Archive | June, 2009

five-hundred or less. short stories.

26 Jun

so i am going to put on a few short stories as for some reason i am in a writing mood, which makes me terribly happy. rather than writing it all online, i’m going to scribble it out in my handy-daddy notebook and then post it.  yay everything.

Bananas and Cigarettes.

I sit on the edge of dirty sheets pulled over the body of a used mattress; and those usual thoughts rehash and persist no matter how many pills I take, men I lay, drinks I make… I swallow, no matter the occasion and I frown at sunrise. The night was fleeting like the lust, and I couldn’t stand the morning, the sight of broken needles, bottles and boxers that didn’t belong to me. The stranger and his body crowded my space, his arms flung wide like a bird after its freedom. I lean forward, moving my hand through the pocket of his pants, finding his wallet and I probe through, discovering old business cards, an expired condom and I.Ds that showed him by different names: Ivan, Warren and Dave. He told me that his name was Chuck. There were two twenties, a dozen singles and a picture of his wife and kids; I tuck it all back in. I find what I am looking for in those jeans, sliding a cigarette out of its paper fitting, placing it between my slightly cracked lips. I wrestle with the thought of waking him when his cell phone does the job, buzzing alive. He answers and I immediately know it’s his wife or someone else he loves, he curls and huddles over the speaker and receiver like a campfire. He speaks quickly and ends with a hushed “I love you”. His phone closes and he waits a moment before rolling over to gaze at me. He flashes me those tinted teeth and insists that I get back into bed, beside him. I decline and stand, moving across the room to my empty refrigerator; nothing inside but curding cheese and a blackening banana. Chuck climbs out of bed, in his nude and makes his way close, plucking the cold banana from my hand and eating it down in a presumed pseudo-sexual fashion. I stare at him throughout the action with mostly blank expression. Once consumed, he winks, dropping the peel onto the counter and kissing my mouth roughly. He lifts me and sits me where I am sturdy. He makes a whiny noise at the back of his throat as he kisses my neck and down past my pecks. I take a drag of my cigarette and I consider asking him to just leave. The whiny sound gets louder and he looks up at me for validation, like I did sometimes, after the few times I’d done it. I gave the grin that he wanted as he moved from my hips to my penis; and I shoved my bud down, singeing the skin of the banana with my cigarette.

convertible and backpack

Every few moments my eyes were over my shoulder, checking the oncoming traffic. I kept my thumb up and sturdy and stayed on the side of the road, away from the emerging and submerging headlights in the late September night.
I felt myself slowing down. The hours in the sun had burned away my energy and the night air made me want to sleep. The laces on my timberland boots were undone, hitting the rocks of the Arizonan road, collecting the red dirt –which probably slowed me down. My heavy eyes, heavy backpack and the heavier I’d gotten over the last three months contributed to my sloth, and wanted to just lie on the side of the road until I was mistaken for road kill. I moved on, though my knees started to creak and my hips began to scream about its age. I paused for a second to catch a breath, maybe even more than one.

A horn blew and a car slid to a slow and then stopped beside me. I looked over at the drawn back top of a black convertible and a too thin woman in the driver’s seat. She nodded her head and leaned over, popping the passenger door wide. I tucked my backpack into my lap and plopped down, strapping in. She extended her hand. “Margret” and I responded with “Mike” and a handshake.

I felt the wind against my face as the car blazed down the interstate. The lack of division between me and nature was similar to that of me ambling along the road except less strain on my physical. She said she’d take me as far as Albuquerque. She was headed toward Lincoln, Nebraska and I was headed toward Austin.

Margret encouraged small talk, asking me where I was coming from, heading to and where I was from originally. My responses were short and sweet because my mouth wasn’t ready for conversation. I hadn’t eaten or drank a thing since Tonopah and I’d been walking for miles upon miles.

I winced at her dirty windshield as she changed lanes, wondering how it is that she could possibly see the road ahead. I couldn’t even make out the words or logos for the oasis that would be coming up ahead, nothing beside the golden arches of McDonalds signs. It reminded me of how hungry I was and how I didn’t have a dollar or change to put toward a meal.

