Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Prose Poem, Experimental

dear luka,

i started this letter saying how very busy i am. the thing is, i've never bought that excuse, so i won't use it here. there's always time for things that matter and you, my friend, well most of you, matter.

so here's the deal:

i lost my phone and i don't have anyone's cellphone number anymore. that's why i'm not calling.

i'm not going out anymore. so that's why you won't see me out this weekend.

i'm not drinking anymore. so i can't get a drink with you.

i'm not doing drugs anymore. so i can't do drugs with you.

i'm saving money to get myself out of the city for a while. so i can't go shopping, or do lunch (unless you make it - from scratch).

but i am doing things like, say, going to the park. so i can do things like that with you. so if any of this makes sense to you, and you still feel like we might things in common, then give me a call - but state your name, because it's been really awkward for me - you know, playing the "heeey.... what's up?... uh" game when everyone that calls has a 917, 212, or 315 area code.

-moore

homo-gothic white-trash meets heroin-chic westchester J.A.P.

Genre: Photography, Self Portrait



Caption: hate to love me, or you know, vica versa.

The Things I Learn From Ted

Genre: Cultural Commentary, Humor

I learn many things from Ted. For instance, he once taught me that it's ok to snap your fingers and move your head back and forth when speaking to anyone inferior at the work place, especially when they're older and/or fatter than you. Furthermore, his lexicon is one that has required some amount of research, but has ultimately helped me understand the precocious world of 14 year old domination in which I live. Below are just a few examples:

T a k e a m i n u t e authentic neo-afro-queen diva expression used to communicate an alternate way of dealing with any problematic situation; usually complemented by dirty weave.

W h o K n e w ? An aside said to the audience while showing something crafty on TV, like making a wedding dress completely out of dryer lint, or polishing your silver with peanut butter.

H o w f u n ! A young-at-heart mother or valley girl slash Laguna Beach-type viewing pictures from prom, vacations or houseparties. Can also be used by a talk show host listening to their guest's anectdote about the shenanigans while on the of the set of their new movie.

L a t a z ! (Lay-Tahz) a farewell said with lollipop in mouth and wheelie backpack in tow. Hot pants are a plus. carrying a small dog, like a chihuahua, a must.

L o v e t h a t ! TV fashion guru eunuch-homofag commenting on the a-line skirt and sassy kitten-heeled mule that turned one woman's look from drab to fab!

W o r k i t o u t ! An encouraging statement that has its origins in Black America, but thoroughly adopted by eunuch-homofag minority. Its at home on the runway or in the dance studio, as well as any conversation where the word "fierce" is an appropriate adjective to describe one's actions.

A t o u c h o f w h i m s y: a must have for any home-decorating show, best used when speaking about a faux-finish or the decorative wallpaper border you cleverly used as a chairrail.

S o d e a l w i t h i t ! : Sam goody keychain that is attached to your LL bean or Jansport backpack that explains your thirteen-year-old percocious outlook on life.

B - T - d u b s : A variation on btw or by-the-way its an updated internet lingo classic, for those in college who still use ttyl irl and need to give it an air of sarcasm.

D u n z o ! used when refering to a major breakup, usually in the lives of Hollywood "it" couples.

Dating Four People At Once

Genre: Lyric Essay, Memoir

Dating four people at once is a bad idea,' I thought this morning as my eyes dripped tears into a toilet full of stomach-acid.

this brings up two points:

point one: i'm a little sad. well, to be honest, probably more than a little, but i can't really tell because i have food poisoning and i've been feeling about 7inches away from death for almost 12 hours now and as i heave and holler into the toilet, i realize that there's not anyone rubbing my back. my roommate bought me ginger-ale and crackers, but she used my money to get it, and it sort of nullified the gesture. then i think 'well, at least some people called to say they hope i'm feeling better.'

and then i assess the list of callers:

my dad, my brother, my mom (none of those really count because they sort of have to call, and two out of the three only called because one of them made the other two)

my two best lesbian friends (but that only really counts as one because they're dating and it was only one message. and although they cutely tried to go back and forth, each speaking one word at a time, in the end it sounded something like a learning-disabled lesbian robot)

and lastly: oh wait. no one.

point two: i remember once talking to a friend about how they were dating four people and how great it was. and somehow, through the vomit, i think to myself: how? how could that be great? even when i'm not dating anyone, that's horrible. when i date one person, that's horrible. the disappointment, the putting oneself on the line, the waiting around, the making plans, the blah blah blah. and i'm not sure how, but these two things connect: food poisoning, dating. draw your own paralels.

today: was the entire month of febuary.

Genre: Lyric Essay, List

today:

found an orange lighter on the sidewalk.
gave three cigarettes to the homeless man who lives in my stairwell.
sat cross-legged in the art section of barnes and noble and looked at a dirt bike magazine.
told a woman her dog was cute, even though it wasn't really that cute.
ate the crumbs from the pink valentines cake annie and i ate the night before.
emailed my mom and wrote 'you're reading this because i'm bored and it's febuary' in the subject line.
got asked on a date by a stranger or got asked to go to dinner with someone i don't know, but the first sounds better.
lied to my dad about being busy and productive.
smelled all the socks in my room to see which ones have another day left in them.
decided to get my boots fixed.
decided against getting my boots fixed because it was 55 dollars.
decided i really like the boots and it'd be worth it.
called movie phone to see if they changed the voice since the seinfeld episode.

when i first knew i was a feminist. by bowen

Genre: Lyric Essay

"i like frogs, and i'm a girl... i just don't like bugs, but not because i'm a girl" said cindy with a shrug of the shoulders.
"cool, cindy. right on," i said. "you're the most advanced girl in the 5th grade, even mora tuglowski thinks so, and she's supposed to be in 6th grade."

cindy smiled and put her ponytail in her mouth. we sat on the swings and looked around at all the rocks being thrown.

