Me: Honestly I’m not sure I want kids because what if one night I wake up and one of them is standing in the doorway all backlit and I have to wonder if it’s a zombie or not. Because in movies that’s what always happens, then the baby eats the mom.
F: Wait, what the fuck?
Me: I mean, seriously, like Rosemary’s baby? Or that zombie movie that starts with the kid attacking the parents? Hello?
F: [stares blankly]
Me: Or, even worse, what if I just assume the baby was possessed and I threw the ax at it? (I keep a gold ax next to the bed to kill rapists) And it wasn’t. That sounds like some weird psychological thriller too.
F: You. Are. Insane.
Me: Oh come on! Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of how bad it would suck if your baby turned into a zombie and you had to kill it.
F: No. Never….
Me. Really? Well fucking great, now you think I’m insane and I’m going to accidentally kill our babies.
F: [blank stare]
Me. You know what? This is what happens when you make me do all the talking.
You brought flavor and spunk to so many lives. In their time of need, you were able to help those on the brink of sleep deprivation or those with an extreme lack of sobriety. When I held you in my hands, my fingers wrapped around your handle for the last time, I felt your intentions so pure and simple...that's when you fell, committing suicide on Jimmy's floor - sacrificing a fresh cup of venetian dark roast so as to 'go out with a bang.' As I looked down at my feet, your broken body scattered between caffeinated splatter with part of your handle still clenched between white knuckles, all I could think was 'we had a good run...a good run, indeed.' FarewellGourmet Ground...rest in peace.
Jest another cranky cobalt crook, a tethered brat’s one-trick pony trapped in a propped-up crack, cobras break her fall into all this paradise, and we are content to seek the one step before beyond—hands that held the head that cried human tears. There was a prize for cropping hair and drinking beer. A knight, a rook to queen’s pawn one, to rack and ruin, a young man’s only honest hearth and home. Such crumbs rumble like thunder in our hearts. Once in a lifetime he runs over her thumb and fumbles with the locks—hairdressers, window dressers, undressing becomes us, our only honest crabwalk towards that opening, love.
(No! I will never thumb my nose again!)
We run instead, comrades, screeching cables and brakes, labor over levers, throated throttles to ‘at toboggan’s banking ‘round some curves woven by breezes blown through sometime summers. We vote for the hive of love and arrive at this; we’re done, have been left out in the rain, timeless bicycles, unnamed dolls, our itchy scalps above shock-rimmed eyes rolling open and shut, open and shut, our Humpty-Dumpty grins a sin to each and every one of the king’s men.
A heap! A heap! My kingdom from a heap of trash!
Love is still the most revolutionary debt we could ever call in. Without usury, a first step towards the use of life and the evolution of value. No slogan, but the only surviving form of the word “interest” draws me in—fragment of a whole, the only alliance worth re-realizing, the mote that the eye knew as the measure of its sight, the parameters of entropic erotic enterprise.
Life! The timer ticks and we make hay—if we’re luckily disposed to do so—by breaking wheat up into flour, fruit-flowering ourselves inside-out for each other; we turn suitors without suits and ask for 31 favors, tear ourselves asunder, rending our dues, aping our axes, suing our lawyers for lax black graft in heaps out back, and we sit favorably influenced by another female-named hurricane called, appropriately, L-O-V-E-Y.
As the wise man was once wont to sing, “Love, it’s a broken thing.”
It mirrors all of my cracks.
Since the class helped me out with this one in the workshop, I thought you might like to read the re-write and hear the performace that I cooked up for it. Thanks, folks! --Lee
I spoke with a friend of mine, a Phd student of economics at American University about our mutual lack of desire for a romantic relationship, yet our equal interest in those of others. I explained to him that a friend of mine was upset because her boyfriend had never had sex before her. She was annoyed that she was his only experience.
"Is the sex bad?" I asked her.
Isn't that strange? I asked my friend on the phone. Strange that the relationship is perfect and the sex is great yet somehow she's bothered that he's "without experience".
"Exchange theory" I said, "we value difficulty. Rare things are valuable like diamonds for example. Sure they have warehouses full of the things but the market is controlled to make them seem less common and for because of that they're desirable and expensive".
My friend was quiet for a moment and thought about it, "but if he's never had sex before her wouldn't that make him more valuable, rare, and more important?" He asked. I thought about it.
"No. No, because men cannot have sex whenever they want. They are like rocks. Women can have sex whenever they want and in the world of sex they are diamonds. So, for a man to have 'tried and failed' that is not 'rare or desirable'. In fact it's sad. If we wanted to quantify love the only way to do it is by partners. Men who have had many partners are more successful, more unique, it quantifies their characters strengths, and because men don't come by sex nearly as easy as women potentially could their value goes up. However, women can have sex any moment of their life with most people they would like and therefore the desired number is lower, which shows they are difficult. All difficult things are desired."
"Did you compare men to rocks"
"Yes, it's a decent comparison. I use it frequently".
"in fact...that's why you value our friendship".
"Yes. Rocks are always pursuing the diamonds. Way of the world".