She turned on the radio and let it play loudly. She sang along and when she didn’t know the words, she hummed along with the song.

I pulled my bag against my chest, counting the miles toward Albuquerque and kept catching stray glimpses of my sun burnt face in the rear view mirror. will be continued


poetic license, not expired like my state i.d.

20 Jun

While not writing like I need to, I decided to go ahead and put things written up. These are the poems that were in my poetry portfolio; written after years of having not written a poem. Anyway, I am proud of it all.


the archive

It’s been ten years since you wrote the sestina for us.

As young lovers we’d meet at the tracks and would

listen to loose rhymes and music notes.

We’d take the long way home, avoiding

Chicago means of transportation.

I think about all this from my backyard; Louisiana.

the long way home

She walked where wolves moved less frequent; where they were less likely to lurk in the shadow and dark. Albeit safer, was darker, and it gets later. Even on that longer, safer way home there is always that one street. The streetlights, broken by delinquent-throw stones, and the light from the basketball court already dimmed out. The wolves were the stalking kind that didn’t howl, but followed close and quiet before they pounced on you, peeling you like a grape and leaving you exposed and spilling on the sidewalk like a paper-bagged bottle of gin. She forgets that after an epic race home, once she’s laid in bed all alone, a familiar wolf would crawl in and eat away at her. He’d tear at her like a rabbit or deer and he’d growl low in her ear, telling her to stay quiet or they’d wake her mother.

chicago means of transportation

Bodies move from metro station to station.

Downtown, yellow cabs hail pedestrians.

C.T.A. buses redistribute patrons. And then

there are the lines: red, green, orange

brown, yellow, pink, purple and blue.

Construction on the Dan Ryan stalls

the pace, the seven lanes rat-race

at each side. The train carries me to the Southside,

where buses run whenever, but never on time;

small families haggle prices with gypsy cab

drivers; resourceful in getting across the map.

The red line goes that far, but ends at 95th;

on the southside, the city goes into the hundreds.

Sestina for us as Young Lovers

The trees hissed as we tiptoed off of the dusty road

and moved between the wooden bodies, beneath their branches.

Our feet followed a makeshift path that lay

near a large poison oak, and you held my hand.

The night grew colder as it got darker, so I closed my coat.

I stared up at the diminishing blue.

Emerging from the trees, we met the blue

and green of the murky aquatic road.

You laid down one of your blankets to coat

the plush hunter green that branched

out to where rock met lake. You hand

me a kiss. Your body moved near; we lay.

You took your eyes off of the stars and laid

them on me. Cricket chirps came out of the blue,

and you sprayed the bug spray that you had on hand.

You touched my hips, and I pondered the road

that we were going down.  For you, kisses were branches

and you wanted the whole tree. You craved to coat

me with sweat, comforting me while coating

my body with yours. I told you, “we should just lay”.

Your fingers touched close, like tips of branches.

You complained in whiny words, “things are turning blue”.

I laughed, but you didn’t hear because we were close to the railroad.

The look on your face made me sentimental. I took your hand.

We dropped our gentle embrace of hand to hand,

and I let you unzip my coat.

I felt like a car on a bumpy road.

I kissed you, and when I leaned against you and you laid

back. Lips touched lips, and hips touched hips until we saw blue.

You stood to button your jeans and stepped on a branch.

I stared up at the spaces between the branches

Just before sitting up, and you grabbed my hand

to help me up. I tugged on my t-shirt and my blue

jeans. We folded the blanket and put on our coats.

The grass was stubborn where our bodies laid.

We shared one last kiss before we hit the road.

We stepped back onto the road, arms bowed together like branches.

Across the way, I laid my eyes on my father’s hands

on his steering wheel. The coat on the old Crown Vic was blue.

At the Tracks (Santino Blvd.)

Bicycles glide down the concrete steps

and zip down the sidewalks of Santino Blvd.

Two red, one green, one blue and one pink.

