Keep the change.

This is not a question, more of a statement

of credits and debts on your tab, which you

left at my window, opened and unclaimed.


Nevermind the fee,


the problem here is that


you

owe

me


so I’ve come to collect.

the bob loblaw law blog.

Oh Scott Baio. wherefore art thou, Scott Baio. I am quite the fan of jezebel, and while I deeply enjoyed bob loblaw and all of his antics, not the biggest fan of Mr. Baio's politics. Just sayin'. Anywayz, I am still failing at updating my blog as regularly as I'd like, but I am trying, and perhaps, sometimes, somewhere, that might count for something. today i thought a lot about my life, and my partner's life and all the ways we fit into each other and each other's lives. sometimes it's a bit of a stretch. perhaps more of a cramp. Today was one of those days. I think that might have influenced my writing today. at any rate I'll leave you to your own wednesday musings and thoughts, and my writing, and return to my glass of wine. good night.

in morning.

It was morning and the light sideways sliced his face in irregular pieces, pastiche stripes to be rearranged, changed. Iris, heavy-lidded and chapped-lipped, noticed the incisions and placed her hand between his face and the blades, casting shadow over his face. Jack stirred, aware of the lack of light, and rolled toward Iris, pulling her into his folds, limbs, blankets, skin and sweat. The top of Iris’ right shoulder stung at the bite of the cool morning air, and she snuggled deeper into the chest, skin and hair meeting hair and skin, and she rolled, imagining herself a manatee underwater in balletic pose, halfway still, her chest pressed into his, rolling her body on the wave of his breath, the arches of her feet cupping the tops of his. Jack gave a small shiver and loosened his legs, mumbling in stale breath, - do that thing you do, with your leg and mine - and fluid like mercury Iris’ foot traveled the length of Jack’s leg, to the knee, looping like lovers’ arms and bringing it up to the inside of her thigh, where it was warm, hot, and life lived and died inside. the primordial self-cleaning oven. Jack let his hand fall unto Iris’ thigh, cuffed it, moved upward and rested in the corona, the hair soft, mossy. Iris did not move it, her fingers trailing lightly up and down his back, drawing maps of water, streams and rivers, writing letters, detailed sets of instructions. Yes. the first kiss was sticky with nocturnal bacteria but Iris was all water, fluid and deft, a fleshy pout beckoning. Jack kissed her collarbone, left and right, running fingers through her curly hair, making figure-eights and finger-traps, all thumbs. reaching down below Iris traced circles around him. Jack spoke into the pillow behind Iris, insistent, and Iris responded, her nails plowing deep furrows into his back, and then the alarm went off and the radio went on and the tinny song began to play
Three dollars says
the phone won’t ring

Three dollars says
the phone won’t ring
Iris swung her arm wide, the little plastic radio clattered to the floor, and pushed against Jack, throwing him unto the bed, the bed bowing ever so slightly, a nod to turned tables. Iris placed her palms on his chest, pushing off; Jack’s hands on her hips held her, trapped. the blankets were gone and the sheets were gone and then the pillows were gone and Jack was gone and Iris was gone and then they were done.
Iris lay perfectly still, the smell of Jack’s armpit just above her, in plain scent but almost out of reach when Jack rolled back to the nightstand. His phone was ringing - it's them I’ve got to go I’ll call you later - and shorts pants shirt shoes later he was gone.
Iris hugged her pillow, and the radio, still on, and the tinny song still played
Even if I get my money
I won’t say a thing

Even if I get my money
I won’t say nothing.

Destory and rebuild.

everything I've written since before I was about fifteen, every picture I snapped, every song I heard, everything, is gone as of two thursdays ago. I am realizing, quite shamefully, that perhaps in losing "everything", I've really lost nothing. it's obvious I don't write very much, a half-glance at this pitiful excuse for a blog will tell you that.

This morning I woke up in a stranger's guest's bed (of which I was not: the guest nor the bed), tripped on the the trick-step of the door and onto a bed of grass, green garnish on dinner plate tipped into the mouth of the ocean. I'm telling you, it was unreal, and everyone around me was so excited, tumbling and dancing, the ultimate dinner and a show, and all I could do was stand next to these two fucking chairs, that is to say, these two chairs that were fucking, which is embarrassing yet oddly intriguing - you know exactly what I mean - which only made it all the more awkward, which is sort of like flailing your arms and braying, only without any of the confidence required for such activities.

