it’s quieter here, lost at sea.
light reflecting into our bodies, not off of them,
violets pooling into collarbones
dripping onto unbeaten paths, shattered ceramics.
hail a mary between
shots of venom,
red leaves in wayward zephyrs,
floating islands, long-dead melodies,
the other side of the ancient story.
there’s an orgasm in our apathy
if i shut my eyes
while you swaddle me
in an electric fence’s chain-link quilt,
i can pretend we are the same coin again.
my lovely little sinner,
spit on my feet, wonder what went wrong,
anything you want — just don’t look back.
haven’t you heard?
we don’t have to play dead anymore.
You don’t have to start over. You get to live in this stupid delusion that the shitty friends you have around you and all the things you get to do are working out for you. Things just naturally fell into place for you, but for some people, it isn’t like that. For some of us, we aren’t loved or even liked. We go around this world meeting all these new people, and doing all these new things because we are desperate. So lonely, and so broken, that we just want something to fit. We want someone, anyone, to see that and just sit there in that broken, shitty silence with us. You. You’ll never understand that. You have your problems too, but why? Why do I have to sit around and just be here for you, whenever you find it convenient? Do you know how lonely I am? How shitty it feels to have nothing? And no one cares. No one cares that he raped me. No one cares that he hit me. Do you know what they do care about? Themselves. I make them laugh, I boast their ego, and all of a sudden I’m the funny guy, but God forbid I have feelings. So you know what? I’m done. I left. You don’t want to talk about how I came out. How I look like a freak to you. How being not a girl is the weirdest thing you can think of. How all the little weird comments you made, I still remember. How I’m a little gay freakshow, a bullet dodged. Well, you know what? I. don’t. care. I don’t care that I’m alone. How everything about my body scares me. How I look in the mirror and don’t like what I see. These are problems I am willing to confront. Because I am worth it. I deserve better. I can have a life. I get to have new friends. And no, when you see me at the bars with them, I will not introduce you, because you know what? They’re no one you’d really get along with. But enough about me. How was practice, how were your classes? Is anything interesting going on, that isn’t about me? Please, feel free to share.
Trigger Warnings: Poverty, death.
Breathe in the exhaust
of my old 2007, darling;
let the smoke roll
through your body—
don’t fret, don’t hide
don’t cough, don’t leave—
Spring comes with green leaves
and my wallet’s exhausted
as is the leather hide.
Feed me, darling,
fill my body,
build it into rolls
of fat and watch it roll
like bread, leavened
by your hands, your body
no longer exhausted.
Let the poverty out, darling—
we don’t have to hide
from its hidden
dangers, let it roll
out of our minds, darling
until we can leave
everything— this exhaustion
and those mortal bodies—
in the old soil, those bodies
buried and hidden
beneath, exhausted.
Let the new grass roll
above us, leaving
us behind. Come, darling.
Join me in the dust, darling.
Show off your skeleton body
to the bugs under the leaves—
we won’t need to hide
much longer, under the roll
of time, below new exhaust
from new cars, while we are hidden
among the rolling
dead, no longer poor nor exhausted.
The tree folds over the field,
Its leaves are dust in between air,
Flowers only grow in deserts.
The beaches grew taller and wider,
They walked along the roads we build,
And turned our cities to sand castles.
We wash away the water,
We replace it with rain drops,
Pouring into the dry sewage.
A little sprout pokes out,
Return to green.
In a valley of scarecrows,
Dead stray and sticks broken,
What used to be a meadow,
Is now the graveyard of feeding prey.
Horse skulls and rib cages,
Glowing white light in the day,
Like the last snow that ever fell,
Never again to,
Return to green.
A cat walked across a lake,
A pond, a stream,
The ocean was too far for it to walk,
The fish were dry on the crust,
The Grand Canyon would be easier.
A dog growls at its owners grave,
No one dug it, no one visits it,
He is only digging down, down, down,
Till he digs out the dirt,
Scratches through the coffin,
And by then he is already dead,
Buried with his human by another,
There to rob his wrists.
Best friends at eternal rest,
Returning to green.
Mouths cracked open, their golden yolk spilling out onto a seasoned griddle
Spittle of words oozing out across the paprika scent, the fried poem plated
With a sausage patty of lyric and the toasted bread of want,
Pour a chilled glass of zest citrus syrup, the sour daiquiri of change
And drink the romance slowly…
Let it pool in your cheeks, wash your teeth with the scent of limes
And digest the sugary coating of your throat as bites of purpose nip your tongue,
Kiss with liquor on your lips when the whiskey courage of a ballad drips onto your chin
And talk about Home as though it tasted like empanadillas dripping con queso
El carne, the grease, the presence of peers satiating our always hunger,
Serve it piping hot and sweating with tang, to those starving (just like you!)
Never forget the pang of hunger, the sting of uneaten desire,
Since every syllable lost is one more forgotten ingredient in the manifesto,
Write your comfort food out onto the page and breathe in the rising steam of cream,
The childhood bowl of nostalgic affection a dip for the freshly baked roll of love,
Never discriminate the ears of the nourished with the dishes you may fear they'll dislike
Since every tastebud must make first acquaintance, every thought from your kneading palms
A new spice for the cabinet, another dash of salt and pepper honesty (to taste).
Write your poetry like you pour out sauce, drips of temptation and creative flavor,
Doing everything in their power to drench the starch of mindfulness with savory, soulful, nectar.
Wish for you to take me in your foggy memory,
Fluffing away the features of my face,
Let it burst into clouds.
Let the lakes of tears behind these,
Silent, sorrowful, suffering eyes,
Be heated in the cushioned silence of your humid shroud,
And let the screams and cries that float in those lakes,
Flee with a final burst of shear agony,
Because overhead the sun was shining,
But only grey clouds overcast me.
Let me cry into your thickened atmosphere,
And hope that no one ever heard me suffer,
Because if a tree falls in the woods,
And no one is there to see it,
No one was there to see the rot inside,
The thunder that struck it down.
No one will be here to see me,
When I vanish into the mist,
And whisper into the ears of no one.
Darling,
beautiful
will never do you justice.
Nothing I could ever say
would describe you how you are.
No word my lips could form would be
as smooth as you,
as soft as you,
as sweet a holy blessing
as the very thought of you.
Darling,
beautiful
will never do you justice.
To describe you would require
something I cannot obtain—
for as your beauty
is that of the Heavens,
only the language of the stars
would describe you how you are.
Walking in the open field of bodies,
Passing by passer bys,
Watching the watchers watching.
My eyes lock eyes with someone who didn’t look at me,
Seeing them witness me exist,
Feeling embarrassed for existing in their line of sight.
I have never felt more scared to be witnessed,
Than through the eyes of someone I never knew,
Feeling like they saw me,
And saw something ugly and strange.
I can’t help but see the wrinkles,
Of judging eyes filled with sorrow,
And wonder what it was that stole the light in their eyes.
Was it me?
Am I a bad thing?
Am I wrong for existing?
Because they see me,
And they see the wrinkles in my eyes,
Seeing the same sorrow,
I wonder if they wonder the same things I do,
Feeling alone in a moment that meant nothing.
A million things could be happening in my mind,
A thousand other things to worry about,
And for a whole day I can only see those glaring eyes,
Making me want to hide in my darkened room,
Knowing that they will be there the second I leave.
“It feels so embarrassing to be alive”
Behind eyes that witness me walk by,
I place my own flaws and hatefulness,
Because what else could possibly see me?
Neither pairs of eyes can imagine what the other is thinking,
But we venture to guess and assume,
All in the endless pursuit to see those eyes,
That looks at us in wonder.
you never let me draw you. ever since
i met you, i’ve been drawing you in my
mind but you’ve never let me before.
i like to draw people, especially the
ones i love and most of them don’t mind,
most of the time they think it’s sweet.
but you won’t let me
draw you. are you worried if i do,
that it’ll turn out ugly, or maybe
you just don’t like my drawing, or
you just don’t like how you look?
are you afraid that i won’t do you justice?
oh, darling i can assure you, if only
i could, i swear i would capture
the starlight in your eyes, the moonlight
shining against your skin, the curve
of your chin and that wicked smile
of yours i know so well, and the
way your curls twist around your face,
as if to frame a work of art.
yes, i can assure you, if you ever let me
draw you, it would be a
masterpiece.
“¿Hola Vampiro? Lo siento, estamos aquí en Culebra pero olvidamos de traer sangre.”
Leaning back in a chair like this feels great when you’ve got some beer in your guts
Not those prissy, expensive, beach chairs that folks like us can’t afford with their “collapsibility”
But those cheap, white, plasticky pieces of shit with their (let me gesture a little)
Bendy rubber bands that melt right into your skin after you’ve been staring at the sun smiling.
Practically, basically, um, I brought El Vejigante out here today because I like the way he looks.
In the coastal sun of the islands by Vieques, he really glows when it’s about noon,
And the sand goes bone white so it starts to serve as a backdrop.
He’s got this massive fucking mask, something really fruity, covered in pink drooping flowers,
Band stickers, smoke stains, dazzling horns that frame his yelling face like a lion's mane,
And the fresh phone numbers written in stenchy permanent marker of the people who find him,
Sexy.
His eyes are glossed over as he lays back on a towel by my right, his hands protruding upwards,
Like a sleeping mutt,
Whimpering names of men and women I’d never thought he’d remember,
Like a bastard,
If I’m lucky he’ll start groaning about needing another drink as soon as he sleepwalks,
Like Zombie,
Digging his hands into the skin-warm sand of a 4-o’Clock bender, crawling mannishly,
Like Wendigo,
To the frost breathing cooler, his wooden teeth hushing whispers of Cerveza… Cerveza.
How can he always be so thirsty?
Chupacabra sleeps soundly despite our blaring speaker,
Curled up into a ball of scales, spines, and fangs,
She rests (as dogs do, unlike mutts),
To the rumbles of Yankee’s Reggaeton and Bunny’s Accent.
She’s had a full day of chasing frisbees and playing catch with goat heads from the market,
And even though she’d never pass up on the opportunity to stretch her aching incisors out,
She sleeps, happily, in the warmth of the too friendly sun.
Its orange tendrils like fingertips petting her scaly form into slumber,
The sunset coating her dreams of running amok in Baja as she’s lounging on this island,
Thousands of miles away from (and into) wherever she calls home.
But, with just one whiff ofscented seltzer breath,
And the distant country acoustics of some late night dixie anthem drawls,
Beneath the light of a freshly risen Moon,
I could sense the tide of something gringo coming.
