She Asked For It....

June 24, 2014 4:58 pm

"Such radiance hath fashioned itself upon thine face,"

dreamt when waking to a sunrise nice, but paled. And paced.

You, the true silksoft bud grew and bloomed,

As my fingers and words pored, pulled, prodded truths assumed.

"Explore, young petals, explore wider--wider yet, good girl!"

With legs and grins spread darkly wide, exploring toes and tongues curled.

Makeup smeared, bruises endured, we chortled solemn and profound,

Young and tight and smart and naive and happy and naive and lost and found.

"Until when?!," I panic. Until your petalcaresses are out and down?

Until your mmm aroma wears into the sickly sweet scent of sex sweat now?

Until helloes are sighed, goodbyes are nodded, yeses and no's ignored?

Until our Brooklyn routine collects our settled dust, quickly tamed then and bored?

"To Virgins, to Make Much of Time," we'd read;

I did not want you to discover, horribly, (with caution, with care, with yield, with heed) the end.

My flatmate is a pyschopath

Tonight I heard repeated thuds, as of a head tapped in a doorway. Dunk! Dunk! Dunk! These sounds caused my door to open, even, and increased in volume. DUNK! DUNK! DUNK-DUNK! Not a head, in fact. Instead, it was my flatmate trying to close the door in the dark of our hallway, frustrated, saying "I can't get this damn door to close! I don't know what it is!" I turned on the light and immediately saw two problems. One, their was a chain on the door, preventing him from pulling back. Two, the dead bolt was jutting out. And now it was bent, and had busted the door frame. When he, too, acknowledged the problem, he said, "Wait--I've got an idea! Hammer..." His hammer was a micropenis. I said "Let me get my pliers, or a wrench: something to torque the bolt back instead of knocking it," but not before he smacked the bolt precariously towards him, chipping the paint off the door in the process. I took the hammer from him. With a look of manic concentration in his eyes, and his socked-and-sandaled foot stabilizing his Hulk grip of the door, I pulled the bolt back with a wrench. Clicked in. Clicked out. Door Shut and Locked. He extended his hand for a "good job!" handshake. I didn't want to touch him. I dangled my hand over his for a moment then pulled back gracefully. I hate drugs.

Our ceiling is leaking. What was once an ugly red waterstain channeling the lines of our ceiling's gridded makeup has since become a car door dangling off a cliff. With each film of precipitation on the roof--and a crackpot landlord--our hallway becomes increasingly dangerous. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. All its taken for several months to tear it down. He let it puddle and wrinkle our woodfloors. Piss off our downstairs neighbors (which, to be honest, I don't mind; they blast their bachata too loud and too often for me to give a fuck about them) and start a chain of misery headed south. I put a carpet down to absorb. Stupid, I know, but I didn't know what else to do while waiting for the landlord to fix it. Eventually I decided to put a bucket underneath this concentrated drip in our unlit hallway. He hasn't tripped over it yet, but he has pushed it out of the way to walk to the door and back. And not returned it. And let it puddle and wrinkle our woodfloors and piss off our downstairs neighbors who listen to Bachata too loud and too often for me to give a fuck about them.

EchoNYC.com Post on N.F. & Our Chance encounter at Bedford

At the corner of North 7th Street and Bedford Avenue, there is a glowing green globe under which  the L train arrives (wherein spectacular people-watching occurs of all these whose only commonality is knowledge that CBGB's once reigned supreme). And there:

a graveyard of sorts. You can tell by the rust, the inkblot grit, the beausage. Free elements fly and fall and soar and swirl while Free Agents abandon. Abandon. abandon. Where Fixies and Roadsters and Mountaineers and Hybrids and Customs and Frames Catatonic or Split were last chained--and have since retired into air and iron--into the great decay of an ephemeral Williamsburg.

It was next to this tangled pile of metallic bodies dying slowly on each other that

in a beat we saw one another then walked on.

And in that beat, I saw the suspicions she had of me, the distressing revelations, the aching confirmation conversations, and the penultimate decision. To leave me. A week earlier far and away.

Her eyes stared for the eons in a startled second. Her body came up and out of the fluorescent L exit and into the brisk crisp of February Brooklyn.

And in that beat, it were only her eyes turned toward me. Her body knew better, and continued to Bedford.

Though the dark and cool haunted my periphery, I could still make out why I adored her in the contours of her face, a doe. She liked to poke me awake, which I thought I hated. She laughed at everything I said yet nothing she said ever made me laugh, which I thought I hated. She insisted I try Vietnamese, which I thought I hated. She danced fine but never celebrated music, which I thought I hated. She was never sure of us and cried like clockwork late into fortnights over the static burbles of attempted language through a phone. Which I thought I hated.

And in that beat, her rigid lips stoic told me to enter the misery of true, deep remorse. And I knew I could not unravel the skyscraping wall I had sewn while asleep in my own flitty dreams.

Walking, as I was, in that beat, on Fish Beach. Then she waded into Bedford, and I waited for her to clear the horizon.

*Surprised, Confused, Part of me wanted to run up and hug you, a part of me wanted to hit you, just walk away,  felt like "finally" walked away, I said Hi, I was biking-helmet and blue rainjacket, light Barbour Coat, Heels,  I said, or mouthed, "Hi", she walked away from it,

Tea

I wasn't into it
until I started to
intuit its small tastes.

Originally disgusted,
until I discussed it
with my China girl,
who helped my palette
tumble, whet, blossom
to          a smooth curl.

Now I foresee four
seasons of tea: spiced,
iced, steaming aside rice.

Set Your Watches

-->

Set Your Watches

Inspired by Maira Kalman’s painting, “The Sun Will Explode.”

Set Your Watches.

Unless you are Jesus, your father makes love to your mother

So that his infinite spermatozoa penetrates her

                    finite ovum.

You are a zygote.

You are a fetus.

You are an infant             unborn.

She requestsDEMANDS pineapple AWHOLEPINEAPPLERINDLEAFANDALL IDON’TCAREIF IT IS 11PM TOHELLWITHYOURBOWLINGGAMERUSSELL!

PINEAPPLE!                                                                                                            NOW!

You are born one sticky greengold hour, hospital windows glaring “Glory Hallelujah” on a secular child.

