34A-32-36

"Maybe speed-balling IS the answer"
Victoria Secret shot me dirty looks.
I chewed on foil and asked-
How many calories exchanged for compliments?
For lovers who fell in love with a number.

My teeth singing,
her viscera dancing.
I took another bite.
She took another hit.

I winked
"eat your heart out bitch"
told my boyfriend I didn't mind [not] being so
drop dead gorgeous.

Short from this semester

Pest

The man lay on his side, right eye open, tracing the peculiar geometric pattern of his apartment bedroom’s wallpaper.  He gazed from the dark corner towards the lighter one, where it had been sun-bleached near his window; long before he had nailed black sheets around its frame. His retina began to strain when he pinpointed places the paper had begun to peel back from the wall. His pupil bounced and quivered while it sought out imperfections of the patterned paper. When his right eye began to water he shut it tight and opened the left. Now he focused on the hills and valleys of his grey cotton sheets. He ran his fingers through his bedding distorting the stone ash landscape.

                He sat up, inhaled the heavy wet summer air that gassed his apartment. He pulled off his sweat thirsty sheets, placed one hand on his headboard and the other on the mattress’s edge. Morning vertigo assaulted his head, neck, and stomach. He opened both eyes and narrowed in on the door knob. He waited before standing, until he felt his blood balance, the room to askew itself with his vision, and the floor to tilt even with the white bottoms of his feet.

                He sat under his water stained ceiling, and beside the accumulating media towers that had graduated into permanent furniture. Coffee rings were sown into his stag ecosystem. The footpath from the bed to the door lingered with dirty bachelor garb and cystic dishes.  The room consisted of bowls with fossilized oatmeal, pizza crusts wombed in cardboard exoskeletons, and aluminum husks that congregated in corners.  This room, this terrarium, had turned on him. He slept there feeling as though it was without permission.

                The man felt the humid air imbrue to his temples, under his arms, his legs. He wanted to run towards the door, to escape the furnace but the breath of his bedroom felt abundant. He had to choke his way through the air. He stumbled, naked. 

                Outside of his bedroom he met the aphotic hallway. Water pipes ran along the ceiling and leaked behind his walls. Black mold harbored like good kept secrets behind wood rot. The irriguous building had been nurtured with moist climate and poor maintenance. She had grown into a living animal, breathing and sweating out its tenants. But he stayed, waking up inside her. Feeling his way through her dark gut accompanied by nausea, migraines, and blight hangover.

                His bathroom door coaxed him with cold shower, soap, and toothpaste. His hands swept over the wallpaper while he drifted in fatigued trance. The metal door knob kissed his palm and he exhaled fetid caffeine breath. His stomach screwed itself against his spine and he had to pause before intruding upon the bathroom.

                It was a small space. From the high ceiling black spirals bloomed down, gracefully tumbling toward the cool white porcelain. Cramped together the shower, sink, and toilet granted him enough room to stand center, reach above to turn on the pendant light bulb, and critique his face in the mirror. His sinuous guise and permanent pout propelled him into social disinterest and asexual esthetics. It wasn’t necessarily that he was grotesquely unattractive, but this certain kind of ugly drugged other people with immense pity and vexatiousness. Once puberty had pocked his cheeks and chin, it was clear his face was one he would never be able to grow into. His features mocked burn victim without the story.

                The pipes hissed and moaned when he turned on the faucet. He could feel her cringe and ache at his maneuvering. He was parasitic and politely gripped his toothbrush and layered on paste without disrupting her digestion any further. He placed the head under the water, looked down at the sink and that’s when he first noticed the cockroach.

                His eyes shot towards the window above his shower. A black garbage bag had been taped over to keep out the light and the air. He wondered how the colossal insect had snuck in. He bent over, closer, to observe the shiny ink roach. Its hind legs twitching at the water, its antennae feeling up the porcelain, its glossy eyes jeering at the divots of his face. He fixed in on the minuscule sharp hairs that protruded from its stick limbs. The pipes whined and he looked up at the ceiling. He said “I’ll take care of this.”