White, blond, and tomato red, these walking pasta plates marched up from the east of the beach,
Underneath a star spangled sky, they brought this sense of presence once again,
(Though their rifles now look more like expensive folding chairs and clamped up umbrellas,
Their mechanisms lying in wait to SPRING and shock you with a microdose of colonization)
Flags planted on the sand,
Smiling faces above some land that isn’t theirs.
I almost let them live.
But one came over with his bleached, sultry, sand dusted hair, past our roaring trash fire,
His achillean body beckoning me to ask him what he keeps under those red swimming trunks,
And then, politely, like a fucking dick, he asked me to turn down the music.
Chupacabra beat me to it as she uncurled like a whip and lunged right at his bulging neck,
His jugular exploding into a mist of red moonshine as his throat, in tatters, fell onto the sand,
And then,
Right into my cocktail.
“¡Vampiro, ven aqui!”
Slice olive green meat, dig
out pale brown pit
bite into its toast
and frown at the taste
of lemon.
Avocado is not
supposed to taste
zesty, unlike
haddock filet
when you use fruit
as a substitute
for wine.
Grow it into compost
let it stew in darkness
turn it into a divine creation.
Let that avocado be
the closest thing
you get to God—
roll its decayed flesh
over softened earth;
sacrifice it for more
of that dank deep dirt.
If you can donate
your food to bugs
and bacteria, they will take
away your guilt, let you sleep
a little better, and absolve
you of your sins.
Pray to the centipedes
and that slimy avocado.
They are the ones
who grant forgiveness.
Falling into place, matching energies,
Feeling the life you bring with each laugh and passing smile,
You complete two halves of a whole that makes me.
I will never want you like people want people,
I don’t feel my heart race so I know I’m not chasing you,
I am just connected to you as two people become.
Nothing has happened to tell me the feeling is mutual,
But I still need you in my life,
Staying up till late hours of the night blasting music,
Laughing at each other for our foolishness,
Cooking food together with only one light on,
Watching people pass the window as we talk about our days,
Sharing shows I don’t want to share with anyone else but you,
Figuring out life moments together,
Looking at each other in glances,
Probably both wondering what we even are.
Maybe for a moment my heart raced for you,
But I know what I want, I know who I want.
He will always be the better choice.
I know that one day you will leave,
Letting the space between our last interaction,
Grow and grow till I mean nothing to you and you, me,
But I will always be thankful for the peace you gave me,
And for showing me the kind of people I need.
i wish i could make you a bouquet
of daffodils, blue salvia, and spearmint
and then i’d be able to see your eyes
as they were truly meant to be seen,
glinting with curious joy
of daffodils, blue salvia, and spearmint
my thoughts on you take form
why do you only do things you care about
when you think no one can see you?
i wish you’d find joy in sunlight
like i in you
and then i’d be able to see your eyes
open, just so, the way they do
In the mornings before you’ve had your
ghastly cinnamon tea that’s much too spicy
for anyone to find comforting
as they were truly meant to be seen,
they have just the tiniest bit of gold in them–
your eyes, i mean.
glinting with curious joy
i wish it would happen only for me,
no one else, as you stare at the bouquet
of daffodils, blue salvia, and spearmint
i picked just for you.
Inescapable, room of 102 Thompson Hall oppressively wears away at your resolve as it threatens to plunge you into sleep. Illuminated by the dim softness of recessed lights, the humid air weighs heavily on your eyes as the almond brown wood paneling embraces the curvature of the walls, modestly meeting the golden trimmed satin of the stage curtain. Bowing the double belted stage bulges outward into the base of the lectern where ruffled papers droop limply over the edge, slumped onto the lip of the podium. The projector lets out a gentle sigh as it idles, not quite on, not quite off. Its blank canvas dances as dewdrops of light shift ever so slightly, before changing partners, waltzing through the air on beams of hazy blue light, before dissolving into the ceiling. A transposition of stairs reflects the sloping hall, distinguished only by the intermittent folding of black and white into the darkness behind your head. Perhaps it’s the way the paneling catches the light carrying it across the windowless walls or the golden honey slicked floorboards of the stage relaxing your grip on consciousness, lulling you into a comfortable familiarity as you struggle against the current.
Your head snaps forward as the double doors bat on their hinges, creaking and another student trickles into the hall. His feet scuff the carpet as he squirms past the aisle seats into the center. A deep set frown creases his eyebrows as his backpack hits the floor, weakly collapsing into itself. He tucks his chin and pushing into the air he sinks into his chair. Consumed by the warm stillness he too lingers on the verge of sleep, seemingly lost in the distant crashing of waves. You knew that if you could just rest your eyes for just a moment, you could make it through this class. It feels as if only a second; simply a slow blink. Yet the empty chairs were now speckled with weary students.
Suddenly, in the final few minutes before class is set to begin, a gentle drip becomes a full deluge as nearly a hundred students frantically rush to grab a seat. The auditorium becomes a drum chamber, echoing with the steady tenor of cicada song as book stands squeak, jackets rustle, and students excitedly call out to one another. You join the fray hurriedly bending to rummage through your backpack. Here, sleep is impossible. The room is alive with the constellations of bright laptop screens aglow, early everyones’ face cast in white light. Although the room itself has not changed, it buzzes with hurried activity, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Amidst the uproar the professor shuffles down the aisle, her mid length gray bob springing with each step as her black woolen coat compresses her mousy form. Unnoticed at first, the closer she proceeds to the podium the fainter the sound becomes. She draws vigilant eyes as she prods the projector, flooding the room with the swirl of forest greens and glassy blues. But as time drags on, again the crowded room grows too quiet and even warmer than before. Alas her voice alone is not enough to drown out the presence of the room. Head swimming you start nodding off to the professor’s lullaby, holding your eyes open just long enough to see the streaks of white foam in the crest of the wave as it is about to wash over you. And in that moment you are plunged into sleep.
divinity will be
a sweat-filled colosseum.
transcendence
as corporeality—
rolls of flesh will chafe
and part like
an unseen scarlet sea.
red wine will
seep from pores
untouched by the light
of the fourth day.
imminent souls
shall be predicated
upon a gospel hymn:
matthew mark luke and john
will have never lain a finger
on a body baptized
by the prayer
of knowing.
Business-minded
Approached by three
Spitting poison, rolling boulders.
Ears pop and heads crack
Wheezing as my stomach collapses.
My body folds in on itself,
The origami of scrunched up paper.
Dizzy claws catch on the hot flashes
Of flushed fleshy faces.
Dipping and dodging
Ballooning and balling
We dive on top of one another,
A bloody fit of fists.
Slinging slurs to the black
Buzzing flies flooding my ears
Drowning in the breeze.
Block the sun, my fourth foe,
Grabbing at my collar
Tip-toeing; a drunken dancer
Blathering to the birds.
Mother’s wings are slow to show.
Raise me up on bed of birch,
Hand over hand laced with thread
I am whisked into the nurses bed.
in the waiting room, pretending to write poetry to pass the time
there is one child yelling and the suffocating roar
of too many people in too little space and too much pain
a small tv cramped in the corner playing some reality show
people i don't know
choosing some contestant i can't see
for reasons i don't care about
"it's like black mirror" you say
the song so far removed from the singer
the performer so far removed from their audience:
a surgical dehumanization of art.
something left you breathless
and i took you here breathless
pretending to write poetry so you see
you are not a bother
i want to be with you.
sometimes when we make plans, new ones are sprung on us
like a chance meeting at a bar
or
stumbling into the right group on a night out
or
your best friend getting dumped and needing
someone to see their ex-partner's favorite band live
or
you
offered me
the empty
room
in
your apartment;
the part of the story we don't tell enough is when we say
yes.
i could go home,
i would rather be in bed, one hour into sleep
after some dessert, a hot shower
and a few pages of a good book
like my unspoken plans from five hours ago;
no,
i would rather be in bed
with all those things
and you, in your bedroom
snoring soundly too
In all the meadows of deep red and purple,
We grew next to one another.
In all the times we could have blossomed,
We opened ourselves at the same time,
And from that moment on,
Our time was meant to be together.
Can’t we stay here together?
Care to watch the others bloom with me?
We take in the same rays of sunlight,
Our petals drip rain drops on each other,
Grow our roots tangled and tethered,
To pull one of us out would be to rip out the other.
While trees overhang and meadows spread on,
Oh look, a rose has snuck in between us.
All on its own and lacking a meal of sunlight,
We could look after it together,
We could move our pods out from over it,
And let it take some of the rain that falls,
Dripping a drop of rain from me to you to the roses pedals.
As we grow, it grows, and as the sun turns,
It will reach the same ray of sun we bask in,
And it will take in its own rain,
Blooming rose in a field of old lovers' hearts.
Spring will never be as joyous,
And winter will only be harder to endure,
But maybe by taking this rose as our own,
Withering will be that much sweeter.
death is supposedly the last thing one experiences, though sometimes it feels like it’s just a part of my life.
i came into this world stillborn the overwhelming sense of danger amongst the doctors who delivered me when i may as well have ended there, but they saved me.
my whole being has been nothing short of a miracle but my first death was the eclipse to the rest of my tragedies.
they say laughter is the best medicine, but the four to five pills i take a day prove otherwise; i can’t live without them.
trust me, i have tried; so hard, please trust me.
some of the things i got from my first passing are the huge red birthmarks on the skin of my right arm that reach on to my chest
and i have a thing about symmetry; i’ve always felt like this splash of evil dusty rose made me uneven.
my right side always feels warmer and heavier than the other and this isn’t something that can just get better or go away; i will remain this way for the rest of my life.
and this uncomfortable feeling that rattles inside my head asks me whether i should have ever survived my first day
I don’t want you to be special to me. i don’t want to cling to you and hold your hand and give you everything i have to give, or frolick in grass plains, nondescript, where no one knows your name i don’t want my heart to yearn for something it cannot have, nor do i want to want to want
to want is to give up hope in uncertainty to believe is to forget about intricacy i want to be as delicate as the withered stalks of forgotten lilies left on graves of lives long past and fall to dust as ashes we came from, the history of stars so far away i must be crazy to think that this should make any sense at all and i don’t want to want to want you not now, not ever, no dice, thank you, good bye
I’m Green. I’m filled with life and hope, I have many friends, small and large. A beautiful place to call home, Colors of plenty, And drink to satisfy. My sky is as healthy as can be, It holds everything for me, Stars, clouds, birds and more. I’m blessed when I cry, I’m glad for the snow, I enjoy four meals each year, I couldn’t ask for a better life.