Set Your Watches.

Your father and mother Kodachrome, Kodak, and Polaroid your

plush chubs; cartoon boom boone on pots, pans, boxes

you find more pleasurable than the toys once housed within. 

You play for hours in quiet steel dark.

You and your sibling get along well. ENOUGH! Well enough for

pillowforts, tears, giggles, backtickles, picturekisses, warnings

            and punches.

Your first death began your rites of passage

Your                                                 rites of spring ing            into A-Ha Youth.

He is a good boy.

He is a mutt whose make you cannot now quite recall. Lab? Terrier?

You weep in your father’s lap, holding as tears tear out. Finally:

almost a man.

Set Your Watches.

Your first kiss is a summertime monument of naïveté and hormones. She likes your Barney The Purple Dinosaur tshirt. Where he is eating children surrounding.

You ask politely. She nods. You taste

Lust, love, butterfly tummy flutters, and her Capri-Sun tongue discovered.

You say the words “I love you” in the dining hall after 2 days.

Your miscellaneous memory making moments memorialize the truth and beauty of your First You, the You you Now Know and call your Own.

“To Be Alive” and glowinthedarkstars pinned on your hoodie’s arm mean something to you.

You experience experiences stretched between stupid youth and graceful independence, riding your bike in the middle of midnight, middle of the street.

You sneak out over wet leaves like plopdown stars and nod a solace that you did You right.

Your first depression. Sadness. Blue. Heartache. Malaise. Ennui….

Whatever.

Whatever you call it, y-you do not care. The only peace you find is in playing one song you play one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven. twelve. thirteen. times in a row, then sleep.

                                                sleeep.

                                                                                    sleeeee.

Set Your Watches.

Still feeling 17, feeling print not script, feeling bumblebee dance and swerve, feeling alone and facing a wrong way, maybe; it may be that you are eventually, finally, unfortunately, gleefully                                                                                    an adult.

You are not yet ready to just call them once a week from a tattoo without tasting their cooking. Nor now yet ready to see friends rare, rarely, rarer.

See friends now not.

Friends now not see.

Now see friends not.

Not now see friends.

Never.

And you do not know any answers to every question

about legacy and taxes and selfishness and smiles and smiling and the death of you

and the death of Earth and the death of Sun and the death of the depth of your sadness, while you shuffle—off.

You instead take pieces of peace parsed by stars unseen and omnipresent illumine.

You know that you live each fivebillionth of each second with breath refreshing and

grins galoring before                        setting your watch.

Set Your Watches, mindful of the now no more time.

Set Your Watches.

Returning after some time....

For my first post in a few years--work and graduate school will do that to you--I'll write a thought I had after glimpsing the moon just beyond the lip of my apartment building, looking up from the desolate courtyard.

Something having to do with the futility of looking for stars beyond the immediate presence of our lamps' light.

Something concerning a simultaneous disgust for the city's inability to host the same nightskies plains and forests appreciate and wonder for our ability to harness light, any light, all light, the light the color of sunrise and home.

And a question about how many other New Yorkers ever look up?

 How many other New Yorkers miss looking up and seeing something as much as I do?

New New Yorker II

Literature was before us,
Sex is between us,
New York is around us.

Take this essay,
those poems,
these blank pages

to know your new home
and love it like me,
New New Yorker.

To ooze and writhe,
I between your legs,
eyes between poetry.

To explore the
anything and everything of
your thoughs, your life, your All.

New New Yorker

New New York Yorker:
Hold your own sweet coast
sunkissed hissings before kissing
wakes you from dreaming of home.

And once awake, see humdrum
rainfall clouds call to say
"Stay in and sleep; know these
streets beneath later." You will.

You'll see them then in the sunrise
glow of streetlamps glisten listening
to your flat state fast pace and telling
you to jump and twirl and crack the flat
with ecstasies and yawps of Here! Now!
The subtlest glamor you've known.

So many arms reaching So high.
Your Manhattan. Your skyline. Your Home.

A. S. II

We walked out of Union
Square Park where we had

solidified our Us from a
muck to a mold, am ambivalence

thick with question to a concrete
asserted; irrational, selfish, temeritous.

Swooning smoothing soothing wooing
glances and gapes mouths moist ahhing

in bedsheet laughter in coy epigrams
in kisses more delicate than those I gave

my first love. But this is lust.
"I'm so wet" she wrote a block away

cabbed. I read it there aired and
smiled confidence, anticipation

from her subtley stroked pubis stoked
by my backhand while waiting.

And I too rode home saturated in this
present that decision her Her.

Pleated once with hesitation and now
a girl unfurled in a Haley decision

that will work our nerves and needs
overtime with our greatest will.

A.S. I

You listened to my wise
gibberish without question,

and nodded adoringly as we
discussed how you fell against

your will into normalcy.
Calmed your spirits. Hushed your tones.

And I suppose that quiet Quiet
broke the reservations you had

with fidelity into learning
the science of sin. With a cool me.

Because in the foggy gloss
of "Casablanca's" chromatic darkness

your eyes became snapshots of
Ilsa's, flashglances subliminal under

twentyfourframespersecond. But
they were there, glazed in the tremble

of our chemistryecstasy, a curious smile
whipping episodically in my periphery.

And then your fingers became spiders
and I delighted in the leggy caress

expressed unexpected. Wanted.
Desired. From Day One.

And your Daddy Long Legs
grew into biting Tarantulas hungry,

seizing my stillness, my wary thighs,
in the midst of its meditation:

Who are you and why me? What is this?
Should I respond? Sit statuesque?

Stand, stand against? But then my
hand snaked into your lap, a jaw opened

to grip you and say "I know. Me too.
But you must be patient."

The drizzly midtown midnight
mist did not deter discussion of

anticipations and bodies to come.

Gingkos Grandfathers Old

On Gingkos grandfathers old
hang the chimes of spring,
the breathy rasp of chartreuse
fans clapping, citronsweet leaves
leaving the tree pulled, to chew on.

That juice tells me how young I am.
That juice tells me how young I am
___to be so human.
That juice tells me how large I am
___to've done so much in so little.
That juice tells me how small I am
___to've tasted no more wisdom than
___a branch in my so much in so little.
That juice tells me how small I am.

