my yearly installment of what i am considering going as for halloween (now that working has destroyed me):
- cat
- cat
- cat
- cat
- cat
- bug
- fifties woman
- princess
- princess
- guy in jeans
- woman in short skirt
- princess
- princess
- princess
- bug
- jeans guy
white tea
jessie wants gestures.
not hand gestures.
she wants big gestures,
romantic gestures.
but it’s not as if she doesn’t appreciate
the little things, like hand gestures.
it’s just, she’s already been there,
she’s already appreciated them.
the way she sees it:
some women want to get married,
and some women want to live every day
like it’s their wedding day
(source needed).
if you’re a mister or a misses, please feel free
to correct me if i’m wrong here,
but getting married, i imagine,
is a lot like hosting saturday night live.
which brings us to:
the eighteenth of november,
and jessie is standing at the altar with jamie,
the only boyfriend she’s ever had.
the baby, or whatever it is,
isn’t going to happen, hopefully,
until her family and his family
are getting along better.
they both say, “i do,”
and it’s a good thing.
at the reception,
the deejay, thirty-five years old, a black guy,
is throwing down an ecclectic mix
of hits
for the diverse crowd.
every song he queues up has three things:
a beat and a purpose
AND SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL SOUL.
off in the corner, suzy, a divorcee,
is throwing out her thoughts
like bouquets
to the bride’s friends and maids.
“always a bride’s maid,
never again a bride,” she assures them.
in this less than perfect world,
these two meet up:
the bitter bride’s maid
and the black deejay,
in a bedroom a few blocks away
from the reception hall.
surrounded by candles
and their competing aromas,
our deejay (black) places his face
next to suzy’s neck,
runs his hand down her back,
and waits
until she turns to him.
“we had a live band,” she says,
“at my wedding.”
battleship
why am i so nervous about going to this thing tonight?
usually, my fears are more rational than this, more universal.
rationaler even.
i’m afraid of battleships–
being on one or being attacked by one–
but who isn’t?
i know it’s not because she’ll be there.
or him.
or them.
it’s not that we’ll all be there together, seperately.
i guess i am afraid of her, and him, and them a little,
but aren’t those pretty understandable fears?
going to the same party as your ex-girlfriend
is probably a lot like hosting saturday night live.
you’re nervous, it’s exhilarating,
but afterwards you have to wonder
if closing that chapter of your life
was worth being torn apart inside.
OK.
it’s really getting to me now.
i’m more solicitous than a virgin on prom night,
holding the hand of a pretty girl,
a grade younger,
full of expectations,
a mouth full of metal,
and clunky.
a battleship.
fucking art. that guy shouldn’t even be responsible for answering a phone, let alone talking on one or following up on things discussed on one.
flu season
i will not get the shot.
i do not need your vaccine.
this season,
when the flu comes,
i will face it head on.
it will remember me.
no, no, no,
put that needle down now.
dies.
of boredom.