I’m Grey. I’m dying, All my friends have either died or soon will. I’m ugly, gross, a paradise lost; I’m grey, only grey. I’m thirsty, so fucking thirsty, There’s almost no air left for me to breath, I’m gasping at what little is left. I still see the stars, but I don’t care for them. I’m so numb, so empty, I’d give anything to feel the cold again, I hate the hot sun, its all I feel. I wish I could die faster.
Why can’t I feel little anymore? And look up at a larger person pensive, plotting question, Something strange, I’ll ask as stagnant air and stick skin of childhood pins me down to dirty, soil earth.
Why can’t I sleep soundly anymore? No marimba, piano, no chirp (from a frog)? Young and ready for a nap mid day, some blanket, small and colorful, Fluffy, Fuzzy, Something made to be held (as I was).
I forget that booster seats exist, Taking me to tall white trees, passing streams, and high up orange canopies glowing saffron, And I also forget that I can swear now, But sometimes I remember play, Imagination still here (if much different), And the gentle thoughts of yesterday all blended.
Of staining mud, coarse but tricky, and morning dew on some sweet (ankle length) grass. Of chasing something (or being chased), every time I stepped outside, game, curiosity, Loud winds on tiny ears, buzzes, swishes, and bees, All pushes to the harder ground the same.
Maybe I still Child, when I think of things that frighten me, The empty night, The crawling of bug prick on sensing skin, Or something poisonous (like cough medicine, water, or nosebleeds). Maybe I got older when I realized what I feared was being tired, Since I now cry when I think of lullabies, I think, though I’m not sure what makes me miss them.
Since little I didn’t really care for sleep, for tranquil weight on a cushioned crib, boredom living, Simply rocked me, Sway by sway, Into tomorrow.
and on the days i don’t exist where bedroom a lock-box shuts its door and the knob falls off where lunch i scavenge from nook and cranny Sméagol in lightless lake
on the days where i am a moon-gem charged by waning new, but the phase is full or a sun-stone wishing warmth, would the clouds clear or a mineral mystery, not knowing what power comes by some charge of nature
the days that always feel behind but carry eternity where hours drip like a leaky faucet and dusk comes early;
though true they come less often, and true the grip is weaker but the arms come reaching, reaching and wrangling what weakness i show when will is spent thrusting me from the water, a fish from my life my lake and tearing raw to tender flesh, the wretch stuck itself in blind cave
but lo, the wise have said the journey looks hopeless to heroes held, and I may have a part to play come the end
Walls build up high, To a ceiling that never ends, A hallway that never stops, A loop that never breaks. I am the only one here, A thousand beds to chose, Pacing for days, Trying to find one to sleep in. I hope sleep is the only escape, Hellish nightmares may turn, Into beautiful Autumn forests. Or maybe I will close my eyes, And wake up in a different bed. The walls are all empty, Except one towards the end, A picture hangs there, A figure on the beach. Walking between earth and madness, Perhaps the figure is me, When I get out of this, Hallway of insidious circumstances. Some beds have lakes, It makes me wonder, If I might be somewhere, In between. Like the figure on the beach, Who walks between earth and madness; Maybe that is where I am.
And I am Free Of the walls, Of penitentiary, No longer trapped. I walk across the sand Far away from the waves, Maddening and corrosive. I only know dry ground, Sunflowers grow tall on, The banks of the beach. The sand goes on and on, No end in sight again. I left one madhouse, To walk into another. Walking on and on, And on, and on, And on, and on, And on, and on, And then madness.
As We are just as the mushroom is only the fruiting body of more mycelium underneath, we are the fruits of a great web-mind that is the breath -ing rock we sit on
my Body; a living planet filled with biomes of bacteria, fungi, protists; single-celled or many parts organisms individual, but one colony-self.
to the germ: do you know i am Living? do you see my sentience in electric-impulsed nerves, or the weather; your environment is musculature, pu ls in g and flowingthe rivers and floods – take my nutrients, till my land and deposit new you procreate, live lives inside me and i am unaware
they see this world as home i see this colony We as Me the greeks called me Gaia
A safe place to sleep and work. Inside this box, the walls are grey. Some have paintings, some have posters, one has mirrors, and another has hooks for jackets. Above the bed, it is blank for now, awaiting its next contender to be hung.. The closet and the door leading to the hallway are both covered in posters, most of which are music artists. Frank Ocean, Tyler The Creator, BROCKHAMPTON. Only one is a simple skull of flowers. Surrounding the space, LEDs of all colors light up the room, like stars stuck on strips of adhesive. The bed and the wardrobe have been here since the beginning of time. There is a painted side table, three shades of blue gloss it to make a deep ocean. The shelves are filled with books, memorabilia, and objects from other worlds. The carpet is brown and soft on the feet, but when you lie down on it, it becomes coarse and hard, leaving imprints and patterns on the skin if you lay there for too long. Stuck in the dark forest of wool fibers, a different plane of existence takes place. If you run your fingers through the fibers, old dust will unravel that the vacuum cleaner could never seem to eat up.
A guitar stands at the ready with its metal holder, just at the left of the desk. It is sort of sad really, slowly piling with dust each day and awaiting for a replacement of its most delicate string. The closet, and its small, three foot space, carries the fabrics of time. Each one a different age and each one a different color. Outside appearances can be deceiving, you know? Looking down can lead to new discoveries. Reaching down under the fabrics, a strange cold extends back. Smooth glass is felt and shapes ride the lines of the fingertips. That strange cold has now turned to warmth and the glass radiates with darkened snowflakes. It is a snowglobe, of a peculiar shape and mold, filled with twilights honey comb. It is a superior sight, but will lie in the shadow of time for now. There are more important things to do.
At the center of the room, all that is left is standing before the window. The once white cloak covers the portal, waving with the air coming from the vent. Pull on the cloak and watch it cave in on itself. Now, standing on the edge of a world. Looking out of the window at night, when the dark has taken full effect and the stars are glowing, it feels as if the edge of two worlds touch. One world, filled with synthetic colors, dead wood, and processed air. It is a familiar feeling, but it holds no emotion. The atmosphere is motionless and the box becomes more clear. The other world, a dome that turned its brightness setting down, with only the light glimmer of the projector in the sky to show. The locals are dancing from the air flowing out of a big, wide vent. They sway gently and stand upright. Hair is fashioned in green dyes, with roots of brown. In between them, space is left for those that break free of their boxes. Free to explore and discover all there is beyond the walls of this furnished cage.
Because, growing up in a conservative and religious family, there was no other option. Because my dad married a woman from another country, he went against his community’s “values”. Because when I was born in 2000, the world was beginning to change forever. Because by the time I got to kindergarten, I could already tell I was different from all the other kids. Because my mom and dad told me I was a little different from all the other kids. Because I hid under the tables from the teacher, and didn’t talk to anyone, and as a result, got held back in kindergarten. Because when I got to elementary school, I found boys fascinating, but I never thought that the other boys didn’t have the same fascination. Because whenever I could, I would try on my mothers clothes and walk around in her heels. Because by the third grade, I had fooled a few girls already into thinking I knew what I wanted. Because by the fifth grade, I had a first crush on my best friend Michael. Because by the time I got to middle school, everyone was getting girlfriends, even the other boys who I knew at that point didn’t want girlfriends, just like me. Because when I had my first girlfriend and she broke up with me, I did not expect for it to hurt so much. Because I did not think I would be attracted to girls. Because when I got to highschool, the first boy in our grade came out. Because, on October 31st, 2015, I came out as bisexual on Facebook, which everyone but my parents saw by breakfast. Because when I got back home that day, they were sitting on the couch, ready to ask me the questions that were wrong to ask. Because when I stopped talking to my dad for six months, and my mom pretended nothing had happened, they sent me to therapy. Because the therapist was a man, he reminded me of my father, and I resented both of them for it. Because I started to turn inward again. Because I still only dated girls for three years, never once mentioning the possibility of boys. Because I hated myself, because I thought my parents hated me, so I pretended to be who they wanted me to be. Because the entirety of my extended family still do not know I am anything other than heterosexual. Because by the time I was 18, I started to hate girls, because I couldn’t stop hating myself for lying to both of us. Because I was so depressed and sad, I met guys in secret and started to understand myself. Because when I got to college, I found myself and flourished for a few months. Because I started painting my nails, and using lipgloss, and appreciating my body. Because I finally talked to my parents about it again. Because, even though I had fun with some guys, there were still those few bad apples who made me want to go back into myself, and never come out, and never be a person again. Because I lost all love for my body and having my body be loved by another. Because I found someone, just when I was about to give up, that could help me and see me. Because he is someone who loves me and understands the same things I went through. Because we learned together that as we evolve, our gender and sexuality evolve with us. Because we will help each other evolve and discover new pieces of ourselves, if they fit into the same puzzle together or if they go to two different pictures. Because I can feel deep inside me, there is something else that I haven’t found yet. Because I am still not independent from my family. Because no one in my extended family knows that I have a boyfriend. Because I do not owe them that part of myself. Because I still am discovering myself, and they will not force me back into myself. Because I know I am too confused to figure it out right now. Because I don’t need to know it right now. Because, Queerness is Infinite.
My hair, it is grasping for re-paralysis My curtain is a sheet of metal hanging over a sheet of metal. But in the corner? There is my sun: My last, red apple I peel it plainly. I examine it. (I take nothing into account.) That is the big reckoning. This place and I try to compromise every morning, Today, I guess my skills with a paring knife will go unnoticed. That’s alright. I’ll give the room some more time. And as I devour, slice, devour like an intelligent little beast, I can only think of us. There is not one ounce of supplication between the two of us—
Oh, yes. Yes. The two of us. I remember what we knew about each other from yesterday’s paper. Our silence wedged between the editorials and the business section. No text was considered. For all I can tell, the stock market is a waste of ink. The satire fell short of our imagination. To quote myself verbatim: “You want a good translation!? I’ll show YOU a good translation!” And then I washed my hands with fervor and never walked away at all…
—I look back to my apple-stained hands. The walls now fragrant with the declarative steam of winter’s machine, The core is buried in the trash now. I shake away my undoing. Upon my desk, delighted, I realize A cup of tea is brewing.
Suddenly, a ghoulish giggle flutters from my girlish heart. If I could only tell you how much I dream to scrub away the New York Times. The way that I can scrub my girlish hands, my lady’s paring knife. But we’re all new to this type of failure. This type of falling. So I clap my hands to my neck, dearly. I press down, hard.
No, my dear, that’s not how it ought to be, not how it ought to be at all.
Twenty people gather in a room that is not a room, Twenty faces in twenty rooms in twenty different places. Twenty individuals creating different worlds of wonder, A world filled with questions that do not need answering, A world where words have meaning in a sea of nonsensical. There is so much to unpack in the words of wise people.