That juice tells me how small I am.

Chin up your scrawny majesty
but you can't know--won't know--
until my handpat rocks your
silverback and my humanity
turns to your soil, your soul.

Firework II

Brilliant and adoring, your soaring
illumination of a boosting Me,
eyes at me pouncing all smiles.
In the elated awe of an infatuation
fascination, I see Me liked, maybe loved,

for a moment.

But the sky strikes high and too far
you reach you reached you fell
and faded into a crackling static dither
and smoke fade silence fading fast,
fading falling from your luminescent impression

to a quiet resistance.

And I don't know where to
go or what to do with you,
Firework.
You were so fun and lovely
until you abrupt--
and gone without reason or

___goodbye.

Firework I

Don't be a goddamn Firework,
a spout of soaring brilliance
adoring me as I adore you

only

to fade instantaneously; to
crackle into a standing hide
behind
_________silence.

Even the smoke says "goodbye."

Taps

There: two taps! I knew it. I didn’t used to recognize it when I was younger, but now I see the cogs in your winces, the springs in your gulp, the tick-tock-cockadoodledoo-clockwork moments before your superstition. When it’s a green, you just smirk and stare with your hands on the golden years’ ten and two. When it’s a yellow, you tap twice on the dashboard—ba-ba—your wrists resting on the wheel like children on a teeter-totter. When it’s a red, the tap becomes a pricklin’ pop be-bop beastin’ beat with mad flow for hip hop: ba-Ba-ba-Ba.
When I got my license and the car, it became habitual for me, too. No reason, no thought, no conscious will purchased the eccentricity for the fee of solidarity. I even improved it with a waltzing ba-ba-Ba for greens. After a few rides in, my friends sitting shotgun would—no blitz and no bullshit—tap their own approval out. Some stoics like Colin and Erich would even break out their falsetto guffaws if we tapped simultaneously, same accent and all.
Eventually, that jinx would be a cue for the prestigious front seat passenger to break out a gut-busting dashboard solo. Colin set a record once, finger-licking for ten minutes straight. He even managed to incorporate the silences and poetry-beats of the Granny Smiths, Goldens, and McIntoshes overhead in three-block measures along Main Street. Erich got a bit more creative, though, and started incorporating the ledge of the glove compartment, lilting his index fingers between the dashboard and glove compartment like a high-low cowbell. “Don’t Fear the Reaper” and the demo bridge of “Kids” never sounded better as with his assistance to the car’s tinny speakers.

You’ve been doing this for years and I really have no idea why. This time, we’re driving together to Bob and Marsha’s while I’m home. Good, wholesome people, fine family-friendly friends. We’ve been lucky so far, going through four greens rowing, but then we come through a yellow and you don’t tap. It is an omission I am entirely aware of yet it doesn’t register immediately.
“What was that?” I say. I take a stab and speak up.
“What was what?” I’m surprised you even speak back to me. In this family, car rides (and dim evenings before bed) are spent in silence. They’ve always been that way. I never liked it.
“Why didn’t you tap? We drove through a yellow light and you didn’t” I tap out the expectant ba-ba which has come to comfort and satisfy me as much as the click of a seatbelt.
“Oh. I stopped that a while ago. I guess we haven’t driven together in a while” you say. “It began as the whim of a superstition I held but—I mean, c’mon—I’m old and wise, young grasshopper.” You glance at me with one of those weird duckbill smiles. “Can’t do that kid stuff anymore. Don’t do it anymore. Kid stuff.”
“But you did it all the while that I was growing up.”
“Yeah…true, but you were small and weak, then. Oh wait!” You chuckle at the cruelty you believe to be a snarky humor that I’m apparently man enough to take.
“Dad—“
“I’m sorry, bud. Seriously though, here’s why it began, though it continued out of fun: when you were still an infant, I began to get the idea—no idea where it came from, maybe a dream or Gary, you know ‘im, that crazy beard at the deli—I began to get the idea that airbags weren’t as safe as they could be unless I tapped out air pockets. So I made stoplights checkpoints, and had a little fun with the radio while I was at it, in case Wa-POOOOSSSHHH! we hit the 0,0 coordinates of some drunk idiot coasting along his Y-axis while we were innocently cruising our X-axis. Now they got those laws about no kids in the front seat. But at the time, we didn’t know any better. It was a safety precaution. For you. Not based in science at all, I didn’t think but now know no, but yeah: air pockets bad, tap ‘em out good, keep your tiny noggin safe.” You glance with a smile at me.
I am stunned. Dad, you never told me you loved me. You never kissed me. You never hugged me. You didn’t know I wasn’t a boy scout, lost my virginity at sixteen, consoled Mom whenever you left before you came back for good. You never even shook my hand. I learned to drive, to change a tire, to balance a checkbook, to shave, to be chivalrous, to be a gentlemen, to moderate my alcohol consumption on my own. No you. Never you. There was never a you there. You were never there. But here you are, explaining to me that this stupid nuance in your life that’s become so ritualistic for me and my friends began as a safety precaution. For my sake. From you. So you cared. Once, you did. You did care once.

You’re gone now, Dad, and I brought up this experience in my eulogy at your wake. It was one of the few memories I have of us together where I didn’t hate you. Between the drinking, the obsession with algorithms, the serial abandonments, the distance…the, hm. Listen, I—my life’s been slim pickin’ for father-son story time. Just about a year or two before you passed, there in the car tapless you finally implied that you cared for me once. It was short-lived and subtle like a blink, but it happened. It doesn’t make up for jack. But it existed. I existed for you once. I’m at a green light now: ba-ba-Ba.

Characteristics

I don't finish books. I prefer to be in control of when the book ends. The author and I just have different opinions on where the denouement settles. Most authors drag too far and away. I like to lay my chin on my paws right here, 47 pages before the author says "Here."

My nose whistles when it's about to rain. Something about the humidity and my celia, I think, but a nostril'll start whistling before it's visually evident that an air mass is bringing us precipitation.

On my arm...

"It's like Jesus in my mouth."

"Let me give you a handjob with my mouth."

--L.L.

"He looked like Jesus and smelled like Vodka."<--Dude, you've got a month to begin a short story with this line. At that point, I'm stealing it and making it my own....