"hey, cindy."
"hey greg" she replied as greg weintraub approached our swinging legs. greg's shoes were untied in a way that read as 'i'm a rebel, i don't care.'
"so cindy, mike keibler said that you had a crush on me."
"i didn't say that! i just said i liked the stuff you draw on your desk. i like pokemon."
"girls don't like pokemon! you totally are, like, in love with me."
"No, i'm not."
"shut up, are too!"

"greg, cindy just appreciated your artistic renderings, it doesn't mean she wants to go steady," i said, backing up my friend. i knew cindy and cindy wasn't interested in greg weintraub. cindy was interested in biology and painting, she wanted to change the world, not chase after the shoelaces of some stupid boy.

"whatever. wanna go steady" he said, kicking at the dirt.
"yeah." cindy said with a hop from her swing.
"cool. do you like bugs? i've got a collection." he said showing her a keychain - a preserved exoskeleton of a dung beetle.
"yeah, i love bugs. once i found a walking stick bug and i named him henderson."

the two walked off in the direction of the jungle gym holding hands.

"a voice once stentorian is now meek and muffled." i said to myself with a shake of the head. "what would Judith Fetterley say?"

i spent the rest of that year swinging by myself pondering the gender binary in institutionalized gym classes.

the end.

fin tiltry, a detail

i remembered, this morning, as i rode the train angrily from montrose to 6th (and i say angrily, because no one wants to be pressed against a stranger and a pole at 9AM) a detail from a conversation with fin tiltry, the precocious child who lives in an attic in connecticut.

"my grandfather's really rich."
"i think mine was too," i say as i fold towels and put them in a pile on my bed.
"no, but mine's richer" he says matter-of-factly.
"well, i'm not one to argue about wealth, but i will say that you don't really know my grandfather, so you shouldn't assume much of anything."
"well, see. my grandfather invented screens, so unless your grandfather invented, like, toilet paper - i don't think he's as rich as mine."

i hate this. i hate how i'm constantly feeling belittled and befuddled by 9 year olds. i feel like they have secret powers - like the ability to make me want to go back in the closet, or the ability to question everything about myself, or the ability to make me ashamed because my grandfather did not invent toilet paper.

"screens?"
"yeah, he invented screens."
"i don't know fin, i think screens have been around for a while..."
"well, see, he's been around for a while. i can do the math. my mom is really old, see? and he's the youngest of her children, she's 55, and he's almost one hundred. but anyway, i don't need to prove it, i know it's true, because it's my family."
"well, i guess it is your family. and i won't ask you to prove it."
"good. well anyway. my grandfather, he owned a little fix-it shop, somewhere in like, the midwest or something. and he worked with wires a lot - like, the little ones. and one day, he thought about making fabric out of wires. like, weaving it and stuff. and so he did it. and bamm. now he's totally rich."
"that's cool."

that's cool? that's all i have to say? it is. because my grandfather didn't invent the screen, or toilet paper, and even though i'm twelve years older than this kid, he has an upper hand. he thinks quicker than i do, he's more confident than i am (probably because no one ever shot him down, his parents included).

i talk to jen about how stupid i feel around fin and how he makes me feel like i'm six. she brings up a good point:
"you possess an ability that he doesn't: you can punish him. so, anytime you're feeling a bit insecure (jen says 'bit' because she's canadian) just tell him to take his feet off the table, or not to chew with his mouth open."

jen is a genius.

riseup calmdown

i'm sitting across from myself right now. the position is very uncomfortable. it makes me realize what i look like when i sit across from people more important than myself. i start to stare deeply into my eyes. they look far-off and far back in my head. but they're staring forward, not at the wall, not at me, not at anything, and they're thinking. what are you thinking, i ask. i don't respond. i cross my arms and stare at myself like i'm guilty of something. i don't get it, i say. are you doing this to prove a point? what are you looking at? there's nothing to look at but you! stop looking like you're surprised or bored or crazy, i know you're not! i still don't respond and this makes me mad so i stand up and yell. what the fuck are you staring at?!?! fucking respond! i don't respond, so i sit. i cross my arms and look at myself like i'm waiting. i still don't speak. you're fucking boring, i say to myself. you're so fucking bored.

Milking The Milkman

rigly had been thinking a lot, probably too much, he thought. this morning he sat looking out his window, partially in anticipation but mostly out of distraction. he had been waiting for weeks for a package from his mother and just the day before he finally received notice that a delivery was attempted, but he 'wasn't home.' the slip said they had attempted delivery at 1:30pm. this made rigly feel guilty because he wasn't doing anything at 1:30pm aside from laying on the living room floor, staring somewhat sadly at the ceiling. today, he sat in the window and waited for the UPS truck to pull up.

his sneaking suspicion that he had been thinking too much only dawned on him after he had been sitting at the window for some time. in fact, when he looked at the clock, his initial reaction was confusion. it's 1:30? he thought. but this couldn't be. he had sat down at 1pm. surely more time had passed. when he looked back out the window he realized it was awfully dark for 1pm. he consulted the sun. there was no sun. only a very smug moon. rigly realized he had been sitting at the window for 12.5 hours. at first he was terribly embarrassed. then, slightly amused. and finally, completely disheartened.

if i can sit and look out the window, for 12.5 hours, and not be bothered by the phone, not be drawn to the kitchen to eat a snack. and finally, not even receive the package he had been waiting for, i am indeed a very sad person. do you hate me, moon? he caught himself feeling even more pathetic for speaking to the moon. i hate people who stare at the stars and moon, he thought. fuck you, moon! he yelled out the window. and stars! look how goddamn ugly these stars are! he shouted. rigly, despite his strong wish against it, admitted then, that the stars and moon were totally fucking crazy. stop staring at me! he yelled, and shut the window.

Fin Tiltry

I visited Fin in Connecticut a few summers ago, where he proudly showed me his room before the most awkward dinner of my life with his parents. They emailed me, asking for me to visit because I had ‘such a profound impact on the boy.’ He said I was his favorite staff member at Long Lake because I ‘didn’t give a shit about shit.’ I never pictured myself visiting any of the kids I essentially worked for - some of their parents have taken me out to dinner when they were in the city, but the Tiltry's had nearly threatened me with sending Fin to my apartment if I didn't come to see them. The dinner was, as I said, awkward in the least, but Fin's bedroom was the most interesting aspect of the visit.