                He placed the toothbrush into his mouth, tongued the bristles and thought to himself how he was going to decimate the vermin immigrant. He couldn’t touch it. To feel it squirm in between his fingers, he knew would cause him to drop it onto the floor, where it could hide in inaccessible corners. It couldn’t leave the sink alive, but to watch its belly pop under the weight of a shoe or book would send him into dry heaves. He peered into the sink and decided: he would drown the roach.

                He turned up the water and began spitting foam around the insect hoping to corner it under the faucet. He repasted his toothbrush and started again. The roach was not intimidated by the billowing of blue-green foam. It refused to back into the gush and eyed up at the man, almost smiling.

                The man took short breaths, cupped water and washed down the froth walls. The cockroach still didn’t move. He concluded that this bug wouldn’t be obliged into drowning; it would have to be assaulted into doing so. Once again, he applied the paste and began running the brush along his gums. He spit out mint lather, now tinged with pink, on top of the roach. He heard a hiss, and spit again.

                The insect scurried under the pastel clouds and under the running water. It emerged slick and grinning. The man took victory in causing the cockroach to mobilize, and began to brush more ferociously. He spewed forth fluoride, now feeling his jaw and teeth raw and nerve exposed.

                The toothbrush worked his gums separate from his teeth. Thin red threads of saliva and tissue began to flood from his mouth. He pinched his eyes closed and tried to disregard the throbbing. He worked the brush into the back of his throat which then resulted in a gag reflex. He coughed up paste and sucked in the apartment’s wet hot vapor. He choked on the dankness of her pheromones, and began to hack up black clots from his lungs.

                He opened his eyes wide at the mess he had made in the sink, the antagonist now doing laps around the blood foam medley. Light headed, he dropped the toothbrush onto the floor and began to cry. His sobs absorbed into her miasma of passages and rotting architecture. He was failing her in the bathroom, he looked up and saw the black circles winding, a mold galaxy expanding.  He swore he heard the cockroach laughing. 

Nothing you love more than a story

Woke up to him this morning, saying he would be back, needed to leave for a second.
He went dumpster diving for a rent check.
I'm pretty sure of it.

Woke up to a text message that said
"You still upset?"
This is how bad days begin.

Woke up to him climbing back into bed, defeated without the rent.
Settled together in the center of the bed, trying to get him to forget about his missing check.
And then the clock went out.
And the lights went out.
And he says "Shit."
The power had been turned off.

So he asked if I'd like to take a shower with him.
And I looked down at my phone which read
"you're taking shit out of context and naming me the bad guy"
only the spelling is atrocious and his grammar morbidly imperfect.
"Yes" I tell him
and throw my phone in his sink.

In the dark and wet
he covered every inch of me
ran the bar of soap down my sides, back of my knees, and the bottoms of my feet.
In the dark and wet
he kissed my forehead
and then the water shut off.
And he said "God Damn it."
That didn't get paid either.

My legs were slick with soap.
My phone says "Nothing you love more than a story"
I smiled. Because, my phone's right.
Absolutely nothing I love more.
Except maybe the mornings where everything's falling apart.
And I have someone who'll run a towel through my hair for me
complain about how much hair I have
and kiss me in the dark, as if today hasn't started out completely fucked.

Walking Around Reeeeemix

It so happens that he’s leaving in the morning.
And I’m climbing through my mother’s car
to get to the passenger’s side.
Seatbelts, steering wheels, and center consoles,
a mechanical makeshift chop sea of turnstiles.
And he’s leaning in
trying to meet me half way.

The stress of the syllables he uses
in the name he gave me
(a combination of
what my mother calls me
and monster)
catalyzes the quixotic auscultation.
He presses himself up against my breast bone
catching enigmatic radio waves,
and an intrinsic cadence.
Ears drinking in the electric cursory ocean.

