotten killed yet now have we? No." He let his arm fall by his side.

I became so filled with worry that I nearly forgot why we'd come out here in the first place; we had come to this godforsaken ocean to-

BOOM! The waves crashed against the ship again, only this time, much harder. 

"Gertrude!" I called.

A small, gray-haired head popped up from the deck below. "Yes sir?"

"I need my telescope." I demanded. 

"Yes sir. I'm coming right up."

Within seconds, she was with us, still wearing that bright pink dress and gray high heels (which might I add are mildly inappropriate for wearing to sea.) I grabbed Bernard from her hand and after stretching him out, took a peek into of him onto the distant sunset. 

Suddenly, an awful rumbling began, and in that moment, I don't think I'd ever been that scared in my life. Although, that was probably the tenth time I'd thought that in the past week...

why

build

a room

with things

intended to

permeate yourself

and the negative space

within it

when

you can

build yourself

and permeate

any room?

i hate

the stuff

around here

as in the lamps

which stand on

counters, nightstands,

end tables and floors

and too easy make

a psycho-analysis

of the owner

in contrast

of light/

dark

dozens of

marilyn plates

sit on wall shelves

and the existence of

an idol is always

disturbing

looking-up

looking-to and

rarely if ever

looking-in.

bookshelves

of tawdry

bestsellers

as nora roberts

and nicholas sparks

are a word vomit

savored by

a mental palate

trained by

pop culture

oversized sofas

with sunk-in

cushions and

a smorgasbord

of pillows and blankets

crowd the living room

in a family size

version of junk food

served to self

breads litter

the bookshelf top

a single fruit

sits in a bowl

the fridge is over-packed

with things not eaten

and the basement

is quintessential american

with an embarrassment of trifles

which cannot be thrown away

although mostly forgotten

because of disuse

maybe this is

human housebreaking

and the equivalent

of ourselves as pets

stewarding over

our own shit

for the lack

of otherwise

we are mastered

by our own emptiness

which gives rise to

consumerism and

and even relationships

rubik's cubing

each other

in the futility

of colors

to be determined

turning

and turning away.

i build

my home

in my heart

and for that

i am never alone

things

to own

and people

to love

are unnecessary

and best kept to

a minimum.

we drip

in the sugar of

a blancmange mind

and the cloying sweetness

is spooned-up by

our words

there is

little truth

without admission

of guilt and depravity

i eat that

bitterness

and search for it

in others

it went down

with a fight

the first time

as my palate

yielded to a desire

for my health

progress

is apart from

the mythologies

of optimism

and pop culture

and hate

apart from

binaries

pessimism

and alt-whatever

and love

apart from

middle-grounds

standing

firmly amid

warring sides

it's found

in the fluidity

which allows us

to be all things

i am

honest

if i can be

a liar

if i must

i finagle

with words

as if a politician

and say very little with

the profundity

of honesty

a solace

to someone

and disadvantages

will lead me

to leave him

to his solitude

is that

a bitter pill

to swallow

for a friend?

i like

the bitterness

of reality

i disgust

of the saccharine

in the unreal

of yourself

grow with me

or i will grow alone

eat with me

or i will eat alone.