Tuesday, September 7, 2010

last production

When I die. I think I’m going to ask for ridiculous things. You know at my funeral. Because they have to do it. Just want to see how far they go. So what so I want Cher’s ‘Turn Back Time’ played as men in assless chaps and a teddy bear costume dance capoeira. ‘ I never knew Linda was into mixed martial arts’ they’ll say. And I don’t want flowers they die and are depressing and they’ll probably just get roses which are the most f’ing thoughtless flower known to man. No no I’m going to ask that in lieu of flowers sanitary napkins are sent to local women’s shelters. And I hope my brother has to go out and buy a crap ton on tampons. And it’s a win win cause no one thinks of homeless women on their rag. And clowns, not sad clowns but happy clowns, but not in little cars cause that’s just awkward but I want a clown there one that makes balloon animals. And a pony, ponyrides for the kids right next to the open casket. This of course is after the duet between Liza Minelli and Peebo Bryson to the Indigo Girl’s ‘Least Complicated’. Cause the thing is I mean about funerals? Who’s it for? I don’t care what they wear and what they say about me and who comes and who doesn’t. Because I’m not going to be there. And I don’t want them to have that satisfaction, of making up some story or saying what I was or wasn’t. Cause the truth is, the truth is I was someone who got pushed around, who did what I was told, what I thought was expected of me, who watched, who didn’t rock the boat too much. I never wanted to be noticed, never wanted to ask for anything from anyone. But not on this, not on this.

Monday, August 23, 2010


If I gave my words to you, gave my doubts and my scars, and my bruises and the chicken pock square in the center of my forehead, and the flecks in my fingernails, and stretchmarks, and freckles on my face, and lines on my breasts, would you put them in a mason jar, an envelope tucked under your pillow? a folded note in your breast pocket? Or would you post them on the internet?

Friday, July 30, 2010

AFraid of

i am afraid of:
that moment where limbs fall asleep, that they might not wake.
stretch marks, the hiding that causes and leaves them.
being alone,
with the wrong person.
not working hard enough, not enjoying enough.
unlocked bathroom doors.
mornings after.
ignorance, and how general that term is.
owning a cat.
sleeping while awake and dreaming too much.
closed minded people of 'faith'.
broken mirrors.
holding too tight, walking with closed fists.
animals in people.
unwanted advances.
empty family.
mimes who write haiku.
greed, guilt, regret.
the future of reality tv.
Global Warming.
using too few words, and too many.

Monday, July 5, 2010

joe, 23 (in a bar)

Shit fuck nah. I don’t want to believe in something. I did that, it hurt. Maybe cause it was another person it was contingent on another person. You can believe in objects and ideas and concepts and hopes as long as the aren’t attached to people. Cause people fuck up, People change their minds, people change their feelings. Don;t don’t don’t fucking look at me like that. ‘ye of little faith or whatever’ Hope hope hope. People fuck up don;t attach your hope on people. Don’t attach your hope on me. And i tell you this i will tell you this from day one now now now is day one see. I am going to fuck up. I am going to let you down I am going to hurt you, might not intend to but will. So yeah we cool? Good. No building shit. Here. Okay? Good. Now what's your number?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


why? why why? why do we do anything? we want a response. I'm talkin, talking to you for a response. Pardon my french, but I fuck up, i do good I do whatever for a response, sor attention. And not in that lil kid I need attention, attention is a bad thing kinda way. It's human to want attention. It's human nature. And that lady that lady talkin to herself complainin bout her bag on Atlantic Avenue, does she want attention> Does she want a response? Maybe she wants a response from herself you know, from her own head, or maybe she want a response from you, so she can mumble 'crazy bitch; under her breath. Cause you know she will. She will. and if you don't respond to that she be mad too. Cause she's mad at the world she just responding to the world. And that's life. Things happen something else happens. He does this she does this they do that. and maybe i know the response I want, maybe I'm just talkin to talk. But I want something, it's not specific or anything but its someting. And it's not to be alone. Hell I like being alone. Grew up with 6 brothers and sisters never did get to be alone, used to lock the bathroom door and sit. But that's another story for another time. But why i tell those stories, a response. Response that this whole damn thing worth it.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

