Your smile was the first death in the family.

December 22, 2008 at 8:20 pm | Posted in writing | 1 Comment
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**I’m cleaning out my computer’s hard drive and I found a bunch of creative writing blergs from high school. They are mostly from sophomore and junior year.

Your smile was the first death in the family.

The last time I saw you smile, it was a Thursday night. I remember because you laughed at a dumb joke I told about Dick Cheney. I was particularly happy with myself because I made the joke up on my own. We were washing dishes and you were listening to me complain about corporate monopolies and the outrageous rise in Girl Scout cookies. Used to my pessimistic rants, you indulged me with a neutral shake of your head and passed me Mom’s X-Files mug to dry. There was still a smudge of cocoa on the bottom, but I put it back on the shelf anyway. Continue Reading Your smile was the first death in the family….

I was 24 when my mom was born.

December 6, 2008 at 2:58 pm | Posted in writing | Leave a comment
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The first thing – past the uterine walls – they see is the bright clashing wallpaper. Ducks and llamas sashaying across a green background. The screaming follows.

The slightly dimmer scrubs and white gloves distract few from the repeated duck and llama poses. The artist undoubtedly thought This, this will properally usher the babe into humandome. Don’t tell me llamas and ducks aren’t stimulating. Oversized bills, exagerated cuddleability. The babe is lucky.

Countless mothers disagree. Continue Reading I was 24 when my mom was born….

FACEs are only on my piano.

November 18, 2008 at 8:29 pm | Posted in writing | Leave a comment
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My life is pixelated, populated by unfathomable faces, persons unknown.
All day I walk around looking at shoes, hanging my head like it’s chained to Hell, avoiding eye contact as if it conducts a new strain of the black plague.
Perhaps wondering, pondering the self-censored cardboard cutouts that frump into and out of my life morning day and night.
Ask me what she looks like, what she wears. I couldn’t say.
Remember her? Him? Them? It?
Vaguely.
The back of my mind works overtime to keep meaning at a distance. Glasses are my brain’s way of saying Don’t Look Now.
I don’t. Without the tinkered lenses everything geometrizes into the basic shapes. Lamp-ish, bed-ish, friend-ish. With glasses, things get complicated.
Pixels, black boxes over faces. Whatever it takes to show you that I’m not the friend to cry to. My shoulders are too low too broad too water-resistant.
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The nutgraf clearly coincides with another L word Funk. I’d like to slap some fictional characters around, and then maybe start with my future self. Stupid things clamor to cram my horoscope yet I still run home to fortune cookies at night, not sophisticated enough to chopstick my rice, not desperate to get drunk and dial for extended metaphors i can’t afford.
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vaccinate yourself from the world.

October 11, 2008 at 8:31 pm | Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment
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west coast ringer
L.A. blinger
bring her or give me
the mother fucking finger
two cents heads up
penny wars butts up
schlep them battles to
a body that prattles less
cares more Congress only pays
the whores
Shore (sure) Kleenax Chlorax
formaldehyde in cellared wine
makes for cyanide to faintly minds
wrench please
wenchs read corner humping
young men
old guys on mattresses
and roaches right
trenchcoat coke
snorting chalk walk the stingy drug walk
killing people with every buy dont know why
they dont vaccinate for shit like this.

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