it’s truly amazing what people can get away with, he said, putting out the cigarette. what’s funny, and completely absurd, is what they convince themselves they can get away with.
he looks dead at you. but you my friend, you can’t get away with shit.
the turn
-what’s the turn?
-the turn? boy, don’t you know about that yet? that’s when things end.
-why is it that?
-goddamn it boy, you just show up or somethin’? it’s when someone’s gone as far as they gonna go, and they decide to turn back.
-that obvious huh?
-fuck yeah it’s obvious. it’s a whole new change in the weather in a different country. it’s like waking up one day and you don’t speak the same language anymore.
-there’s no stopping it, is there?
-listen boy, it’s the natural order of things. friends, lovers, family. they all turn. they have to. one day, they all change. so do you, boy. so do you.
-i don’t want to.
-boy, you’ve been turning so fast you might as well be a top.
christening toast
thank you all for coming, etc, etc.
children are amazing. when i first met christina, i think i scared her witless. i mean she cried for days. maria told me not to take it personally. but i knew better. christina was going to be tough nut to crack. so it’s been going like this for about a year now, we’d see maria and john and the girls and right on cue, christina starts bawling. until recently, her father was putting something together, and i was helping him, and christina just stumbles out, stepping all over me, starts helping us too. next thing you know, she takes me by the hand, by the finger actually, and starts pulling me around. showing me off, like, “hey everybody, look at my clown!”
there’s something of her grandfather, john’s father, in her. this defiance. this stalwart determination to have things on her terms. that’s how i remember John’s father. God, he was a brick of a man. he was full of history and laughter. and he always took me seriously. when i met my then future wife, he took us out for breakfast to size her up. he told me not to play games with this one. obviously he approved. and he always had this godfather-esque air about him. So you can imagine the irony, and the absolute delight I feel, when John and Maria asked US to be Christina’s godparents. look at her. god, those eyes, aren’t they something? With 2 other girls, John’s already in trouble, but the eyes on this one. He’s going to need my help too. and we are completely willing, it would be our honor.
Maria, John, I cannot tell you what a privilege it truly is, to bring our families even closer like this, through the christening of your daughter and in the memory of your father. I still miss his laughter but i can almost hear it again, in Christina’s own.
Na mas zeesee!
what do you want to be when you grow up?
I asked the little one what she wanted to be when she grew up.
She thought about it. “I wanna be a princess and a fire engine”
“you must mean a fireman, err, a firefighter.”
she shakes her head, “no a fire engine.”
“with ladders and sirens and hoses?”
she nods her head, “yeah!”
spin
she must like the taste of my pussy on your lips.
what if we turned the genders around, is it still as vicious?
he must like the taste of my dick on your lips.
no. it’s not, is it? this comes close though:
he must like the smell of my cock on your breath.
why is that?
my own hate
people get confused. they think that when i say, “my hatred is my own,” they think i hate myself, that i’m talking about self hatred. but you’re wrong, so very wrong. i hate you. truly i do, i hate you all.
and i’ve worked very hard to keep it safe. i’ll never let you see it. i’ll never let you own it. i will never give it to you. i will never give in, it is mine.
all this hate is mine.
lecherous
we offer him a cigarette, it’s what we always do in the beginning.
“no, no,” he shakes his head like we were offering him spoiled fruit, “get that shit out of my face. do i look like i smoke?” he points to himself, then shows us his hands, “huh? you see any tobacco stains here? huh?” his eyes bounce between us, indignant. “that shit’s for the weak. for addicts.”
alright, we say. alright let’s begin.
“what people always forget is that you never really are who you say you are. you start out one way, any way but you can only be that way for so long.” he raises a hand over his face, as if he was casting a spell over himself, “but eventually you change. it can’t be helped. you can only tolerate that weepy shit for so long.”
we ask, what does he mean?
exasperated, he points to one of us, “c’mon, you know, when you play it like you care. buying flowers or telling some sob story like your dog died or something.” he begins to whisper, as if he telling us a secret. we all lean forward, “i usually tell them someone i loved died. anyone. a friend, a wife, a kid. that’s how you eventually get to fuck ’em.” he bursts into laughing, “get it, ‘fuck em’? every which way to sunday i tell ya.” folds his arms, shakes his head, “every fucking which way to sunday.”
we know, we’ve read the reports. he kept the bodies for days, then put them in the crawl space under the trailer.
“you know, when i was kid, i read this book,” he plays with his hands, studies his fingernails. we found pieces of their skin still there. “it was about all these travels in the world,” he looks off to the right, “they still don’t know who wrote it. marco polo or columbus. but there’s this one line and i swear they must’ve been talking about us, about the ‘glades.” he closes his eyes, “something like ‘in that country… there are many, many crocodiles, that slay men,’ get this, ‘while they weep‘.” he looks at us again, “you believe that shit? crocodiles weeping, cryin’?”
he shakes his head, “i’ve never shed a fucking tear for any of them.”
the last time, rev.2
do you remember the last time?
this is the last time, don’t you remember?
what? no, not this time, but the time before.
will this be the last time you do this to me?
this is the last time you ask me that.
not since the last time have i felt this way
this is nothing like that. the last time was better.
bitter? did you say you were bitter last time?
that’s not what i said. this is exactly what i am talking about.
what are you talking about? what are you talking about?
this is not going to be like last time.
yeah, you better believe it won’t be.
oh come on. don’t be like that
does it matter? it doesn’t fucking matter.
yes it does. one last time. please.
do you even remember the last time?
no, of course not. not at all. it’s all a blur.
i can’t believe you. how could you say that?
i’ve heard this all before.
i hate you.
yeah, that wouldn’t be the first time either.
do you miss me baby?
i miss you kissing my shoulder. i miss the look on your face when you abandon yourself. i miss the feeling of being with you. being told where to touch. i miss figuring your body out. miss messing around with it. i miss your hand on my body. i miss your desire. miss the angles of our bodies trying to get it on together, trying to get off on one another. goddamn you for making me miss you this way.
s/he hungers for it
she hungers for it, for something to bounce back, for something to stick. so many things stuck inside her it’s hard to tell what he left behind and what he meant to give.
he hungers for it, for something to come back, for something to be found. so many things lost that it’s hard for him to tell what he had given her and what she stole.
they hunger for it, something to push back, for someone to shove. so many times they’ve touched each other but they’ve already gone numb. they’re already gone.