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.