Using my incisors and tongue
I remove loose bits of skin from my upper lip
caused by cold weather
and no desire to keep moisturized
Author: admin
There are days
There are days
when life is full of such beauty
and wonder
and everyone, everything is perfect as it is
and comfort is found in every face
every smile
every laugh, and frown, and warm hand
are like warming fires
the caress of sand
the bite of the breeze
the glistening eyes of every person who is unafraid
for there is no fear
no worry
all will go on, in the end
when the hatred
and mistreatment
and utter lack of caring for anyone or anything
is like death
creeping
asking would you like to join us?
what else have you to do?
where else have you to go?
who else must you try to be?
before you see that despite the effort
you will fail
and fall, lifeless
to the ground where you belong
as flesh
all will go on, in the end
when life is nothing more
than everything you believe it to be
and nothing less
than eveything you believe it not to be
and you decide
okay
Astrovan
Christine might have once believed that the proper place to fuck was the space between her comforter and her sheets, with the ceiling light dimmed, and a condom at the ready on the nightstand, next to a framed picture of her family. She might have once been less focused on work and shelter than she was now, with her child sleeping several dozen feet away in a comfortable bed, in a third floor apartment. She might have even believed in love and the fluttery lightheadedness of kissing a man for the first time, every time, back when firsts were of great importance.
Little Mike is his name. His father is Michael, I met him. A short, round man with light wisps of hair along his jaw and chin. She hasn’t told me much about him other than he’s a good father and an electrician.
When all those things cease to matter and when she has the need, she calls me, or finds me after class and asks if I’ll stop by tonight with the heavy implication that I know what she wants.
“You’re wearing the jeans,” she says, the tighter than usual ones, that ones that don’t sag so much. She places her hand on my arm and I feel uncomfortable, there, in the hallway as everyone is leaving their evening classes, seeing us.
“You better believe. I can’t wait,” I say, and she nods and smiles as she heads to the white stairs that exit out into the parking lot. Christine says hello to someone else, another man, before she exits, and for a moment, a regrettable lifelong moment, I am jealous, and angry. I am the man who is going to fuck her, not him, and this memory remains lodged among the rest.
When I leave school twenty minutes after the hallway I no longer consider or think about the reason why. I think about the smell of her perfume, I don’t know the name because I don’t ask, and the softness of her plump hips, her pooch, her full red lips, always red and never dull, and the sheer maddening scent when I kneel before her. The outlines of her eyes accentuate the dark, nearly black irises that she insists are meaningless despite my poetic utterances.
The frequency of our relationship has caused her to tune in to the sight of me, the smell of my aftershave, and the sound of my truck passing below her window on the way to the empty car port next to her Astrovan. By the time I finish backing in so that the truck bed is concealed by the van and the wall on other side, she is there. She tells me Little Mike is asleep and she seems anxious, eager, reaching up to place her arms around my neck and allowing me to reach down and place mine on the small of her back, where I start. I press myself close and kiss her forehead.
“I’ve missed this,” she says, and I smile before our lips meet, mine as eager as hers, the quickness of our breath increasing, tasting each other’s mouths. She brushed her teeth and I forgot to buy a pack of gum. We retreat to the space between her van and my truck, and when she begins to slide the door open I stop her.
“Wait, no. Come here.”
I pull her toward the truck and in the faint light of the car port see her confused eyes look ahead to where I lead her. When I pull down the tail gate she laughs, almost too loudly, and I smile again.
“What? Come on.”
She hesitates, surprisingly, but still gives me her hand and sits down before me. She expresses admiration for the jeans and begins to undo my belt while I stand on the curb of the parking space and look out above the truck cab, into an empty parking lot and soft evening lights. The traffic of the street hums in my ears and when she takes me into her mouth I listen to the cars and the swish of their swift passing. My hands reach for her short, dark hair and I do what I can to show appreciation for her enthusiasm but remain conscious, still, of our existence.
For this to be possible we must cease to exist, and so I say, “God, I want to fuck you. Lie down.”
I do not concern myself when Christine lies back on the dusty bedliner of my pickup truck. I do not consider what she might have once believed, or who she might have been, before. I hurriedly part her legs and grasp her hips, the plump hips, and drag her body towards mine, leaving her dress behind. I tell her they might see us and she opens her blouse in response. I ask her if she loves it, and she says she does, she does, and only now can I finally forget who I am.
distraction
Beauty is a distraction designed to facilitate the extinction of Homo sapiens.