Eighteen dress rehearsals
couldn’t save his red collar from being stretched.
I am iniquitous
digging for coffee skin tones
bandaged soundly over awkward clavicle
that crooked upward.
I’m going to miss even his skeleton.
 

The only things we can see
through the London flavored windows are
neon light auras,
and the jaded cumbersome sign of the
Chinese restaurant,
whose parking lot
we’re loitering.

And yes
it so happens we’re criminal
because it is against the law
to be still
to be idle
to be lethargic.
 

But if a cop does
tap tap tap
on breath sexed glass
I’d be elated
to scribe across my mother’s windows
EVAEL
and blare
“I’m altercating night hours.
Please officer, try and understand
because it just so happens he’s leaving in the morning”

Older Junk

Short story I found from September.

Enjoy suckas.

The Woman, The Girl

There’s a certain way to be with a woman. It’s different than how you’d be with a girl. With a woman, you need to be more blunt with your approach. More clear with your intentions. And see, with a girl you can get away with not being obvious, because they see that as half the fun. Girl’s don’t know any better. A woman doesn’t have the time, energy, or interest. The difference between a girl and a woman: curiosity.

This bar I’m at is clean, with heavy stools, heavy music, heavy liquor. It weighs on you. Makes you feel exhausted. People my age won’t go to bars like these. People my age seek out bars with girls. Girls with enough curiosity to let you take them home with you. I’m not looking for a girl.

She sits five stools down from me. Slides off her heavy coat and lifts onto the stool, in a well-fitting black suit, and red heals. Petite, and thin. She sets her purse onto the bar and crosses her legs. She has such narrow shoulders. She gets the attention of the bartender by motioning him with just her fingers. Extend, curl. Extend, curl. She leans in when she says “continental”. She doesn’t giggle, or flip her hair over her shoulder. She’s at least 15 years older than me.

She pulls a cigarette from her clutch, lights and just waits. A girl would fidget with a cell phone. She would pull out a book, magazine, tubes of lipstick, and restlessly pretend to be preoccupied. She would appear to be waiting for something certain. Any minute something’s going to take her away from here. A woman waits for something unknown.  And invites it.

When I grab my drink and walk closer to her, she never looks over at me. She stares straight ahead, as if she was expecting me. She was. With a woman, your voice needs be assertive. It’s not just confident. It needs to be surgically accurate, or she’ll just laugh you off. She won’t look at you until you say something. So this next thing that’s going to come out of my mouth, it needs to be audacious, dauntless.

Rehearsed.
Convincing.
Presumptuous.

“Crème De Menthe, Ted Baxter’s favorite.” Is what I came up with.

She exhales white smoke, it just pours out of her, and faces me. Her hair is red, and cascades to her shoulders, weighted down. Her mascara is thick, and the powder on her face makes the creases around her mouth and eyes more pronounced. Everything’s so heavy here. Her left eyebrow cocks up in skepticism, but she is smiling.

“I would imagine you being too young to know who Ted Baxter is.” She contests

“My mother was a nurse, she worked graveyards. I’d stay up watching Nick at Nite. I grew up with Louie De Palma, Fred Mertz, and Captain Tony Nelson.”

Her drink arrives. She won’t complain if her cocktail is made too strong. Her nose won’t scrunch up if she finds it bitter. Anything through that straw isn’t going to surprise her. This is what I love about women, there is experience in everything they do. Girls get wrapped up in uncertainty. They get lost in experimenting. A woman will bite the bullet and keep her legs crossed. Because she knows what’s coming next.

“My name’s Thomas.” I offer my hand and she places her brittle manicured fingers into my palm.

“Pleasure. I’m Adell.” She takes another drag. “What brings you here tonight Thomas?”

Habit.
Dependence.
Apathy.

“My sister, she just got married. I’m not from here. Her husband’s family lives here.” I drink. “And Adell, what is it that brings you here?”

Anxiety.
Trauma.
Desperation.

“Business. There was a conference this afternoon. “ She goes on about her trip. What city she’s from. How long she’s been in sales. She talks about how her married boss peers into her blouse. How he stands behind her and just breathes. In..out..in..out.

