Hedonists never die crying.
They live and laugh and dance and dance and come
and smile as they lay dying.
We do what is poor for our health.
Why love you, though, why get you off this time,
when I can love and come myself?
Nothing is necessarily necessary, but it's all so
spectacular we'd be fools not to take advantage.
Monday, September 15, 2008
A Flat in A Nowhere
The stars
and
the thruway
and
the darkness that surrounds otherwise
remind me of our wonderful once.
A one time
that
I had with you
that
was defined by the ecstasy of nostalgia,
holding you when we both knew you didn't need to be held.
Our eyes wandered
but
our fingers brushed and stayed
but
our fingers still fell to their own sides
later in the night, and the moment was only the moment.
and
the thruway
and
the darkness that surrounds otherwise
remind me of our wonderful once.
A one time
that
I had with you
that
was defined by the ecstasy of nostalgia,
holding you when we both knew you didn't need to be held.
Our eyes wandered
but
our fingers brushed and stayed
but
our fingers still fell to their own sides
later in the night, and the moment was only the moment.
Euphemism
I call my procrastination
insomnia
to help me to sleep at night.
It gets the job done as
I get my job done,
awake and alive by nothing but hope.
insomnia
to help me to sleep at night.
It gets the job done as
I get my job done,
awake and alive by nothing but hope.
Dima and Anya
With the gentle blade of a single finger, Dima and Anya exchanged petal caresses: he her bare, fair thigh in those denim summer shorts, she his mobile wrist. And, staring at them out of fatigue and fascination, I thought quietly Isn't she his first cousin? Have I ever touched my cousin like that? Certainly not.
Later that evening, she retreated to the bathroom, a subtle smirk of some random satisfaction across her face and with panties and a faded shirt (XXL, perhaps an ex's) underneath pinched between her forefinger and hidden thumb. I marveled at the delicacy of her hand and immediately the word "prim" came to mind. As she prepared for bed at 3:30am, we three men-- a Russian acquaintance, a Russian cousin, and an Italian nerd-- saw in awe her petite and smiling mysteriousness.
"Iee do naught know what eet ease, but when sheh step-pid off the plaen from Moscow, Iee could naught help myself."
"Waddaya mean, Dima?" I asked with precedented suspicion, noticing how our eyes (including his) trailed behind her ass as she exited the room earlier.
He thought how best to respond, and with a finger on his lips, he looked up at me and replied assuredly "Iee haff never met her before five days ago. She ease my couseen, ahnd Iee--," he puts an arm over our shoulders, "my friends--haff indulged een forbidden pleasures...."
The ellipsis is for me, not for him. I couldn't think of how to make out what he said.
The toilet flushed, the door squeaked open, and Anya came out in nothing but the large faded shirt with Russian pop culture written on it. Her blonde down and her makeup off, she was more beautiful.
"What?"
We were all huddled, standing and discussing her (a raucous subject), and then interrupted by that very subject of our juxtaposingly quiet dialogue.
Anton didn't react to her presence beyond turning to acknowledge her.
I reacted with a blink and an inaudible and timid "--nothing."
Dima smiled.
I wondered at that, too, squinting my eyes at him as if blurring my vision would brighten my mind.
Anton slept on the couch after smoking cigarettes he rolled himself.
I slept in the bed sprawled and alone and aware of the floored air-mattress below my side, and the sounds I was hearing on it.
Sounds of Dima coming to bed after Anya had fallen asleep, to wake her up and corrupt her. I heard zippers though-are there pajamas with zippers?
They were gone when I awoke, and the mattress looked deflated. I shuffled to the living room, scratched my head, turned it to see Anton waking to see who was shuffling. We smiled at one another, at our incredulity, and went back to sleep.
Later that evening, she retreated to the bathroom, a subtle smirk of some random satisfaction across her face and with panties and a faded shirt (XXL, perhaps an ex's) underneath pinched between her forefinger and hidden thumb. I marveled at the delicacy of her hand and immediately the word "prim" came to mind. As she prepared for bed at 3:30am, we three men-- a Russian acquaintance, a Russian cousin, and an Italian nerd-- saw in awe her petite and smiling mysteriousness.
"Iee do naught know what eet ease, but when sheh step-pid off the plaen from Moscow, Iee could naught help myself."