Fly to Ganymede
Pietro was sitting in his car on the way home after work when he looked over to the off-ramp into Bloomberg and noted that it was no longer there. It had been replaced by a space station. There was a big sign with naked ladies on it advertising the off-ramp into the space station and the naked ladies had moving hair that swung left and right across their really tan faces so that one eye or the other was always coyly covered by a long and wavy length of billboard hair.
It said FLY TO GANYMEDE across the bottom of it but it was difficult to see because, again, there were naked ladies all across the thing.
He thought about the naked ladies for a little while and then about the space station. A space station seemed like a peculiar thing to appear as a replacement for a suburb so he kept driving until he got home. Pietro watered the lemon tree for an hour while he looked at the roof and thought of how much it was going to cost to get it repaired when the time came to do that. It would more than likely cost a lot.
Pietro’s wife, Patricia, emerged from the side gate wearing a yellow dress with smears of dirt along the hem. She kissed him on his cheek and noticed that her bare feet were standing in a pool of water that was hidden by the thick, lustrous lawn.
“Honey, how long have you been watering?”
“There’s a space station over where Bloomberg used to be.”
She paused and smiled anxiously at him. “What do you mean? How long have you been watering?”
“I mean a space station got put where Bloomberg used to be. Bloomberg is gone.”
“I see. How long have you been watering?”
“Did you know Greg and his family lived in Bloomberg? I saw the guy at the market last week and he didn’t even mention it. He talked about his Charger, and Rebecca, she’s pregnant again, and even how his kid’s flunking kindergarten. How does a guy not go and mention that his town’s been replaced by a space station?”
“I don’t know.” Patricia walked closer to the tree and observed that the irrigation ditch was filled with water, and that the hose’s stream had carved a hole into the dirt. Small bits of sediment floated up and gathered along the edge of the grass.
“You’ve been watering for a long time, haven’t you?”
Pietro scratched his thinning hair and turned to Patricia. “The whole damn thing, Patricia. I don’t understand it.”
Patricia smiled again, then walked to the spigot attached to the front of the house and turned off the water.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Take off those soaked pants before you come inside.”
She retreated back into the side gate and left Pietro alone on the lawn with the end of the hose still in his hand.
“There were naked ladies, too,” he said. “Big, huge, colossal naked ladies.”
over the shoulder
Returned from the bathroom and approached the side of the bed. It was dark, since I’d kept my eyes shut as I urinated. Could make nothing out except her silhouette against the far side, pressed tightly against the wall. She was curled up in the fetal position. It’s how she always slept, never stretched out or on her back. Could feel her back moving, then hear her sobbing. Ran my hand along her matted hair, stretched my arm over her shoulder—did what I always did to show her I’m there.
Then we talked.
“Hey. What is it?”
“All you do now is call me those names.”
“But you said you like it.”
“I said it’s okay if you’re into it, but it’s become worse.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“It’s what you always do. All you ever want to do is treat me like some woman you picked up on the corner. I feel filthy after sex. I do everything you want and you never show any tenderness. You leave me lying here the way you dump a used condom in the trash can.”
“Jesus Christ, what? Where did this come from?”
“It’s been here all along. You haven’t been paying attention.”
“I don’t… condom? What?”
“I just don’t like it anymore. It isn’t a turn-on.”
“Yea, but… I mean, should I remain silent? Groan endlessly?”
“Don’t play dumb. I’d just like something else. Something more nice, and caring. A man who treats me well and doesn’t think of me as his whore. I’d like you to show me that you love me.”
“Christ. You know I care. What’s it matter what I call you during sex?”
“I don’t know that you do. You practically ignore me when we’re not in bed. It matters and you don’t seem to care at all. You said you’d try…”
“If this is what you think then why are you with me? If we’re so different why are you bothering with me?”
“God, just… forget it. Go to sleep.”
“You want to change me, then? Huh?”
“I want to be comfortable with you! I want to feel like you care, like you want to be with me for more than fucking.”
“I don’t know what this is, but you know I care. You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re a child. I’m starting to think that you really don’t know. You can’t even tell me now, can you?”
“Tell you what? That I’ll change for you?”
“No, and stop saying that. I don’t want a different man. Just show me you’re capable of love.”
“You want me to care? I can care. I can treat you like a princess. Like you’re a goddamn china doll. But you need to know that if I do that, I won’t go back. I will not go back.”
“You don’t understand what I’m saying.”
“What, then? What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“What? Tell me what?”
“I want you to say it. Say it.”