The Setting: A bedroom, which seemingly resembles a college dorm room, in the attic of a three-story colonial craftsman-style house. Up the winding staircase one enters the room and is taken by the height of it. The ceilings, planed in puzzle-like shapes, half pealing retro wallpaper, half flaking glue-stained sheetrock (where wallpaper once was), rise upward like the interior of a middle-class pyramid. Along one wall stands a pair of bunked beds, the bottom bed made neatly with a plaid duvet and corresponding pillow shams, the top a mass of twisted sheets and duvets. The walls, once white, are now a sort of stale eggshell color and are decked with record covers and psychedelic posters, all curled at the corner and speckled with tiny holes and wrinkles, revealing their age. Directly diagonal to the beds there is a rust-colored couch slouched between two stereo speakers and guarded by a stilted coffee table with names and dates carved haphazardly in its deeply veined wood. Thrown in the space between the couch and the bed lays a shag rug with its strands intertwined and matted. On the rug lays various items: a scratched and duct taped CD walkman (faintly playing The Eye of the Tiger through muffed headphones), a skateboard so covered with stickers its underside seems to be swelling, three wilted cigarettes that are beyond smoking, and numerous articles of clothing, all slightly tattered, worn, and smelling of boy.

The Character: Fin Tiltry is not a normal eight year old. He is, in all senses, ahead of his time. On Sunday mornings Fin sleeps until three or four in the afternoon and rises only when the light pouring in from the attics sheet-covered windows becomes too bright for his slate-blue eyes to ignore. He rises slowly from his top bunk, his shaggy blonde hair tussled and his eyes resembling slits in soft melon. First, before all else, he will scratch. It is a ritual of sorts. As his legs dangle from the top bunk he starts at his head. First rubbing his hair about, messing it further, and then gently pressing on his scalp with all ten fingers. Although he is barely awake, he considers this rubbing an essential part of his routine as it ‘wakes up his brain.’ He then gently urges at his eyes with twisted fists, removing all sleep-produced particles, and finally opens them slowly, allowing time form them to adjust to the sunlight. And then the scratching – his lower back comes first, damp from sweat, he itches rapidly. Then his hairless armpits. And lastly he claws at his entire torso and a wild motion, looking as though he is being attacked by bees. Then a sigh and a smile. His day can begin.

Nearing his 9th birthday, Fin has settled into what more closely resembles the life of an Ohio State frat boy. Two years earlier he had moved into the attic of his family’s house on account that ‘he needed more space.’ His parents, both professors at the local Ivy League and rarely caring about anything, barely raised a brow. Fin furnished his room with the things his four older brothers (all grown and gone) had left in their rooms or stored in the basement. With no help, outside of countless RedBulls (his drink of choice), Fin successfully moved all of his desired furnishings up the winding staircase of the attic and set up camp, rarely leaving. He is at peace in his bachelor pad. Only rarely does the blaring of 90’s classics disturb his parents and their only request is delivered by the family’s maid, Hilda, in the form of incessant rapping on the door at the bottom of his stairs. He rarely takes meals at the dining room table with his parents, but has repaired the dumbwaiter of their ancient house and hoists his meals up at the sound of the doorbell he has installed in the kitchen, which is only to be used by Hilda. In his room he keeps a mini-refrigerator, donated by the youngest of his older brothers, Lance, after he graduated from UPenn. He considers it a suitable addition to his space and keeps it stalked with RedBulls and string cheese. Later, when the family replaced their microwave, he hulled it up the dumbwaiter and rested it on top of the minifridge, using it primarily to cook ramen noodles and Jiffypop.

Adventure

Genre: Slight Fiction

You call and say you want to go on adventure and I think we met on Thursday and it’s Sunday and isn’t that a little early for an adventure? but I meet you and instead of hello you say you are happy I’m not ugly because you were very drunk on Thursday and couldn’t remember. I’m not sure if ‘not ugly’ means I’m attractive, and I think I find you attractive, but it’s hard to tell because I guess was drunk on Thursday too and here on this street it’s too dark to tell. So you say you hate New York style pizza and then look at me. Silence. And I say I’m sorry and look at you. Silence. And it’s starting to get awkward but then I see this is part of the adventure so we start walking and look for a real Italian restaurant. So we find one and I’m not sure how and it’s empty and quiet and no we’re alone. I sit across from you and we look at each other for a long time. Then you talk and I’m not listening because now I know I’m attracted to you and it’s sort of distracting because I’m usually not attracted to anyone except myself. Then you stop talking and I see that you’ve asked me a question and are waiting for me to respond. I say I’m sorry but I was distracted and you ask by what and I say you look like someone, which is true, but it’s not what I was thinking. Then we start to talk again and this time I listen for fear of embarrassing myself but I’m surprised because I’m actually interested in what you’re saying. We eat and talk and eat and talk and the meal is over and it was good but not as good as it really is, it’s better because you’re better. So we leave and put on our coats and it’s cold outside and you ask what’s next. I don’t know, I say and you ask if there’s anywhere I really want to go and haven’t. There’s lots of places I want to go but haven’t but that’s because I’m poor and it cost money to go anywhere in this city. But then I remember this courtyard to this building that looks really beautiful and I tell you about it and before I’m even done you take my hand and start walking in that direction. I’m not even sure how you know where you’re going because I didn’t say where it was but somehow you know what courtyard I’m talking about and after a few minutes of walking we’re standing in front of the gates. They’re locked and I say oh well but you say no way and now you’re climbing. I say no way and you say come on and suddenly we’re inside. It’s quiet and nice and you’re quiet and nice and we kiss for just a second before you take my hand again and we’re walking around. After a little while and when I don’t even know where I am anymore someone shines a flashlight at us and we run. Then somehow, I’m not sure how, we’re on the street and we’re laughing and kissing and still holding hands and you say wanna smoke and I do. So we walk to your building, this old hotel, and we’re in the elevator and talking and then we’re inside where it’s warm and then we’re outside on your balcony and smoking. We smoke and laugh and smoke and kiss and I’m so stoned I think I might fall over and you say it’s not over yet. So we go to the street and it’s freezing and we bundle each other and I’m not sure where my arms end and yours begin and I can feel every bone under your skin while we walk to Duncan Donuts. Then we’re inside and I say I don’t have any money and you say me either and before I can turn to leave you start talking to the man behind the counter and then we’re outside eating the donuts you argued out of him. So then we sit on a stoop and we wrap around each other and we kiss and I say it’s funny because it’s not the first time and you said you know because we kissed a lot tonight and I say no, I was talking about Thursday when we met and we were drunk and we kissed and exchanged numbers. You say it’s funny but not really, because now a lot has happened and we might even be in love. And I say what time is it and you say it’s five and I don’t say anything. But then I realize that you meant it was five in the morning and our adventure started at five in the evening and it’s been twelve hours and I didn’t even notice because your adventure had taken me somewhere I’d never been before.

