Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, Flash Fiction, poetry, Short Fiction

#76

Hold his hand at Benicassim Festival: 17th of July
Tilt his head to the side, smile and say: “Scarier than Portishead”

I once said, teasingly, “I’ll be ready with my tommy gun,”
To which he grinned and replied: “Interesting choice.”

One night I saw him smile because of an assumption:
He was thinking Alice Gull, I was thinking Alice Ayres
I made sure to correct him: “You know… the stripper.”
A wince: “The pink hair?”
He wanted Alice Gull from Ondaatje: the activist, the nun
I wanted Alice Ayres from Closer: the stripper, the younger
Who once said, that famous line: “Here’s the truth so you can hate me.”
“Have you ever seen a human heart? It looks like a fist, wrapped in blood.
Go fuck yourself! You writer! You liar!”

–I like you because you think differently than other people (another assumption)
–(made sure to correct him: don’t idealize, it’s fatal) How do you know that?
–Pardon me? (hearing is different from believing)
–I SAID: How do you know that?
–(The Blonde Beauty looked away before replying with sad eyes) I guess.. I guess I don’t know that.

an was denken Sie? 
Answer (the hateful one): What am I doing here, why am I here, what am I doing
what do you want, what do I want, are you being truthful?
This pounding heart is screaming guilt, not love–
“Oh I was just thinking.. about your friend.. and the drive-in movie.. that’s hilarious.”
Told me in great detail his special relationship with a cat
“I don’t like (name of the other cat)”
Why not?
“Because you can do anything to her—roll her around in the floor—and she’d let you.”
Rolled my eyes. “She’s not special (because she loves everybody?)”
“Naaaah, but this cat—he only likes me. We have a special relationship.”

–I feel like a secret agent and we’re on a special mission!
–Over and out

–Have you ever had a sex dream about someone you are not remotely attracted to—and you enjoyed it so much that you woke up and started to doubt yourself?
–Someone I’m not remotely attracted to?
–If you have to think you’ve never had it.
–Yeah, not really.
REALLY?!
–No, I just kinda go with it
–Jesus man, that’s fucking hilarious!

We watched a raccoon cross the street stealthily
Its little fat belly dragging
— you know what racoons are called in German?
–What?
-Waschbär (Vash-bear)
-Like a bear??
-Like a tiny bear!

I remember our conversations. I remember your accusation: -You close-reading me?
My reply: -I close-read everybody, it’s a great hobby
(dodging, dodging: making you seem insignificant)
It also feeds my paranoia.
-Why paranoia?
-I don’t know…I think maybe close-reading people too much and making their actions mean more than they intend is a kind of paranoia.
And your rebuttal: I think it’s a kind of sensitivity.
And me asking, so slyly: what’s your favourite smell?
Your reply that made my heart leap: Women.

Try to recall the little tidbits that happened:
Concise, condense, narrativize
I am thinking of eternal car rides and euphemistic insults
of the war in the suburbs, you and me against the world
of jail times and punishments, of alpha females
of a single word that can change the world:
“This is the only immortality you and I may share, Lolita”

–You know what racoons are called in German?
— Waschbär
— Waschbär, that’s right. How do you know that?
–You told me.
–All right, wrong question: how do you remember?

–Oh my god! You can never move!
–what do you mean?
–I mean you can’t move! Look at all your books!
–I know right? That’s why people love being my friend—I won’t ever leave them.

–Do it, do it!
Hold up a warning finger: Please don’t.
Why not? You don’t want me to encourage you?
–That’s lust talking.

Clad in black leather, she stands in front of the class
A .45 Winchester magnum in her hand
The better ending to this otherwise deplorable story
A colourful one to fit your fiction

–but wait for the penultimate:
damsel in distress still in distress
the evil bitch that won’t, so she doesn’t:
and leave you with (though you [probably] don’t deserve it)
silence and
nothingness.

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poetry

And then, the If’s

photo credit to ~gocrackthesky

I dream of indexes
and of whim /
and of surreptitious sleights sliding with the trees

of reckoning, and oblivion
and salvation at /
the fingertips of
a Bravarian woman holding in her arms
ten mugs of frothing ale.

And of blondes
snickering from /
the most withdrawn eyes mankind
can ever permit.

Of dark streets
and empty highways /

boiling down to one simple premise:
of possibilities.

In the strangest of nights,
I dream of Germany.

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