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You’ll have a Boston accent in no time.

I walked myself home from the date, alone.

Past the silhouettes of a couple breaking up
beneath the metal staircase at the construction site.
Backlit by the street-lamps on the square,
Snippets of her exasperation reverberating against the steel. 
Cold air and echoes of argument. 

I’ve done the whole flustered-but-adoring-academic routine before.
Perfected the art.
I could write a thesis on it.

I’m not interested in kissing a smoker.
I’m am somewhat interested in kissing you.
You seem awfully charming after a few cocktails,
And so on. 

And ho! Barkeep!
A salve, good sir, for the anxious polyglot!
Shaking like an over-caffeinated leaflet.



Today Academia informed me that someone in Rome cited me, or cited someone by my name.
My long Italian name which I am, it turns out, mispronouncing. Sure, I could be reasonable and assume it’s just a shared name. But it’s not so unreasonable that at last, one if the many PhD candidates I have nursed through their dissertations, went ahead and gave me some credit where it’s due.

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The hill I will die on is that I am not walking up that fucking hill with you.

Sunday, 12:59 p.m.

I think I can see it, the end.
There exists an illusion we face towards the exit, wherein the tunnel seems longer for a moment,
Stretching out towards the light.
Where we can slow down, hold our breath, and decide.

I say this every Sunday. The I’m done mantra.
But, it’s usually a ritual reserved for the evening, and it’s barely the afternoon.
My patience is creeping in, cutting off your time.

Monday, 6:13 a.m.

You make me pray for awful things, for the will to stop loving.
I won’t let you sap all compassion from me.

What a lazy and romantic poisoning.
You’re a grumpy patch of weeds.

“Have a nice week. Have a nice life, I guess. Be good.”

I will, respectively,
Do precisely that,
Do my absolute best,
And do no such thing.

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Christ, the man brought me a flower. Not flowers, a flower, a living breathing thing begging to be a metaphor.


God, I must be so convenient for you.

I want to be careful.
No,- I want to be adored.
I am absolutely incapable of being careful, and relentlessly capable of care.

You son of a bitch, you brought me a flower.
Not flowers.
Not some thing I can appreciate and let shrivel up by Wednesday
Like ten bucks of affection gone dry.

No, you,
You fucking asshole
Brought me a beautiful thing which I will surely destroy.

I was raised by a borderline wood nymph, and yet
Inherited nothing close to a green thumb,
I am reckless with plants
I am preposterously incapable.

Give me a man at his lowest depths and lord
Can I resurrect him with my tongue alone.

But give me a plant and watch it be
Smothered, drowned by my keen attention.

I am nothing if not
an affectionate thunderstorm.

And God, this poor blossom,
This orchid, doomed,
I’ve named her Eurydice.
For I, as Orpheus, shall do my best to keep her from death.

I do nothing but kill things.

God save her from me.

My friend warned me that she will shed her petals in the coming weeks
As the city turns cold and retreats.

Well, I will say, “here is Eurydice, my stick who imagines she is a flower.”

My friend warns me, further,
that the stem will also die,
but there will be leaves, and promises
A hefty requirement of patience
A relentless necessity of due diligence.

Eurydice, soon stumped and longing for sun
Perched at a north-facing window
On the corner of my dining room table
Dormant.
Indirectly sunlit.
Gorgeous,
Not dead yet.

Some thing I must nurse back in to existence,
A thing I must watch die
And sleep
And be reborn
And not once acknowledge as an analogy for anything in my life.

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Olfactory Conundrums of a Hum-drum Existence

My shoulders smell like your sweat.

I should soap up,

Should wash you out.

I’m sacred enough

I’m decently dirty.

Latex and lubricant scented everything,

All my corners, how you’ve kissed them clean.

What a thing to bend to,

Each joint angled toward a lustful embrace with your mouth.

I don’t even know you,

And you know so little of the world or the ways of women,

Yet.

Yet, you.

Skilled, some natural talent,

Gorgeous and you don’t know it yet.

“This is like a second g-spot for you, your lower back”

(I showed you how to hold me like he does. You learned well.)

You lift me into your arms,

Precisely, like some tiny, precious thing.

Press me me against the wall, a flower betwixt pages in a bible.

My moans escape into the courtyard and echo throughout the evening,

My everything captive to you for so long as you please.

So tall.

I could have used you,

Back when I had to hang the curtains.

I could use you.

So tell,

Tell me,

Should I keep you?

“Wow”

“What?”

“Beautiful. You. You’re beautiful.”

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Operation Over-Under

It would seem that I’m an insatiable minx,
Suggestively bruised,
“Did I give you that scratch?”

