one day, he says, kissing me between the words, i want to have the courage to say one of these things first. i close my eyes; i smile. it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, my heart says to his. i tell him this with my kiss: we breathe this in and out to each other, and we tattoo it onto each other's skin with our kisses, and we cover each other with this absolutely everywhere we put our hands. it doesn't matter at all who says it. it doesn't matter at all who says the things we both just know.
The birth of the criminal happened in a dumpster. « Je parle cake et los foodos mezicanos », j’ai dit une nuit. « Mais pourquoi est que tu a mangée TOUT LE GATEAU ? » elle m’a dit. « je ne sais pas »
And then they said “damn, your French is real bad.”
I was a dark, dreary, loathsome night: full of ripping, stinging screams and puffs of tears dancing in the haze of the nuit.
“So it goes” said the toad.
Ribbit, ribbit, rub it. Rub it good.
Tu parles anglais très mal! Muy mal en espagnol-o !
the promise of you is a whisper outside of earshot. you're a secret i don't need to hear, one i stop for anyway, a bunch of none of my business. the promise of you sings softly to itself. the promise of you is a separate being breathing quietly beside me. if it huffed, if it roared, if it snorted, raged, blared... if it even seethed, i'd be easy. but it waits. it watching me makes me want to run headlong, headlong into you! but i wait. patience is a weapon, not a virtue, and the promise of you is mine.
i was begging for yes until he surprised me by saying it -- and then i was wishing for the safety of no a little longer. it’s panic, calm quiet panic, and like everything else about this love it’s brand new. falling for the first time, i think, mentally mocking myself. that’s some thunder, he says. i know, i smile, thinking he must love it like i do. oh, baby, i whisper, an afterthought, acknowledgment of the tilt of his hips - electric - underneath mine. he waits until the next thunderclap to say he might be a little scared. of thunder.
he uses one fingertip to paint shapes on my stomach -- a carrot, he says, with wings. he turns me over and spreads color across my back: lavender, seafoam green, sky blue -- not just one solid color, he says, but all the blues together that the sky really is. he hasn't painted my arms or my breasts, and he has done nothing but splash a base coat of the palest greenblue on my feet and legs. i'm sure i will paint and repaint this canvas, he says, but... mm, i say. i don't mind being a work in progress.
I wish you all farewell. To those that hoist up the standard, take heart! The soul of a writer is a rewarded, sound, sometimes mischievous thing, of which we all can take our dearest parts. Write with the mind of the student; live with the wisdom of the acolyte.
Always be ready to challenge your beliefs on the field of intellectual and emotional battle. This is why I have come to leave. Not because I am tired, and have grown accustomed to sleep, but because I have come awake, and realized the time has drawn close to fight again. Slainte!
i always said that everything looks different when you're in love, and it always did, too -- everything was was more colorful. but this, now. this makes everything look golden, beautiful, striking, original, new. when i close my eyes, i see colors on everything, on his words, on our kisses, underneath his hands, reds and teals and golds and purples ringing bright and beautiful like bells in my ear. when he reaches out to put his hands on me, it's touch and sight and sound and taste all coming at me and if i tell him things like that, he closes his eyes and kisses me harder.
"that's why it's so hard to actually make that statement," he says. "you just can't know what’ll happen." "but it shouldn’t be such an issue!” i say. "i know," he says, "but some people are just … psychos." "you know what it's like," i say, thinking the thing through. "it's like i said, 'i just wanted to tell you i have a serious crush on you,' and he threw a bucket of water in my face and started waving his hands and yelling 'FIRE!' he’s just freaking out about nothing at all -- and i’m just standing there all wet."
He's there every day; all his wordly possessions are in that cart hung with garbage bags. He has a bucket he overturns and uses for a chair. Cardboard sign printed in a wavering block hand: VETERAN PLEASE HELP. It's weatherbeaten so badly, one can only imagine how long he has been staking out the little shade tree next to the 7-11. Hunched over, grey-bearded, he remains there until someone comes out and tells him to move. Then he toddles away for a little while, but always returns, holding the ever-present vigil that has now become his life.
I've been on uppuhs, downuhs, diagnols, n evrythin in between. I know I'm jus a face wit a heart, but you all's just bodies, not even a mind in yuh heads. I know I'm in a HOSpital now n you all's shakin yuh empty heads at me but you alls ain't no bettuh. You alls been duped intuh thinkin life ain't no drug, love ain't no drug, money ain't no drug. You's jus as addicted as me, cept I know when MY high's comin down, I know what I'm doin to muhself, and I done seen my OWN evuhlastin light!