today

this morning i awoke on the couch. i was in a sitting position. i was completely dressed. a blazer, a hat, boots, a scarf. i had been dreaming about a party that i was throwing. i wanted everyone to stay, but they wouldn't stay, so i threw them out. i was screaming, which is why i woke up. i woke up. fully dressed, like i said. and i walked to the bathroom.

then suddenly, maybe prompted by what i was reading as i sat on the bathroom floor, i gave up. i said goodbye, i dropped a tear, i fixed my hair, i left the house.

my life is completely guided by everyone else. stupid glory.

my song.

the day i was born the number one song on the charts was The Reflex - Duran Duran:

'The reflex is an only child, he’s waiting in the park
The reflex is in charge of finding treasure in the dark
And watching over lucky clover isn’t that bizarre
Every little thing the reflex does leaves you answered with a
Question mark

I’m on a ride and I want to get off
But they won’t slow down the roundabout
I sold the renoir and the tv set
Don’t want to be around when this gets out'

and so, i can't help but think, my mother really must hate me. so i called her to find out, and like she always does, she lied. she said she loves me, but i could here the regret in her voice - 'if he were born in the 90's, i could have left that little crying shit in a dumpster at the mall.'

In my mind (me in your mind) AKA makes no sense

Genre: Poetry

In my mind, I am more than me
In your mind.
I am everything that we once were
And continue to be,
Not for me, but for you,
In your mind.

See, I’m very far,
What with me moving on,
But for you, in my mind,
I am still close.

I am the time we,
Somewhat absent mindedly,
Forgot to be safe but pulled out
And prayed.

I am, to you, the things that
We said that
Night we sat and smoked and smoked
Until we couldn’t stop and laughed
This and that,
We spitted and spat,
Kiss and pat.

I am for you, everywhere,
Slinking down every narrow vein
Of yours.

The time, of course, long gone,
But not for you, I think.
You think, about me, as home.
A bed, a dresser, a chair.

I’m sitting right here,
You’re sitting right there.
You see me, and hear me,
Look in the mirror: me.

And sigh.

I am everywhere to you.
You can’t forget me
Because you can’t have me
And you still want me.
And that hurts, see?

I am multi-purpose.
I am dust on surface.
I am page after page,
Fingers licking, corners crinkling.

I am your heart’s thoughts –
An ever-bending wire hanger.
I unlock doors, I dry tear-wet shirts.

In my mind, your mind, is full of me.
And it hurts. See?

I think you're growing heroin in your back yard.

Genre: Dramatic Monologue

"I think you’re growing heroin in your backyard. Because to me, you can do that. You’re capable, I know. I used to worship you when cigarettes were as bad as cocaine. Now crystal-meth is just appetizer, you kid. Like chapstick. I remember when, you, with far less tattoos, cried to me and made me feel like I actually had advice to give. It only lasted a minute or two, but I felt a lot bigger than you. Now it’s the same as it usually was and I’m sitting on the couch and feeling like I’m twelve-something and you’re 5AM and still going. Even if I surpassed you in my self-loathing, which might be closer to the truth, yours is stronger, you’d think. I’d probably even agree. Because if you say so, it must be, because you make me believe. You convince me, at least when I’m kneeling before you, that life is a bad bad song and it’s ending soon. Fucking Avril Lavine, you say.

Now you’re pacing. You’re moving your hands like the bible is glued to them and you’re flailing in a desperate attempt to free yourself. I’m barely even listening, because just the sight of you does so much for me. Your eyes are very angry, which makes them look silly, but I’d never say that, because it would be mean. I’m still sitting, you’re still flailing, and I think of the time I wished I had AIDS so I’d lose weight. That’s weird. And not very funny.

I better start paying attention, because you might, by the grace of some strange force stronger than crack, ask me what I think and if you did it right now I’d say something about having AIDS. You’d slap me, probably. Actually, probably not, because you’d like it for me to say that. Because it wouldn’t make sense and I never make sense and you depend on that. And I’m dependable.

You ask me if I want to get some food because Blow-Pop or Iggy-Igs might be working at the bagel place and you could get us free food. I’m not hungry but you taught me that free should never be turned down, so we leave.

It feels funny when I walk beside you, because it might mean that I’m your equal, which I know very well you’d disagree with. I would too. I don’t like being equal, less-than or more-than only, please. I like being your less-than. It makes me feel more than in the rest of the world.

Blow-pop or Iggy-Igs are both not working at the bagel place, so I buy. I can’t tell if you like this, or hate this, because you’re not talking, just eating. I’m not hungry, so I watch. Your jaws look really strong - like that bagel is a concrete sponge. You’re like a concrete sponge."

