I refuse to see you. To me,
you are infinitely cool with your
square glasses and triangle jaw.
To me,
you cannot possibly take me
seriously when I look like this.
One cannot have
ruddy cheeks
and be taken seriously, so
I’ll wait until I’m lean and pale and
thin-mouthed.
But then I wonder
“What should I do in the meantime?”
“Who can I
bear to see?”
This is how I came
to the conclusion that it’s alright
to fill up my time with healthy people -
happy people -
until the day I can see you again.
a verbalized stalemate between id and superego.
[ stale papers ]
[ contact ]
[ ask ]
the pacificists [ karoshi ]
[ stale papers ]
[ contact ]
[ ask ]
the pacificists [ karoshi ]
On Vulgarity
I am the child of practicality
hurriedly fed from iron rice bowls
and I don’t know how to write poetry.
I come from a long line
of factory workers and thwarted librarians -
both of my parents work with numbers
but one is not very good at it
because she taught me how to multiply negatives wrong
in the second grade.
I am a child of vulgarity -
I think that poems must necessarily have form
or repetition -
or some semblance of order
and so I beckon to them with yardsticks
but they ignore me.
I am the child of measured restraint
where I calmly deliberate on simple things like
how to smile, and
how to lull my voice into a forthright lilt, and
how many buttons to loosen on my ironed shirt
to come off as haggard but intelligent.
Oh, but
I know some things about taste,
like the “ah, I see”
and the lightly furrowed brow
and the false certainty
and the value of a good “fuck!” amidst delicate allusions.
But I understand vulgarity better - that is
not being able to take yourself seriously
yet wishing it wasn’t so.
P's Accidental Pick-Up Lines (Series Part 2)
| P: | I want to chart your indifference curves. |
“‘Good,’ Junpei said. ‘That’s important. Your work should be an act of love, not a marriage of convenience.’”
— Haruki Murakami (“The Kidney-Shaped Stone”)
Valentine’s Day used to mean something to me, and now I don’t give it any thought. Today, in particular, is cushioned between two far more important dates—the opening of Clarke’s Diner on 53rd, and B’s birthday (I think).
“But,” you say, thinking yourself quite clever for making this point, “if you don’t give it any thought, then why are you here, writing a blog post about it?”
Well, well. It’s all for your benefit, really. I wanted to tell you a cute anecdote about the last time I gave Valentine’s any thought. It was during the first year of high school. I’d just broken up with a boyfriend whom, despite his sweaty left palm and despite the fact that we only went as far as joining palms once (mine dry, of course) in the darkened movie theatre during Disturbia, I liked a lot. One of the things I liked about him, because we held this in common, was that he was and still is terrified of snakes.
So on Valentine’s I gave him a bar of Hershey’s, and inside the wrapping were pictures of snakes.
“Okay, so I guess that was a cute story. Why the picture of your watch though?”
Because my friend from high school said last weekend when I visited her in St. Louis that my handwriting has changed a lot in a short amount of time. The top half is from my spring semester at USC. The bottom half is this morning. The first former-me gives thoughts about Valentine’s, and the second one doesn’t much. It’s not because she thinks it’s a Hallmark holiday or anything militant like that. She just would rather consume her eggs-and-coffee in the morning in peace, I guess.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