Love, laughter, life Sad, somber Cynical Deep, depressed, depravity Value, virtue Purity
Contributing to the endless conversation of being a writer, Pictures upon pictures, stories upon stories, Words lead to stories that lead to images. Images of monkeys having fun and doing what monkeys do, Images of penguins looking happy and waddling in snow, Images of penguins looking happy and waddling in snow,
Even when no words are said, there is still a sound, The sound of laughter, light conversation and connection. The sound of drums, pianos, and guitars, Creating an orchestra of epic proportions. All packed in this room, that is not a room, With twenty people.
When it is raining, they say God is crying. And for some reason, when there is thunder God is bowling. When there is lightning God gets a strike. You think God does none of these things, that he does not exist. You have been wronged too many times for it to be true. But the rain is so wonderful. The two-paned window calls to me, raindrops clinging to it for dear life until they slowly drip down closer to fate. I look at the rain and wish to let it cleanse me.I wish I could feel every little drop hit my bare skin. I wish to bask in my incapability to count each drip down my flesh, to remember the magnificence of insignificance. I wish to be washed by the rain while you tell me you don’t believe in God.
I am in your room, alone, and it is raining. Your room doesn’t have many decorations because your presence would overwhelm posters and rugs and bookshelves. Sitting on your plush and lived-in bedding, the minimalistic pattern of tiny white squares and black outlines is overtaking me. I wish to count every box but remember that that’s impossible. I feel like a small little thing.
Your closet is open, you have certain things you like to wear. I think about the cold fall weather, and how when October starts to get shivery, you return to a regiment of sweaters and some type of thrifted pants. When you’re feeling fancy, or you have somewhere nice to go, you will layer a button-up dress shirt under the sweater. I go to look at all the sweaters and find my favorite. It is made of itchy yarn and is a bit oversized for even you to fit in. I undress completely to put it on. I wish to count the stitches knit by a stranger, but I remember I could never do such a thing. I feel so many good things when I remember this sweater is dry-clean only. I sit on the wood floor. Everyday, it still feels like the first day you told me you loved me.
Champagne is for getting swept off her feet. It’s for first meetings and shiny jewelry and coquettish glances under heavy mascara. It’s for a new pair of lips meeting her rouge-tinted ones, a new hand curling in her hair, a new body pressed against hers. It’s for new, exciting things, for reinvigorating an all-too fleeting youth and reinstalling an all-too fleeting confidence. Her laughter bubbles over like the fizz forming at the mouth of the bottle. Champagne is for a first date at a fancy place way outside her budget, but the handsome face sitting across from her makes it worth it. It’s for a tipsy walk back to her date’s apartment with a wonderful warmness gripping her chest and complacency muddling her mind. Champagne is for being made love to, and she feels something sparking right then and there, like when bubbles pop in her mouth. Feni is for falling in love. It’s for exotic trips to south Asia and plenty of humor (“Wait, what is this called? Feni? Out of cashews? Wow, you really can make alcohol out of anything!”). It’s for long, soporific afternoons bathing in the hot sun and being kissed over and over again until she feels her existence melting away to the man she wants — needs. It’s for losing her mind and inhibitions, the days blurring together into a routine — food, fun, sleep, food, fun, sleep, food, fun, sleep. Her partner is the axis of which her world rotates on; the gifts she is showered with and his gentle caresses pull her in until the gravity is causing her to crash towards him. The ecstasy and bliss she comes to associate with her lover dawns a wonderfully terrifying realization: she’s completely in love. Beer is for simple beginnings. It’s for moving into a new apartment and cardboard boxes and paying rent. It’s for relaxation after a long day at work, and opening doors to unwind. It’s for beginning a new reality that she’s so enraptured by that it still feels like a dream. It’s for chatting and sharing secrets under the stars on the fire escape. It’s for flipping news channels and shopping for curtains and making (and subsequently burning) the dinner. Beer is there when they find themselves enamored by domesticity. They’ve begun to prefer these moments of cheap take-out and post-coital silence over cool nights in the Mediterranean and surfing on Florida beaches. It’s also when, as she sips a can of Bud Light and lets the bitter taste lull her brain into happy mindlessness, she decides she may as well be married to this man, because she now refuses anyone else, forever. He’s ruined her in the best way possible, so they marry in the spring. Cider is for parties.
They invite people over often, open bottles upon bottles as they eat and chat and sing nineties tunes. Her mind is buzzing after the third glass. Between gossip and house tours, a pleasant warmth in her stomach grows whenever someone compliments how right they are for one another. She nods, feigning a noncommittal expression, even though she’s swimming in her own joyous disbelief. How did she manage to find her soulmate? The one person she’s made for, the only one she’ll ever have, ever want, ever need. She doesn’t want to live without these endless nights of guests and finger foods and drinks. She couldn’t. Gin is for waiting. She’s been told that the workload piles up at her husband’s office. They have to meet the end-of-the quarter cutoffs for their bonuses. It doesn’t bother her much; he’s very focused on his career and she wouldn’t dare be an inconvenience for him. She begins to cook meals for one instead of two. Her husband comes home at late hours, exhausted beyond belief. He usually collapses on the couch, absorbed in his own little world, numbers dancing in his head to the tune of his far-away workplace. She takes the liberty in easing his pain by providing a glass of gin and tonic. It’s not her favorite drink, and it’s neither his, but it’s enough. Afterwards, he crawls into bed, and she goes after him, watching him with adoration as he trudges up the stairs to their bedroom. She’s heard that such periods of stagnancy — dips — are inevitable in relationships. It would be selfish of her to whine and complain. She loves him, earnestly and completely, and that means she must make herself as receptive to his behaviors as possible. She needs him, needs this relationship. Wine is for delusion. The nights without him become longer. She comes to that realization one evening at eight o’clock, sipping on Chardonnay. Lately, he’s become too tired for gin, and instead opts to sleep immediately. His smile is weaker, more tired. His eyes are more distracted and he fidgets perpetually. They drink a lot more often. Now and then, she’ll briefly contemplate beginning a discussion on children, just to keep him home more. She’s desperate for redamancy, for his hands all over her body, to watch that expression of unadulterated affection flutter back onto his face. Wine helps her cope with some of the loneliness. It helps her lose her sense of time, turns the world syrupy-sweet, and she’s able to trick her awful mind that he’ll come home soon. She imitates the role of a trophy suburban housewife, longing for her husband while pretending to sweep the floors. Over time, she realizes, she has a better chance of finishing half the bottle and passing out on the couch before he gets home. She drinks extra to try and ignore the smell of unfamiliar perfume on him.
Vodka is to numb the pain. The pain in her heart, the pain of the bruises, the pain of the truth. Her throat is sore from all the yelling, but it’s nothing in comparison to the liquid fire scorching her esophagus. He’s gone. He’s stormed off, and she wonders if she’ll ever see him again. She’s sorry. She’s so, so sorry. She didn’t mean to get angry. It had just slipped out. He had said he’d be leaving for a week-long business trip, and she, unable to bear the combined weight of her brewing hurt and mistrust over the past months, had lashed out, accusing him of cheating. In turn, he’d erupted too. His hands were all over her, but not in the gentle way they used to be. Their voices were raised, but not laughing or calling out each other’s names. And now, she’s on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Please come back, she repeats hoarsely into the silence of her apartment. She clings to those words like a prayer, begging to anyone and anything to bring him back. She’d throw herself at his feet for a chance at forgiveness. She was wrong for losing her patience. Maybe there was a rational explanation to it all. She shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. And she’s so, so sorry. It’s so cold without him by her side, without the knowledge of when — if — he’ll come back. It’s really, really cold, so she takes another sip. Once the hangover has passed and the weight of her grief has dispersed from her chest to her sinus, she hobbles to the bathroom. Every step she takes in bitter sobriety beckons her back into the reprieve of stupor. She makes it, however, and flicks on the light to their bathroom. Her face stings from the (hours? Days? It would have surely been years) that she’s been weeping. She runs her hands underneath the warm water, and blood rushes back into her fingertips all too hastily. They turn red with feeling. She splashes the water onto her face and examines herself in the mirror. Water is for revelation.
The sunset over the pond was a disappointing, faded hue, muted by clouds and the heavy hanging moisture in the air. Naomi Foster, a gangly fourteen year old with too many sun baked freckles watched it anyways, swinging her legs in and out of the water over the side of the flimsy aluminum dock. This hour of the day was one of the few attractions of the campground, and picnic blankets lined the mossy shoreline for families in pre-planned serenity. There was no blanket for Naomi, no overnight camping trip that would end as soon as the tents and sleeping bags were gathered up and tossed into the back of a car. For her, there was only an old school bus, reborn as a trailer and parked anywhere the whims of her mother may lead.
Rose-Louise was the name of the bus, painted on the deep green walls of either side. Fitted with two bedrooms, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen and table, it had been their home for the past year. It was once an ordinary school bus, with sickly kale-green seats and dirt from the bottoms of children’s shoes etched into the crevices of the floor. The weekends of a whole year were devoted to converting the empty tin box into a home, day after day of research, plans, and crushing work. Naomi remembered sitting across from her mother, exhausted, just closing up a grease-stained pizza box. As soon as this is done, we’ll be out of here. I promise. Just you and me and a great big adventure. And all those months ago, at only thirteen, Naomi believed her. There was no way to tell one future from another, and how could she have known? Adventure meant weeks upon weeks of driving, night spent in empty campgrounds, days without groceries or conversation with another living soul.
“Dinn-ner!” A howl through the darkening mist. Naomi pulled herself up, a marionette hovering barefoot over the water, and began to walking back to the bus, tugging low swinging leaves and scraping moss from tree trunks as she went.
Alma Foster was a wispy looking woman, with a slight frame and feathers woven into her dusty brown hair. In one gentle motion, she pulled a disposable casserole tin out of the toaster oven and set it on the counter. “Terry’s coming over tonight.” she said.
“Fine. I’ll go out, then.”
“You know you don’t have to, honey.” She clutched the serving spoon for the casserole a little tighter. But Naomi didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want to see Terry, reeking of beer, his greasy ponytail slicked back against his rotten scalp. He had been coming over for the past four weeks, and the distance was shrinking between visits. She suspected that he, more than anything, was the reason they had stayed here for so long.
“I know.” she said, and she did. It was not, could not, be her mother’s fault, not entirely. Compared to her old, wild minded friends with unnameable instruments and equally musical voices, and even her father in his youth, Naomi was scant company for a long voyage. Alma continued to talk, telling her of the little jar of organic honey bought at the farmer’s market, the odd creaking noise Rose Louise has begun to make when put into reverse, and other daily intricacies that began to blur into the same lull of loose details and polished words meant only to fill the space. She seemed relieved when Terry’s elephant footsteps made the doorway groan, and Naomi slipped away with backpack in hand.
