Posts (page 2)

Hello, rain. Hello, vanity.

"I feel so low -- all hookers and gin."

What does your name mean and why did your parents choose it for you? 
Submitted by mommy2two.

Queenly chaste statue of a thing.

We watched the watchmaker drown.

It was then I realized the madness of men and the madness of women as separate things, differential lusts: escapes.

I didn't believe there was a problem, not yet at any rate, because there wasn't anything akin to sorrow scratched into his face. If you looked you could maybe see the beginnings of frustration making its mark across his forehead, a few new sullen lines where the skin had once been taut, but certainly never sorrow. Perhaps I wasn't looking hard enough. I've often been accused of looking without seeing. But each night we slept facing each other, our noses barely touching, a sleep so close as to make it impossible to ignore the development of a face's landscape, its new landmarks, when one was awake to complete the study. I rarely slept when we were like this, actually, because his sleep was so peaceful that it seemed to refresh the both of us. With him I was an insomniac: watching him sleep was enough, just enough, to keep me rested through the new day that spread through the blinds every morning. Which is why I feel I can say with some authority that I didn't believe there was a problem, not yet: he gave no outward indication, no notice of the coming loss.

Spirals of ink, snails of words.

It is hot and I am hot, I am overheating. I am hot and it is hot, the air is hot; I am hot, too, overheated and quiet still. Shallow breathing because I am hot. To move is to heat moreover still (stillness, thick dull heat). Words repeated because I am hot, because to think is to overheat the head, and the head is hot, throbbing heat, heady, throbbing heat. Today it is hot and I am hot and you are hot, too, mutually exclusively; my hot breathing, your hot touch, our heat. You and me are hot today, overbearingly hot, still; the endless overheating.

This week I find myself wrapped in blankets before the television, embracing its dull monotonous hum of aboriginal tribes, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition reruns, Captain Jack Sparrow. Like a pregnant woman I complain of lethargy, of nausea and headaches, of too-many hormones coursing through this necessary body, small feet tapping against a spine. It's spring, now. Early April's snow has transformed into mid-month ropes of rain, and I'm feeling the uncategorized effects of nature's sudden metamorphosis--allergies, I suppose, perhaps a head-cold, sinus infection, 24-hour flu, bubonic plague, hysteria. Regardless, it's unpleasant. According to the weatherman and also to last night's dreams, the spring will continue in this manner for centuries, maybe eons, until I completely lathe my nose with the cheap tissues my mother buys with supermarket coupons or until I give birth to the (almost) immaculately-conceived child of two compatibly phlegmatic dispositions, two grumpy loveless sticks-in-the-mud--whichever comes first.

This world of opportunities.

I pin leaves
to the gnarled branches
of your arms
as a seamstress pins
a slip of fabric to cover a form;
leaves like a native's roof
to shelter me.