At work today I strode up and down the aisles, brow furrowed with the intensity required in pretending to be busy - which adds up to A Lot - and I wondered about my life. I'm watching my peers create beautiful things, dance and tumble things that are not always perfect but are so real, so alive, and all I can do is stand at stasis next to the two fucking inatimate objects which, in their fucking are more alive than me.


Daaaaaang!


Which is to say that I will try to write regular updates weekly now, and perhaps more than that.
I see you, can you see me? I'll be shining a bit more light, tell me if you see it.

Delicate Necks - A Sentence.

I talk to the pigeons, I mean I was talking to them today, those matronly queens of the gutters, oh-no-they-didn’t clucking disapproval of the goings-on in their kingdoms, and I had a dream about you, no, more like a memory, do you remember the time you climbed inside of me, through the ribcage, peeling back the layers, skin, sinew, and lungs, sewing yourself inside with flax fiber and ivory needles; I never felt you more alive, dancing in my stomach and keeping time with my heart – Let’s play a game, he said, and in the paper, a headline: I’m saving my good deeds for a great sin, he said, those crows feet firmly planted in that soft, soft sand:
We’re not going anywhere – and those queens, rubies and emeralds and sapphires bleeding down their necks under mottled grey winter coats, cooing their empathy, we understand; We would like to be indifferent, but we understand – and it was heavy, my heart, I mean, when I woke up at seven, always at seven, before the alarm, and always before you, especially this time as you were dead; you died and I was annoyed: there were places to meet and people to be, I told you sternly: hurry up and rise or we’ll be late, but you were always the stubborn type, that is to say, when you set your mind to something it surely stood, so it was only at the door of our little stick house that I gathered you were [not] in the bed for a year, and down the block I remembered lying in your upturned dirt, drilling little holes with my spindly fingers, spider paths from your seeds to me, which, upon further recollection must’ve worked, because I felt your ghost growing in the space below my stomach, behind my gut, the empty room we painted white with little yellow suns – you know, they told us yellow was fine for a boy or a girl, or a turtle for that matter, they couldn’t really tell the difference though – something was wrong: I felt it rise to my throat, the ghost, I mean, and at five blocks I knew it was time and let it out, gave it up, as they say; it was born from my mouth, a howl and pain and hurt, and the pigeons, sweet cooing mothers, circling the afterbirth, nodding in empathy.

If I don't write it down, I probably won't remember it.

Hello nobody, everybody. I remembered you because it's on my stupid facebook which I happened to check. so so many things have been happening as of late, and for that reason, I've forgotten to update. I've been without a home for the past three weeks, meaning I'm trying to run with only the things i can carry and dropping everything i never thought I needed (until I lost it) along the way.

Life is slightly overwhelming in the way that makes my eyelids flutter open forty-five minutes before my alarm

oh no.

I'm fretting but that long arm pulls me in spoons-style and then I rest easy, until I really am late and the bells are pealing.

I'm late I'm late I'm late now

updates soon.

Autumn is like this.

The days connect in chains
forming the shape of a year
curving up-down like your back
when you bend over in the shower
your spine acting as meridian
splitting the water droplets
carelessly seeking solace
running down your lengths
collecting in your hollows and valleys

Just like the days piled up
wrinkled and haphazardly discarded
in the form of the pants skirts shirts
flung about the room in pale light as
I hook finger and thumb in the band
of my stockings with the tear on one thigh
tip-toe leg up on the edge of the bed
and I try to be graceful and round
when I turn to see if you are watching
I love it when you watch me

Just like the days that are stark and bitter
and make us a little bit embarrassed
so we cover up with hats boots coats
and I keep to myself when I walk
down the street to my house
where at night cotton sheets and a down duvet
will exist around me with the indifference
of two strangers and I will toss and kick beneath them
as I think of you and me wet in the shower
And I just want to touch you.