the last conversations

I stayed up until 3 with Gunmetal; when I arrived he was with date. She was poised and pretty and as I went to the bathroom I shut the door and sang a tune to myself- it was about someones plenty, I was trying to remember the song "when you're gone" by the cranberries. I heard him repeating the lines through the door. I opened it and lit his toothbrush with paste. He began to pee and with foaming mouth hurriedly asked me hushed to tell him immediately of any impressions I had of the Date. 

"I know she may seem just pretty, and that's why I asked her out because I just saw pretty, but now I know she's actually smart, and you can throw a ball at her, if you throw a ball at her she'll quietly hold it, she'll subtly toss it around in her hands and then she'll fling it back. So you can do that. So you should, and it's important to me what you think, as a girl too, as the only girl in new york who's most like me." He finished pissing and brushing and I thanked him for the complement. I told him I didn't have enough information left...

He made her a cd which he held out on over dinner, uncertain if she was worthy or not. He ended up giving it to her, along with a bar of chocolate wrapped in white tissue paper. I said, okay mom, and am not sure if he was wise. I suppose now, though, we'll find out on which side she stands. Afraid much? Don't let in on him. 

After awhile I tended to feel my head heavy; my eyes dried up in my skull as the contacts hadn't been taken out in a day. I didn't sleep at home the night before, and in fact avoided the place for a day. But only because I knew all I'd see was remnants of good times past. On the coffee table there still sits tobacco flakes and spilt wine etcetera from a thursday weeks ago, the last thursday of some certain loves. And the beginnings of others. Soda left back to Tucson and the glass-eyed cowboy turned a little to dust. And cups with ancient lemon slices sitting in their bottoms, from the night of white horse when K bellowed my name, face inside the toilet bowl... I need you! I didn't want to come home to these pretty filthy little memories and to the cat Mexico, the only person on whom I can depend. I hate that I have to call the cat a person now, and that when I arrive or awaken it's there, white and with a mew, and I say, oh hi, Mexico, oh hi baby kitty, how are you. And then I kiss it and tell it I love it. Go to work and people accuse me of kissing white fur as it's decorating my face and lips. Pathetic! So I stayed away for a night, the night previous, and, eyes dried, head hanging, back in pain, wanting a massage. So Gray grabs me and feels my spine and accuses me of having scoliosis, which parannoys me. 

How can you tell? I ask him. He says, imagine how many women I've slept with. Imagine how well I know the curve of each spine. My first girlfriend had intense scoliosis. I used to have to tighten the screws on her brace. I interject that this conversation is really making me uncomfortable. That I have to go peel my eyeballs from my head. He begins to dance, telling me that this particular song on is "so yours." I can't dance and he hugs me and gives me a kiss on the mouth and I leave soothed, wondering. Are best friends in a future for me.

The night before I went out when work finished. A boy in particular I was to walk home. He said to me, I would invite you up but it would be a bad idea.

I said okay, and we walked and there was his house. We looked at one another for ten seconds. He said again, I would invite you up but it is a bad idea.

I said, okay, well if you do I am going to accept.

He said okay.

He apologized that his spotless room was a mess. Labradors on bedsheets. He said, this is awkward. 

No, we're just going to sleep. We got into bed, his arm around me. After a few minutes he said he thought maybe we should take our pants off, dreams ensued.

In the morning the sun shown down intently. I was in a sweat and was greeted with nervous breaths and corner eye looks. This was a bad idea we shouldn't have done this, he of course said. He left the room and I said aloud to give us breaks. I dressed and he stood in the doorway. He started a conversation while silently urging me to leave as I put on my socks. I sat there after trying my shoes and we stared for longer. I got up and he asked me for a phonenumber which somehow punctuated a patheticness that was to immediately radiate through me. 

That day I camped out in ft. greene. I watched four episodes of sex & the city at Dave's. They were about threesomes, blow jobs, and finally, pregnancy. I got a little tearyeyed, on the inside of course, during the last episode. And vowed to myself to never again watch such heartbreaking trash. 

I refuse to have the guilt complexes and fearfulnesses of all the others radiate into my little existence. I am still regretless, as best I can, and am pleased to make the avoidance of these disconcerting little neuroses. True I'm all too eager to acquaint myself with these awkwardly delicious human beings, feeling and feeling and feeling again, and a tearing at a face to smile later. 

this is all of moderate import

Almost last winter turning spring in portland I purchased a pair of black doc martens. Brand new, & too large for me. If I get ahold of some insoles, however, they'll be perfect. At the moment they're inside an amazing black & white trunk with old leather handles ripped long ago. 

I came back to boise in late october. I found from savers some little black boots & inside, on the bottom, there reads NICOLE. I love them, but my broken toe is alas still broke, and pressure from the thin outer side of a shoe is still pressure, then. The click they make on a woodfloor or a cement walk is tempting & generates a moderate satisfaction.

Blue leather lace-up shoes with heels from a suburb of seattle. I've been asked: are those leather soles, there? to which I wrongly replied, rubber. I got some cole hahn tassel loafers at the same store, mostly for entertaining the thought of my dad's probable jealousy. I think I lost one of them; I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I lost one of them. I brought the one with me, when I moved, just in case the other turns up. I could never forgive myself if it did... these shoes were like slippers on the feet; leather & with a heavy wood heel. Toes always wet. Ball of foot always loud & doubtless.

In new york last summer I wandered soho with alex in the sweltering bosom of that lusty town. He wanted some adidas, I said man, get sambas, and he said, well, I want white shoes, and I said, great. He forced me into a large retail store; he had to get a white tanktop (it's impossible to wear white adidas without a white tanktop) and I gladly thought of buying the gray mesh butterflyprint shirt. It was fifty dollars, and mass produced, and a nylon poly blend, of course, so Instead I bought some suede oxfords with faded wallpaper flowerprint. Some of the greatest shoes the world has known. And what a sound on the street they make.

Twothousandten sees my hair fall down, and the tears in my eyes. It sees me maudlin. It sees me intrepid, erasing a hapless/imagined ten years from my life. It sees me in sweaters, relating. In eyecontact, in the hushed yells on an earlymorning park bench. The clasp of a mouth around me. My own views of drunk couples pressed against the outside wall of a bar. The eager fingers pinned against the brick, her hand letting his wrist drop on occasion to her skirt, pushed up or down. The mendacity of aforementioned loves, the ones who come with their own apology, nonspecific to our relations. Your unctuous apology, secreting your fancy for fear of me. Of me? Keep one of us from the other. Pushing me against the wall is goodless, I see only a reflection of the drunken couples, salacious on the streets, careless, ostentatious. I and you cannot be they.

urge tinged else

prettylittle, 18

Now you see that I’m tired. Foregoing and urge tinged, altogether uneven. True feeling anterior, sitting on the old voice. Altogether disheveled. Blue without my primogenitor. Mauve, bad or good, it all coming across time, lineage, family tree. Sectional sofa, sounds the same. How I’d like to move to taller roots. Looking at the loneliness. The good way, anthropophagous, is muted and I probably will after I tried once, I say. Remembering with solemn description of the upstairs, talking to the night with him more (alas, I thought, a final time), annoyed at the human flesh (his). Soonafter I return to erasing his opening (such of the soft human beings), and cannot be heard over the hushed chicago. And from memory, he beats of recognizable song. The direct opposite of conversation and rhythmic tap, tap, tapping. Maybe I will leave with me.