Sunday, April 03, 2011
Laur @ 1:26 PM
vocally
You’re not really talking my language. Get your cell phone ready. You could win money to buy clothes. I feel like I am writing a parody; this wool vest is too warm and I can’t think about repetition I can only perform it.
Hold on, let me eat my ice cream.
I shivered very vocally.
He offered me a cigarette, but then my hands fell off—fingers first. These things happen. I was supposed to send you a postcard but there are no bus stops here and I don’t have a car. Luckily we have text messaging. Get your cell phone ready. We used to joke that since she was your wife, that made me your mistress. And I pretended not to be offended—because you promised to buy me clothes. I’ve almost forgotten these things; they blow away like the leaves on the ground with the coming of spring.
Laur @ 1:25 PM
We the Confessors
There are objective truths to be had: at one time he was married. It is not only a hypothetical thing. With an arrogant courtesy he helps me into my overcoat. I have done things in this sweater that I am not proud of. That is so unlifelike; that is a forest-structure. Don’t pour me some tea. In London Zach and I used to order pots of Darjeeling and share a plate of scones. He used all of the black currant jelly, but I didn’t mind, even though you can’t get that here. That pretty much ends the story. It contains poetic value. She was allergic to tree nuts. I understood her. Sometimes when I think of these things like a young woman in a glass cage I have to light scented candles around the bathtub and read a Jane Austen novel.
Laur @ 1:25 PM
Forms of Birth Control
It’s almost turning into something. These pills are fucking with my emotions like crazy. And when we get to Paris it will be warm enough to hold hands, not gloves and mittens. But now? I said, “Tell me a story.” I said, “I need two compliments to sleep on.” But there is an ethics to desire and disrupted rhythm makes you want to step in—just not here. Again, you missed. You can make poetry out of playing cards, but tonight is counterfeit. Tonight is all of these hormones; one for every occasion; a periodic table of the time you held me in your sleep and didn’t wake up even after I started crying. I will decorate your apartment with post-it notes. I will wear these boots in the snow. I will write essays about repetition and feel nauseous while you put the bullet into my jacket.
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