In college she spent so much time learning how to act aggressive like a man would, only to find herself feeling so female when using her cleavage to close a sale. She hardly cares anymore what they think of her. It’s the bottom line she says while smacking her palm hard on the bar with each word. The thud bottom thud line thud.

In exchange I give her details about my sister’s wedding. The kind of guy she married. How I felt when I saw my father tear up. The way my mother gripped my hand throughout the ceremony. Where are these details coming from? The whole idea of marriage, so trite and stale. So expected.

The hotel bar is quiet. Conversation is invited here. There’s so much space in between people. I buy her another drink.

She tells me she was married once. To a kind man. An older man.  She was too young. For commitment, for anything. Her divorce was bitter and drawn out and now she just waits for the next big mistake. She sits in bars and just waits. She asks me how old I am.

“26. And may I ask—“

“38. What are you passionate about Thomas?” She’s smiling more.

I talk about my father’s business.  I’m his only son. It’ll be mine one day, but I just dread having it become my life. God, these details. Music. Some traveling I’ve done. Food. Some literature. Culture.

“The problem is I’m passionate about most things which doesn’t leave me enough focus to be passionate about anything. Sex, I suppose. Women. Communication. “ I admit.

“Everyone your age is passionate about sex. It’s what sets the generations apart. If it weren’t for sex the differences in age would be so trivial.” She rocks her head to the side. She’s become drunk.

“Perhaps in men. I feel that in females your sexual appetite tends to build with age. Men are like milk. We spoil, women are like wine. You age, and ripe.”

She laughs “Oh Thomas, I’m well aged. Maybe even expired. But I must say, I can feel something building.” She exhales, her head hanging.

I buy her another drink.

“What makes a good lover Thomas? What sets a woman apart?” She reaches into her purse for another cigarette. Coins and small bottles spill onto the bar.

“I guess a lover who has the same expectations as you. Someone who can interpret the situation as you do. I think that’s all men ask for. To be on the same page. She can be sexy and her movement incredible but if that’s not what you’re looking for, then it won’t matter. A girl who doesn’t act the part, a girl who IS the part, I guess.”

“That’s good. That’s good Thomas. My most memorable partner, his love making was so excruciating. Oh Thomas, I couldn’t walk for hours! He was so acute, almost violent. But afterward, he’d always get me a warm damp cloth and just run in down my skin. And blow on my arms. He’d sing to me, while washing me. He’d cool my hot red thighs, my purpling bruised sides, and hum these melodies…” She raises her hand up to my face, I haven’t shaved in days. Runs her fingers up my cheeks.

“Thomas, Thomas. I’m drunk”

“I can help you to your room, I’m so sorry Adell. I wouldn’t have ordered your last drink—“

“Thomas, I feel ripe.” She grabs her clutch and her coat. “Please, come with me. I need the company. I’m no good, drunk and alone.” Pushes her coat into my arms and begins to walk out.

The elevator doors open and while holding her coat I help her inside. She’s teetering on her red heels and her small frame balances as the elevator rises. The lighting in the elevator isn’t as forgiving as the red fluorescents in the bar. Her complexion has a yellowing tint around her lips. Leathery. She’s older than 38, or her chain smoking has really taken a toll on her body, face, hands, eyes. She’s deteriorating in front of me.

Her head is swimming. Waiting for the next big mistake. When the doors open she steps out and walks fiercely in front of me. She takes long sure strides towards her room. I tag along with her coat. She digs through that clutch of hers for the key.

A woman doesn’t feel guilty for degrading you. A girl will stumble and rely on you to hold her up. A girl needs you to help her stand. A woman only needs someone to carry her coat

.
“Here, this is me.” Adell swipes her card and her room door unlocks. “Where are you staying?”