See you there. See you then.

it is in our most contemplative of minds that we are also our most imaginative, for misery bears little else as comfort.

Music...defines a moment, a feeling, elation in discovering the better demo, the revision, the band and title for something only heard. Kids (drumming cowbell bridge in demo on Caitlin's passenger dashboard), Sometimes (13 times rote in depression reclining in car, mud park space behind rickety blue undergrad housing), Someone Great (LCD and Kate's encore emergence), Svegn G Englar (floating to dinner, defining love), 59th Street (Feelin' Groovy)(Anastasiya's living room floor with shades not drawn but overcast skies and smiles), Two Months Off (Defining first love), Do You Realize? (Defining first love), Good Woman (Chantal weeping, power of the arts).

Algae green dreadlocks with threaded purple and black, furry knotty knee-high boots. Askew minute bejeweled top hat, wannest of skin, reddest of lips, bushy gauzy sparkly dark skirt under white trim corset. The most outrageous looking on the train were also the least outrageously behaved. Like Marilyn Manson. A creepy lookin' listener, observer, quieter than most.

Glasses in a plastic ziploc bag.

Royal Bangs. Hot IQ.

"Smell a nigga naked, I smell real good."

1.Squirming
2.Shriveling (Shivering)
3.Shuffling
4.Shimmering

Was where I sat softly quietly smitten.

The automaticity of adulthood
-bills
-waking up early
-thank you letters
-pride in work
-legacy
-sacrifice

Tonight I smiled at the thought of my aunts' and uncles' laughter. Their lilts and yips and hoohahs, their chuckles, motors, and silences.

Words She Wrote to Him

I've just begun a fiction writing course, and one of our first assignments was to combine a sentence strip I received ("lost a map of the United States with all of the cities named 'Springfield' circled")with a character who has the opposite of three traits I described myself with:
*Conventional (Not Eccentric)
*Uncompassionate/stonehearted (Not Compassionate)
*Indifferent (Not Inquisitive)
____________________________________________________________________________________

"Mayb..hm--maybe it's under the back of the...passenger...."

His potato fingers are feeling for the coarse angular planes of a poorly folded paper map. It's wrinkled and bleached by his sister's irresponsible care during her college excursions with windows opened for cigarettes, trash, cops, rain and wind through fingers. Cooper Fisher has just lost this map of the United States with the cities called "Springfield" circled because that's where a girl is. He is looking for a girl that Instant Messaged him accidentally a week earlier, resulting in his first falls and pangs of love and lust.

LoveMe123: Dave?
H1Th3r3: what? my names Cooper Fisher.
LoveMe123: I'm sorry, I think I typed in the wrong screenname. I was looking for my friend Dave.
H1Th3r3: obviously,
LoveMe123:...well that was a dick thing to say.
HiTh3r3: *obviously.
H1Th3r3: sorry you feel that way. im just bein honest.
LoveMe123: I can be honest too, see? "You're so ugly! Why why why would I lie to you?"
H1Th3r3: i love that song.

Although initially hesitant, Lishy Juarez continued to write to Cooper Fisher because she had little better to do beside update her status on Facebook and Twitter. She's still young and didn't think anyone knew who the Violent Femmes were, so his response to her quotation also piqued her intrigue. After his admittedly dick comment, Cooper Fisher redeemed himself by cutting through the sway and swagger she usually received from boys. She had grown accustomed to shrugging at their impromptu jazz performances based on the instruments she provided in what she typed, but Cooper Fisher was satisfied with hums and handclaps. She liked that simplicity, that cold.

LoveMe123: What do you think of my pics?
H1Th3r3: havent checked em out yet.
LoveMe123: Really?

H1Th3r3: you should change your font. its difficult to read.
LoveMe123: lol, really?
H1Th3r3: yeah. my eyes hurt.

She didn't mind him being terse. Usually boys wrote too much, and she'd grow annoyed with their mojoless (and thus blatantly superficial) means of impressing her, like those birds who fluff their feathers, puff their chests, and dance funky chickens to impress potential mates. This bird--Cooper Fisher--was busy lying down, looking up, not even at Lishy Juarez, a female with the power of choice. She was attracted to this indifference because it made her feel like more than a body.

LoveMe123: So what kind of movies do you like?
H1Th3r3: i like everything.
LoveMe123: Everyone says that, but no one means it. You can't possibly like EVERYTHING!!!1! What do you LOVE, then?
H1Th3r3: I liked the soloist. and world's greatest dad. sometimes i quote in good company.
LoveMe123: ...I'm so glad you like the same music I do.

LoveMe123: I just realized, you haven't really asked me any questions yet. Why not?
H1Th3r3: i dont know. im content knowin what i know.
LoveMe123: That was so feng shui.
H1Th3r3: you mean zen? usually people would say that's zen. feng shui is used for designin rooms and placin furniture in peaceful places an stuff like that.
LoveMe123: lolz, yeah! That was like one of those Bill Nye "Did You Know?! Now You Know!" moments. Have you ever seen that show? I watch it online sometimes.

After finding the map and starting up the car again, Cooper Fisher sat and exed out with a purple Sharpie marker the Springfields he's already visited: Springfield, North Dakota, Springfield, South Dakota, Springfield, Wyoming, Springfield, Nebraska and Springfield, Oklahoma. The first stop and shop for a girl named Lishy Juarez was only about three hours away from home in state number one. He made the decision to leave home after realizing his summer had been dissatisfyingly too safe and too quiet. He then calculated how much money he'd have to spend (that he'd been saving for a new laptop) on food, gas, hostels (when the car wasn't warm enough), and drumsticks (Lishy Juarez is a drummer and would "way prefer a bouquet of drumsticks to a bouquet of flowers"). He skipped Kansas--thought it smelled, figured Lishy wasn't from there. He had the rest of summer to find her.

While driving, between adjusting radio reception and bulging eyes for the fuzz, Cooper Fisher was thinking about words she wrote to him, punctuation marks, emoticons, acronyms, anything to reason out whether or not she was translating an affectionate infatuation through the silence and stoicism of instant messaging. Cooper Fisher was also thinking, when the reception was keen, about how thrilling it is when a song's lyrics are illuminated in the midst of a listener's life's sorrows and smiles, miles driven and blocks walked, aspirations and inspirations. Here he was, following James Murphy's triumphant voice now: "We set controls for the heart of the sun, one of the ways that we show our age." He knew he was still young because he was going for her.