those shoes

I want to tell her that it was okay that she wore those shoes, the too tall ones that her heels slid off of. 2 years later she’ll carry flats. That it was okay that she lived there. That it was okay that she was cocky, and thin and pretending to be sure on the outside. That her key would fit, that friends would disappear, that weight would be gained, alcohol drank, stomach cramps had, and late nights weeping without cause, and these things were okay and they would stop, not all of them but some. And there was no going back, to the too high heels and the blue dress and the long walk. That her stomach ached for a reason, or maybe it didn’t. maybe there is no reason. 2 years later I don’t know the reason, I now parts of it, pieces. How this proved my thesis, a thesis she never thought she had, was fed. Swallowed.
I remember my pet guinea pig. She had babies, two boys. And one of the boys hopped the tank, and she got pregnant. And she miscarried, and she died. And I remember my mother holding her shaking, and the small red furry blob in the cedar, and I remember thinking how could a son do this to his mother, how could he not know. What could be so strong that he could forget, that he could hurt her. Lose control. And maybe that’s when I stopped trusting, trusting that things were rational, that urges made sense. That any of it made sense.
I want to tell her things don’t make sense, And that it was okay she wore those shoes.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

SETH, 28

For Kaylin, and this kid I talked to in a bar the other week.
You know what your problem is? Everything has to be important. We're human beings we have to operate on a level of bull shit sometimes. Not everything has meaning or is a sign or something more than filler. If everything is important nothing is important. Like now, like now atleast 75% if what I'm saying is shit. Even this right? this is too intense. It should be bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, something awesome, bullshit. Then when that awesome thing comes out of my mouth it surprises you it surprises me. And I like quoting movies and talking about sports and fucked up things celebrities are doing that I'd do too. I like talking about Tom Yorke and how awesome tom Yorke is cause Tom Yorke is awesome. But it's not earth shattering and it doesn't make me an asshole or whatever cause I do that. And yeah there's Rwanda and healthcare, and the economy and recessions, and hopelessness you know? And we're all just stuck with this huge generational problem that we find millions of ways to discuss but are too lazy to solve. 'We're so connected' and i'm a hypocrite. I fucking love that thing, and I'm not using it to read the Times, I have the app but I'm using it to play scrabble and shit. It's just life's too short you know? the heavy stuff will hit us on its own, we don't need to find it.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

My heart

I tried to write a play like my friend Brian. It did not work.
I sent myself a love note. But I couldn’t think of anything to say.
My heart hurts, it's sleepy. It's muddled and stern and serious and talks about itself too much. My heart is imperfectly open yet perfectly closed. It's hyperbolic it thinks it's better than yours. It's sorry it apologizes. My heart gets papercuts and bruised by my brain. My heart gets weepy on the r train. My heart watches old episodes of perfect strangers and tlc's a baby story. My heart laughs too loudly for attention. My heart uses incorrect grammar. My heart is apparently quite self involved yet empathetic. My heart does not edit, steps back. Steps back. my heart wishes that it could love all of you but knows in doing so that love is negated. My heart hates you. Ha.Ha. Just kidding. Oh heart you so crazy. My heart bleeds and beats. My heart sometimes wears dirty underwear and thinks your heart looks fat in that outfit. My heart will go on and on, and on. And never puts baby in a corner. My heart doesn't drink red wine in Italian restaurants with oriental women. My heart doesn't say oriental that's not pc. My heart doesn't care about politics enough to Hand out flyers on a street corner but wishes it did. My heart thinks only five people may find this funny. Fuck those people. That's right you just got heart fucked. My heart plays salsa and. Beethoven's 5th and Huey Lewis and the news. My heart is a patho. My heart ate paste as a child has scaled kilamajaro and rekalked your bathroom when you were on vacation. My heart could be a thumb wrestling world champion if it had thumbs.
My heart forked your yard and totally apologises for breaking your lawn mower.
But it loves you. It loves you so hard. It loves the idea of you..somedays. And it's totally cool with just messing around, although it knows you're better than that. It has no stipulations or restrictions and may be just talking out of it's ass here, but it's open without obligation. Open Open wide, but it will kick your ass if you f' it up.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

