When she sleeps, the woman’s tattoos come to life and chase each other around her body–the coyote, the school of fish, the Asian woman, the frowning Venus Flytrap, the pirate ship with torn sail, the fighting octopodes, the moth, the letters in appetentia. Sometimes they rearrange themselves just to see if she’ll notice: the moth, before on her shoulder blade now on her torso; the octopodes, once an aggressive tangle now friends embracing. But she hasn’t looked at her body in years, so she’ll never notice.
Monthly Archives: May 2012
The Enemy of Every Progressive Struggle Today
I wore a jacket on that cold day rather than a coat. It had a Chicago Bulls emblem on it and I just so happened to like professional sports back then. The tall, blonde fellow who signed up to take kids like me out, to show them how to do guy things like pick up girls and shoot guns and punch hard, asked if I wouldn’t rather wear a coat. I refused in childish insolence.
The rich woman standing in the corner of the record store would notice immediately–the tall, blonde fellow and I were obviously not related; it was cold out and I wasn’t wearing a proper coat. When I was looking for a CD she would approach the blonde fellow. Was I poor? Did I need money for a coat? Before he would be able offer a satisfactory answer, she would hand him a fifty-dollar bill, instruct him to buy me a coat, and then exit the record store.
He bought me a silly stocking cap that I just had to have instead of a coat. A few weeks later he disappeared from my life.
I can still punch hard, though.
Lacrimae Rerum
She told me private things as she sat on my floor, this woman who came to my door unannounced, things–significant and troubling–that seemed as though they had been plucked from my own life rather than/in addition to this stranger’s. So when she stood and went silently out to my veranda and jumped off I became fearful that I might eventually do the same.
Sinthomme
I once had a friend who, convinced his internal organs were conspiring against him, went to the hospital to have them all removed and executed for lèse majesté. The doctor on duty ignored this now dead friend’s request and had him committed to a psychiatric evaluation where it was found that while he was not insane, he was, in fact, dying–and he had been for some time. I visited him obligatorily and he gave me the following instructions: I was to bide my time until he had been autopsied and all of his organs extracted, at which point I was to raid the hospital–wielding a sharp knife all the while–and demand access to his dismembered body, whence I was to stick my knife vengefully into his stomach, his spleen, his liver, his duodenum, his pancreas, his kidneys, and for good measure his testicles, which were not necessarily internal organs but deserved a good butchering nonetheless. I failed to do as he asked, and I wonder if he no longer deigns to be friends.
The Orchid and the Wasp
Seven inches at least, with a two inch platform. Sparkles. Straps. Very expensive. I stared. The tubby saleman came over and asked if I wanted to try them on. I looked at him quizzically and replied I am imagining them on a woman, or a woman on them, rather. He then dutifully directed me to a pair of black high-topped Converse, which I then dutifully purchased. My dog later chewed them up because she is bored and lonely. Maybe I’ll begin gnawing on them tomorrow.
Wooden Trichotomies
A woman sleeps in my bed, a woman I do not know. Her eyes do not open and she does not move; only the rhythm in her chest tells me that she is alive. She wears makeup and unimpressive sleepwear and earrings that would dangle were she upright. She smells good, though it is a scent I cannot place. She has been there for forty-seven days. I tried on several occasions to rouse her. Now I charge grown men large sums of money to sleep next to her, provided they do not touch her under any circumstance. Some men want to nap with her, others bring with them Ambien and sleep the whole night. Some are old men, some are young. I make a lot of money, of course. One man told me that the woman opened her eyes when they were together. I don’t believe him and will not be accepting his business any longer.
Cruel Optimism
There is a sweater that hangs in my closet. It is blue and made of some fancy and delicate material. Sometimes I take it out of the closet–to talk to it or remind myself how much it cost or inspect it for abnormalities or hold it up to my face or rub it between my fingers. But I do not put it on. Were I to put it on, I fear I would not be able to take it off without destroying it. So it hangs there, lonely and afraid, stretching slowly toward the ground.