Thursday, November 21, 2013
i don’t sleep more than six hours in three days. i read summer of hate all night. i watch documentaries about football players and their blown bodies. mike webster, old iron flesh, so fucked up he had to taze himself in the thigh every night to sleep. at dawn i eat homemade almond cookies, crumbs stuck to my lotioned chest. i must look into the mirror at least once a day or else i forget that it is me inside this body. in the morning i yell at M for not wanting to talk about books, or the weather, or anything at all. i want to talk through time, its true. of course i want to be good but it is hard not to act like a shameless cunt when a woman in a BMW honks at me for pedaling too slow on my bike. in times of economic crises, you must be very happy that you have a boss, even if they call on yr day off can you cover tonight’s shift for tiffany? i always say yes. if i could stuff my duffle bag and steal away for a few weeks, sob alone in a strange bed, amongst the crush of pine trees, i could remember how to be nice. if i could sleep at night, i could dream. it might all be different.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
sunglasses smudged with rain. the reek of wet concrete sends me. glazed roads. girls in galoshes. their frizzy hair pulled into discreet ponytails, unruly in the breeze. on the stoop i do not think about palliatives for ingrown hairs or john kerry’s botox-blown mug staring up at me from every riven sheet of newspaper: we can’t turn a blind eye on evil deeds even if we are fatigued. but i do. lost in my boxy sweater, buttoned to the neck, my pink umbrella spread, high and haughty against the wash of grey.