Just a bit of sweat
Between acquaintances. A bit
of latex, and
little left
to the imagination
I’m having a delightful time,
Save for the occasional sore throat.

Though, perhaps I should practice
more subtlety,
Lest my reputation precede me.
She makes a grand entrance,
a cacophony.
Rumor has it,
The girl goes down easy.

I’ve nothing to apologize for,
He tells me I’m a good girl,
Tells me he wants more.

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Short Stories & Essays, Uncategorized

I Speak Not of Shepherds, Father.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been innumerable years since my last confession. “

“May the lord help you to confess your sins, my child”

“Father, I have lied, but I have done so oft in the name of love, or companionship, but these lies have begun to weigh on me, and I feel I must speak my truth.”

“Yes, my child, tell me how you have lied.”

“I can no longer pretend to like Davids, father. I have lied about my favor for so many Davids.”

“Davids? Do you speak of Shepherds?”

“No father, I speak of artists. David…ack, I can barely say it aloud father.

“Tell me my child, who is this David?”

“Lynch, father, I can not longer pretend to enjoy and care for the work of filmmaker and personality David Lynch. I fear that by speaking this truth I will be ostracized by my friends and loved ones, but it has to stop.”

“Ahh, my child, of course there’s some disagreement about season two of Twin Peaks, and where his real vision came in to play, but season one seems in like with your interests, no?”

“Indeed father, whimsy, and murder mysteries, and Kyle Machlachlan are things I adore. But, I just don’t care for it.”

“Even Blue Velvet?”

“Even Blue Velvet, father.”

“That is indeed a burden to bear. I will keep you in my prayers in this trying time.”

“And Father, there’s more…”

“My child, do not tell me you speak of the other, the most sacred of Davids…”

“Bowie?! Absolutely not, father! I would never dare besmirch his honor. But, in truth, there is another David who I can no longer suffer to feign enthusiasm for. It’s David Byrne, father.”

“A yes, and you may find yourself, in a catholic confessional booth, and you may ask yourself, how did I get here?”

“Good one. A real dad-joke, or a real father-joke. Indeed, I enjoy that song when it comes on the radio. I nod my head when acquaintances, cousins, young teacher’s assistants, and even lovers espouse the “genius” of David Byrne. But I do not feel the same admiration in my heart, and it fills me with shame.”

“My child, these are grave deviances from what we have declared good. For your penance, you must learn the lyrics of an obscure talking heads song, and practice your poker face in the mirror 50 times. And 50 Hail Marys.”

“Yes father”

“Tell me child, are there more?”

“Not quite. I mean I always preferred the intro to A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, but that’s allowed, yes?”

“Ah yes, brother Eggers, indeed, we make room for those who love the intro as well as the memoir itself. Our flock is open to all.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Yes my child, I leave you with your penance to make at home, but before we leave let us say the lord’s prayer together. And may God give you strength to find your way back to the flock.”

“I am ready, father”

“You remind me of the babe…”

“What babe?”

“The babe with the power?”

“What power?”

“The power of voodoo..”

“Who do?”

“You do!”

“Do what?”

“Remind me of the babe!”

“Amen.”

“Amen.”

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Short Stories & Essays, Uncategorized

The kinds of thing I text fuckboys. God save me.

There is, quite honestly, no where I’d rather be than on a train. Waiting in the car, at the station, early enough to have found a good seat, by the window, and next to a person whose arm I can gather affectionately across my lap, my fingers tracing lazy spirals on their forearm, their thumb tracing purposeful, flirtatious arches across my knee. And perhaps a kiss on the shoulder, it wouldn’t be so greedy or untoward to wish for one, in this, a description of a perfect moment.

There is nowhere I would rather be than situated in the blissful beginning of a good time: past the anxiety, the which platform and where to sit, the where is your ticket and it said I had to print it but I am sure they will accept it from the phone. And where to let go of the baggage, emotional or otherwise? And should we pack a lunch?

The bit after that:

In that blissful moment, the quiet, when I (when we) can exhale amidst the shuffling of footsteps, and look out a window toward something. When I know I am going somewhere.

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Ugh.

Well, everyone that was telling me to move on has to eat their words, because I bent myself backwards to do it.

I am going to hate myself when I wake up, so I am avoiding going to sleep. Avoiding the inevitable.

He didn’t ask for much in way of approval. The blissful ignorance of a handsome and preposterously well-endowed man, to ask nothing and try everything.

NO. (Don’t put your hand on my throat. )

At least he listened to that.

I proved…something? What a mediocre victory.

I am going to go shower forever.

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