She didn’t get very far. Where was there to go? For miles there was nothing but the same clusters of white pines and craggy boulders, and wilted patches of wildflowers dried up in the summer drought. She sat on a wooden picnic bench, abandoned from the earlier sticky sweet barbeques of families got to leave after only one honey-tinted evening. Behind her, a gauzy yellow light streamed from the windows of the bus.
She fiddled with the zipper on her bag of a while, and remembered losing the backing to her favorite pin, the one her father had given her on her last birthday, sitting on the curb in front of his house. A real house, with curtains and a lock and a working bathroom. Despite the odds, she found the back again the next morning, nestled in the mulch of the campsite, and just for a moment, she believed in miracles. The backing fell off again a few days later, just before leaving yet again, this time lost forever. Terry’s house, a boxy mobile home, was right on the edge of the campground. She had been there, just once, forced to by her mother to have dinner with the two of them. From this, only two memories still clung to her; the key to the door was under the mat, and the key to his pickup truck was perched on a hook just behind the coat rack. Naomi could drive, if only well enough to give her mother a few hours of rest without losing time on the road. She wouldn’t have to go far. Her father’s house was only a few hours away, a few hours she wouldn’t be missed. She imagined pulling into the drive of the perfect suburban house, the relief on Dad’s face as he stepped through the squeaking glass front door. He wouldn’t be mad she had driven, or stolen or run away. No, he would take her up in his arms and and tell her Yes, of course you can stay here. Please stay. Everything will be alright. She knew he had kids, two perfect toddlers with his nose and the eyes of his new wife. She had seen the photos on Facebook. If he loved them, Naomi was sure she must love them too. They might even have a garden, fresh and full of sunshine like the one she used to tend when her backyard was not a blur behind her.
And what of Alma, left in her little green box, without a daughter? She would be fine, Naomi was sure. Glad, even. Good riddance, to the girl who could not sleep against the rocking of the bus on the long drives, who grew too quickly to properly fit scavenged clothes and hand-me-downs from other people’s children. Besides, Terry was here. She would not be missed.
Terry’s truck started without complaint, and more quietly than the matronly groan of the schoolbus. Naomi circled around to the front gate with a cautious lethargy on the pedals, and at last, she was free.
The highway was all but abandoned. It was a weeknight, and late, at that. Where was there to go? The children of the cookie-cutter homes nestled just of the exits were already tucked into bed, their parents adrift in the blue glow of the tvs in their living rooms. Naomi drove following the emerald flashes of road signs, waiting, hoping that she could get close enough to navigate the rest of the way on her own. It was this, perhaps, or simply inexperience, that kept her from seeing the deer until it was too late. It rolled over the windshield, and in the same motion, fell lifeless to the ground. Naomi shuttered the truck to a stop, and stumbled from the driver’s seat. She glanced at the deer, and back at the bloodied bumper of the truck, and held in the tears welling in her eyes. Don’t let anyone take a deer you hit away from you, is what Terry had said, overheard a few day after they had first arrived to the campground. No one, not even a cop. It’s yours, and yours to keep. They just want it for their own freezer. She hated hated hated him, and the crass way he spoke. Hated the campground, stuck too long to the wheels of a lopsided adventure. Hated the deer for jumping into the road, giving its life to nothing.
She shuddered, and turned away. The truck pulled away from the breakdown lane, a machine unaware of the life it had taken. And Naomi, of course, was a capable driver. So she drove, hurdling through the dark between her two worlds. To a welcome, and a bed, and some feeble sort of hope. Please don’t let her see the police sirens and raindrop tears and caked blood on headlights. Let the road be hers alone, for there is a long way ahead of her.
In the hour before Sunday service started, the younger members of my congregation— myself included— would attend a rudimentary Sunday School. There, we would learn the basics of Christianity, bible stories and their meanings, and, as years went by, we would begin to discuss how we each individually approached and understood the concept of faith.
But it was very hard to pay attention, since the couch I’d sit on would prove to be much more comfortable than one could imagine.
That couch was made of this really smooth yellow leather, the wrinkles and stress that scarred it probably signifying the piece of furniture had been around for at least a decade or two. I can’t say it would’ve been justified to throw it out since that thing was soft, incredibly so, the naturally cool temperature of the room that surrounded it often turning its cushions into these cold, pillowy, clouds of comfort.
Soft to the touch, I can still go on and on at how many times I’d just sink into that couch, blissfully unaware of whatever our lesson was and fully allowing myself the pleasure of pretending my parents had just let me stay at home and stay in bed for a few more hours.
“Do You Like To Learn About God?”
I’d be floating on airs half the time I’d go through the motions of Sunday School. The room’s blue paint and lack of artificial light often meaning the most coloration I’d be surrounded by would be the easy white glow of an early morning sun.
I can easily admit that this setting definitely made me sleepy, not bored. I was happy to be there. The lessons and bits of scripture we’d be taught often sticking in my head like a persistent fog of words and jargon.
I was taught to love my neighbor, to understand the importance of honesty, and to believe that, no matter what, we had a place to go when we’d die.
I was taught to understand that, no matter what, there is a God. He was to be understood as ever present and all-loving, not a single thing on this beautiful Earth being able to escape His vision, or, His judgement.
“I Like To Think About God.”
Sunday School to me was a place to rest, but never sleep. I could get in the in-between of conscious thought and a delightful, sleepy, haze but I’d never fully indulge in whatever reprieve my body wanted. Of course, this was mostly due in part to the fact that I wasn’t really alone there, no matter how much it would seem like the only thing I could hear was the gentle fraying motion of my hands brushing up against the leather of that cool, yellow couch.
· 2 ·
Me and my Mama would shop at the local dollar store after every service as if the routine were a part of the worship itself.
Every time we’d visit, a golden hue of an oncoming noon painted the store, its plastic signs and endless products glistening and shimmering with a sheen of artificial value. To me, this sight always bewildered me as the endless aisles of the twinkling snacks, cheap toys, and paperback books all had this sort of honest charm to them. Each and every product bathed in this golden light as if they wanted to show a bit of self esteem in those lifeless shelves.
It was warm there, the thick haze of aging air and poor ventilation falling on me like a blanket, the shimmering sun doing wonders here as well as it was easy to feel comfortable in a place where your skin always had a bit of glow to it.
I’d play with my fingers a lot as my Mama walked me up and down the short but endless aisles. She’d spend a childhood’s eternity carefully inspecting the varied array of spices, discount chips, and Bible coloring books, the whole ordeal doing very little to grab my young attention. In the rare moments of mercy where she’d let me run off, I’d always end up staring at the magical row devoted to brightly colored toys and plastic guns.
“I Wish I Had A Gun.”
I’d find myself lost in that toy aisle, thought sludge and daydreams flowing through my head as I’d imagine the fights I’d be in or the kingdoms I’d build. I wanted to be a soldier, a policeman, a cowboy. I wanted to fight for the honor of that aisle and tell stories of the warzones I’d endured and the opponents I’d overcome to the plastic companions I’d befriended along the way.
To a simpler me, this routine, this perpetual campaign of visits and post-church errands, was as perpetual and indistinguishable from the flow of times and seasons itself. I always wanted to play, I always wanted to snack, and I always had to go with my Mama. Whether it was Spring, Fall, Summer, or Winter, that store was the pillar of my life’s consistency, the be all and end all of where my daydreams would take me and where they’d mingle with the crusting knots of an uncleaned rug floor for all of time’s infinite crawl.
No matter what, I would always, and could only, end up there with Mama. For toys, for food, for pencils, for presents, for medicine, for shampoo, for detergent, and for her.
I never felt like I’d be old enough to shop there on my own, its vast arrays of complex colors and sounds being far too difficult for someone as perpetually young as me to ever fully understand.
Maybe I just don’t have the heart for that kind of thinking, or even worse, the wallet.
It will always be the place my Mama brings me.
“Some Things Never Change.”
· 3 ·
There’s something about cheeseburgers that makes them very easy to crave. I think it has something to do with the juiciness that a good one can bring. It’s strange when you think of it, the last thing you want with something bread based is an overstay of moisture, but a good, juicy —almost creamy— cheeseburger that has been dolloped with a generous helping of mayo and ketchup is something that’s incredibly difficult to ignore the allure of.
“You know how bad this could be for you if things get difficult? You’re… What’s the word, noter- nota- notarized. You’re notarized there,” Moses finished taking a small sip of his soda before continuing, “Notarized… is that the right word Aaron?”.
“That’s exactly it,” Aaron answered as she took a massive bite out of her sandwich, her large jaw practically unhinging to cram as much of the burger as she physically could into her still talking mouth. “You said you sign a lot of paperwork every time you clock out right?” she asked me with a hiccup, “All they need is the slightest hint that you’re involved and you’re screwed for life, retail leaves a paper trail.”
“You Won’t Have To Worry About A Thing.”
· 4 ·
I’m a cashier at that dollar store now. Its historic shelves are now a part of my daily routine, the hands that once twirled onto themselves in indecision now hard at work at keeping things stocked, cleaned, and efficient. If I’m given an early shift, the golden glow that stuck to me in my youth helps keep me focused, It’s continued presence being somewhat of a nostalgic comfort as it keeps me warm even as the air outside turns cold and crisp.
That familiar sense of place makes me happy to be an employee there, my thoughts flitting constantly between scattered scenes of childhood ignorance and present day responsibility, the overstocked aisles still feeling just as alien as they did all those years ago.
As the sun sets however, the white and artificial glow of the buzzing lights replaces any remaining piece of childhood wonder with a hollow pit of exhaustion. The closing routine begins and I find myself vacuuming the same floors, typing out the same credentials, and signing paper after paper of bureaucratic bookkeeping and quality assurance.
On Sundays, I help deliver the day’s bank deposit, that specific routine being a little more involved since we need to do whatever we can to deter a robbery. At this point, paranoia sets in.
When my manager is bringing out the deposit, they’ll stand in wait at the door as I drive my car up to pick them up and drive them over to theirs safely. The 20 second window between them locking up the store behind them and hopping into my car is the only time the deposit is under any sort of outside risk.
Thou Shalt Not Steal.
· 5 ·
As I began to understand the intention behind the lessons I was being taught at Sunday School, I also began to understand just how lonely that place could feel, though it wasn’t the kind of solitary loneliness that drives someone to longing. I had friends, people to talk to, and the presence of others was always felt and present.