They stridently move downhill, beside

the sleeping homeless and their concrete dreams  –crushing

them beneath their spinning rubber tires.

They wheel effortlessly around pedestrians, sometimes

in and out of traffic, the pink beach cruiser trying to keep up.

They hear the click-clack and squeal of steel wheels on rails.

Bravado is what keeps them moving down the sidewalk of Santino Blvd.

They go faster and faster, and they force their frames

to skip over tracks. They do this even though the level crossing

is screaming and the long warning arm is going down.

The sun is going down.

There are screams that continue

from where the level crossing has ended, but  a silence.

The pink beach cruiser’s back wheel is on its last rotation.

The body is twisted and torn, and dark color pours

all over the pavement.

Sirens and shriek scurry down Santino Blvd;

The others watched by the roadside.

ten years

The palm of his left hand sat

in the center of my back after

an uneasy embrace.

I waved to my mother

from the back window;

my bookbag packed for the weekend.

music notes.

Music notes crawl from my

headphones and rest in my ear.

The treble clef leans against flesh.

Half notes shake down like flakes.

Whole notes fall slow and linger.

The gathered company whispers a melody

and I nod my head to the tune.

I turn my ipod up louder,

the girl beside me hears the music.

The notes parachute toward her,

but the they cannot reach,

and she cannot make out what my music is saying.

She stared at my profile and the broken sound.

Auditory sensation sheltered me from her approval

or disapproval. She touched at the pages of her book

but was distracted by my noise.

I couldn’t turn it down though

because it was my favorite song.

this is not a poem. but walks the line of something. it’s cathartic though, and had to be written.

spoken from the underside.

I am sunk, like the rock in the lake,  the grain in the jar, and nothing can give me safety when I am lost. I know not a lover or a love with reason or skill to heal me, nor should they, because they cannot. My trouble is my own, not to burden others. I must remember to be selfish and not to share.

There is no time given that can make me whole, because I am forever a deficit, with a missing piece.

I am knowing among strangers, unknown among friends. Only bitterness rules me, like the reign of a charismatic leader in a confused domain.

My manic-depressant mind slips like discs, and I cannot stand it, or stand straight.

a tangent because i say so…

15 Jun

so i’m unproductive, a usual for me as i can never stay focused enough to let my words settle. be it an issue with attention span or word agenda, i can’t manage to spit out a legible thing edgewise. maybe i can blame it on buffy and my day spent watching the entire second season. i, absolutely by no means am a fan of my immobile behavior. i wrote a six word story and that’s about it, honestly, i am a mess. i have a commitment issues with my words, slutty with remarks, i need to become more engaged with my intentions.

i think what i will do is simply force myself to write. give myself no allowances, no meals or liberties. or rather i know that won’t happen. i have to face the fact that i can’t be cruel to myself, not because of my writing (at least not anymore). i’m way too good to myself now, less creative but way too good. damn my creative politics and self granting diplomatic ways. i’ll write something eventually and try to eliminate my trend of writing about my need to write.

no attention span: brevity

12 Jun

idea taken from the fabulous, the six word story is something that I have grown terribly fond of. It’s short, concise and absolutely to the point. I admire these stories not only because it doesn’t take terribly long to write them but because they are devilishly contrived with secret messages, brilliant agenda and amazing purpose. –some of the ones that will be shown here are published on webook.

broken home.

dispair dances, when lights are out.


we move like cold fronts, nowhere.


a quiet storm. legs and redhead.

crowded room.

the varient noises that strangers make.

coffee stains.

two a.m. papers in a rush.


hearts beat together beneath our breasts.


shadows left in corners like bottles.

vivid (vinyl) pockets.

swallowed cherry pitts; paper machete hearts.

shakespearean proverb.

no pain like that of love.

rehash: french fries and roller skates.