McRib Is Back
We were tired and fucked up, me and Lorena and Gustavo and Jimbo, and Lorena and Gustavo were pervs who liked fucking in parking lots and watching people out through the camper windows so when we got there they told us to go buy them some shit and to take our time or at least wait for them to open the tail gate.
“You guys’re fucking stupid,” I said. “Oil and shit back there, it’s dirty.”
“It won’t show on this bitch’s greasy ass.”
And Lorena punched Gustavo in the back of the head and he laughed like a hyena. Her long peroxide hair was all messy and in her face because they’d been doing whatever in the back since we left the party. I could see it because the lights from all around the parking lot were shining into the truck and it was all orange and stringy.
I asked them what they wanted.
“Ey man, get me the McRib. That shit is back yo!”
“Me too,” added Lorena.
“You sure you don’t want a hot dog or something in case Tavo’s dick don’t work?”
“Hey, fuck you! Pinche baboso!” Lorena reached into the cab and tried to scratch Jimbo or something but he stumbled out onto the ground.
Lorena yelled, “They don’t have hot dogs at McDonalds, stupid!”
I got out and picked Jimbo up and we walked to McDonalds.
I was probably not walking straight but neither was Jimbo. He had his hands in his pockets and was already over the joke. He didn’t look right.
“We should’ve picked up them girls who came with Lalo,” he said, and I nodded.
“They wouldn’t leave without that puto. Next time we see them, though.”
“That one bitch, Marta. She was fucking fine.”
“Yea, she was.”
“You see them booty shorts she got on? Ay, mami chula.”
“Fuck yea, mano.”
“Them girls were down, man. Fucking down! It’s Tavo’s bitch that scared them off. I don’t even know why we brought them.”
“Come on, man. Come on.”
“That pendejo’s going to make Lorena his baby mama.”
“Probably,” I said. Everyone I knew was a baby daddy or a baby mama.
Jimbo tripped over the curb on the way to the door and smashed his face into the stucco wall so hard that his nose was bleeding. I took off my bandana and gave it to him.
“Oh shit, man. Your shit’s bleeding hard.”
“Fuck you, it don’t hurt.”
“You’re supposed to lean back. Here dude, sit your drunk ass down and lean back.”
“Nah man, this ain’t shit.”
“No man, you’re bleeding hard. You fucking wait here.”
“Shut your bitch ass up. I’m fucking hungry.”
“Hey fuck you! You want to walk in and leave blood all over? I don’t need no fucking 5-O getting called on us.”
Jimbo didn’t say anything then, and he just smacked his lips and crumpled to the ground so he could sit.
“Whatever.”
“I’ll get you some shit but you owe me. What do you want?”
Jimbo sat on the curb with his legs stretched out. His Dickeys were so big and loose that he was really sitting on his shorts and the pants were down on the asphalt.
“That McRib sounded fucking good, ey. Get me one of those.”
“Aight.”
I left Jimbo outside and wiped the sweat off my face. I stunk like hell, probably, but I didn’t really care and walked in. I was pulling my pants up as I walked past the tables where no one was sitting. The place was lit up bright. There were just a few people in line: some dude and hishaina, a fat old man. I got in line after them, coughing and sniffing while I waited. They took the fat man’s order right after I got in line and then the dude and his girl were up. She was hanging onto him and whispering in his ear so you know they were new. I was probably staring because she looked at me and whispered into the dude’s ear, then he looked back at me like he was going to start some shit. I looked at him like I was going to finish it, little bitch. He didn’t say anything and they just went and ordered and moved aside.
“Hi, what can I get you?”
The honey on the register. She was in a uniform and wearing one of those stupid visors but her face was like some kind of perfect. Her cheeks were round and pink even though her skin was light brown like that vanilla coffee the pussies drink at Starbucks. Her eyes were green, almost too green so maybe they were contacts, not that it mattered. Her lips were plump and like smooth chocolate, covered in gloss. I think I got to staring again because when they stopped moving she waved her hand in front of them.
“Sir?”
“Sorry, girl. You just so fine I got distracted.”
She didn’t seem down with that because she coughed and said, “Sir, I need your order.”
“You so beautiful, girl. You so beautiful. You want to hang sometime? Give me your digits?”
She backed up a bit and a guy walked up from behind her. It was probably the manager. His fat stomach was hanging over his belt and his face sagged. He had one of those thick chunt mustaches.
“We need to process orders. You going to order, sir?”
“There ain’t no one else here, man.”
“Doesn’t matter. Are you going to order or no?”
I looked at her and she was sort of hiding behind him. If she wasn’t interested then and I didn’t care.