No, the loneliness here was because, despite all of this, it always felt as if I were only talking to myself.
When lessons would drone on and much of the class fell silent into a stupor of boredom, I’d be the first to step up and answer whatever questions I could. I’d bounce back the answers I knew our teacher would need to hear and, in turn, I’d get a few kind smiles from both her and my classmates as my continued participation meant less accusations of laziness would be directed towards the group.
I can’t say I wasn’t having my own fun in this educational back and forth, it felt as if I was being used.
Nobody truly cared for what I’d been spouting, they only cared that I said the right thing at the right time, though for many, this was more than enough to convince them I was truly hoping for the promise of eternal bliss.
I’d talk of my appreciation for the sacrifice that people like the Hebrews had made for their loved ones, to allow themselves to be tortured, used, worshipped, and sanctified all for the sake of a God they had to believe in just on the principle of trust and faith. Martyrs and Saints became the stuff of legends to me, and when I’d speak of how often I’d look up to these figures, the smiles and praise I’d be given would far outweigh any religious vindication saying such things would grant. To be faithful, for me, was to be loved.
But this never changed the separation, the mental solitude that kept me from honestly understanding what I had wanted from this class or these people. They liked the things I’d say and the affirmations of the good that kind hearts and good faith can bring. I was the resident child prophet for that cold, blue, room, but sometimes I felt that even my peers could see through what I was doing.
I was loud mouthed and overly zealous. No one my age could truly care this much about the contents of a Book too big to even consider reading through in its entirety. Why would I, the space cadet obsessed with a yellow couch, be the one to step up and adore the word of God?
I had become addicted to the act, solitary in my addiction to putting on a “pious” appearance and chained to screeching thoughts and lessons I didn’t truly believe in… but did I?
I thought a lot about Heaven when I was young. I thought of playing cards with my grandparents and talking to my idols. I dreamed of living in a golden tent amongst an endless field of clouds, of eating from a banquet just for the joy of consumption, and adoring myself and my peers for all of an eternity. But one Sunday, my thoughts taught me something excruciating.
“If You Can’t Die In Heaven, What If You Get Bored?”
· 6 ·
I can’t go to church anymore.
I work.
I think.
I miss my Mama.
I talk to myself.
And I talk to some other people.
I work at the store with a golden hue.
I’m old enough to earn money here.
I’m old enough to keep it up and running.
But I’m not old enough to be alone here.
Because I still think I should be here with my Mama.
I stare down the aisles as the sunset comes.
I remember the warmth I felt.
I see candy bags twinkle and plastic cups shimmer.
I see office supplies gloss over with their inky blacks.
I see canned goods shine with a metallic twinkle.
I see toys.
I see Mama.
I feel bad.
· 7 ·
The store was incredibly busy on the last Sunday night before Halloween. This wasn’t unexpected as a LOT of people tend to leave this sort of shopping to the absolute last second so we made sure to keep our things stocked.
We did a double our usual amount of candy stocking, made sure that all of our décor for sale was up to snuff, and even went out of our way to keep things festive by throwing up some cheap cloth ghosts and paper ribbons wherever we could afford to use the space.
It was nice to see so many people come in from the cold smiling, their moods immediately perking up as they soon found out that we had exactly what they were looking for to keep them well prepared for the night of trick-or-treating and costume parties ahead.
Soon things became a blur of oranges, blacks, whites, and yellows. Each beep of the scanner and the crumple of bags changing hands and money coming in and out of the till created a sonic bedspread of familiarity. Slowly, even as the night turned white and silent, that nostalgic fire re-lit again as the magic of a good night’s worth of work mingled with the familiar smell of candy corn and scented candles.
My manager comes up to congratulate me on the hard work, a few chuckles indicating we’ll have to spend some time tonight making sure all the money is well accounted for as to avoid any possible miscounts for the undoubtedly massive take.
I laugh with her, saying that this kind of night is always something I’ve always hoped of having, the businesses, the festivity, and the aromas all coming together to reform the idealized picture of this comfortable little dollar store that my heart has always held.
But something in me curdles at these words. It’s almost a sickening feeling, the kind of bitterness that builds up in your stomach when you drink something rotten and sweet.
It’s a feeling of loneliness, of abandonment, not on yourself be to those around you.
I felt deeply perverted, and extremely excited all at the same time. It was my last day working here and I’m both happy things got to be so special but incredibly guilty for how my time here will end.
The night lights shift on as the purifying glow of white iridescence brings me back into focus as I start to feel a cold sweat come over me. I check out our last remaining customers with shaky hesitation, some hoping I feel better soon as my skin uneasily turns a shade lighter
I want to run and shake off my nerves screaming, I want my arms to feel less like spindled guitar strings, their erratic twitches and crude feeling reverberating erratically against my chilly body.
I feel the same pit of fear and uncertainty grip my stomach as it had when I first felt myself questioning my lessons, the terror of choosing between an eternity in obliviousness or an infinite amount of time in conscious space breaking me down to my core as I forgot exactly why I had chosen to go through with this.
“It Has Always Been My Dream.”
· 8 ·
Sunday School taught me to rest.
In our brief meditations I’d always stare out the small glass window we had up on the far wall. It pointed out towards the parking lot, the small trees and apartments that surrounded it doing little to block the empty blue sky that always hung over our lessons during the colder months of the year.
These moments gave me pause. At first, I’d think of games and daydreams, always wishing to be somewhere else but here. I’d think of action and tragedy, a life without rules and entertainment without limits as the cold touch of boredom clenched my idle fingers tightly. But this wasn’t to last, as soon I’d think of the banality of the room, the peaceful look of a group of people huddled together in shut-eye unity. Were they praying? Was I supposed to pray? Or were we told to clear our minds? I know I can’t do either.
I’d start to crave sleep, but of course, it never came. My dreams would stay pinned to the sunlight, and my thoughts would blur together. The ticking of a clock, the details of a whiteboard, the feeling of a couch. Am I alone? Can They hear my thoughts? Are They asking the same, or are we different? Can we be different?
Our teacher would quickly bring things back to order as our shared reverie ended. We talked of sin, and punishment, and our fears of the infinite. We talked of thoughts, love, and opinions and, for once, I revealed something true. Something undoubtedly me. Something undoubtedly Mama, who loved, and loved, and loved, and loved.
“I Don’t Believe In Hell.”
· 9 ·
One afternoon, me and my Mama went to the dollar store to pick out some decorations for the Fall. Every year, I loved finding another ceramic candle-house to add to a large collection I was bringing. They were small, decorative, and very exciting to organize as it made me feel as if I ran my own little village of friends and neighbors.
When we entered, the golden glow was bathing me and mama with its welcome embrace once more, I went straight for the nearest display and stood in awe as I looked at each of the little houses. There were cozy cottages, barn houses, and grain mills that all looked like a perfect addition to this year’s community.
Mama smiled as she stood beside me rubbing my head with a gentle to and fro, twisting and curling whatever strands of my hair her fingers fell on with a light tug.
Distracted by the affection, as I went to grab the house of choice, a small wooden ranch-house, my hand accidentally brushed against a little grain silo, knocking it off the shelf.
It’s Okay, It’s Okay, It’s Okay You Didn’t Mean To Do It.
· 10 ·
I came up with the plan when I decided I was going to quit.
Since the deposit always needs to be delivered every Sunday night, it was best to time it so that we’d be moving a lot of money. Halloween was to Fall that coming Monday, meaning there would be a lot of commotion going in and out of the store to get things prepared last minute, making for a sizable cash deposit needing to be made that very night.
As we began to close up shop I sent a quick text to Aaron and Moses to get them into position near the side of the store.
“I always get so nervous that we close this late… parking lot’s too big, can’t see who’s trying to make a move,” My manager told me as we made our way to the front door, a bulging envelope of cash sticking out from the corner of her handbag. “It isn’t safe, though you’re smart for never having to do this again,” She told me with a chuckle.
“I’m Going To Miss It Here.”
“We’ll miss you too! It’s been a good long while hasn’t it?” She motioned me to stay close to her as she pulled out some keys to unlock the door.
I looked behind me at the silent and darkened store. Its shelves were stagnant, shadowed by the lack of light. The rich and colorful displays of products, toys, and banners all stood monochrome, stopped in time itself as the lack of light obscured any friendly details out of sight.
It wasn’t warm anymore, but neither did it seem frozen by the lack of light. It was waiting, pushing me on to make my next move as I left the world I had built there behind me, my head going numb with a dull pain as the shelves, tills, and decorations all stared at me with abject disappointment… Or was it relief?
I could only stare back, for just a moment I felt the soul of the store pass through me as my manager finally opened the door, the cold Fall air pulling me to where I was destined to go.
Now, things were truly over, and all I could see was a decrepit store waiting for the end of time itself to come and take it.
My manager poked her head out of the door to make sure things were clear for me to leave, a quiet nod and a whisper of “Good Luck” pointing me towards where my car was parked just a few steps across the road, a tall street light illuminating it in the all but abandoned expanse of a quiet parking lot.
I walked over quickly, my hands deep within my pockets as the night air swelled around me in a bitter cold. As I got near the car door I caught a glimpse of my reflection, my features barely aged past from when I was just a kid but still weathered enough to show that above all else I was tired. My breath fogged up the image as I opened the door and stepped into my car, my shaking fingers sending out a final text of preparation to let them know it was time.
“It Always Feels Like I’m Only Ever Talking To Myself.”
· 11 ·
Mama taught me never to steal. That being bad was something she couldn’t forgive me for. She told me to keep my hands to myself and to always say “Please” and “Thank You”.
Mama taught me to pray every night before bed, especially when I felt bad about something, since by the time I’d wake up things would already be getting better.
Mama taught me that I was to be kind to strangers and gentle with my friends, so that no matter what, they would know how much I loved them.
I thought about all this as I brought the car around to the front of the store, my manager looking at me through the locked glass door one last time as I gave her the all clear signal.
As she stepped out quickly and locked the door behind her, Aaron and Moses were there to greet her with loud shouts, masked faces, and loaded handguns.
They ordered me to step out of the car.
“Do You Want To Meet God?”
They left as soon as they came, my manager and I staring blankly at the torn open envelope and the few scattered coins that they let fall freely on the freezing asphalt.
We said our goodbyes silently, a huff of disappointment and exhaustion escaping her as she refused to pick up what little money had been left behind and instead suggested it’d be best if we just walked away happy to still have our lives.
I drove back home with my head in the clouds, my tongue feeling numb as I replayed the scene over and over again, my thoughts slowly melting away into another golden memory of what that store had given me.