Alice McKibbin and Sixteen Mailboxes

Genre: Dramatic Monologue

"I’m waiting by the mailbox, smoking a cig while I wait for Jimmy and one of his stupid friends to pull down the long, long road and pick me up. It’s November and cold and I really should have worn pants, leggings even. This weather is shit and soon it’ll be snow. It could probably snow right now and here I am, standing in a stupid little suede thing. It’s not that I wore a skirt for him so much as I know he’ll want to mess around in the backseat later and this just makes things easier. I hate the fumbling with belts and zippers and Jimmy’s not that smooth, really. Last week I was standing just right here and thinking the same thing. I was also thinking about how I never take a swing at the mailboxes like Jimmy and his stupid friend – my hair blowing out the window, bat in hand – swing, crash, cheer. 60 miles an hour in a 45, crumbled mailbox pummeling the road behind us. Whoo-fucking-hoo. Or was it that Jimmy never lets me? Not that I’d want to. I’d rather sit alone in the back where it’s not so loud and smoke cigarettes. If I get bored I can always glance back to see if it was a full one, see the letters and papers flow behind us in the red light. Plus I’m wearing the skirt. And Jimmy wouldn’t like my ass up in the air where his stupid friend can take a dirty glance at it while I’m concentrating on my aim – swing, crash, cheer.

Sometimes we backtrack down roads we’ve already tried; we drive through the mail, swerve past the rutted boxes. Jimmy and his stupid friend say stupid things like “we really fucked that one up real bad!” while I roll my eyes and think about how surely a couple of those letters were meant to get somewhere real important and now they’re in the ditch while Jimmy’s stupid friend laughs like a hyena. Not that I really care. It wouldn’t feel all that good to me anyway, smashing a stupid mailbox. I don’t need to blow off that kind of steam. Jimmy does. Here I’m standing, thinking about my stupid skirt and Jimmy’s got it real bad; he needs to hit something that won’t hit back.

That’s why I go, really. Jimmy likes it and he doesn’t get to like much, sometimes not even me, and a crumpled mailbox is a small price to pay, really. Yeah, he’ll blow off some steam, drink from his flask, and later he’ll crawl into the backseat and we’ll mess around while his friend speeds real fast, smokes a joint. Stupid friend, smoking a joint and driving. I don’t touch the stuff, makes me paranoid, but he could kill someone. Not that I really care. My name is Alice McKibbin. I’ll do the same thing next week."

Flashbulb of a Thought

Two men sit on a bench in Union Square. They're both wearing green jumpsuits, they are both drinking coffee from paper cups, one is smoking a cigarette and they are talking in deep voices.

"so, lou, let me get this right," one says, "i'm not environmentally concious unless i wipe my ass with a plastic bag, then wash the bag, and use it to pack my lunch. that's fucked up, lou. that's real fucked up."

"well, i mean, you use soap and everything. you don't just rinse the shit off the bag," the other says, somewhat apologetically.

"wow," the first says. "and i used to consider myself environmentally concious. wow, lou. you just blew my mind into a million little pieces."

they finish their coffee, stand, and walk away.

Friend Request Denied

Genre: Lyric Essay

Girl searches for Boy. Finding Boy, Girl peruses profile. Girl is surprised to see that Boy has similar interests. Girl is surprised because interests were never discussed in person. In person very little was discussed - just breathy questions like, for example, 'how can i make you come?'

Girl doesn't feel so guilty about one night stand with Boy when she sees Boy's Myspace profile. Girl takes deep breath, Girl sends friend request, Girl takes shower.

Girl hears nothing from Boy. Naturally, Girl checks Myspace. Girl clicks 'Pending Friend Requests.' Girl reads 'No Current Pending Friend Requests.' Girl sits and thinks. This means one thing, Girl realizes. 'Boy has rejected my friend request!' Aghast, Girl grows angry. Girl writes message:

"Dear Boy, am deeply embarrassed, did not realize that I was worthy of penetration and am, in fact, not Myspace friend material. Sorry to have been so bold, will say nothing more. I hope you die. Sincerely, Girl."

Naturally, Boy checks Myspace, sees message from Girl. Deeply uncomfortable, Boy clicks and reads. Boy laughs. 'Stupid Girl,' he smirks.

Cut to Girl: at lunch, reciting above story, leaving out no details, friends listen. "Well," one friend says, "We could give him a virus," friend suggests. "What kind of virus," Girl says in growing interest. "A Myspace Virus," friend says twirling fictional mustache. "Perfect," says Girl.

One Day Later: Boy has disappeared from top eights of all his friends. Dead. Suspects: None. Cause of Death: Mysterious Infection of Myspace Profile.

Girl changes background of her Myspace Page to a very bright shade of pink.

Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Work in Progress

and so, i fell out of the cab, she- holding her hand tightly over her mouth. we stumbled to a decently lit parkinglot. she sat down. and i, well, i fell down. my head hit the dirt before the rest of me. somehow we were home, only slightly bruised. and i never got that kiss i've waited a very long time for. but i still got her, and it was not a night wasted.

tasteless

my parents raised us to have no taste. this is not to say my brother and i are anywhere near putting pink flamingos or garden gnomes in our front yards. we wouldn’t be caught dead in Hawaiian shirts and when prom came, we were certainly not wearing a cowboy-esque tux with a large brass button where a tie might go. but what i mean to say is that they were not picky people when i was growing up and are for some reason remarkably passive when it comes to things they like or do not.
“well, i wasn’t sure if you liked chocolate or not, so i decided on the marble cake rather than one that was strictly vanilla or strictly chocolate,” my mother’s friend says as she unveils a frosted monstrosity that reads “Happy Birthday Molly” written in a font resembling that of a third grade teacher who bakes for the Food Bazaar on weekends.