more than tongue can tell


what if what if what if I had a sweatshirt with bunny ears and it zipped up in the center and I could see out but you couldn't see in and in it was a bunny face? Would you still love me? Would you still love me if I was a bunny? I wouldn't be a bunny actually but people might think I was a bunny. A scary mutant bunny? Would you still love me if I were a scary mutant bunny? What if I had an extra hand sticking out of my face, like a little baby hand? More high fives? and it could hold stuff, yeah it'd have five fingers uhuh. Would you still love me then? Would you make me remove it, like have hand removal surgery? but what if I had surgery and then had this hole in my face where the baby hand was? Like this hole in my face like bigger than a quarter, like the size of a donut hole. What are those called munchkins, midgets? well if i had a donut face midget hole would you still love me? What if what if I couldn't speak, if I could only scream? Or if I was consistently followed by a flock of sheep, or goats what about pigs, or alpacas? Do Alpacas travel in flocks? What if I was an alpaca? Would the hooves i had hurt your tummy when i came out? Do alpaca's have hoofs, hooves hoofs? do they eat tin cans? Would you still love me if I ate tin cans? Would you still love me if I wasn't yours, if I belonged to Mrs. Fetrow, or an alpaca, or the lady at the grocery store who smells like cat farts, or someone you didn't even know? Like a stranger.What if I was a stranger? Will I ever be a stranger? Will we ever be strangers? Cause if you love someone they can't be strangers right? If you love someone they can never be strangers...

Saturday, January 2, 2010


He was just so sweet. SWEET. She hated when people called her that. It just seemed so airbrushed so generalized. She wanted to punch those people in their face with her sweet little hand. Cute. Cute was another one. Cute. If you are under 5ft 5 you are cute, you are not hot you are not beautiful, maybe you are pretty, but you are cute, sweet. At 5ft 2 she was sacrine. And here she was thinking this of him. Sweet. And the truth is, she wouldn’t have said yes. It’s just he was so-nice, and she was over her usual weight, and tired, and thought why not. It was just a drink, a drink with a nice guy. A nice guy who wore baseball caps and hadn’t bought new clothes since high school. Which was more annoying than sweet. She didn’t want to be a person who tried to change another person. So despite how sweet he was, this could go nowhere. Because she didn’t want to change him. And she wondered if that makes it worse, makes her more or less of a snob, that she entertained it for what she thought was his sake. It was one drink.
She didn’t eat before. She’d been trying not to. Not starving herself really. She drank a coffee. She didn’t dress up, didn’t try her usual to not look cute. She didn’t even wear lipgloss. It would be one drink. Not a pity drink, but a practice for her, I mean after all he was/seemed so very sweet.
He had a stain on his shirt, and his voice would pitch high, and he held open doors. But he laughed at her jokes, and asked questions, and after a while she was actually asking questions back. Questions she wanted the answers to. And after a while she stopped hearing the answers and saw how they were said, his gaze intense, genuine, sure sweet, but strong.
And as she looked at him and his eyes melted into his face, and his face melted away, and then they came back again. She thought I could sit and do nothing with this man. I could see this man working on science projects, and doing dishes, and maybe bickering with me now and again. I could sit in silence on a Sunday morning. And it wasn’t overwhelmingly animal or sexual, or because her hips felt big that day, or the insecurity of swollen breasts. and you may think it settling, or patriarchal, but it wasn’t that. She just looked at him and thought ‘ he won’t call me cute’.