24 05 2007


They came with machete justice,
Fingers, children, the soft parts of my face,
Knives and a grimace that hallows death himself,
Forty three then ninety four and on, races
Lives as the lives weigh less,
And less, and less.
Until the blood runs dry.

Written. No.1

22 05 2007

This is not a novel, by any stretch of the imagination.
This is your life story. I would like it very much for you to see it that way.
It begins with a letter.

It has been a week since we’ve started seeing each other and already I am in the mood to write love letters.

. . .

Today I found out what is wrong with the human race. Or maybe the life that lives around me. The problem is that all of who we are and what we do, rational and otherwise, is so similar. We are bound by the appeals and assaults of common institutions to our desires, the accepted drugs that they are. We do what we do because it is, out of a wide variety of potential options, the optimal choice for us. This optimal choice, the “best thing,” tends to be the same thing. Yes, I remember from third grade: “We are all different. Everybody is special.” True. But we eschew that individuality in the light of simple pleasures. The post-modern housewife insists that she chooses this life, that she enjoys it. The businessman insists that his job is his personal pursuit. And if these things themselves do not bring us joy (as we will sometimes admit behind closed doors), then it is “for the greater good” in some respect. For family. For her. For him. For us. Again, what brings us joy tends to make us all similar in the aggregate.

I feel like I have been married for an interminable number of years.
I have cheated on my girlfriend a total of zero-and-onehalf times.
I spent all my money on trying to make her happy.
I spent all my money on trying to make us happy. She would like that sentence more.
I work all day in a chair bound to the tedium that I cannot escape.
I listen to all different kinds of music and don’t admit that I really do have like five or six favorite groups.
I enjoy reading about fame, fortune, and scandal.
I am pretty much anyone.


She was born.

She lived.
Being American,
she died.

I Feel I Must Interject Here

22 05 2007

When I told you how I felt before all of this began, I was being honest and that is how I continue to feel now. Much as I might hope for or try to materialize some profound emotion for you, I cannot. That night, partly under the influence and partly by discretion, I led you to believe otherwise. I said things I should not have, perhaps suffering the delusion of infatuation then, things like, “I love you, I have loved you since we met.” Things that make sparks fly, romance ensue, and mistakes made.

I have gone back to that night many times over. Different from the other nights I’ve drunk, this one is hazy in memory. I can see myself telling you this and leading you to believe I felt this way, but must, at the same time, excuse myself because I had told you how I felt. I was curious, yes, and have even considered excusing myself from the whole thing as an escapade, an adventure in satiating curiosity.

There are two avenues for me. It is quite simply a binary choice today in my life. I can be first, the girl I have always been: the one who intended to save sex for marriage who could never justify sex with curiosity, hedonism, or momentum. I would have to say that I regretted my first time, that my lack of a love for you makes these acts sinful; the first of many regrets of my adult life, ones that I indeed learn from, but as such are regrets nonetheless. For who needs to jump off of a bridge to learn that such an act is senseless?; an individual can learn that lesson another way, to learn it by the act is regrettable.

The alternative is accept what I did and, given my objectivity about the entire event: my declarations of non-love towards you, my curiosity, my hedonism and rather than condemn it, be merely neutral about it. This would be a different, more modern version of myself; this is the adult that everyone becomes, who am I to be blamed for it? While I regret being disingenuous in telling you that I loved you, I do not regret having done what I did. My moral codes have adapted to a new life.

In the first avenue, a girl such as myself could not proceed in the relationship with you in any normal sense. We would go back to the basics: dates, dinners, theme parks, and movies. The occasional kiss and what-not is acceptable. We would have to ignore what happened this weekend and be simply good friends, perhaps friends with a few benefits like kissing. Beyond that, however, is the realm I reserve for whom I love. And I am not there yet with you. I do not know if I will ever be; and to continue the motions would be, in each event, a sort of lie – one not made to you, but a breaking of a personal promise. I make no promises and we can be excellent friends and maybe more. I wish I could offer you the moon, tell you that sex catalyzed my love, give you emotion that I have not. I cannot. I can only promise a glimmer of hope, chance buried next to possibility.

In the second avenue, a girl such as myself could continue to have relations with you in any way that we see fit. If I feel like screwing you and you do as well, then wonderful – we will. An amalgamation of “carpe diem (seize the day)” and “ce la vie (that’s life);” I would live for today, a today without consequences. What makes me happy constitutes my existence, and before you judge, I want to say that there can be nothing wrong in thinking this way. I can separate sex from love (that great adult subtraction problem in the heart). I could learn to have sex with you and later perhaps learn to love you. Whatever happens, happens.

This really isn’t this complicated. Either I give a damn about what I did and move on or I don’t and I move on. I am sorry for lying to you in either case because my views on sex shouldn’t affect my honesty. I am sorry for coming close to using you. I am almost sorry for not loving you – you appeal to all my rational faculties, but then I cannot apologize on behalf of my heart – I am what I feel. I care for you as a friend and I think we can make “just friends” work out. Would you like to start by going with me to get some ice cream?


21 05 2007


A piece of china for your shelf, girl
Every time its broken you glue it back together
Until it is only polymers and dust.

Stir up a quiet river, ripples to the girl
Take a hand and don’t give it back all your life
Palms sweaty and still calloused.

She’s some song for somebody else,
Stitches in a doll alone in Batelle,
The woods lead somehow to Rome,
Follow the frozen vines into the cold,
I could not find it,
Maybe she could hide it,
Whatever the case, girl,
I need to find you.

Let your feet sink into the sand, girl
Toss a few stones until the river throws some back
Was it love, the stones so smooth.

She’s some song for somebody else,
Playing the piano alone in Batelle,
The road might take me home,
Like the dreams I have when I’m out in the cold,
I could not find it
Maybe she couldn’t,
Whatever the stakes, girl,
I need to find you.

The stones so smooth,
As they skipped across you