splitting molecules

Yes, I know I will be fine. Yes, I know it gets better with time. Yes, I know I can be strong blah blah; I don't need someone else to be happy blah; it was probably for the best blah vomit blah; and I'm gradually moving on with my life blah blah facedesk, but the truth remains: Getting dumped by someone you love fucking sucks, and I'm not going to pretend like it doesn't.

Three years later,
you fit in a box.
I taped you shut
while I wait
for a blanket to become
just a blanket again,
or a necklace
just a necklace.

For now these
once-comforting
once-loved
cold metal
paper postcard
hard plastic
relics
whisper
remember,
combing through my hair
with the rigid fingers
of ghosts.

I’ve been trimmed away like fat,
but you’re still in the
water I drink.

deep comedy

One Saturday morning
post-whiskey binge
we snapped awake as
my cell phone alarm
shrieked the arrival of sun-up.

We were entwined,
hungover as usual,
cursing the cacophony that was
like God chewing glass in our brains.

You said
the alarm tone
must've been
composed by a
Swedish
minimalist
torture
artist
whose other
greatest
hits
include
“Neighbor's Vacuum in A-minor”
and
“Car Alarm Quartet in B-flat.”

You were always so hilarious
in the morning.

This one, I'd remember it later,
shopping for heirloom tomatoes
at Whole Foods,
giggling while running my fingers across
the improbably colorful fruit:
red, yellow, purple, orange,
some striped,
some still caked with dirt.

But for a moment I lost myself,
I squeezed a green one too tightly
my thumb piercing the delicate skin
the juice oozing out
settling into the creases of my knuckle
stinging in a fresh cut there, still red.

You called this deep comedy.

boredom

every day
mid-afternoon
sunlight pressing against window
at top of wall
(too high to see out)
never penetrating
(no golden shaft, heavy and hazy with dust;
i will die of rickets in here).
at this point i'm certain
i've lost my mind.

shoulders slouch.
head hangs
turns when forced
in response to a cough, a knock
rotates on creaky hinge
rusted joint
piece of forgotten equipment
battered by extremes.
(what if i smashed face into desk,
drove nose bone into brain.)
skin is slack, falling off face.
mouth hangs open
releases indifferent string of vowels
and occasionally: "fuck."

lunch pulled from plastic bag
corporate-mandated portions
250 calories
devoured facing forward
six browser windows open.

eyes bloodshot
always bloodshot
ten hours sleep, still
bloodshot
lifeless glass doll eyes
popped out
new ones snapped in
still bloodshot.

weight is dead
and cold.
every nerve
in body, pinched.


stay the fuck young.
drive too fast into sunset
arm out window
cool air conducting tiny hairs --
electric body singing 
horizon spitting pink, purple, orange
covering you in luminescent fibers.

avoid coming back 
for as long as you can.

day 48: i caught fall as it fell

Right now, Halloween week, is when the trees in my parents' yard typically catch fire with the colors of fall. I always intend to take photos but through laziness or forgetfulness fail to do so. And I am still both lazy and forgetful, but today I accidentally remembered the camera, so here are some of the badass vibrant trees. 

"The Spring and the Fall" 
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.

In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.

 

 

Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.

 

day 36: i celebrated christmas in july

I am fairly certain Christmas in July is more fun than regular Christmas. Not only can it be celebrated poolside, but all the money you'd normally spend on gifts can be reallocated to buy booze.

Despite Saturday's incessant thunderstorms, Christmas in July at my friend L.'s house was a joyful occasion of tacky holiday vests featuring cats in scarves, snowmen in earmuffs and be-glittered poinsettias and trees, jingle bell necklaces, gold lame scrunchies and spiked fruit punch.
 
And best of all, you didn't have to worry about getting a little too smashed and cussing out great aunt so-and-so who always gets a little too pushy about when you're going to get married already. In fact, as long as you were sober enough to climb on a pool raft, you were pretty much golden.

box wine holiday
by Charles Bukowski*

she insists mistletoe
is poisonous
before snatching it from the corner 
of the tabletop umbrella
and cramming it in her cheek
like a wad of chewing tobacco.

i watch and drink my wine,
sunset blush from a box
i tore apart
to squeeze out 
the last bit of color.
the sun's set but
sweat still trickles down my chest
and there's a rock in my shoe.

"you'd like that," she says,
spitting the wad of green
atop a cigarette butt in the pool.
"you'd fucking like that,
wouldn't you?"

her teeth are wine-stained
her lips crusted with the red dregs
she sucked down several hours ago 
while sprawled on the concrete
her toes dipping in the water
bouncing across the surface like stones 
as she laughed toward the sky 
and told me she felt 
invincible.

i yank down the other sprig of mistletoe
and jam it in my mouth.
it is bitter on my tongue.

*not really. i wrote it. i probably enjoy imitating bukowski more than i should.

day 27: i watched a sunrise

morning people
by Charles Bukowski*

some days I don't have it in me.
these days I find myself awake 
at the forgotten hours 
smoking on the patio
watching the city wake softly
as she burns scrambled eggs 
in the next room.

"don't you own a coffee grinder," she says.
"who the fuck has coffee
but nothing to grind it with."

i ash my cigarette
and the cherry falls,
i watch it dig its way
into the tip of my canvas shoe.
it leaves a brown hole,
perfectly round.

"there's a hammer in the drawer," i say. 

anyone else would have gone
to the coffee shop,
it is only a short walk 
down the street.
but she thinks she looks good
in her short red dress
black makeup around her eyes
last night's lipstick
a slap of crimson
on her cheek.