As I sat on the ground bawling at the broken ceramic silo, my Mama scooped me up and brought me close to her chest, cooing gently and telling me how I didn’t have to worry so much.
She told me it was only an extra dollar, just one other dollar she’d have to pay for the tiny accident and that I was still allowed to get the little house that I wanted. She said that no matter what, even if I had a bad day, even if I had some small accidents, I always deserved to be happy.
“I Love You Very Much.”
I was too young to shop there. Did anyone else tell me that? They might have been right in the end. I was always too young. I was too busy floating on clouds, dreaming on big yellow couches, and waiting for that golden glow to realize I would never be big enough to shop there.
I thought about Sunday School when I held my share of the money in my hands. I thought about those cold lonely Sundays, those long shifts of working and waiting, the emptiness of trying to belong and the bliss of feeling like somehow, somewhere, there will always be someone waiting for you in the end. Was this Heaven? Or did I go to Hell?
When I went to bed that night, I dreamt of hugging her one last time. She was smiling.
“I oft be a cowboy when Moments such as this Relapse. The bitter stench, The sour curl, And cradled in my own arms I lie. I oft dream of San Antone Of melting sunsets with ivory scraplets upon A distant sky, Not mine, Not mine. I cannot bear to see it. Not mine, Not mine, Never to be mine.” So I say this, to you, my love. My distant and eternal Friend. I am saddened by my wishes, The begging That I make for a life of cattle prod and sandstorm. To see the dust of a hoof, The crack of a splinter, And the rolling of a hill far greater than my self. I oft claim to be a man of sanity, a stable gentleman within myself, But in this confessional I wish to express, that no true self, Is better expressed than this. “I am crawling,” I claim. “I am crawling when all else about me is walking, running, sprinting, flying.”
So, to you, my Only friend, Believe me and listen! Listen! I am begging for you to hear me! I am telling you of my pains and Harms. My endless, endless, dreamings. My desires to be caressed against saloon seating, Doppled spangler draped across my belt, And a spur twinkling like new crushed glass ready to kick, cut, and Slice. I pray to be a ranger, a rider, a soldier, a Thing. An specific thing, An specific some. An specific a. I want be an a, A referral put against by historians as midst the best of man’s creations. An Inspiration. I dream of collapse of An unfinished bounty, A gunfight deeply lost, Never able to redeem. Of pores of Blood and desecration Seep out of me against the bleached shoals of Nevada, Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, Not here. I will beg and beg again, “I crave a death not able to me!” One of jovial cantina florets, The strum of a guitar and a song
Unlike most songs Made for me, my exploits, and you. A song A song that will tell of my exploits and ridings A song that the patrons crackle and spark with, its rhythms a Love To my own self, the self that rides. A song that shares my journeys and killings, That speaks of me not as I had been but as I yearn to be. A journeyman. A soul half against the law and half against himself, The winds of El Paso, Santa Fe, Amarillo, Burning against my back, My face dashed onwards to my claimed glories. Streamed sunlight abound and blessings now granted, My instruments of equine, Colt, And Wesson now holy. Shall opulent rays dance ripe with crimson, As sorrowful mother’s rest Indiscriminate Naught a care for man Nor beast Nor devil Nor self Myself reborn A weapon made for peace And peace, for all, I weaponize. Do you not hear me lover? Do you not understand my yearnings?
My want? My need? My death? To be a cowboy? For I cannot stand longer. My horse is figment, my pistol myth, My belt a creation, my whip a prayer, My boots a shame, my heart a deception, My sands a god, my sunsets a past, And you, A charity. Yet I am not a cowboy Nor whilst I chance to be As now I’ve cruxed to scream it on That “I am merely me”.
Drowning in the sea of ice-blue happiness, Eyes red with salty subliminal sin, Agonisingly angsty algae like a blindfold. The dull thud, the loud roar fills my ears Dreadfully disturbing whispers, Like sick slimy tentacles. But all I can hear is the sound of your beautifully melancholic melody. Opalescent alkaline water Through my nose to my throat Down the wrong pipe. Like a fish my mouth opens and closes, A ringing silence of realisation in my ears. Bloody tears mix with sweet water, Rage joins hands with joy. Sore throat and alamort lungs But live live live goes my treacherous heart.
Momma said I could get a fish if I would just quit yappin in her ear because apparently I tend to yap in her ear when I get bored but I don’t think it’s entirely my fault because there aren’t many ears around for me to yap in unless you count my own but I’m not really good at yappin in my own ear and to tell you the truth I don’t think anybody really is. So the deal was if I would just stop yappin in her ear she would buy me a fish because I’ve been begging for a fish since…bless his soul—Mr. Armstrong passed. I’m pretty sure I fed him a bit too much or maybe I didn’t feed him at all I’m not entirely sure to be honest but either way Mr. Armstrong is no more. Anyway, the only way I could make myself stop yappin was if I taped my mouth shut which is exactly what I did and by the end of the day Momma just looked at me heaving out a big old sigh after rolling her eyes and said real sweet and real sassy:
Fine.
I couldn’t have been happier—honest. I could tell Momma was extremely enthused at my accomplishment, as was I, because of the way she sighed. It was more of a happy sigh rather than an annoyed sigh—don’t let the rolling of the eyes fool you. Her eyes were rolling of pure happiness. She was happy I was getting a fish. I was happy I was getting a fish. I know Daddy would be upset about it because of the last few times I’ve gotten fishes and acted out but I generally make him upset for loads of reasons anyway so I try to stay away from him but this time I would be real good to the fish and real good overall—honest.
She brought me to the store and I looked through all the big tanks but all the fish just looked sad and old and I didn’t really want my fish looking all sad and old. I put my hands right up against the glass of one of the smaller tanks and a little sad old goldfish swam right up to me and I knew it would be the one. I told Momma I could teach it tricks and everything. She pointed with her fat finger at the fish with her nails all sparking with the prettiest blue you ever did see and said you can’t teach fish tricks. Maybe she was right I don’t know but all I could think about was how I was gunna have a new fish.
She said we had to pick a tank out for the thing and to keep it real simple and real cheap because the vase we kept my last fish in was filled with nice flowers. Most of the tanks were these big old boxy things but I wanted one of those nice looking round fish bowls—the ones that are big enough for you head and kinda look like an upside down spacesuit helmet. That’s all you’d need —a nice simple helmet-looking bowl to put the fish in then you got yourself a happy place for a little sad old goldfish. So that’s exactly what we got. On the way home Momma reminded me that I gotta keep my yappin to a minimum and be real good to the thing because it was living and all. I promised and taped my mouth shut. She just sighed and drove us home.
When we got back I went straight to my room and put the bowl right on my desk and poured the little old fish in it. It just started floating around not really moving much which got me a bit nervous and I started shaking because it was supposed to be moving. I kinda tilted my head to
1
look at it and spun the bowl around and it started wiggling its little fins. It was alright. I started thinking about what I should name it. A fish ought to have a name I’d think. It was a living thing and all but I couldn’t decide right away.
You could see right through the bowl because it was glass and everything. You could see the bright blue sky and clouds through the bowl—not the real ones but the ones on my wall. Momma said my room used to be my nursery and they wanted me to feel like the room was my world so they made the walls real bright and put clouds all over and even put stars on the ceiling —the one’s that glow and everything. Just so my room could be the world. The fish didn’t know that. It just saw the blue and the clouds and the stars and my little gray bed in the middle of the room.
I wanted to give it its own little world and make the fish bowl habitable because Momma said I should make the bowl habitable. I went in the backyard and got some little gray rocks and washed them and put them in it bowl and stuck a really big one right in the middle. The little fish swam all around it and it kinda reminded me of a little ship orbiting the moon! It looked like a little astronaut doing a little dance. When I got in bed later that night I could see out of the corner of my eye the little fish swimming around the moon. I decided to name it Major Tom.
***
Pshh. Ground control to Major Tom…I put my hand over my mouth to make it sound just like a walkie talkie like they do in all the movies when they’re tryna sound like they’re talking through a walkie talkie…Major Tom, are you there? Over. Pshh. I was giggling all over the place under
the covers but I was tryna be quiet so Momma didn’t yell at me to quit yappin. I stacked up the pillows against my bed to make a nice tiny old fort. I peeked my head out from under the blankets to see how Major Tom was doing as he was on an extremely important mission to find extraterrestrial life. Of course it was just sitting on my desk staring at me wiggling a bit near the moon but it liked to play pretend too. Pshh. Mission almost complete. Over. Pshh. I could hear the fish loud and clear.
It was getting real dark outside with the sky turning red and blue and purple the way it does but I kept my lights off so the stars on my ceiling would glow like they usually do. Momma opened my door and saw me sitting under all the covers and told me to go to sleep because it was late as hell and she didn’t want me being all whiny in the morning. I’m not always whiny in the morning but apparently when I don’t get my sleep I get real whiny in the morning and start yappin all over the place and Momma doesn’t really like that. Daddy says it makes me talk in a higher pitched voice than usual but I’m not too sure about that. I wasn’t about to go to sleep because I had my own mission to do.
When it got real dark outside I could hear Momma and Daddy shuffling down the hallway to bed and I waited until they were sleeping real good. I could tell they were sleeping real good because
I could hear them dreaming. Momma said when you’re sleeping real good you make noises in 2
your sleep which tells everyone around that you’re dreaming and to not wake you up. When they were sleeping real good, Major Tom watched me peep my head out into the hallway to check both ways before sneaking into the bathroom down the hall. I knew where Momma kept her prettiest blue nail polish—it was real pretty. It was all dark and blue like the sky at night and it glittered a bit when you put it in the light. I liked opening the bottle and I liked the smell when it was all wet. My hands get shaky sometimes. They actually get shaky all the time, especially when I’m all nervous, but I tried my best to spread the paint over my nails without my hands shaking the entire time because it just felt right. Then I snuck back into my room.
Pshh. Looks like Earth blue from the moon. Over. Pshh. Major Tom liked the way it looked too. It was its favorite color. It reminded it of its mission of being deep in space looking for a new life. I pressed my hands right up against its little glass bowl as the paint dried. I challenged Major Tom to a staring contest. It didn’t blink but I couldn’t help myself—Major Tom always wins. After a few round it was all dry so I hopped on my bed and started jumping around and wrapped the blankets all around me. I got in front of my mirror and I looked all cozy and funny-looking. I spun around with the blanket swirling all around me and started giggling again as Major Tom watched me holdout my hand as I stared at the paint glittering on my fingers. I think I did a pretty good job but that’s only because I copied what I’ve seen Momma do loads of times and I’ve done it twice before.
