I Burned My Finger... But enough of that...

So Melissa and I went to Starbucks to write tonight and we worked on this: We created a character to kill off together, each person writing one sentence and then passing the notebook for the next person... We also set the ending line before we started writing: And the kitten piddled in her flowerpot. Enjoy!

***

Hortense-Maria Deloy is a 32 year old Yale drop out (she failed to declare a major, but got straight As) who works as a pole dancer for free, owns a high end website which nobody knows she owns, wears her very very curly hair very very short, has horned rimmed glasses and is wearing a black mini-skirt the day of her death.

She's had three boyfriends, five one-night stands and one girlfriend (The Dean of Yale's daughter). Her father is a radio-preacher and her brother a missionary. She drinks coffee mixed with tea and has spoiled milk for her hang overs.

***

Four years out of Yale, Hortense-Maria Deloy settled in the mansion left to her in her father's will. She wandered the halls for days, reminiscing about the photographs of celebrities posed with her father.

Her favorite was the one of him with Robert Redford outside the MGM Grand Hotel. She spit up on his jacket immediately after it was taken; her father had not been pleased. But of course, a godly man admonishing his four year old daughter in public was unheard of--until then.

Hortense smiled at the memory-- it wasn't often that her dad was publicly humiliated.

On the fifth day of wandering her house alone, Hortense heard a hurried knock at the door.

One hand went to her hair--perfectly chaotic curls cut close to her head that made her look like an electrocuted cow. The other hand straightened the horned rimmed glasses and pushed them back up the bridge of her nose.

With a toss of her head she opened the door-- and found a wild-eyed woman with smudged make up and straining eyes leveling a gun at her.

"Oh," she said. "Hi Mom."

"I've never forgiven you." Her mother's hand trembled on the trigger.

Hortense made a face and sighed. "He was too young for you anyways,"

"He was NOT!" Her mother shrieked. "I loved that man with a passion you will never be able to understand... you were no more than a child!"

"Just like dad?"

Her mom had a faraway look in her eyes. "That man was an idol, a god, a genius born for the camera. And your father was nothing more than a second-rate preacher!"

Hortense smiled dreamily. "That man WAS a god... Oh those lovely, round little--"

"Fingers!" her mother yelled. The dreamy look was replaced with one of inconceivable rage. "His beautiful, beautiful fingers! And you-- you SPIT UP all over them!"

AND THEN HORTENSE-MARIA DELOY GOES CRAZY AND RUNS INTO A FLOWERPOT THAT SHATTERS AND PIERCES HER RIGHT AORTA, MAKING HER LEFT VENTRICLE EXPLODE!

Her mom looked down at the corpse.

"Shit," she said. "I waited too long." She noticed the neighbor's cat, who had come running at the sound of shattering ceramic.

Hortense's mother gave the cat a familiar nod. "Do your best, pussy."

And the kitten fucking piddled in her fucking flowerpot.

A Long Due Blog Post

So, it's been... three weeks? Four weeks?

Where has May been in the past four weeks?

Mexico, Cuba, LA.

Quite fun. I'll update more at some other time. Right now I'm listening to my friend Melissa talk on the phone with a guy we met over the summer. He is eating salad right now and it is loaded with cheese and it's delicious and it's having a partay in his mouth yo.

So far, no one's brought the booze and no ones puking. It's apparently just a mild dance party. Laaaame.

Ta-ta!

Rusty Paperclips

This is a borderline tacky poem indirectly inspired by the Senior Project that I wrote today. (For those of you who don't know what that is, I'll probably end up ranting about it sometime, so no worries.)

***

Rusty Paperclips

Make my fingers burn.
Rusty paperclips
They make little brown lines
On important paper and
Love notes, maybe.

And maybe the papers cry out
If they knew…
If they knew…
But they don’t know—
That rusted metal is what leaves
Scars on their fresh corners.

***

Adios.

This is Not Working

... it really isn't. This is the second freewrite I did tonight.

***

This is not working. You look at him and open your mouth to speak or kiss. You're not sure which. But you definitely know this is not working.

He intimidates you- how confusing. You see a little sparkle in his iris- of the streetlights and yellow lamps and yes, maybe the red light from the gas gauge. There's that little glint, almost as if he knows, but you know he doesn't and maybe that makes you a prick but guess what? It's true.

But you're too timid to try anything. You think of all the implications, you think of the awkward immediate future. You always tell people to "live in the moment". "Go for it!" and you're a fucking hypocrite because the only hand that's holding you back now is your own.

And before you know it, you convince yourself that nothing will happen anyways. He's going a good 20 over the speed limit- literally, but you're not keeping pace- symbolically. If the car didn't exist, you'd be left at the start.

So now you're pulling up along the curb- dark street. Somehow, they forgot the street lamps here. You linger a while, procrastinating. But wait. Did you just compare him to a piece of homework?

A moment, music filling the silence, thank goodness. You think about working up your nerve but he smiles and gets out of the car to walk you up. Goddammit. You liked that song too!

There's still hope- maybe. But now you're at the door, saying how it was a great evening. God, he is smoking in a t-shirt and dress pants.

He leans in. You will your heart to start beating faster, but then he hugs you and says goodbye and when you're standing on the inside welcome mat, you make yourself smile but secretly think

Fuck.

Haiku

Melissa and I went to Starbucks today and did some freewritin', so here ye are. The beginning word was 'haiku'.

***

I taste my coffee.
Its vanilla and sugar
mixed into dessert.

***

I write haikus in the clues of my crossword puzzles. Most of the readers don't even know what a haiku is and most of them don't do the crosswords. So I guess you could safely say that only old people sitting in their rocking chairs and stuffy over-decorated living rooms read my poetry.

In Tempton, Missouri, working for "The Newspaper" is not a big deal. Somebody has to do it- just like somebody has to write the crossword puzzles that nobody but Aunt Betty and Grandma Martha do.

I'm not complaining. If I didn't like Tempton, I could be in New York in two hours. My brother has a plane three minutes out of Tempton. But the truth is, I like this place. I like it's quiet naivete and it's little scandals and mocking birds in the mornings.

One quiet day, I got home from work, took the semi-winding road up to my front door and opened the mailbox to a surprise- an official looking letter among the usual advertisements and family greetings.

With a finger, I slit open the letter and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. It said only this:

We like your haikus.
Come to New York and work here.
The Times welcomes you.

***

Ta-Da. (I actually have no idea if there is a Tempton, Missouri... so yeah).