“cake is cake,” my mother responds with a shrug of her shoulders, dipping a finger into the frosting as her friend stands nervously before her, still holding the cake. i agreed with her, knowing she would have rather responded with “who the fuck cares as long as the shit is edible.” what’s the big deal? i thought. would a person actually refuse a cake because they didn’t like chocolate? then i thought of my mother’s cousin, karen. karen would refuse a chocolate cake. in fact, i’ve seen her do it. i’ve seen her nearly refuse to sit at a table where chocolate cake was being served. karen had taste. she hated almost everything.

she was the type of person who would accurately describe the sort of table she desired to sit at to the host of a crowded French restaurant, “nothing too close to the bathroom, please. and nothing where my elbows will be anywhere close to touching another patrons, and i’d like to eat my meal without listening to someone else’s conversation,” she’d say in her posh, faux british accent. karen loved the ballet, but hated the opera. was a fan of veal, but refused chicken with bones. she took her coffee black, her bread whole grain, and found denim was too coarse a fabric for her skin.

my parents, on the other hand, bought their meat according to what was on sale. would watch whatever was on television should the remote control be missing, refusing to get up. drank their wine from boxes, ate at whatever restaurant was closest to the exit off the highway. never did they proclaim an concern for what sort of bread be on their sandwich, how many lumps of sugar in their coffee, or what genre of film we watch. “it’s all the same,” they’d say in response to a comparison between anything. front row or back row, red wine or white wine, dead or alive. "we don't need to make a fuss."

and so, inherently, my brother and i were raised to not care either. i sometimes get confused when asked “how would you like your steak done, sir?” “well, cooked, i suppose,” i’d respond to the waiter. “what do you mean, what sort of bread? there’s options? well… Wonder Bread is what I’d use if i were to make it myself,” I’d think to myself at the deli. My all time most loathed conversation is friends deciding on where to dine.

“well, we could have Italian if we’re not worried about carbs, or mexican if we want spicy, chinese in this neighborhood is no good.” of course i’d be the unfortunate soul to say, “well, there’s a taco bell right across the street, that’ll do, won’t it?”

“bowen, we’re not eating at a fucking taco bell for lunch.” i didn’t get it. weren’t we just looking for food? of course, the longer i live in new york, the more finely tuned my taste becomes. given the option, I’d eat a sandwich for lunch with friends, rather than a bag of chips and an Arizona iced tea from the corner shop. when someone asks me how me meal is, i can sometimes come up with some sort of commentary, "it's good, a little saltier than i'd have liked, but nonetheless, it's decent." but still. refuse a cake? never.

plans, somehow.

anne and i sat across from each other at a small table, one of many tables, outside a very loud bar on greenwich avenue. it had taken us a while to find it because she was certain it was greenwich street, not greenwich avenue and so we went very far west, near houston and walked, smoking cigarettes, feeling stupid for not being able to find a bar that i thought i’d been to before. somehow, we ended up finding it and i had been before, but it had been years and i had been there for lunch, not drinks. we sat across from each other and talked about our plans, our extended plans, even though we don’t really have any. she wants to go to california and i want to go to scotland, but somehow we’re talking about moving to arizona where her sister lives and invests in real-estate.
earlier, when we were walking and feeling stupid for not being able to find the bar, we came across the entrance to a courtyard on a very quiet street. we held hands and barely walked around, since it was so quiet. we were in awe. as we turned to make a quiet exit anne said “look, this is me leaving for work in the morning.” she took two steps and looked up at the rod iron archway above her, her hands slightly out to the side. it’s always been this way, even before we met. we were always planning, with no real plans. thinking, plotting the little things. we’d stumble upon moments, places. things that seemed exactly the way we’d have written about them if we had written more often.
later, on bank street, after we had left the too loud bar, it happened again. this time it was a brownstone. “imagine,” she said softly yet earnestly, “we’ll walk down the steps, ‘oh, I’m just going to run and get a cup of coffee,’ because there’s an amazing coffee shop right outside our fucking brownstone.” this time we’re planning even further ahead. we decided that we’d have kids, since we’d actually be married if sexual discrepancies had not obstructed the possibility of straight-life. she’d have an amazing someone of the female sort, possibly. and I’ve have someone of the male sort, possibly. and the four of us would have a brownstone right on bank street, which is really just an excuse for anne and i to be together, and still be free. “but what if you broke up with your someone,” she said in concern. “wouldn’t happen,” i said, taking a pull from my cigarette, “we’d love each other too much to break up.” “hmm,” she thought. because if we’re planning the future, we might as well make plans for it to be perfect. and so the night went on, and we found ourselves at different bars, with different people we had meant to meet up with, but didn’t right away on account of our stumbling upon our hypothetical lives. somehow though, these stumbling always bring us together, both past and present, hypothetical and actual. she is, somehow, the only plans that i ever keep.

missed connections

nicolette wrote me a few nights ago to inform me that someone had miss-connected with me. and a few days later, another person stepped forward into the light and confessed that they too had miss-connected. and while it seems like this is something i might have been very excited about in the past, for some reason it did very little for me. it was a party, and i was among friends, and it is unsettling to me why two people might feel a connection of sorts and not say anything in person. moments like those, where someone unexpectedly and boldly reveals themselve is far better than a distant message written to no one but space. and so i didn't reply. not because i was offended or creeped out. but because i'd rather them just tap me on the back and introduce themselves, and if it was any sort of connection, that would be enough.

Flashbulb of a Thought

Genre: Work in Progress, Series

movies end because the spool can only hold so much; it's our misconception that things can fade out, happen in slow motion. the only music that will ever play as you gently caress my cheek is the stuff you put on your itunes. it's the beginning that feels so intrinsically comfortable, so unsentimentally sentimental as it is happening. it feels like slow motion; it's the closest thing you'll ever get. the only real ending is this.

you and i will die. you and i will die. you and i will die.

now. think about that beginning.

Flashbulb of a Thought

i found this yesterday in an old journal from highschool. i thought it was interesting and was worthy of transciption. i still fucking hate those moms that used to sit in their minivans and shoot the shit from car window to car window while waiting to pick up their brat from varsity soccer practice. but i forgot about them, so that's something.

And oh what will they say?
Eyes wide like guppies
As I stroll on down past their picket fences,
Past their green grass a-growing.

And oh it felt good today
As my thighs swayed like ocean tides
While I strutted my cat like pride
To the soccer moms with station wagons a-shining.

Say now 'what’s your story? oh we know.'
They say in a much less friendly way
Inside their shallow minds twirling.
Wouldn’t they love to know the secrets I’m not sharring.