I jumped right back on my bed and looked up at the stars glowing on my ceilings and tried to get my fingers to touch them but I couldn’t get high enough because the ceiling’s pretty high. The blanket swished around me just like a fish and I could just imagine slipping into Major Tom’s bowl to teach each other tricks. Pshh. Major Tom. Looks like I can swim too! Over. Pshh. Then it taught me how to wiggle all around through the water with my fins and tail. Told me I gotta have determination so I tried real hard to have determination and then I was told I was doing alright but that I had to be careful. Pshh. The current’s tough. You are swimming fine. Just swim to the stars. The spaceship knows which way to go. Over. Pshh. Major Tom was my favorite fish.
***
I wasn’t yappin but I guess jumping on my bed and giggling all over the place in the middle of the night made a bit too much noise because I could hear footsteps in the hallway coming to my door.
What do you think you’re doing—what the hell do you think you’re doing, with that on? Come here…now!
Daddy’s voice was like thunder—it really was. I could feel the paint on my walls turn real gray with the clouds as Daddy spoke because he spoke not in the nice way but in the mean way. He was asking me a question but he really wasn’t and I don’t like when he does that but he does it a
lot. He pulled me in the hallway and made me get real close which made me feel real small because Daddy’s the tallest person I know because he just is—honest.
3
What do you think other kids are gunna think about that, huh? When they see you lookin like this? Scrape all of that off, you hear me? Don’t let me catch you doing that in this house again. How many times do I have to tell you?
I was just playing with Major Tom—
Major Tom what? You’re playing with the damn fish again… I just—I just can’t with it. This is the third time, the third time. “Major Tom.” You can’t be—we’re getting rid of it —that’s it—you gotta straighten out.
Daddy, I’ll be good—honest!
And then I started shaking real bad because I was real nervous and kinda scared and Daddy makes me real scared especially when he makes his voice all deep and angry. Then he got even closer to me and pulled his hand up and I zipped my mouth shut and he slapped me harder than he ever did before and pushed me in my room and said to not come out until I scraped it all off. I thought that was it but he didn’t stop and I just saw all the clouds on my wall start to rain—the sky turned real gray and I started crying. He picked up the bowl and started walking out. Major Tom was completely unaware of what was happening so it just swam around its little moon looking like it was on a mission. You’re fine, okay? You’re just going on a special mission—just another mission. It couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything.
I warned you the first and second damn time. You gotta act like you’re supposed to. And stop talking in that voice you do. You gotta try. You gotta.
And then he flushed Major Tom just like that—and then he looked at me as I sat on my bed crying and shook his head as he placed the bowl down where it was just a couple minutes before but this time it was empty. I scraped the paint off my fingers with my teeth and cried and couldn’t stop my hands shaking all over—my entire body was shaking. Daddy didn’t need to do that but he did because he can’t be raising a different kid but Major Tom didn’t mind. Major Tom liked making pretend and swimming and the moon. Major Tom was a happy little sad old goldfish—a good fish. So I just cried and I couldn’t stop but that’s okay because sometimes you just can’t stop crying so I just wrapped the blankets around me and gave up scraping because it was really pretty and I liked the way it glittered in the light…just like the stars. I was looking out my window when Momma said to go back to bed and to quit crying because Daddy was right.
I just laid on my bed with my belly up and tilted my head a bit and saw the empty bowl out of the corner of my eye. I was still sad but I went over and picked it up along with some tape and brought them on the bed. It was real late now and Momma and Daddy were dreaming again. But
the stars were glowing real bright. I grabbed a long piece of tape and put it right over my lips. I was gunna be quiet until I could learn how to swim a bit better. And then I stared at the empty bowl in my hands with my scraped up fingers wrapped all around it. Pshh. Put your helmet on.
4
The stars look very different today. Look. Over. Pshh. I could hear the voice—I really could. And I put that bowl right over my head and could hear myself breathing real steady and I stopped shaking and the gray covers around me started to rumble before turning into air. And the clouds started to move real fast all around my walls as smoke began to come up from under me. And the stars started to get real bright right above my head as I heard the faintest voice: Pshh. Commencing countdown. Five. Four. Three. Two…
When I was young, I used to hate the taste of grapefruit juice. My mother would get it for Her gastrics, Her diet, Her tongue, and Her Cocktails. But for me, there was nothing. It was, as I had described it: Too bitter! Too sweet! Too sharp! Too neat! And with a hue of Pink that felt quite unfashionable for my tastes. But despite these adamant protests… She continued her purchase of the garish concoction. So, as time went on, I became accustomed to its revolting flavor. Its luscious hints at a velvety sort of saccharine still left me saddened however, Since the tart curl it blanketed on my tongue soon began to feel like a betrayal. Why can’t I get my sweetness without this unwanted tang? What’s a gal to gain? Surely there’s a way to get that kind of flavor without a needless sacrifice! And maybe, If I’m lucky, I don’t need to find a way to “make it work”. When I was a growing, I used to ignore the taste of grapefruit juice. With a bit more freedom and a bit more money, I went out to hunt the taste I needed. In the winter, I found that chocolate and butterscotch could be my new best friends. The needed warmth they’d bring, Free and uncommitting,
Felt right for me. The silky cream and honeyed laps of gentle presence were just what I’d been needing. With them, I never felt the bitter sting of feigned affection, The momentary kindness the grapefruit would drench me with being a distant memory, A nostalgia, for some. Not for me, Until of course I felt the sickness that came with too much syrup. When I was mature, I used to allow the taste of grapefruit juice. By spring, I became acquainted with the honesty of strawberry and mint. Fresh dollops of a sharp sort of sweet, Unlabored by acidity, and Unburdened by overtness, Left me enamored in a world of balanced affections. However, I was soon re-introduced to my old unwanted friend through the means of Gin, Vodka, and Liquor. Once again, I felt the unwelcome sting of that flavor I once loathed but, at least now, I couldn’t tell which was hurting more. So I went on in my tristes with these sultry three, though soon, I felt something amiss. As when my early years waned, and solitude set in, I began to understand, and feel, The roots of my mother’s addiction. When I was aging, I loved the taste of grapefruit juice. Long gone was my need for the subtle as I found the Pink blessing appealing. Its Bluntness, and Cruelty, That my familiar foe had brought, Freshened my glass once more without a moment’s hesitation. I never needed any sort of better treatment, That sort of thing belonged to those who needed it,
Since, for me, the disheartening taste of a dishonest drink, The unwelcome snap that’d come halfway down the glass,
Reminded me of where I began. And so, of course, it was needed. But the pain it provided, The disrespect it harbored, and The disloyalty it held, Hurt more with each passing hour. Why had I returned to what wronged me so before? What shackles ripped me back here? Was this punishment? Duty? Fate? Or something worse… Where was the hope I once held out for tastes better than this? Would it ever return? Can I ever feel it again? And for what seemed like an age, I waited. But now that I have years behind me, My time with cups, glasses, and shots, long felt. I carry pride in myself, and humility to, when I reach for a bottle these days. As I am old, I forget the taste of grapefruit juice. My falls are now spent in the company of nutmeg and cinnamon. In a moment, I can rely on the fragrant smoothness of simplicity, Since now, deception is a crude impossibility. With froth, heat, woodsmoke, and sugar, I am well met with the kind of kindness I fantasized about long, long ago. The ills of deception, longevity, duality, and remorse no longer a part of my palette, But instead,
A lesson for where I wish to be.
I cannot thank that for which has wronged me, That extension of mercy being something even my wisdom can’t bestow. But, for a moment, I like to think that things were always meant to be this tender. That someday, even I, Could feel the sort of sweetness that my mother always carried, and Smile.
There once was a girl who lived in Trujillo Alto named Analita. Analita was a girl of “never caring”, since she was a smart enough person to know that if she thought about every blade of grass she’d touch, she’d sense the countless ants that hopped off from its green slender form right onto her chanclas, the itching she’d complain about to Mama and Papa never again a mystery as she could just point at the green and say, “¡Eso!”. One night, Analita decided to “never care” by not turning off the big desk light she’d keep on when she’d work no matter how badly it hurt her eyes and felt like burning. This kept her up all night though, something she didn’t like because the heat was already an issue, and the itchy sheets were already a problem, and the half torn PJ’s were already making her sweat but, because she never cared, she knew that all she could really do was lie there and wait.
She closed her eyes hard, harder than ever before, and waited.
She thought about getting up and turning off the light, and waited.
She thought about getting new sheets or, better yet, just going to the living room couch (even though it smelt like ham and dust) because it had that nice silky blanket her stinky abuelo would sit on for his shows.
She thought about all these things but, most of all, she thought about tomorrow, and didn’t care. It was hard for Analita to care about tomorrow because she was too busy not caring about today. Why bother with going to the bathroom (even if your gut feels like sludge)? Why even care about the turned off fan (even with all the beads of sweat making your curly hair turn into a dandruff jungle)? Why get up and find something better, when the right now is so awful to be in?
“Do I like the awful?” Analita thought.
And it was the most she never cared.
But late one night, as the night frog’s chirping became a deafening cascade, she saw a cucaracha skitter right into her closet, the light chitter of its clicking limbs climbing up, up, up. She knew she’d be safe from the insect’s intrusive antennae but, just as a precaution, she climbed right out of her musty mattress and creeped towards the closet’s creaking door. Surely this was too much caring! One little roach was ignorable, maybe even invited, but all Analita felt within her was a glub of dishonesty as each step she took along the splintering wooden floor brought her closer to that towering portal.
Maybe if she turned back now, hopped back into bed, and awoke to a festering nest of scuttling larvae scratching at her pores then maybe, just maybe, she’d claim a climactic victory as the most careless of them all. No longer would she need to stress over any form of defense or longevity, now she was a brood! An emperor of the repulsive! Never again would she need to express any sentiment of caution or thought, her carefree life as a host to the abominable granting her an ultimate reprieve of the mind she so deeply hated.
But now, mere inches away from the door, she persisted on to thwart the vermin. Maybe I can get away with it just this once? A singular treat of effort to allow my planned apathy more empirical freedoms? No, Analita knew, this would only be a beginning.
She swung open the wretched door with the force of finality, her days of ignorance soon coming to a close and she spotted the vile interloper and raised up her bare foot against it. Soon her days of laze and worry would be concluded, no more would she stand idly by to let disgust and pestilence infest her livelihood, now she had the determination to defend it! Her days were soon to be hers at long, long, last!
Crashing down with the full weight of her little patita, Analita victoriously stomped the unwanted filth, the slicing tip of a nail the cockroach sat upon now nestled deep inside her sole.
