No one bothers to polish silver at this age.

Walking in from the rain a I sat down on a sexual milk crate and it kissed my inner thighs while I spread black plastic bags on the floor. After sitting and smelling the sultry air, it combined old wood floor with unscented candles, I walked down the hall to the room with unsorted odds and ends. This was the room that no effort was in. This was the room where nostalgia lived; the kind of nostalgia that works very well untouched. She sat in the middle of the floor and let her eyes circle the room. A set of encyclopedias, old cookbooks, extra chairs, Christmas wrapping papers, and trophies from the 1970's. In the North East corner of the room, unobtrusive, rested an urn. Blue swirled with black, and a gold stripe. I approached the urn and opened it, as if I wasn't sure what was inside, even though I knew. I stuck my hand in as far as I could reach. I wish I could say it made me feel closer to a relative, or God, but it didn't. It felt like an ashtray. The kind that's after a very long night. I withdrew my hand and went back out in the rain. Any remnants were washed to the concrete. I followed them to the sewer and watch them descend.
I walked back inside and again and perched on the sexual crate. It was red and passionate and it reminded me of a spaghetti. I thought of my spaghetti and my arms pulsed in preparation for implosion. Any second they'd collapse inward and the spaghetti would never get to stick to them again. My face got red like it used to when I got bashful, and I went to the kitchen and got out a blade. I spread out my fingers on the black plastic bag, and sliced into the skin of my fingers, to the bone, as if I were cutting an avocado, where the bone is the pit, and I circle around it, and peel off the skin, muscle and fat. I wondered if there was any residue left from the urn.

bananafish and winckelmann

this is probably a work in progress.

you're the seymour to my sybil

"the most beautiful thing

ever to have been created

by human hands."

bless your father for fondling your mother. 

and coming up with you!

kiss the arches of my feet

and let's not leave the beach today. 

or ever. 

I've...missed you, I mean, I don't even know who you are.

I wrote a blog a while ago about knowing that distinct feeling right before a break up.  I now intend to write about the feeling about writing about the feeling right before a break up, or right after, and during.

It's really difficult, frankly. It's like when you aren't wearing glasses when you need them a whole lot, and you have been drinking whiskey all night on an empty stomach, so everything is just this woozy blur and words come really slowly.  Your wpm is unusually slow and you stumble of the spelling of words like "of."  Or is it "ov"? I don't really know.

And while you're on an illiterate tilt-a-whirl the only thing that you can seem to hear or make out of your surroundings, are reruns of unbelievably bad and corny television shows.  You know the one's with freeze-frames at the end, and where the characters started out as 9th graders and now they are like, married, and have grandkids?

And I'm neither hungry, nor full, yet food sounds great.  And I absolutely refuse to look nice.

What's funnier is that, like the blog I made allusion to, there was no breakup, no nothing.  All imaginary.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath…

Oh Hamlet.  Oh yeah, one more thing. I sigh a lot more and make indescribable, rather, un-spellable, huffing noises.