Archive for December, 2010


Posted: December 31, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: , , ,

Would I be ashamed to let you in?
I ask myself this odd
hypothetical question while looking around the room.

The answer is invariably, yes.
I would be ashamed to let anyone see how I live.
The question in my head has become phrased in a specific way
that I find frustrating more than I might otherwise find it.

I’m quite certain I’ll never see you again.

So the shame?
I would invite you in anyway.
That’s the oddest aspect of the room…and my life in general.

It’s past time to organize the chaos into neat little rows.
There are no ducks to feed here that I’ve found.
Only skinks and cockroaches that don’t need me, want me, notice me
or quack
to comfort my stale bread crumb stuffed insides that I’ve emptied out into cold water.

i don’t know anything

Posted: December 30, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: ,

My intellect, they always told me
in hushed up voices and indirect whispers
this gift of aptitude
the allure of an atypical mind…that never struggles and rarely tries.



Crawl inside poking and prodding the lacy edges
punctured and plastered over with names
the condemned and diseased.

You’re right; always right.
It’s not so hard to understand the transparency known as me.
You know me.
Keep me in my place, wherever that place may seem to be in an escapist society.

Steady now. Steady.

You wait for a revolt. You would revolt. You know you’re special.
Even if you’re common; so average that it hurts…something makes you special.
The great elaborations of the underdog mentality.
You want me to disagree, but I don’t.
I can’t.

You have something I’m afraid I’ll never find.
A system? A cause?
So many think that I…
Maybe we envy each other unnecessarily.

A conversation unfolded in front of me as I walked among strangers.
A boy made polite conversation, and the girl indulged.

I remember wondering if it was real.
Were they there?
Were they having this conversation?
Was it a standard conversation to be had?
Is this the way that people interact?

It fell away from me.
I interpret the world around me differently.
I don’t mean to.

I wanted you to talk to me.
You spoke so frequently.
It seemed…to everybody.

I fuck up most verbal exchanges.
I fuck them up all the time.
The lighter and more casual, the quicker and more completely fucked.
People seem to think it’s intentional.

I ask myself again and again
but there’s no answer.

There’s nothing to revolt against. The connection is intermittent
and predominately…dead.

hammer and nails

Posted: December 27, 2010 in otiose
Tags: , , , ,

Somebody knocked down my mailbox when it snowed.
I think I already mentioned this, but in case I didn’t, that is the context of this story.
Somebody knocked down my mailbox when it snowed.
I tinkered with the pieces for a while yesterday and gave up, got side tracked, or fell asleep on the kitchen floor.
I’m not sure what happened, but the point is that I didn’t put the pieces back together.
Rather, I left them strewn about the porch.

Today, I locked my housemate out of the house, and she called me where I work, and…that is a different story.
Needless to say, I was not happy.

She asked me what happened to the mailbox.
I proceeded to go about tinkering with the pieces again and her muskrat type male companion asked me if I wanted him to fix it for me.
He looks like that guy in the first Matrix movie. Not that dipshit from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventures, but that muskratty looking…Joe. Joe Pantoliano.
Joe Pantoliano asked me if I wanted him to fix the mailbox for me after I’d already taken it all apart and ascertained that I needed two new six inch nails.
He asked me twice.

The second time, I was not polite.
What are you going to do, Joe? Stick it back up with a wad of bubble gum? I already had all the tools out.
My tools.
I clearly know what I’m doing.
This isn’t particularly difficult work. It’s just annoying.
Why don’t you run along and play house somewhere where you actually…pay rent or something?

I went up the road to my local Lowes and found two galvanized six inch nails for .16 a piece. I went to a line wondering if it would be a problem with Sir Douchey McDoucherton hunched over his register.

It was a problem.

He insisted that my nails were not in the system for the price I told him they were. I offered to go get the item number for him, and he continued scanning random barcodes out of his little book. The old man in line behind me started condescending to Sir Douchey, and I found myself amused to smirks and giggles.

To save himself some face, he took this out on me, “What do you want to do, lady?” He dripped with disdain. I’d told him about five minutes ago that I’d like to go get the item number for him, but instead he kept us all waiting.

I toddled off and committed the long string of numbers to the mush in my head. When I walked back up to his line less than a minute later, he looked at me like I was retarded. I looked at him like he was a lazy worthless Master Doucher from Hairybottom Long Island, and rattled off the number for him. He punched it in wrong. I slowed it down for him.

Low and behold, Lowes sells the nails I picked up at Lowes for the amount advertised by Lowes with a call number that’s in the Lowes computer system.

Weird. I never would have guessed.

I pounded them through two pieces of half rotten wood and screwed my mailbox back to its post in the dark. A fat old neighbor man across the street came out to watch me do this in a teeshirt, in the dark, and in the snow. Did you enjoy the show?