"like this," she says,
holding the hammer above her head,
waiting for me to watch,
and she whacks the bag
with the ten-pound silver head.

the pop goes off like a gunshot.
coffee beans scatter the floor
like fat raindrops.

"you're a fucking idiot," she says.
"i'm going back to bed."

*Not really. I decided to write a poem in the style of Bukowski in lieu of simply bitching about how much I hate mornings, and how getting up any earlier than 8 a.m. feels like the worst kind of punishment, and how I would've gone to a better location than my porch to watch the sunrise (it faces east, dammit, so I figured it would work, but it turns out there are trees in the way), but sincerely felt it was too early to wear pants or a bra.

Had it been the sunset, though, I would've been all up ons, because that fucker can put on a show. I've watched it work its magic here in KC, in the Colorado Rockies, overlooking the Columbia River in Oregon, and most recently while speeding through the Badlands of South Dakota, pictured below:

day 20: i fell in love with junot diaz

The last time I immediately connected with a writer in a way that made me say “fuck yeah” I was 21 years old and visiting the south side of Chicago.

My then-boyfriend and I had taken a road trip to see the Cubs play, and at a bookstore down the street from Wrigley I discovered Dangling in the Tournefortia by Charles Bukowski.*

Being so young, I had not yet seen anyone write the way he did and get away with it:

From "I didn't want to"

it is difficult for me to get interested or angry.
when a cop stops me for some infraction I simply sink
into some great sea of disgust.
“do you want to know what you did, sir?” he asks me.
“no,” I say.

“message”

I’ve been sitting in this
room for hours typing, and drinking
red wine.
I thought I was
alone here. the door is closed
and the window.
now a big fat fly
ugly and black sits on the edge
of my wine glass.
where did it come
from? so silent, motionless
like that.
that’s the way
it might be with death.

Despite being a skinny girl from a middle-class Kansas City suburb, I somehow related to this middle-aged drunk living with whores in Los Angeles motels. In our own way we each tested the limits of what felt safe and crossed lines that left us vulnerable and exposed but ultimately still bored with our own extremism.

Then this spring I visited a St. Louis bookstore with my boyfriend Jason, and while bending over to pet the resident cat I spotted Drown by Junot Diaz.

From the first story about two young boys in the Dominican Republic plotting to steal the mask of another boy whose face was eaten by pigs, I was owned. The story played on my natural sense of voyeurism with the unsympathetic and sometimes cruel curiosity of children.

And the rest of the book doesn't lighten up. The characters of Drown inhabit a world of perpetually leaky faucets, stolen jewelry, and thin walls through which you can hear the daily dramas of the people above and below you. 

But Diaz’s matter-of-fact, occasionally cynical voice belies the stories’ quiet tragedies – a boy’s father abandons his family; a teenager carries on a dead-end relationship with a crack-addicted hooker; a pool table delivery boy helps a young maid escape an abusive relationship with her boss – and makes them at times even funny.

In fact, most of the characters’ experiences are accompanied by little introspection or analysis. Yunior, an adolescent boy who appears in several of the stories, has not yet begun to string together the moments of his life to make whole, meaningful events. And this, I believe, is the part of Drown I love most, as in terms of growing the fuck up already I’m a late bloomer.

*Yes, I know he’s not considered a “literary” writer and it’s a stretch to even call him a poet, but he’s gritty, dammit, and that’s how I like ‘em sometimes.

day 10: i went down to funkytown

In Raytown, Missouri, a large shed in a shopping center just off the highway houses Funkytown, a neon, disco-themed dance club that is locally famous for being both ridiculous and awesome.

Despite wanting to hold the place at arm’s length and enjoy it only ironically, I have to confess I had a genuinely good time, especially because the dance floor has been tricked out to look like a giant carwash complete with old-school brushes and bubbles.

Experience the funk (and because they were never intended to describe something so unnatural, some funky haikus):

Pray to disco ball

Spinning and shining above

The god of the dance 

Climb up the stairway

To heaven, it’s VIP

And remains empty

A town this funky

Makes neon a state of mind

Crunchy as fall leaves

Drinks become empty

Gnarly tree lords over bar

Sees you sip then trip

Cougars in a cage

On soapy neon dance floor

They get too frisky

Halo of bubbles

Suspended like a held breath

Pop ephemeral

Chair offers a hand

Have a seat in your short skirt

Homage to the douche

day 2: i wore four-inch heels

I am a low-maintenance kind of girl - I prefer comfy to fancy and cut-offs to dresses, so wearing heels for a day, especially four-inch heels, is completely out of the ordinary. In fact, the last time I did so may have been at my friend's wedding in 2007, when I preferred to walk barefoot around Union Station rather than endure another moment in those awful excuses for footwear.

I know other women (and some men) wear even higher heels on a daily basis at jobs where they have to stand for eight-plus hours, and it quite honestly confounds me; today I almost walked barefoot to the bathroom after only a few hours in heels, and most of that time I was sitting behind a desk.

Because when I wear heels I essentially feel as though I'm re-learning how to walk, I've written some limericks, my favorite poetic form from childhood.

There once was a girl from K-City

Who found four-inch heels quite tricky

"My shoes might be killers,"

she said with a shiver

And downstairs she stumbled too quickly.

When a tomboy decides to dress up

She thinks brushing her hair is the stuff

Until one more genteel

Presents her with heels

Though before she was quite tall enough.

She wears her high heels to the bar

Three drinks in, she doesn't get far

Caught on the rug

Her shoe gives a tug

She spills as though poured from a jar.