I am Matthew
a tall vanilla latte from Jeff
I am Matthew
Clicking the head of the lighter open and closed, Theo runs his mind around the two snakes entwined on her back just between her shoulder blades. A spiraling roller coaster of memory. Ending at the point where the serpents' mouths touch. Her kisses always filled with teeth. Hands. Pressure. Theo wants smoke. Burn it all down to the hinges.
after opening every word she wrote and then constructed,
She doesn't want to be that woman. Who plays mixed tapes from a decade before for her newly found boyfriend playing video games in her apartment. But she is. That one. Laughing like a just run over hyena at the in-joke that no one would get but her and him. About cheese. She's a nightmare hippy tease.
Amemiko learned about India ink from Ala and Tenari when they were all just old enough to drive cars legally. During Seventh period they'd lean back against the windows perched on top of the dead radiators like mocking birds and stick themselves with stained pins until the thousands of tiny dots became something else. Moving pictures of crosses and tear drops and the heads of Chinese dragons breathing fire. That's what they said it felt like. Fire. She never wanted them to try. Even when they snuck up on her in the photography dark room and held her down. Made three small dots that can be traced into the shape of a triangle on the soft insides of her right thigh. While Ala whispered the names. Altair. Vega. Deneb. His on the shoulder. Tenari's on the calf. Amemiko didn't cry. In feverish dreams nights afterward, she made them write entire stories all over her body.
tonight, i need to say good-bye to bill.
. . . I've even had sex with the Cynocephali. All the firm static parts of a man pressing the static flesh and bones, while the dog head barked its orgasmic rhythms too loudly in my ears. Like a struck bell struck straight against the drum. Suffocating. Our bare backs. Both baying to the moon. Rocking. Until the red color of his tongue becomes your sweater hunched deep down in the pocket of the bathroom. The shock of his tears collapses us both. We fold like paper umbrellas in the wind. Shook into shaking. Without the lights on, he can't hear what I'm saying. When I'm screaming his name into the dark red contours of his spine. He says he's cold. To me. I run hot water in the shower. Rub his naked body. Alive.
if you know me, then you know that i need entertainment at all possible moments. so, in the car on the way to the bar last night, i exclaimed: new game! new game! pair up the worst and/or most unlikely musical artists. go.
fold paper into thousands of tiny birds
World of Warcraft
Am I like . . .
It all started with that commercial sized jar of peanut butter she'd let him borrow. Carried it the fourteen blocks from her apartment to his and back again. Now. At home. She feels confused. Can still hear the dog barking out in his parking lot. And the way his kisses on the surfaces of her skin and face felt like cool acidic pleasure. How she'd wanted him to stop. And the dog kept barking. Then she bit him firmly on the shoulder. Hard enough to leave a mark under his shirt. She wanted to see. The ring her wet mouth made on the fabric of his clothes. As he backed away. Mouth open. She wanted him to knock her over. To make her breath come back. She wanted the skin holding in her insides to stop shrinking in response to the air the way thin sheets of plastic do under high heat. His saliva sparkling on her face and neck drying in stiff streaks. His hands again in her hair. His tongue on her voice-box. Still. Standing in front of the mirror holding a stainless steel butter knife. She goes to work. Starting at the hairline. Scratching for blood.
When I don't want to quit this room. This, meaning, the wide encompassing buzz of space that exists between your body and my body. It has less to do with the arrangement of your furniture. Or the coordinates to arrive at the place of unlocking the door where you live. And more to do with the tiny attic window you've left open for me. To crawl into. And the way the light of you shines from it into me. So that to leave or to return are options no longer.
"Maybe I'm lucky," she thinks to herself. As he presses his bloated stomach like one of those round recess balls that's been filled far beyond capacity against her ribs. She wonders if it would make that electric echoing sound if she slapped it. He purrs. Some gargantuan sexed up cat trying to press his hands between her thighs. She tries to empty her mind by inventorying the room. So much emptier when they'd moved in a year ago. Before the vinyl wood tiling mosaic on the far wall started letting pieces loose. And water started leaking. Everywhere. And they'd covered all the windows with aluminum foil. The reflective side. In. Always makes her think of the dinners one of her old boyfriends used to make for her. Delicious flavors mixed and then sealed inside tiny tin packages. Baked in the oven until perfect puffs of steam released the tops. She can't remember now how those days tasted. But this isn't about sealing in the flavors. He thinks the foil will cut down on the air and heating bills. He thinks it will interfere with the constant communication from the aliens.
I used to not believe in souls and mates and all that kind of nonsense. I guess I wanted things about love to be more definitive. More resolute and controllable than all that.
this wide spreading middle-west blue sky
someday, one of us is going to be dead
On the cold dirty asphalt. The vast black expanse behind my flat where we park our cars. Beside the putrid trash bins. With chalk. I'm making an outline of your body. Your head. This heart. Those hands. Cover each curve a thousand times. Until the stick breaks into fine crumbly powder. Press so hard my fingers bleed. My eyes burn. Until the ground swells into dust. Covers us both. Like the aftermath of fireworks at night.
1. 3:30 - 5: fuck
i smell of vomit and warm pennies
if i could
is that you don't really know you have it
that even the weight of this envelope that i can't seem to open in my lap reminds me of the difficultly these hands have
You might have a certain elusive power over the media, but you don't control the critical and free analysis of faulty and inherently flawed rhetoric. Your hands heavy in this economy, but we control the consumption--the rampant capitalistic leanings learned from our parents. So fuck the national broadcasting companies. Fuck the soda manufacturers and the chips dealers slinging fat and unhealthy lifestyles into the fabric of our selves. Fuck the X-box and the playstation and all the digitally created worlds meant to dull us into this sliver tight minority. Just like you--just like we've almost but not forgotten--we've got the freedom of speech. We've got clear and constant access to the internet. To immediate and mass communication. And we need to start spreading our information. We're the generation who runs and controls this realm of cyber life that has slowly slid under the framework you are now only dangerously balancing upon. We don't need your guns. Your slippery logic and unfounded claims. We will not be subsumed by your evil. We've got the minds. We've got the numbers. We've got the motivation for peace. You might have offices and titles. But we've got the power to make this, from the inside, a world-wide revolution.
we debated over the best opening line of a novel and the movies we've watched that have left us feeling the most afraid--
what the bitch?, i exclaimed in the general direction of my monitor, slack-jawed, it's gone 8:20 and i haven't had any coffee.
If I could
i wouldn't have fingers