After sorrows of flats and hunger, smiles of Lishy Juarez and her words, miles driven in side streets and highways, blocks walked past corners hushed and raucous, aspirations to kiss her and make her cum, and inspirations to take up drumming himself and find better theaters at home, Cooper Fisher thought he had found Lishy Juarez in his fifth week, third day, eighteenth state, and nineteenth Springfield (there are two in Kentucky). He was listening to this go-getter go-get-her fist-over-muffled bassless lo-fi radio pulling into Springfield, South Carolina, and he simultaneously shivered and grinned at the lyrics, not knowing why. "Logic will break your heart forever. Be brave...."

He was two states off, but found her in Springfield, Florida.

"Hi. Does Lishy Juarez live here?"
"Who the hell'er you?" questioned her father.
"I'm a--I'm a friend from school. We planned to hang out before school started again."
..."Yeah? Aren't you a bit old t' be hangin' 'round my daughter?"
Cooper Fisher was confused, but then he realized he never asked how old Lishy was and she never told him. He kept on, hoping that she wasn't fifteen or something ludicrous like that. He'd come so far. "No, sir. I jus' look old for m' age."
"Yeah?"
"Yup. Sure. Yes, I mean." He was nervous and it was obvious, though he had every right to be. Cooper Fisher was a homebody whose greatest adventure before this was discovering a delicatessen better than the one four miles closer to home and the worst trouble he ever monkeyed around in was losing a DVD from Blockbuster before having a chance to return it.
Lishy Juarez's father looked at Cooper Fisher. It was an uneasy moment, especially when he looked down and jutted his bottom lip to the left in ambivalence.
"Lishy! Get do'n 'ere. Y' gotta friend at the door!"
Cooper Fisher inhaled, held, and exhaled as slowly as possible.

"Oh my Jesus! Cooper!" he was elated that she recognized him from the crappy photos in his profile; they were crappy because he had a scar on his left temple from when he was nine that embarrassed him. He was expecting a hug next. "What the hell are you doing here?! I mean, I haven't seen you online in weeks, and I thought you lived forever away. I thought you died or something!" Although she smiled, he couldn't tell if it was because she was happy to see him.
Still waiting for a hug.
"Uh, yeah: I basically drove here from home to see you. I just...I can't explain how much our conversations meant to me and I jus--"
"Cooper. Shut up. Seriously?! This is---" Lishy Juarez caught herself before saying it. She stepped out of the doorway and closed the glass door behind her. They were now in the sun, on her brick step, next to bushes that browned brittle and weakness, unwatered for weeks. "This is really fucking creepy. I mean," she sighed agitated, "I'm only fifteen and we only spoke for, like, five days."
"Wrote." Cooper Fisher was crushed.
"What?"
At least a hug, even now.
"We only wrote 'for, like, five days.'" His eyes turned up as he quoted her.
"Whatever! It doesn't matter! I'm a curious girl and all, but you totally got the wrong idea if you think all of my pokes and lollerblades and talk--writing about sex and music and boys and movies and feng shui was a sign of loving you...even liking you like that. That way. This way." Her voice was descending. "I didn't tell you my age or my state because I didn't think it was important and, being five years older, I really didn't think that you'd make a move like this." Now it was shallow.
"I'm--"
"I mean--what?"
"You go ahead."
"I mean, if circumstances were different, maybe this would be really sweet and we'd make out like wombats and I could finally see a penis in real life." Her eyes bulged when she said 'finally see a penis' and she looked back through the glass door to see if any family was around to hear her mention it. "But I'm too young, too far, and too new to you."

Maybe the hug was impossible now.

Cooper Fisher waited a moment to see if she was done so that he could apologize.
"I'm sorry." She wasn't looking at him, but she could hear that his head was down. "I guess I thought too much about it all, read too much into the words you wrote me. Got carried away."
She knew at least that he was a boy of few words, fewer emotions, and no questions. She hugged him and he moaned a momentary satisfaction, which creeped her out more. Upon letting go, he walked to the back seat of the car, leaned in, and pulled out a bundle of drumsticks, mallets, and brushes wrapped in forest- and winter-green tissue paper around a cone fashioned out of a North Dakota newspaper, six weeks old. He handed it to her without words, she accepted and thanked him without words, and he drove off.

Several hours later, Cooper Fisher turned on the radio, which sounded not just distant, but morose as well, now, and smirked in his bittersweet disappointment. He felt defeated and disgusted, but he met her and she hugged him. One of those songs from days ago came back: "Logic will break your heart forever. Be brave...."

Bill And The Color Blue

I

In Bill's metropolitan streets, dogs don't bark, babes don't cry, and garbage trucks don't pass, irresponsibly wafting residual stenches on the run. He's carved his balsa-wood streets between intricately gridded buildings. Skyscraping boxes from Mom's fitness-at-home obsession. Nordic Track Tower. Gazelle Plaza. Ab Cruncher Cafe. The Steps of Step University. The celebrities of cereal are pasted everywhere, annoyingly, though pragmatically, near street level. Count Chocula is most prominent (because both Bill and his younger brother Danny like Count Chocula the most). Although Bill hates when his Count Chocula has been immersed in milk too long and evolves from crunchy to soggy to gooey. And then the bits fall apart.

Most of this architectural magnificence of cardboard, tape, glue, aluminum foil (for the beacons!), and Saran wrap came from Mom and Mom's kitchen, though Dad had taken up shopping exclusively on eBay since he first heard of it, and gave Bill his miscellaneously sized, colored, and textured bags, boxes, bubble wraps, styrofoam peanuts, and envelopes. And through the infinitely interchangeable characteristics of Lego faces, torsos, and legs, not to mention the Styrofoam peanuts elaborately dressed in boondoggle skirts or slacks with pipecleaner hairdos and Sharpie smiles and ah's, the buildings, streets, and parks are all always well populated with a diverse array of giddy Marys and slow Joes and tricky Ikishas and pious Mahmouds.