But they just bide their time
As I pass on by
And turn to stare into my lurid eyes
Must forget my presence is their demise
My shadowed grin disturbing.

we haven't reall talked that much / i'm a fucking cliche

Genre: Lyric Essay, Memoir


i really hadn’t meant to love him. i like to think it actually crept up on me, like a menacing shadow in an already dark alley. there i was, alone in a city that i loved and that obviously loved me back, even when i littered it’s streets with cigarette butts and complained of it’s intolerable heat. i was capable for what felt like the first time in my life, although it wasn’t. I’ve been capable for a long time. the city had an astonishing ability to make everything feel like it was happening for the first time. perhaps that was it; perhaps i had felt this before and the city’s zeal had made it feel new-fangled.
nonetheless, i had fallen in love with him. i loved him for his ridiculously unkempt beard. for his strange collection of polyester pants. for the exaggerated inflection his voice took after an hour of smoking joints on his balcony. it seemed, however, that just as quickly and unexpectedly as it had started, he managed to end everything. and i felt naked. not naked in the sense that he had stripped me of anything. but more in the way one feels when one must jump from a situation of naked-ness into a place where one should be clothed. from the shower into the living room to answer a ringing telephone. from one’s bed to the window to flick a cigarette with a towering tip of ash.
and as if my sudden naked-ness was not uncomfortable enough, when he was through ending everything, i began to feel my naked body take on a deep pink. i was now naked and sunburned: in our favorite bar, seeing him dance with anyone within eyeshot (a steaming blister would rise on my subtle shoulder). in my room, listening to a song he had stupidly commented on after sex (my neck would burn, collecting tiny beads of sweat). now he hadn’t crept into my life like a shadow, he had invaded my mind with a fucking tank and built himself a desert fort of sandbags. i hated him and loved him at the same time and what is one to do in that situation but drink the entire contents of every bottle in one’s fridge and make the inevitable phone call - followed by an awkward invitation to meet up, maybe smoke a joint? it sounded like a friendly offering on my behalf, but free drugs were the only way i knew he’d come.
“we haven’t really talked that much,” i said, half accepting such as the truth and half hoping he’d disagree. but there isn’t much to disagree with when the obvious is stated, no matter how slanted i leaned inward. but we had talked much. i had talked to him in every word i spoke since i met him. when states, even oceans, were between us, my tongue spelled his name to a clerk at a train station, to louise, sitting across from me at a cafe table. i had said things. i had engaged in discourse. but he would not know of that. he would not know what i had built for us and only because it was not real. not real, in that it never actually occurred, but real to me because i devised it capable. his ignorance was entirely expected, but flickered like a knife turning.
however, to recognize guilt one must, at least at some point, have been guilty just the same. and i was guilty, maybe even more so than he; he who spoke so easily and taught me to do the same. his guilt laid in his convincing me with words enormously easy - i was guilty for being persuaded by them. and that was just the silky surface. i had committed worse. my expectations had always been conceited. i, who looks to my reflection from the corner of my eye and expects to see something more than what i know is there. i, who sways my belief, entertaining the idea that a person who is notoriously late might arrive early. i am as guilty as he; this i know.
“we haven’t really talked that much,” i said. and “i know,” his response. and i am unaware how situations provided for his speech, but nonetheless, a speech he delivered. he said he had been done with me for some time, that we had had our fun, that he expected more of me in vein of our ending, which i wanted to remind him in all respects was painfully easy. he said he had always considered my long-thought words to be sensationally cliché. “i am a cliché,” i thought. and for more than a fleeting moment, far after i walked down the street alone, even after i exhaled into my pillows — i agreed. but: i soon (soon being nearly a year later) came to understand that my mistake was not loving him, or believing his empty words. my mistake was my too long agreement that my love, my thoughts, my words, my nakedness, my sunburn- were cliché.

