Sunday Night

I sat on my couch—loveseat, really—criss-crossed legs. My hair pushed to one side, a tangled, waterfall mess. The window was open, desert winters feeling more like autumn. Whiskey warmed my stomach, numbed my tongue. Thoughts were scattered everywhere—hidden in my oversized flannel shirt, sprawled across the dull carpet, stored on shelves behind unread books. I was nervous. I wondered when you would come home.

One, Two, Three

One day, I will stand up and walk out of here. I will bend my head forward, grip the arms of the chair with my weak hands, and push my body upwards. I will balance on the balls of my feet. I will waver a little at first, but become steady after a few seconds. I will take a deep breath, lift my chest up high, and exhale. I will bend my right knee, lift my leg, and take one step. I will bend my left knee, lift my leg, and take another step. I will glance to my left, to my right. I will make fists and begin to swing them at my sides. I will twist my torso, bend my right knee. At the count of three, I will run out of the door in front of me. That white door. That peeling, wooden door. That impossible door in front of me. One. Two. Inhale. Exhale. Three.

Gone.

One day.
But not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Nose

She had a nose that wasn't hers. Everyone in her family knew it was different. "Whose nose do you have?" She didn't know. She was told she had been born without a nose, so the doctors gave her a dead stranger's. A Jew, perhaps. She wasn't religious but she felt she should be. She didn't belong. Someday, she wanted to find the family of the nose. She wanted to see if she fit there, rather than within her own family. Instead of flared nostrils, the tip was hooked. Rather large. Because of this, she detested her profile. Even worse, after smashing her face on a kitchen bench while twirling in the kitchen circa 1996, one side of her face looked better than the other. It was a curse, this unfamiliar nose. What if she never grew into it? She would remain a stranger to others, as well as herself. Self-identity crisis. She would have to embark on a special journey--the journey of the hooked nose.

Joy Ride

Life's going too fast.
All I can do is hold onto the rail
And hope it slows down.

Alma

The fluctuating beams of light pierced through Alma’s pale skin. Her blue veins traveled up her arm, through her hand, to the very tip of each finger. They were thin channels, branching off in various directions, small rivers encouraging the flow of Alma’s blood. The tributaries entranced her; she imagined miniature boats floating downstream, little houses perched on the riversides, even tiny human beings lying in tall grass sprouting next to the blue veins.

The light eventually faded from the sky, Alma’s skin losing its translucency. She dropped her hand and dropped to the floor, sprawling out like a starfish.

Nothing Is Anything Without You

"How long do you think it'll be?"
"Oh, it'll be a long time, 'till it dries up--the sea."
"Who will it be? You and me?"
"I'm planning on forever. We'll just wait and see."
"Well, I'll always love you. Total honesty."
"I know, I know. You're my insanity plea."

I Could

Everyday,
I sit at the bus stop for an hour.
I never go anywhere, don't really want to.
I just like knowing that if I did want to,
I could. For that hour, I could.
I could go anywhere.

Thomas Brimm Is Nauseous

Thomas leaned over the side of the casket, gazing down into the large pit Creaky had pointed to. A conveyor belt filled with all types of coffins circled around the edges of the hole, spiraling into the depths below. He blinked and shook his head to ward off the dizziness, then looked around his and Dado’s casket. They were on the edge of the pit, surrounded by disheveled wooden boxes, some filled with humans, some not. It was as if each had been dropped haphazardly from the infinite space above, one piling on top of the other. There seemed to be a giant lump of coal in Thomas’s stomach. He couldn’t tell if he was scared or excited, but he was definitely nauseous.

Idioglossia

Bendable metal
the color of grass

twisted into whatever I like or dislike.
It could be
a man,
the sun,
my hand,
nothing at all.

I think it's impractical, why is it there?
Waste of materials, precious materials.
The cluttered globe has trouble breathing.
It hears me say this

and evolves into a fiend
preparing to dive into my hair
and mold my brain into a guide on how to be
(what everyone expects of you).
I want to scream

but

I-know-it-wants-me-to-so-I-don't.

I twist it into a wand and cast a spell on the world
because oh, how I hate the world.

Thomas Brimm Meets Creaky

Thomas woke to a sudden, urgent knocking on the top of the casket. He rubbed the sleep from his face on Dado's suit jacket and let out a huge yawn. How long had he been asleep? The knocking grew louder and quicker. Thomas banged both fists on the coffin roof in response.

"What do you want?" he shouted.

After a muffled answer was heard, the casket lid slowly opened. A man the color of sour milk poked his head inside the wooden box, his terrifying, wide eyes fixed on Thomas's face. A chunk of the man's forehead was missing and some of his brain hung down to his eyebrows, almost the consistency of Jell-O that had been sitting out all night. Thomas stared at the man for a long time, resisting the urge to poke his brain.

Stomach, Growling

And as I sat there eating pretzel rods, I realized I was eating my fingers instead.






I guess I was really hungry after all.

08/28/08

Love you until black holes fill up.

Leave a Message After the Beep

Hi, it’s me again. You’ve been gone for a long time now and the stars are still the same. I’m looking at them, sprawled out on my driveway. I don’t know where you are and it scares me. Last time we talked, you were heading west in a car that wasn’t yours, yelling over the background noise that everything would be OK. I didn’t really believe you, and still don’t. The track marks on your arms never faded, and somehow I knew they wouldn’t, but hoped anyway. God, it’s freezing out here. I’ll never get used to nights in the desert. Where are you? Just tell me. I’m going insane. Googling someone’s name over and over can only accomplish so much. I thought I’d be the only person you’d trust, the only one to know where you are. Guess I was wrong. I keep waiting for your face to be framed in my windowpane unexpectedly, like it used to be. Isn’t that stupid? It’s been four years. I know I should let go, but I can’t. The uncertainty of you being alive or dead keeps me hanging on. I just want to know. Please, anything. Any little thing will do. Just enough for me to move on and know you’re all right. OK, well, goodbye.

Thomas Brimm Has the Giggles

Thomas Brimm stood on his tippy toes, peering into the long box that held his grandfather. Was that really his grandfather though? Sure, the ribbon that hung next to him read "Dado," but all of his wrinkles were gone. The wrinkles from his laughter, his anger, his compassion--gone. The makeup coating Dado's face appeared yellowish in the soul-piercing fluorescent lighting. Thomas felt himself stifling fits of giggles; his grandfather would have never worn blush!

Ephipaneasy

My mind shot
out ofthe top of
my skull.

Flakes shimmied down
dusting heads all around.

Synchronous/chorus...
"A-HA!"