I might be a girl. Yes, I might wear a bright pink coat and talk with an odd accent, but I can handle nailing two pieces of wood together and screwing a metal box on top. Promise.

What do you think was the last productive thing McDouchey did? Or…the Muskrat for that matter? Please, boys. It’s not that goddamned odd for someone to put their mailbox back up after some asshole runs it down in the snow.

My mailman is a big black woman that hardly fits into her truck. I hope she understands. I hope she leaves me mail tomorrow. I hope it isn’t all bills and stupid student loan letters about misapplied funds from Wells Fargo…but even if it is…I’d like to get my mail in the box I put back up.

You meet someone, and you know that they’re…


I meet people, and I think I see things. I watch things; not so much as the passive spectator or one of those popularized underdog outsiders…

Fuck you.

I…Sometimes, shit happens, and it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, or if it does, I fail to understand.

I used to think actors like Anthony Hopkins and Robert DeNiro were attractive. This was back in those awkward years that are represented by awkward numbers like…eleven and twelve. Ten makes sense and then the numbers get muddled for a while.

14 is really fucked up in Spanish.

I would say that Hopkins and DeNiro are the closest I ever came to having any sort of celebrity crush…that fantastical sort of fluffy crushing that has no basis in reality but in the character typecasting…


My peers were off getting drunk and leaving socks on in the dark, and I was…watching shit like Cape Fear.

Less than halfway through college I snapped. I try to look back on it, but most of it’s gone; eaten away by the rotating blades of a dirty ceiling fan and wet concrete.

Sometimes, I meet people, and I think I see things…but they tell me I’m wrong, so while my peers are out getting married and raising families, I’m watching shit like Cape Fear

but the allure is gone.


Posted: December 24, 2010 in hidden admonishment

Her name is Katie
and I know it’s just a dull coincidence
it’s such a common name.


She’s gorgeous and quiet; humble and smart. Sometimes, I look after her while she’s not paying attention. I steal appreciative glances and wonder what it’s like to be her.

She’s not like…
No, she’s not like that.
She’s not, and it’s not that I want to be her

even temporarily.

No, I just look after her wondering sometimes
who she is
what it’s like.

She invited me to her family’s Christmas dinner
and I didn’t know how to turn her down.

I’m not Christian.
I don’t eat ham…or turkey.
Social gatherings make me uncomfortable.

She invited me, because I’m not going home.
They think I don’t like my family, and that’s just not true.
Hell, they think I’m secretly a millionaire.

“You just don’t like people very much, do you?”

No, I suppose I don’t but…
it’s not usually an active disliking.
Sometimes it is.
Confrontations in parking lots.
Unflushed toilets.
Insipid remarks jotted with unforgiving pen in the pages of old, used books.

I don’t dislike Katie.
I certainly don’t dislike my family.

I don’t know how to turn her down…because I don’t dislike her.
It’s actually quite the opposite.


Black Swan

Posted: December 24, 2010 in proselytizaytion

I was about to be late

with the puppies

because I was trying to help the new girl
that wasn’t feeling well.
I don’t like her, but…that’s irrelevant.

There were four lanes, and the car in front of me in the far left was going too slow.
Anybody recall those signs that state “Slower Traffic Keep Right”?
The car in front of me must have been exempt and also apparently didn’t want to get passed by a little blue Toyota.
Tough shit.
I cut it off.

Yes, I did. Unapologetically.

I have become an aggressive, downright ruthless driver.
It’s necessary here.
Grow up.
Learn how to drive.

I get cut off every fucking day.
I grumble for five seconds, and then I carry on…because it happens
I have more important things to care about than whether I just got cut off or not.

Don’t drive city traffic if you live in a goddamned happy bubble.

I cut this car off, and the driver decided to follow me for a full five minutes
right into the parking lot of my final destination.

I got out of my car and continued with my day as best I could
while she verbally accosted me with needlessly racist remarks
threatened me
and retreated to the safety of her car like the whiny little girl she was when I turned and faced her
with kennels in my hands

because I can hold my own.

I can win a battle of wits
can flounder my way through most legalities
and I have a running chance with most physical confrontations.

Yes, I cut you off.
What would you like me to do about it?
Her answer came in threats.
This is accomplishing a lot.
Do you feel better now?
You were driving like an asshole, and so was I.
You can’t…What’s the matter with you?
How many people did you cut off to spit your little fire while running back into your car when I didn’t even hesitate to get out?
Is that showing the kind of concern I’m supposed to have for your baby in the car?
Grow the fuck up.
I’m not fucking afraid of you.
Next time, bring your gun and your husband and your baby and we’ll put on an improvisational musical drama in the streets, so that everyone can see how amazing your are…but right now…

“You need to get out of my way,” was my response.

I was about to be late, you see. Late with the puppies.