Silhouetted within the streamlined sunlight of Bill's starboard window is the sparkly-ceiling-toe-tip-tall Bill Industries, a monolith from Mom's oldest workout system (assembly required, weights sold separately). It is the most ostensibly ominous of the city's constructions, but hosts--as far as Bill is concerned--nothing less than a delightfully sweet cupcake factory (he taped socks stuffed with Fruit Loops inside to make sure it would smell happy all the time) and pillow-fight-Friday's amongst its employees. Some can be seen in cellophane windows throwing their U-hands in the air over elations Bill can't hear and is not privy to. One audacious fellow stands on top of Bill Industries, on the roof, but only looks down. He's not going to jump. He's just looking down.

Bill likes his streets and buildings and parks and people. Bill likes it this way. He likes it this way because if the barking, crying, and passing did occur, Bill might become irritated. Irritation doesn't suit Bill well, and things and people hurt when he is irritated. Good walk-their-dogs-in-the-morning people and go-getter-go-get-her people and offer-change-to-bearded-poor people . There are bearded-poor-people in Bill's streets, but they have smiles during the day and homes at night.

II

Mom and Dad thought little of Bill's eccentricities when he was younger: cutting slices off of a cheese block away from himself instead of towards, pinching birthday candles out, needing to pee every time he saw any semblance of affection on t.v. or in movies and, most notably, hating anything with the color blue associated with it (which was odd because he once loved a blue hippo). This hatred was an abrupt pivot in Bill's life and neither he nor his parents could recall its origin. Action figures, model kits, blankets, clothes...nothing could be blue or Bill would create an alien sound so raucous, turbulent, and torturous it couldn't possibly have emanated from his own humble human lungs.

As the years passed, his body grew up but his mind did not. Something was wrong. His parents didn't mind denial and did mind stature, so they introduced him at corporate barbeques and at-home soirees as "different." They later had Danny, who loved Bill dearly and--though he would never admit to it--took care of him. He was always in their company, they decided, for his own good.

Sometimes, however, Bill liked to wander off elsewhere. Close, but not always within eyesight or earhear. Sometimes he'd wander carrying closely in his corduroy pockets the oblivion of his remarkable wonder and impeccable intrigue with everything. Dandelions. Count Chocula. Bad singers on distant speakers. But when he'd double-take and rubberneck out of these sweet child eyes, Bill would find himself lost and confused and Momless and Dadless and without breadcrumbs. Then anxiety and volatility would bubble bubble bubble up and he did not know how to pop them.

III

The first instance when the burden gained gravity was a time when his parents did not find him before something happened. So something happened; they were all grocery shopping together one humdrum day in Bill's mid-twenties, and Dad asked Bill to wait in line in order to order slices of pizza for lunch from the in-store Italian cafe, "Mama Rigatoni's." "We'll be there in literally one minute...Ju-just wait in line for us for now. Please." (Bill never respected disrespectful requests without punctuating pleases.) While waiting in line, Bill saw a mild though nonetheless disruptive tiff between two customers ahead of him. The beefy fellow, who may have looked more attractive had he grown a beard to mask his four chins jiggling, just paid, two people down, when he accidentally dripped tomato sauce from the top-bite and bottom-burst of his calzone on to the Crayola blue pant thigh of a man, one person down, with jowls and lips that made him look like a fish. He scratched the back of his head turned down to study the drip.
"Oh, I-I'm--"
"What the fuck, man?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." The beefy beardless man apologized with a barely traceable zeal in his first mention, like those hairs grown on the forehead that can only be seen in streamlined sunlight. So he apologized again with a conviction, earnest or otherwise, that Bill and hopefully the fish-faced man could recognize.
"Jesus Christ, man, my lover just got these for me for my birthday...." Bill wondered who would like an angry fish-faced man enough to love him.
"Well, I mean," the beefy fellow coughed, "like, a li'l club soda'd help, right?" He asked if they had club soda behind the counter. Nope. "Maybe I could--"
"Maybe you could go Fuck Yourself!"
In this moment, the Something happened. When a collision occurs between the amplitude of the fish-faced man's voice rising up, one of Bill's least favorite words (and all homophones, like "Funk," "Fork," or even a usually oohy "Fudge")being mentioned, and the color blue is being worn, Bill hurts things and people. He punched the fish-faced man in the face, knocking him unconscious. Bill was tremendously strong, inheriting his father's natural brawn, but was also tremendously irritable at this time, having waited in line too far away and for too long from Mom and Dad.

Although Mom and Dad tried to figure out the somewhys and somehows, they mostly just attempted to avoid situations in which Bill might quietly lash out again. Each instance reminded Bill's Dad of a thought he had watching Barney the purple dinosaur with Danny as a young boy: what if Barney stopped abruptly in the middle of a song, realized he was a dinosaur, and began eating the surrounding, once-jolly, children? Bill's moments were less gory, of course, but equally unexpected as he is an equally gentle giant. Most of the time. Circumstances must corroborate in order for all to turn haywire and awry. Bill still managed to work himself into off and about shenanigans and fits when Mom and Dad were preoccupied carousing and carouseling and those circumstances had been in touch.

Verbally abusive parents wearing blue jeans waiting on the train platform that goes into the city.

(Almost) the kid wearing a Cookie Monster face t-shirt who started crying about his unconscious parents (but Bill's parents picked Bill up, hurriedly no doubt, shortly after the thud of the kid's parents called them over, apologizing profusely while walking away. Hurriedly no doubt).

A girl in baby-blue leggings on the street rudely popping her gum and telling people giving her stinky eyes to "Fork off!"

The man at the local hardware store behind the key-making counter with a vibrant new Mets baseball cap.
"Waddaya mean ya don' know what tha key's for--?!" Unconscious.

Consequences rarely came because gasping embarrassed Mom and Dad sputtered "I'm so sorry! I'm so so sorry! Our son is..um, our son is 'different,' ya know? Please: I've got fifty bucks; take it for reparations or what...whatever."

