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.

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.

more than tongue can tell

ABBY, 8

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...

SWEET.

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’.

If I were french

I would take long pauses in the middle of the conversation and just seem mysterious.
I would smoke cigarettes in long black jackets. I would eat cheese, pronounce wine correctly. I would wear little short skirts with black stockings and cut my hair short as I grow old. Wear a bizarre brooch or pair of earrings. 'She's so European.Oh no she's not zoning put she's just introspective'. I would talk loudly to my other french friends laugh boisterously and somehow this would be thought of as adorable. Thirty seconds later becoming stoic.
I would travel and be exotic yet above. I would be a cat person. I would have a melodic sing song name that would go up on the end. And inject melody in boring names like Tom or Stephen.
I am utterly american, I am not Bardot, I'm not Jean Seberg. I look like I was carved from white bread. My loud laugh is annoying and instead of searching uhms I slipin a yeah or like. I don't tan I pink. My legs short.I am exotic to Jewish boys who want to scare their mother. I am not mysterious nor was meant to be but sometimes I bum a cigarette in a long black coat and pretend.

I want for her

I want for her to take things for granted. To wake to her alarm, sleep in on Sundays. Delight in burnt pancakes. Do laundry promptly. I want for her to have boyfriends grilled by my father on the front porch. I want for her to be annoyed yet love this grilling. I want for her to not need these boyfriends. To count her freckles, wear sunscreen, to laugh loudly in libraries, to believe she deserves to be in every room. She does. I want for her not to know hungry, or scared, or that shakey feeling of walking alone at night watching onesself. I want for her to love her forehead, hell love her fivehead, and hips, and go to the cobbler when her shoes wear. I want for her to meet Jong, Shakespeare, Jagger, Richards,McCartney, Lennon, Lady Day, Jim Henson, Redding,Hepburn, Stewart,Cukor, Mitchell, Taylor, and anyone else who makes her smile/think/laugh/sing/dance/challenge/excavate. I want for her to travel. To have no debt. Be good at something, know it. I want for her never to sit accross from someone, a candle in between and wish she were anywhere else. I want for her to eat cheese, wear jeans, floss, learn a foreign language, moisterize. Be an adequate speller. Wear ridiculous heels and sneakers in inappropriate places. I want for her to have a car, a house, a job, a plant, a dog that she does not force to wear clothing,health insurance. I want for her not to care about things. But still appreciate the artistry of a tailored coat or cupcake. I want for her never to feel dependent, never feel a disappointment to anyone, insufficient of funds, insufficient of anything. I want for her to trust, trust feelings, trust safety. trust that there's a reason, maybe not even get lost in the reason. Forget that, I want for her to trust her. I want for her not to write the same tapes over and over, play them back. I want for her to avoid men with accents. and perhaps those with tattoos, perhaps not those with tattoos. (Dependent on tattoo).And everyone has an accent, even she'll have an accent. I want her to not be ashamed of her accent One that will come out when she's drunk or exhausted...that strange 'a' sound. I want for her to buy a dress just because, buy flowers just because, buy a bottle of vodka just because. Wear her hair short, long, dark, light. Wear white. Go to Concerts, go to Italy,go on road trips without getting nauseous. To not be ridiculously corny, (say what she would write) more graceful,more here. I want for her to sing loudly at karaoke. To run. To not regret. To do do do. To do be do be do. To be. I want for her to partner if she sees fit, perhaps try a few fits on for size. I want her to give without being taken. I want for her to never want.

apathy and rain

JEAN

I think the worst thing is not to feel. I wish I had a stronger feeling about this, but I don’t. I’m saying it apathetically, whatever. Which in itself is ironic or something. I drink 4 coffees a days so I wake, ambien to sleep. And despite the food I eat, pills I take, drinks drank, people I fuck, traffic I play in, I’m waiting to feel. I’m too tired to run, hand and feet numb Hands, two. I have two, thank you. Yeah I’m rhyming, so what? Even this this speaking there’s like a space, a space between my thoughts and words, not that I’m editing them, I’m not aware enough to edit I guess, not smart enough., no not smart enough I..whatever=There’s just space, like a delay. And maybe it’s the rain. And my lack of good wellies, or a ‘brolly’. English people say that’brolly’, brolly-englishpeople...english persons-and what do they call a phone a, a blower? Something. Anyway I’d like one. But I wouldn’t call it that because I’d sounds stupid, or screw ot, maybe I would. A fashionable umbrella. With clouds or the subway system, or wheat field by van gogh? If I had one I’d lose it. I used to buy a new one every time it rained, a ‘five dollar’ ‘five dollar’ umbrella on the street. But now, now I just get wet. And I don’t mind it really, have no feelings either way. The thing with getting wet, is you dry. It let’s up eventually.