“A few floors up.” I answer and follow her into her room. The hotel is old, expensive, and exaggerated. There’s a bed that looks too big to be comfortable. A heavy vanity with this obnoxious mirror. Everything looks like it’s made from oak. So heavy. I set her coat down on the arm of a chair and watch as she takes off her heels. She sits down on her bed and rubs the insides of her feet.

“I’ve been wearing those god damn things all day” She kneads her ankles “Come here Thomas, come sit with me.”

I sit close to her, my weight makes her sink into the bed. She falls back and sighs. Her arms go above her head and her legs stretch out in front. She’s sick thin. I’m not sure if I should lay next to her. I just sit there holding my breath. Waiting for further instruction.

“I lost my virginity in a hotel bed. Prom night.” She confesses, laughs, she’s so comfortable now.

“I imagine a lot of girls do.”

“Yeah well, I lost it to my chem teacher. He was a chaperone. He didn’t believe me afterward when I told him it was my first time. The son of a bitch didn’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, that’s…that’s awful.”

“I want better stories. Thomas, give me a better story” she exclaims and pulls me into the bed.
When I fall into place beside her, she takes my hand and runs it down her side. I can feel every bone. Her hips are sharp, her ribs scream at me. Her entire body is so loud.

“Feel me Thomas.” She commands.

Her next big mistake.

She tastes of cigarettes, mint syrup, and a perfume you could choke on. When I remove her clothes I realize how frail she is. I bury my face into her neck and try to concentrate on where my hands are grabbing. I am guilty of only playing the part. Her breastbone, it’s like resting my face on a dinner plate. I fear I may break her. Her hair feels dry and she tells me my beard is rubbing her chest raw. She digs her heels into my sides. I feel as though I’m smothering her into the excessive bedding. Inside she’s not warm, soft, or wet. She’s just tight and empty. There's a sad friction to this woman.

“Get on top.” I’m more asking. I hold her ribcage and carefully we trade places. She rocks back and forth, I hold her hips watching how much pressure I’m applying.

“Harder.” It’s not moaning, just giving me more instruction. “Harder, please.”

Her fist comes down on my chest “Don’t be gentle with me Thomas. God Damnit.”

I’m too young for this.

I pick her up and set her onto the vanity. Place my hand behind her nest of hair (I see insects, birds, seeds, and eggshells) and in between the mirror. Close my eyes and pretend she’s unbreakable. You won’t hurt her. You won’t hurt her.

Whatever a girl asks of you in bed isn’t what she wants or likes. It’s what she’s trying out for the first time. A woman, knows what gets her to climax. A woman has her personal brand of foreplay. She’ll enlist you, teach you. As a boy, you don’t know any better.

Each time I push her into the dense wood, she gets quieter. She has her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she’s concentrating. Absorbing this scene for her next story.

“You’re lovely Adell.” That’s my last line before the credits start to roll. Before the scene comes to a close. My heavy breathing, the mirror hitting the hotel wall, her ass coming off the cold wood and slamming back into it. CRASH CRASH CRASH! It’s not the way she feels, it’s just the audio that sends me over. That gets me to cum. I was never able to last very long.

Her legs still wrapped around me, her head tilted up she’s just breathing. I have to separate her legs to get out. She feels stiff, hollow. I reach down for my pants, my belt. I back away from her. She doesn’t move.  Spread out on the vanity she just stares up ghastly. Naked, and arms extended to each side.

She looks crucified.

What have I done?

“Thomas come, come closer” she asks, her voice carved and so heinous. Her arms slowly raising from the wood. She’s beginning to cry.

“I think I should leave, I’m sorry, I think I should go.” I’m grabbing at my shirt and pulling it over my head. Her knees starting to tremble, she’s whimpering.

But she still hasn’t moved. I rush to the door, and behind me I can hear her begin to laugh hysterically.  “That’s good Thomas, that’s real good.” She’s haunting me down the hallway.

I take the stairs down to the lobby and exit through the front doors.

All that weight is gone. Snow crushing beneath my shoes and I take a long alley to avoid the street. I look at my watch, it’s almost 3 a.m. I dig my hands into my coat, it’s so cold I feel like I can only make short breaths.