IV

One. Two. Three. Four. Five...ish. Five. There are five distinct rings that are born and grow up immediately in front of Bill's dipped index-finger in the pool at his grandparent's house. This is where the family is celebrating his cousin Jeanie's birthday. She's turning twenty-eight, and although the parties aren't nearly as whistley and balloonish as they were in the kids' youth, they appreciate the family's courteous and unconventional perception of acknowledging age with calm and graceful inevitability, not embarrassment and shame like most families. Bill is by the pool while small gift cards to Bed, Bath, and Beyond have been opened, cake has been scarfed, and the Beatles' birthday song has been sung. When Bill is in large and loud crowds, his senses start to hurt and he tells his parents "I feel like a computer 'not responding'." To this, his parents have learned to instruct him to breathe, depart the crowd, cover his ears and close his eyes until he feels safe and can "restart," and--most importantly--stay close. Here, however, the backyard is not off limits.

The song was becoming too much, so he decided to go to the backyard where Grandma and Papa have an in-ground pool, lined with green tiles after Bill started throwing fits around the color blue. Playing with the water, feeling its cool smoothness and smelling its sterility (Papa insisted on saturating the volume of the pool with chlorine "in case William ever gets any crazy ideas"), Bill's brain became safe, composed, and worked again. After a few minutes by himself, Bill heard the sliding glass door to the backyard shvoosh open, then shvoosh closed. He turned his curious eyes to find Danny coming out. His brow was arched, his eyes were half-wincing, and his hands were on the back of his head, scratching and stretching his curly brown mess. Bill watched as he pulled out his cellphone, typed with a thumb violently, then put the cellphone to his ear, under the mess. Danny glanced, then nodded in brotherly love, at Bill. Danny wanted to be perceived as a man, and so sometime in his latter years of adolescence he broke all of his emotions, actions, and thoughts down to the bare minimum. Now he talks little, feels little, and motions little. This, he believes, makes him a man, not a boy. Love for other men is conveyed in a glance and a nod.
Bill didn't feel comfortable listening in on Danny's monologue to his boyfriend, who he'd been having troubles with recently. But Bill also wasn't ready to return inside to the rest of the family and the party. He needed more time to breathe, so he stayed by the pool, kneeling by the water, petting its surface like he pet Jeanie's 4-month-old kitten, "Marx." Danny didn't seem to mind that Bill stayed at the opposite end of the pool, he knew that Bill didn't have much of a mouth for rumors or gossip, and the family already had suspicions of Danny's relationship with Turner. But then Danny started to get angry, and Bill couldn't help himself.
"Turner, What?" Danny said quietly.
Then again, with more air, "What?!"
"You've...why would you...you're fucking kidding me, right?!"
Bill didn't know what Danny was feeling by how he looked or how he sounded, only that he was grossly uncomfortable with witnessing whatever this was. He squeezed his eyes inside his head and paddled at the water now.
"Dimoy? Seriously?! You never even speak to him when I'm not there! You've barely--"
Bill knew all of these names. Turner was Danny's boyfriend and Dimoy was Danny's best friend. Bill wondered why there's a space with the phrase 'best friend' but not with 'boyfriend.' Bill was becoming anxious and irritable again. He hasn't been this way in at least two weeks.
"Fuck you, asshole. I want you out of the apartment by the end of the weekend." Danny sneered it into the phone. His eyes were closed and then he started shouting.
"I said, 'Fuck You, Ass Hole. I Want You The Fuck Out of What Was Once," Danny paused to breath, "Our Fucking Apartment! You Fucking Prick!" His eyes were rose-red and porcelain-shining.
With so many F-words and such loud noises coming from Danny's throat, let alone his newish blue cellphone case that he usually kept out of Bill's sight, Bill walked briskly over to Danny and punched him in the face.
Danny fell into the pool, unconscious, clothes, phone, and all.
Bill stood at the edge of the pool, furious with Danny, himself, and the color blue. He bit his lip and pushed out of his throat a low scratchy yawp, an alien sound he made as a boy.

He feels, but only looks down. He's not going to jump. He's just looking down.

He didn't know how to swim and didn't consider Danny right now, so he turned and walked around the Willow-shaded part of his grandparents' house, breathing shallowly and rocking his torso with his arms at his side.

The family was still inside, carousing and carouseling.

He walked to Mom and Dad's Nissan Altima, silver, and opened the driver door that has the numbered buttons underneath the handle. Bill isn't supposed to know this combination, or how to drive, but he has watched, with quiet and absolute curiosity, his parents as they maneuver opens and closes, start ups and shutdowns, fasters and slowers with keen and peripheral vision. No one inside can hear the car's engine ignite, the car's reverse kick in, then the car's drive kick out of the drive way. The metric system makes sense to Bill, but this car's speedometer is not written in kilometers, so Bill chooses to "K.I.S.S. confusion goodbye" ("Keep It Short and Simple" Danny taught him when Bill was twenty nine) by maintaining a speed of 64.3 Kilometers Per Hour, which is 40 Miles Per hour, which is equivalent to every 1.609344 Kilometer for every 1 mile.

They are all inside, singing with Aunt Millie's karaoke machine. Twenty minutes later, Jeanie is heard screaming from the backyard, wearing a purple one-piece bathing suit.

V

Bill only listens to musicians he can sing along with and not feel ashamed that he has a scratchy, jumpy voice. David Byrne of the Talking Heads. Joe Strummer of The Clash. Daniel Johnston of The Daniel Johnston. It comforts him to know that these persons are on Mom and Dad's car radio, and in his CD's which he keeps in the backseat, with similarly repulsive voices.
"Repulsive" is how a cruel woman once described Bill's voice after trying online dating once (at the tenacious go-getter-go-get-her goading and perpetual guidance of Danny) and meeting her in person after establishing an epistolary chemistry. (She wrote how sweet she thought he was since his profile listed his interests and hobbies as building things, eating cereal, and anything without the color Blue, and their emails to each other were, she said, the kindest she had ever received from men online.) When she approached him in front of the grocery store, where he recommended they meet (while Danny watched from the car in the parking lot, following inside as they went inside, with a walkie-talkie turned off in his pocket that Bill insisted on using "for emergencies"), she was hoping for a well-spoken and gentle soul who would cook for her later that night.
Instead, he didn't know where else to go and upon introducing himself, her eyebrows raised. He didn't mind this voice, but his modesty hindered his expressiveness enough to keep it caged in cars, bathroom stalls, and under covers. So his repulsive voice scratched, jumped, and wilded along with these gentlemen more than immodest: unafraid.