"Waddaya mean, Dima?" I asked with precedented suspicion, noticing how our eyes (including his) trailed behind her ass as she exited the room earlier.
He thought how best to respond, and with a finger on his lips, he looked up at me and replied assuredly "Iee haff never met her before five days ago. She ease my couseen, ahnd Iee--," he puts an arm over our shoulders, "my friends--haff indulged een forbidden pleasures...."
The ellipsis is for me, not for him. I couldn't think of how to make out what he said.
The toilet flushed, the door squeaked open, and Anya came out in nothing but the large faded shirt with Russian pop culture written on it. Her blonde down and her makeup off, she was more beautiful.
"What?"
We were all huddled, standing and discussing her (a raucous subject), and then interrupted by that very subject of our juxtaposingly quiet dialogue.
Anton didn't react to her presence beyond turning to acknowledge her.
I reacted with a blink and an inaudible and timid "--nothing."
Dima smiled.
I wondered at that, too, squinting my eyes at him as if blurring my vision would brighten my mind.
Anton slept on the couch after smoking cigarettes he rolled himself.
I slept in the bed sprawled and alone and aware of the floored air-mattress below my side, and the sounds I was hearing on it.
Sounds of Dima coming to bed after Anya had fallen asleep, to wake her up and corrupt her. I heard zippers though-are there pajamas with zippers?
They were gone when I awoke, and the mattress looked deflated. I shuffled to the living room, scratched my head, turned it to see Anton waking to see who was shuffling. We smiled at one another, at our incredulity, and went back to sleep.
Train stories: Hick
A sad woman lost to herself sits next to me, and I don't know how when or how I'll tell her to move, but I know why. Her escapes and by-no-means-purifying catharses are seeping into the senses of those whom she surrounds.
The children one seat back can smell her cigarette breaks in the train car's bathroom (though their mother smokes, so I doubt they'll notice). The Red Dog can she pulls from her bag and cracks between her thighs makes me wonder how long she can go without drinking. Makes me wonder how long it's been since she'd been content and sober.
Her attempts at small talk with me, interjected with coughs and hawks hither and thither, make me question how far she allowed her education to go, and whether or not she's ever discussed more than the weather with anyone. I don't mean to sound so pretentious and lofty, but when you're stuck answering "So how about Britney shaving her head-what the hell was that?," it's arduous to agreeably assert that she's an avid thinker.
A Muslim woman walks past and she had to remark "looka that get-up!" nudging my elbow with her own--boney--as if she were a happy uncle of mine. She is not a happy uncle of mine.
I only smiled and nodded, doing as little as possible to cause any sort of advancement on what could potentially be a confusing and/or prejudiced conversation for her, and phantomly responded "It's not a "get-up," as you say, but a head scarf or hijab, I think, symbolic in the Muslim faith of obedience to God and appreciating women beside thei--you're not even caring, are you?"
She got on at Stop A and--an hour later--left for Stop B.
In that time she downed 3 beers she had brought on with her and pulled five cancerstick breaks.
Sometimes, I love America.
The children one seat back can smell her cigarette breaks in the train car's bathroom (though their mother smokes, so I doubt they'll notice). The Red Dog can she pulls from her bag and cracks between her thighs makes me wonder how long she can go without drinking. Makes me wonder how long it's been since she'd been content and sober.
Her attempts at small talk with me, interjected with coughs and hawks hither and thither, make me question how far she allowed her education to go, and whether or not she's ever discussed more than the weather with anyone. I don't mean to sound so pretentious and lofty, but when you're stuck answering "So how about Britney shaving her head-what the hell was that?," it's arduous to agreeably assert that she's an avid thinker.
A Muslim woman walks past and she had to remark "looka that get-up!" nudging my elbow with her own--boney--as if she were a happy uncle of mine. She is not a happy uncle of mine.
I only smiled and nodded, doing as little as possible to cause any sort of advancement on what could potentially be a confusing and/or prejudiced conversation for her, and phantomly responded "It's not a "get-up," as you say, but a head scarf or hijab, I think, symbolic in the Muslim faith of obedience to God and appreciating women beside thei--you're not even caring, are you?"
She got on at Stop A and--an hour later--left for Stop B.
In that time she downed 3 beers she had brought on with her and pulled five cancerstick breaks.
Sometimes, I love America.
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