had a dream that you outed me. and we fist fought in the drive. punched you so hard in the face you liked to have called me killa. standing there like some rabid dog. all teeth and personalities. but it was all real. and i'm looking for you. i am betsy. and i cook real good.
most nights. i cook. crook necked over pots and pans. hands onion garlic stained.
i am
pungent
and hungry.
no still? you say. i'm not tired. non. and all day long we'll run on electric butter creams and black currant licorice. i feel like my skin is breaking off. i say. like i've eaten too many of your chocolates. and haven't sworn e-goddamned-nough. to cure it.
that's it. jane says.
balls her hands into fists. opens them again. says the word Eucharist, once.
jane wants cigarettes. a curtained room of her own.
got any money. jane asks.
he wrings fists into white knuckles. this is his answer.
jane screams. nothing happens. opens her mouth. again. wide. silent.
when she moves. he thinks. she's like thin window sheers. dancing. insubstantially beautiful.
buck says nothing.
reason i did not call you just now. to sob into the phone about how i ordered a medium roast coffee. but somehow ended up with a dark roast instead. is that i had just called you minutes before to sob at you into the phone about how expensive the wrong bus passes were that i had to buy because they were the only ones available. and how life isn't fair. and how i want to come home now and lock myself in the bathroom and never come out again.
so, i thought. i might could just keep this one to myself.
right now, i should be headlong into a bottle of johnnie walker red.
edited:
at 12:35 p.m., the desire to drown myself in scotch whiskey and my own vomit has not waned.
it's like trying to swallow my own tongue. thoughts of the memory of your hair ring my insides dumb. like an unstruck bell. and if i could, reduce the life we lead into pocket-sized picture postcards. i would. shrink you into something more manageable. less loud. and i could fill us up with nonsense words. mail them off to foreign lovers. and strangers.
cherry bowls and nightmare hummingbird kitchens and radiator death cab rides.
with love, and always your,
imogen
xx
xx
in a bright yellow vw euro van. we listen to popular rap songs mixed by white djs. and laugh. stop at all the pancake houses we can find to order waffles. and wear matching green on green stripy socks hiding under our jeans. we have conversations about how offended we are by the stupidity of american television and the offensive nature of people who quote philosophers/theorists but have never actually read them. you won't believe me when i tell you that my favorite musician is jay z or that i'm planning to call my first born child aloysius simply because of a bet i made with my older brother when i was eight years old.
it's always different. though. every time.
it would probably just be covered in swear words and pornography
and it'd probably never get published
you: hello
me: (whisper) i am a robot
you: (laughing) what?
me: beep. beep. beep.
you: (silence)
me: i won't answer you unless you call me by my robot name!
beep. booop. beep beep.
you: what are you doing robot wife?
i do dream about running and getting far away from here
then i remember that chip you had implanted in the back of my neck
and i feel a little deflated
listen. i'm not going to keep doing this. erecting you from the dead by combing through old vowel sounds. a playing ground of lessened memories where you sound somehow more human. and i more harsh. i'm tired of living life under the auspices of a lie that poses as love. i've grown suspicious of the word. love. like some emotional jesus we're meant to give homage. everything isn't heat and light. and twinkling christmas bulbs. and i'm no hostage to you. will no longer pray at your edges. false gods. and faith won't mix my days into beautiful canvases. i am spilled ink. instead. and steady quiet still. to wait and wait all days long. til something human comes.
so, i'm a little late. so what? everything doesn't have to be to order. like shopping market shelves. or your penchant for making me feel. wrong. this is the way the lazy eye of mine smiles. and i make a day out of your errors. braid them into chains like daisies. in my hair. parks worn and. laughing. rave to laugh like mad women. only half-medicated. and me. and when i kneel to pray. lord god. oh, king of squirrels and that last tragically bad terry gilliam film. oh lord god absolver all. take my list of sustainable initiatives. all these badly drawn birds. expand. and wrong. the what. of how little is late. and how we get to now.
any easier than this. mid-sidewalk. sewing machine speak. your hair. some jesus invention. part terror. part witness. and i don't wear my glasses. anymore. in realms of the universe when you are charm school. and i am rock paper scissors. all. day. long. this morning when i asked you if the popcorn coffee machine ate quarters until noon on sunday. and you looked at me all ham hocked and shy. i wanted to tear your face off with a chainsaw. it's not my fault you smell of coconuts and damp. or that pocket squares. let's face it. like chocolates or gratuitously painful sex. are my sunday afternoon insanities. god you. oh. you, lover. man.
in the office
co-worker: so, come on. spill it. are you pregnant already?
me: (bewildered) uh, no. (horrified) why?
co-worker: what'd ya wearing all them baggy jumpers for then, anyways?
me: ummm. i just like, uhhh, jumpers?
in no particular order
updated: 20081104 / 12:17 PM
1. airplane tickets to Barbados
2. first edition and/or signed copies of any of your favorite books
3. a personalized bobble head
4. voice lessons
5. a Reborn
6. sharpies, blank books, graph paper, rulers, or any other art related material
7. dvd collections involving: tom hanks, nick cage, the American dream, will smith, the dog whisperer, vin diesel, or any films starring kate winslet in which she doesn't sound british
8. shellac
9.