You may ask yourself, "Well, how did I get here?"

Y-you may ask your shelf, "HEY! How did I get here?" He did not know all of the words to all of these songs he adored.

Runnin' Monday! Tuesday! Wednesday! Thursday! Friday! Saturday! Sunday! What have I done?

"Running Monday! Tuesday! Wednesday! Thursday! Friday! Saturday! Sunday! What have I done!" Though some lyrics had taught him the days of the week when he was relatively young--courtesy of Danny.

Please hear my cry for help and save me from myseeeeelf.

"Please hear my cry for help. Save me from my selllllllff." And some were closer to what he wanted than what he was aware of.

Two and a half hours after Bill had left his grandparent's house, he was found sitting at the foot of a long corridor of children's books in the basement of the local library and community center. Here he felt safe and serene. He was alone and far away from Mom and Dad, yes, but he was also surrounded by old friends in the pages of his youth and adolescence and knew that they would be here soon, soon enough. His parents arrived with three local police officers, and--with the gentlest of touch and voice--they escorted Bill out of Children's fiction in handcuffs and tears. Mom and Dad maintained the calm they knew Bill needed to work with, but discussed severe ramifications for having killed his brother. The other son. The other beloved son. This was unacceptable, and Bill knew it now.

It was decided that the most appropriate consequences for Bill's actions would be to wear an ankle bracelet that enforced house arrest until further notice with the exception of Thursday afternoon counseling sessions at the Pine View Medical Facility, in which he would be escorted by both his parents and a court-appointed official much less scary and antagonistic than Bill had originally predicted. In these moments, Bill would receive the psychological treatment he rightfully deserved and desperately needed for a minimum of eight months. Bill acquiesced to these decisions he did not yet understand with paramount grace and absent-minded nods.

VI

Four months into counseling, a leather jacket was thrown over a barbed wire fence and Dr. Rosenbaum was in. Five months into counseling, stubborn bricks exploded as a barrier was broken that once hid the reason behind Bill and the color blue. When Bill was still quite young, perhaps two or three--to his and his parents' opaque recollection--he possessed and ostensibly loved a stuffed Hippo with beady eyes, a white stomach, and a rich lagoon blue body named on the attached tag as "Bluebsy Doodles" that his parents had bought as one of his first birthday gifts. Bill could not yet articulate "Bluebsy Doodles," and so referred to his closest friend beside Mom and Dad as "Booze," which often made his parents look at each other or laugh nervously. Months later, "Boobs" was baby Bill's better attempt, much to his parents' chagrin. He would say it, caressing smilingly Boobs's blue fur.

Because Bill loved Boobs so much, the hippo never left him. Not at the park, not in bed when he wet it, not on rainy days, not in the kitchen when he would attempt to help Mom or Dad make breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Because Boobs never left Bill, Boobs once soft touch became greasy and clumped, once bright hues became dusty and off, once lustrous eyes became scratched and cataracted. Because it decayed like this, the blue hippo was no longer as strong as it used to be. Consequently, it once slipped from Bill's butter grip into a puddle on a humdrum day and began to deteriorate. Baby Bill made his alien sound and closed his eyes, rocking back and forth. He picked it up shortly after these moments of catatonic grief, and Boobs began to fall apart. His parents looked on, catatonic themselves because they never wanted this to happen, of course, but knew that it was inevitable; they had been ill-informed as first time parents to buy cheap toys because children this young will either destroy them, lose them, or forget them. Although Bill did not take the best of care of Boobs, he neither destroyed nor lost Boobs. And certainly would never forget. Repress, put high up on the shelf of childhood pain to collect dust and cobwebs, but never forget.

Dr. Rosenbaum proposed the possibility that this experience also contributed to Bill's inaction in action when months ago his younger brother Danny floated unconscious on the pool's surface. "Perhaps," she pontificated, "the childhood experience internalized a notion in Bill's psyche that he is only capable of eventually harming all that he loves, and so is reluctant to intervene when what he loves is harmed, and when he is aware of the harm, instead chooses the safety of passivity."
Bill needed time to understand what Dr. Rosenbaum meant, and felt the pangs and pleasures of remembering Bluebsy Doodles when he and his parents left that Thursday afternoon. His parents didn't necessarily agree with Dr. Rosenbaum's inferences, but were profoundly committed to helping Bill cope with the color blue and other triggers, and so appeased her sanguine disposition on Bill's progress.

When they arrived home, Mom and Dad said their thankyous and goodbyes to the court-appointed escort while Bill trudged upstairs to his room, where he felt safe, comfortable, calm.

In Bill's metropolitan streets, dogs don't bark, babes don't cry, and garbage trucks don't pass, irresponsibly wafting residual stenches on the run. Bill likes it this way. His peanut eyes are their sun and moon. His long breath is their wind. His fading smile is their god. These people smile back. Permanent stubble and sunglasses on some, removable red ponytails on others. Forgivenesses and epiphanies evidenced by their U-hands up and down in the tower's cellophane windows. And that one audacious fellow from Bill Industries who is only looking down. He's not going to jump. He's just looking down. Bill's next birthday will be their next quiet celebration.

My Sincerest Apologies, V.

Woman

*rough draft*

"I'm too old for you" soberly somberly
addressed my precarious precocious advances.

But my hairy temerity pushed in until you
cried Yes. How often you shouted "yes...."

We always had your nononononononononononos
appeasing my yeses. So subtle and charming was I

that you gave me your eyes for spring and summer.
And your dark plump glossed lips just as long.

"You are delightfully weird," led days later
to a kiss to your neck to distract us from that poet,

And we made our laughter leap confidently and often from
lover's throats that mustered only crumbs of love.

I always marveled at the clues of curves under your thinnest
dresses draped over my laternight anticipations.

Breaking beds into carnival funhouses, holding you
in nimble lighting though we sweat until the orange juice came.

Your smallest goodbye was our biggest mistake, and that
biggest crowd was our smallest hello.

We said so many thankyous and missyous and youturnmeons and
actuallys and yeses and nos and I was content with the concision.