12 Jun


so natalie is getting back into skating. which is understandable, it was an integral part of our childhood and we used to be fantastic at it. honestly, we spent a great portion of my childhood on wheels, mostly skates and rollerblades because i have yet to master the bicycle. we spent hours rollerblading up and down cracked sidewalks and streets, around corners and down hills, in the daytime, afternoon or at night because it was awesome. also we took hella trips to the roller rink with the school or otherwise, skating to songs like “ladies night” and “staying alive” –was awesome. well, i tried to rollerblade today and to say the least, i fell on my ass. i had just decided to skate away from natalie because she offended me and as she approached i just fell extremely hard. i was rattled, doing a partial cry and laugh, an odd whimper that was slightly dog like and i felt like a fool. damn rollerblades.

not knowing what to make for dinner tonight, natalie and i decided to make french fries from scratch, like my mother used to do. natalie claims to never had made them at all and i haven’t made them in about six years, so you can imaging impending trouble as we dropped the slices of potato into boiling oil. they didn’t turn out too bad, but not perfect. natalie’s deep fryer has no temperature control, so in a way it was like man versus machine as far as us trying to have our food cooked thoroughly. stupid deep fryer. i knew that i should have just made it on the stove like my mother used to. she was terribly fabulous at making french fries… they were always crisp, well seasoned and delicious. one day i’ll do my mother proud… one day.

lily allen and the cool kids: very different, very cool.

10 Jun

both lily allen and the cool kids are exceptional in their ability to not only skillfully deliver verse in an effective way, but double as amazing entertainers. they are lively, vocal and fluid when approaching their craft and perform with wit, charm and vivacious energy. the stunning english lily allen serenades with love ballads, utters about broken hearts and sings about arrogant men. songs such as “smile”, “LDN” and “fuck you” shows her mastery with careless honesty. chuck inglish and mickey rocks of the cool kids produce rap that entertains chicago’s aesthetic of thoughtful lyrics over well harmonized, melodic sound –harping notions of early ‘90s hip hop. songs such as “bassment party”, “i rock” and “pennies” keep us well informed why they are the coolest kids we know.

their music and several other artists help to feed my musical addiction, and fuel my fascination with beats, lyrics and harmonies. I’m a fanatic for most genres; variety propels my life and makes me happy. I honestly waste hours…if you can call it waste….listening to music while slumming it in my room. Music accompanies me on my long walks, homework assignment, the sporadic trip to the gym, sit downs while readings and hypothetical romantic ventures. long story short, music does the soul good.

also, bee-tee-dubs the cool kids are giving away their new cd to download for free:

dia tres.

9 Jun

so natalie and i just saw the hangover, extremely funny –quite vulgar but made me laugh to no end. once leaving the theater (maybe partially envious of their misadventure due to alcohol) we decided maybe just maybe we would drink when we got back to natalie’s apartment –not like we had anything else to do, afterall. so we hopped right over to mejers, which was only feet away from the theater and bought some seagram. we of course don’t want to get in as much trouble or cause nearly as much mayhem but we do want to have fun and that’s all that matters. not to say that fun doesn’t happen without alcohol, but one must admit that alcohol does give a certain kick to any situation. –not only are we gonna drink but we’re gonna make an awesome garlic cheese ball and eat it. mmmm. though we did just finish off one, hmm… but can you ever really have enough cheese ball? so yeah, a cheese ball and a nice little mix drink of kool aid and vodka. we’re ready to go.
i suck because i haven’t written at all today, and it is no excuse that i was out and about quite a bit because what about when i start working? i really need to get my act together. i need to get a writing schedule down and abide by it. otherwise what’s the real point of it all, of me wanting to be a writer yet i not wanting to write. i should finish at least one 500 worder today. even if my words are drunk. i think that i need to churn out something today and i will. mhmm. –well at least i worked on my resume today which was a difficult feat, i had to recollect what i’d been doing for the last few years, which was a tad harder than i thought it would be.

okay, so fast forward into the night, i am not drunk but i am trying to write…unsuccessfully. i’m not drunk by any means, barely having had two shots, so i’m just sober as a kitten. natalie is fishing through music for songs, and i’m trying to get my writing mind in order, so that i don’t feel like such a turd. –natalie is trying to have a literal knuckle fight with me. unfortunately she will lose.