Century21

Genre: Lyric Essay

I’m shifting hangers of shirts I don’t need or want at Century21 when I look up and see her. She walks through the double doors and lifts sunglasses that veil her eyes and glances in either direction. Stepping up the stairs she carts a small handbag, its strap falling to her bent elbow, its mass swaying at her hip. In the other hand she holds an iced beverage with a green straw.
“Miss, food and drink is prohibited in the store,” the security man says. He is a black man, mid-thirties, standing to the left of the door wearing a navy uniform. His arms are crossed and his legs appear to be stiff and eternally grounded, as though his shift has lasted for months.
“Oh, sorry, that’s fine,” she says, dropping her nearly full beverage into a nearby garbage can as though she expected the exchange to occur. She moves onward.
Her head is tilted as she passed a mannequin dressed in a tight skirt and button-down shirt with the collar fiercely flipped upward. She tilts her head to the opposite side, as though to question how exactly she ended up in the store and what exactly she will find in its many crowded corners. Her feet scuff, wandering down the marble path as if to say “I’m waiting… where are all the sweaters.” She takes the sunglasses from her atop her head and lets the blonde masses fall over her ears. Still appearing perplexed, she puts the tip of the glasses to her lips and glances around.
Casually, she walks towards a rack of sweaters on the wall and touches them as if to keep herself busy. But then… then she sees something that actually peaks her interest, a table of neatly folded cashmere sweaters is just beyond and she extends her steps slightly and glides towards them. She feels them. Soft, she lifts a sweater that is a very light shade of pink and caresses with her thumbs as her fists gently hold it in its folded condition. She then pinches the shoulders and lets the sweat fall, unraveling to show its fitted design and low cut neck. She turns to the mirior and inspects the color against her neckline. Approvingly, but still not convinced, she stretches her neck and lowers her shoulders and tries to look swan-like. That’s enough. She, lays it across the folded sweaters on the table, rearranges the bag on her arm, and reaches to inspect the tag. She picks the item back up and throws it over her arm, as though to pretend she never questioned the purchase to begin with. She knew she wanted it all along.
She walks onward, this time walking as though she feels more assured. She glances back at the sweaters, should she have gotten it in blue, laved ender? No, pink is her color, it always has been.
She is wearing a mid-length skirt, tight, black, and simple. The toes of her heals are pointed, but not too pointy. Her polo, a more pungent pink than that of the cashmere sweater, has its collar popped and a string of pearls lay subtly across her collarbone. Her denim jacket becomes to warm and she removes it and holds it on the same arm as the sweater.
She walks past more mannequins, does not glance at them this time, and decides that she needs a new pair of jeans. Making a sharp right, she notices the lines of dark denim along the far wall and walks steadily in that direction. She reaches a rack, not quite at the wall, and slips her hand towards the first pair and inspects the tag. No, she’s never been fond of that brand. She looks up, plain-faced. Maybe she does not want to shop for jeans today. She’s not in the mood for the fitting rooms, and besides, she needs a friend to tell her, honestly, how they look. Jeans are too much for an impromptu shopping trip. Maybe another sweater?
She moves on, looking from rack to rack discerningly. A sales woman stands in the middle of the floor, her arms down. As she approaches her the woman asks, “can I help you with anything today?”
“Just browsing, thanks,” with a smile. She did intend on just browsing, but the cashmere is incredible. One more sweater can’t hurt, besides, she’s been so good with her credit card lately. She moves on.
The sweaters on these racks aren’t her at all. They’re rough and pilled and unshapely. The colors are too dull, too bright, or too weathered. These are all wrong. Her phone rings. She transfers her jacket and the sweater to her other arm and rifles through her bag. Finally, she finds it.
“Hello? Hi, I’m in Century… no, nothing major, I just need some new sweaters. Yeah, I know. I hate shopping by myself. Ok, yeah. Right. I’ll call you later. Bye, babe.” She closes the phone with a snap.
She’s frustrated now. She looks back towards the entrance. These sweaters won’t do and she can’t get another cashmere sweater, certainly not the same one in another color, that would be too… common. She puts her phone back in her handbag and turns to the entrance. Maybe she doesn’t want another sweater, certainly not one of these. But the pink one is perfect, she glances down at it. Yes, it is. She moves the sweater to her free arm and walks towards the register.
She waits behind a woman smelling too strongly of old perfume. She turns her toes inwards and glances around at nothing. “Next.”
“Hi,” she says with a half smile.
“Find everything okay today?” the clerk asks without really caring for an answer.
“Yes, thanks.” She passes her credit card between two fingers to the clerk. They wait for it to process. The machine spits out a receipt.
“Sign here?” the clerk says, as though it were a question.
She rests her bag and jacket on the counter and bends over to sign the small piece of paper.
“Thank you, have a great day.” The clerk hands her the yellow copy and looks behind her… “next.”
She gathers the bag and walks towards the door where the security guard still stands. She stops just before the steps and sets the shopping back at her feet. She puts her denim jacket back on and arranges the collar of her polo so the pink peaks just slightly over the dark denim. She lifts the bag, lowers her sunglasses and marches onward. She’s completed her mission. The guard half smiles as she passes. She pushed through the heavy doors and enters into the dull November air of the street.
I continue my shopping, there’s nothing that I want. Her hesitation made me aware of mine. If I were to slide my credit card across the counter, it would be returned and the exchange would be complete, but I would not feel accomplished. I would feel guilty. Nothing her appeals to me right now. I’m not in the mood for shopping and the buzzing of the music is becoming abrasive. I leave the racks, find the path that leads to the back of the store and walk down it in the opposite direction towards the exit. I pass the sales person empty handed, feeling as though I’ve rejected her. I look down, pass the security guard who gives me a sideways glance. My hands are empty and I leave. I hate shopping by myself.

I Agree

Genre: Lyric Essay

photo by bowen ames
model, dre davis

“i wish i could dance here,” she says (to no one in particular.) she’s sitting at a table of people she supposes she might call friends. in a new city it’s hard to tell if someone has earned the title or is a mere acquaintance. she wishes she could dance here, shake her hips. but not her hips - some other part of her body she’s not been taught to be ashamed of, whatever part of her body is deemed sexual, she supposes. the floor is filled with bodies, beads of sweat clinging to foreheads, and dampened strains of hair. she lights another cigarette. she looks up as the glow from her lighter slightly brightens her face, shows the carefully applied shadow around her eyes. her cigarette is lit and her lighter is now in her pocket and she wonders for just a second if someone saw her face in a brighter light and if they thought they might want to dance with her. but the song changes and the moment is gone. looking over her shoulder she notices a boy she think she might have known years ago. it’s not him. boys have become all so similar, she thinks. shaggy hair, tiny waists, studded belts. it might as well be him, he’s probably not all that different. “why aren’t we dancing?” says a female friend/acquaintance sitting beside her. “the music sucks,” that’s why, she says. but it isn’t really the music, she half-thinks. it’s probably the people, all the boys with the shaggy hair and the studded belts; it’s so generic. cut to the bar next door - same situation, same people, different song that sounds the same. how many other people, how many other bars, in how many other cities are being painted in the same light right now. probably more than she’d even guess. and they're all probably thinking the same. she puts her cigarette out and stands. “i am going,” she says, curling her lip, “i am not in the mood for this tonight,” gathers her coat and shuffles through crossed legs and breaks away from the table. “you’re sure?” the friend says desperately. “yeah, stay,” not looking back. “i can’t dance here, i don’t want to dance here.”

“which is it?” i think aloud. but she doesn’t answer. i am undeniably an acquaintance, not a friend. i have shaggy hair and am wearing a studded belt.

waking up with zander

i feel rootless from end to end in sheets of something like steam, but cooler. on Sunday morning (and i'm leaving today) but i'm someplace... someplace between sleep and slithering toawrds the road where the car is picking me up. i forget my jacket (it's cold for august) and i unzip the tent and see himfixed, twisted in duvets And dozing and his eyes barley open (like slits in soft melon.) I turn into him and the comforters (but the car should be here soon to take me back to new york) and i entwine, his arm in mine, flounce back his blonde, and with my all tender want to stay. kiss you. it's to leaving and the morning and to the summer. not a kiss goodbye, even. one that i had been storing up.and you turn at the sound the car honking.

all four winds hit us.
consequence as we part the moment and the month of august.