I climb up the stairs to my apartment and hesitate before opening the door. This is always the hardest part. Facing her is always the hardest part.

Inside I toss my coat onto the table. I unlace my shoes and walk down the hall. In the bathroom I turn the faucet and run the shower. This is going to wake her up. Soap smells like citrus, I need to get the smoke out of my hair, off my skin. I need to get Adell off my skin. I need to begin to forget what her name was.

Lemon and ginger for cigarettes and mint liqueur.

I toss my clothes in the hamper and stumble towards the bedroom. When I open the door there sits Alice. Her long blonde hair pulled to the one side. Pursed rose dusted lips, she just smiles. She’s honestly the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

“I’m sorry it’s so late, I just lost track of time.” I tighten the towel around me, and move in closer towards our bed.

She shakes her head “I’m sorry I got so frustrated, I’ve been up trying to think of how to make it up to you. I felt badly about this afternoon. Really, I just, I don’t want to fight anymore. Michael, come here, come closer.”

She holds her arms out. I flashback to a crucified redhead. Without knowing it, she’s healing me. Exchanging my mistake.

Lemon and ginger for cigarettes and mint liqueur.

“I’m so glad I’m home. I’m so glad I’m home.” I’m starting to cry. The silk of her night gown is being snagged in between my fingers. I can’t let her go. This forgiving fabric. I can’t let it go.

“Michael, are you drunk? Where have you been? It’s ok, it was just a little argument. You’re home now. You’re home.”

Milly

“Someone was that man’s mother”

Women caught their breath and held it in their throats

when the television divulged us in the more subsidiary details.

Details that could be publically handled.

“You’d shit yourself if you knew the whole story, sick son of a bitch”

Men would confer over their coffee and their heavy cream

trying to choke down the sweetness.

After that summer, sugar never tasted the same.

In his basement

A custom cooler

A time machine

He watched her body begin to decompose.

Tissue swelled in a chemical car wreck

Like a science experiment

(Phase one)

Tissue emanated mass weight

Like a magic trick

(Phase two)

But he couldn’t see her like this

The stark husk of a girl he loved

gaunt and pallid

dead and valid

This was not the woman he had tasted

with his malefic palate.

No. This girl was eating herself.

People with the audacity called it

art.

Families séanced around their television sets

footage of him screaming outside his home

Saying

“Don’t touch her, please just don’t touch her. Milly? Milly!”

In the arcane underground

he took a cutlery frosting knife

worked over her cadaver with

butter and solidified honey.

Laced her hair with licorice vines

carved lips from wet melon

green starlights replaced her eyes.

red hot pupils

gave her taffy fingernails

rainbow round sprinkle freckles

and purple gum drop nipples.

In an interview, years later

He’d say

“She was the sweetest girl I’d ever known.”

It was us kids though

that encountered the true horror

of his confectional affection.

We’d hide under sheets

covered in clouds and rockets

close our eyes and grind our teeth

because we were convinced she was hiding in our closets.

Sugar siren, hovering above my bed

butterfat dripping off her hips

red cocoa dust fogging up my room

and her green starlight optics

causing me to piss myself.

I swear the first time I was with a girl

I anticipated her areolas having this grit consistency

giving my tastes buds a buzz.

That sticky tart haunted my bed for years.

Every girl that wasn’t her was so plain,

Insipid and boring.

I can understand why he loved her.

His Milly.

20 minutes. GO.

Inhale
his stale still-born basement apartment draft
We echo
two naked feral children
twisted up in his clean sheets.
He's twisted up in my hair.
My tongue twists itself behind my teeth
swells, and I can't remember what it was to speak.
I am drugged with morning lethargy
Drunk from his bed
Inebriated by his esoteric corner of the world.
Exhale
my intrusive obligations, commitments, and compulsions.
Through the bedding I can see
scrolled across his arm
(in a font I love)
"fight apathy"
Inhale.
Exhale.
I'm not going anywhere today.