he’s not my responsibility. but why does my heart hurt so much when he is being reprimanded? It’s like I can sense his feeling of sadness. I wish I could just hate him, or forget he even existed. It’s so useless.

Rattlesnake Red

It’s an autumn afternoon in ’72. The girl is laying on the couch in a floral dress, hiked up to her upper thighs. It is sweltering. Thoughts are racing in her mind; of mens’ fingers in her mouth, wet and hard, their hands gripping her side, hips along hips; through the door she listens to her ex-lover masturbate– she can’t help it. Her body temperature is rising. Her breathing quickens. What kind of suffering is this?


You know how music can invoke very strong memories? Yesterday I decided to put on some music after we had bottled our beer. I suddenly remembered this one instrumental track off The Great Beauty film OST called “More than Scarlet.” Immediately when I put it on, a very specific memory rushed up to the surface of my mind:

It was sometime in the middle of May, nighttime. We were on my bed, and all I can remember is the blue hue from my speakers illuminating the space. We must have been a little bit high; he put on the song, “More than Scarlet,” and immediately, as if we were human magnets, our bodies collided in unison as our hands desperately searched each other’s skin– we kissed so deeply, so insatiably, over and over… It was in that moment when I finally understood what it meant to be infinite. We both had uncovered an unending fountain of passion within ourselves, triggered by a simple song.

An imprint of transcendental ecstasy.

The Loneliest Monday (a shit poem/daily recap)

today was the loneliest monday.
it rained.
loneliness drove me to the pub.
the best part of this monday
was the two dollar mac and cheese,
with the sriracha on top.

five minutes left of the game,
i didn’t care. but my eyes kept wandering
to the screen like they were meant to.
truckers came and went.
i made eye contact with a chef with turquoise hair.

maybe they all stared while
i had my head in a book of short stories.
talked to a bored waitress about nothing.
it was all small-talk, anyway.

then, that foo fighters song you used to sing
came on, and i heard your voice in my head.
i cried when i got home;

curled up on the bed (i made the sheets)
in my pajamas,
in the dark,
and my cat, he curled up beside me too.
sometimes i wonder if he can recognize the sound
of a human sobbing, and what it means.

at the end of my nap in the grey afternoon
i wake from erotic dreams
psychology text books, and my best friend’s hands
running south along my body
and me sighing

But this doesn’t happen in the real world
when mondays are sad.
in this world there is nothing but the rain
and empty bottles.

Wonderment in a Dish Room

I’ve arrived home at the time some are just waking up and warming up their cars. No, I didn’t go out binge drinking, nor was I having a one-night stand. I simply accepted the invitation to have tea with a stranger and thus, my night unfolded. Honestly, I have not been interested in sex or physical intimacy as much as I used to. I am more interested in friendly, genuine, human connection. Starved of any real friendships in this town as of yet, I had to resort to other, more convenient means to meet people. I met Andrew on the Tinder App. But I told him straight away what my intentions were, and drew my boundaries. He invited me over for tea at midnight, so I impulsively accepted the invitation.

Fast forward one hour and we are bundled up in separate sleeping bags, on a picnic blanket, in the darkness of his backyard, slowly coming up on MDMA, our bodies sprawled beneath the arm of the milky way. Conversation flowed like water into a dry river bed. The satiation of connecting my mind with another person filled me with such wonder. We shared our pasts, our dreams, our bizarre fantasies, our faults. We illustrated to each other the journey we were each on and what we’ve learned. We were like pulsars; two bodies, never touching, but revolving around each other brightly and endlessly in one, long moment. How spectacular it felt to illuminate my thoughts with the light of another’s perspective!

Wonderment in a Dish Room
It’s all of the details that make up a person
No matter what you do in life, no matter if you are in the lowest position, working the shittiest job: it’s all in the perspective. There is always something new you can contribute, another way to see things, more effective ways to do your job. Things aren’t just what they are on the surface. It’s the details that make something unique.

I am now in bed, in the dark. Mu is laying to the right of me. He’s happy i’m home.

It is 5:24 A.M.

The song of the night is:¬†Your Ex-Lover is Dead¬†by Stars. The music ended just as I pulled up to the front of my house. That’s when you know it was right.