“Yea man, whatever. Four McRibs and I want sodas, too.”
“What size?”
“Small, man.”
“How many?”
“I said four.”
“How many sodas?”
I stepped up and put up my fingers.
“One, two, three, four. Cuatro, compa. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and punched things into the register.
“Twenty dollars and thirteen cents.”
“Damn.” I dug around in my pocket and I had a balled up twenty that I dropped on the counter, but no change.
“Hey man, I don’t got change.”
“No dollar?”
I looked at him and shoved my hands in my pockets.
“No man, no more.” I looked at the girl, who was now by his side and waiting for the manager to complete the order. “Hey girl, you got thirteen cents I can have?”
“It’s okay,” said the manager. He took the twenty and gave me the receipt. “Thank you.”
I took it and balled it up, gave the girlie a sly smile and walked to the side. The fat man and the puto couple were still waiting. I leaned against a table and waited with them, looking out to Jimbo. He was still sitting with his head leaned back and the black bandana over his nose. There was music playing but it was some department store shit and it only made me sad. I got real sad. I mean, I wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just sort of like, fuck, look at this. I’m listening to this music. I’m standing with these people. Jimbo’s outside and he’ll probably need to get to the hospital. Gustavo and Lorena are fucking on a dirty carpet in the back of a truck, but at least they’re doing something.
I stood with those people and didn’t say anything. I didn’t even look at the counter girl. I just stood and waited as each order came up and not mine. I waited for the McRibs and sodas we’d be throwing up in a while, and outside I waited next to Jimbo for those two in the truck to come and get out of the truck so they could get their shit, and then we just waited for tomorrow.
NSFW but very very good
Los cosmos nos cuentan cosas muy extrañas, tal vez cosas que no quieremos aceptar. Y no hay problema con eso. No tienes que aceptar lo que los cosmos de otra persona te dicen. Tus cosmos son diferentes a los cosmos mios y a los cosmos de ellos, y no quiere decir que somos tan diferentes. Somos de el mismo material come ese de la ballena ya de la tierra y de las estrellas. Somos animales y hijos de los cosmos.
Tienes que saber eso porque hay dias que estamos solos, dias que para ciertos hijos en este mundo estan llenos de sufrimiento. Tienes que saber que ellos existen y tambien tienen sus propios cosmos, y vienen de donde vienes tu.
Un lobo muere bajo del sol y un ser humano vive en una cueva, y despues un lobo vive en la cueva y un ser humano muere bajo del sol.
Eso es lo que me cuentan mis cosmos en este momento. Puede ser que mañana me diran algo diferente. Que cosas… que cosas.
the curtains
For posterity:
I’m putting up the curtains I had as a small child.
They are made entirely of layers of pink lace.
I want him to feel like a pedophile while I am on
top of him. Those curtains looming above him
like some pale distant first grade crush. My figure
clinging to his body like a child to its mother in
a room full of strangers.
By the way the short story in this week’s New Yorker, “Blue Roses”
By the way the short story in this week’s New Yorker, “Blue Roses” by Frances Hwang, is really good. (It is not online. Buy the magazine.) It is about friendship and family and being a foreigner with American children and getting old. And dreams. Here is a little bit of it:
My friendship with Wang Peisan is strange, I know. She makes everyone around her crazy. Ever since she was a child, she has been indulged, her life as delicate as a teacup. She had weak lungs, and her parents didn’t expect her to live. They bought her larger and larger coffins as she grew. In one of her dreams, Wang Peisan wanders lost in a museum, room after room filled with coffins no bigger than a tissue box. She opens one after another—like Goldilocks, she says—and it exasperates her that she won’t be able to fit into any of them. What can you do with a person who has dreams like this?
I was just about to post about this! The narrator is a terrific character, one of the most fully-realized I’ve read in a long time. I rarely laugh out loud at short stories.
The New Yorker has made the last three stories that I really liked subscriber-only…
The New Yorker is something I used to peruse at the dentist’s office when there were no National Geographic or travel magazines to ogle. I also knew it was chock full of dry cartoons because there was a Seinfeld episode about it. Most recently, I discovered the magazine features good fiction and good writing in general, which I occasionally catch up on when browsing the website.
A few days ago, at the bookstore, I decided to finally buy one. See what the fuss is about. I skipped straight to the fiction and it was “Blue Roses.” I stood in Periodicals and read some of the story while a guitarist strummed in the cafe. The story played, the guitar accompanied, and all I could think was: yea.