Daylight? Sunshine?
Hell, gimme the moonshine.
Bottoms up as we bottom out
Bathtub bubbly
Twist and shout

I say gimme the moonshine
With light that doesn't burn
On sandy towels
Not having to turn

Sand freckled French faces
Not cancer dots
Milky-eyed mender skin
Not grandpa liver spots

[Say, hunny, sonny,
pass the moonshine]

Let nightingales forget the morning blues
Let the morning glories hit the snooze
Let uncrossed lists, honey-do's
Slow letter news?

Connecting dots, four, like
Boomshine hollows.
Blue jay, Coldplay
Boomshine swallows.



R. Breaston, the Lesser

Gently perched on the fourth rib from the bottom, a particularly peachy fuzzy area, he looked inward at Mr. R. Breaston, the Lesser, with a gentle notion of despondency and perhaps even sadness. Twitchy-nosed. Floppy-eared. Downed-bellied, under a double-breasted suit,

and one of those watches on a gold chain, like your great granddaddy used to carry. Oh, but what a magnificent night it had been!- the lightning spark, the thunder crash, the undulating sheets of rain. It’s only then, during electric storms, do rabbits like this make love, forcing themselves together, their heavy cloud bellies- one positive, one negative- then the smack of thunder, as quick as lightening, as sweat-stained as rain.

[Speaking of undulating sheets, recall: when you were little, you lay on your mother’s bed in anticipation of the warm sheets, fresh from the dryer. Remember how after all the shirts were folded onto themselves, the pant legs pressed together and bent, after the socks had met their match, that then it came time to make the bed. Your mother grabbed two corners of the sheets and with a switch of the wrist would toss the sheet out, like giant pizza dough, letting it billow gently over your tiny body. And again. And again, until your hair became so static-y, its strands shot up like lightening shoots down.]

“Why so down, my friend?” he finally said in a calm voice but with a twitch, so common to rabbits, as you know.

R. Breaston shrugged (or rather bounced) “Nothing.”

The rabbit smacked his lips to savor the last bit of bitter liquid hanging to his whiskers. Hiccup.

“Is it that you’re so much... smaller?”

“What I mean is!“ Now desperately searching for some way to not further offend. British etiquette and restraint overpowered by a particular fondness for whiskey, bourbon, bathtub moonshine.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

Before his friend could dig himself any deeper, Breaston replied, “eh, I don’t so much mind.” It was true that he had always been the family runt, always taunted, always teased, always extra tissue-padded, always second to be handled, despite the fact that anyone who’s anyone is right-handed.

The perk of being smaller, you see, is just that- the perk. While the bigger ones rounded out and flattened, dropped with age like a pendulum, falling into the crevice of arm pits (a nightmare Poe would approve), but the smaller-

well, the smaller stay true, pointing north like a compass.


The Solution

Dear "Sue Dohcue,"

Every day when I come into work, I hang my coat on the hook behind the door; I put down my coffee and croissant; I immediately kick off my sensible heels underneath my desk and sit on my right foot.

Alt + Ctrl + Delete

Super secret password.

Up pops my background of Napoleon in Indian war paint.

god, i love this picture.

And then I look out my window… right into your window, right at your computer screen. I don’t want to embarrass you, so I won’t mention your name, but you’ve been working on the same su doku puzzle for about a week now and it’s really not all that hard. I watch you put in the wrong numbers all the time, cross them out and try again. Honestly, it makes me hurt a little on the inside. Do you even know the rules? You do know that there’s no math involved, right?
I desperately wish I could fling open our windows, and paper-airplane the solution to you. Or I can throw you a rope and we can set up a clothesline between us and I would shimmy it over. I know our windows don’t open or there would be far more suicides, so here:

Now you know I know, and because I know, everyone else must too.


Somnambulist Romance

Note the time.

Not being able to sleep together in the same bed has little, if anything, to do with our size. Size is relative at best. It is true that you're a sprawler, spreading your limbs out like peanut shoots, selectively grounding feet and hands under blankets, pillows. It is true that I roll over, and over and over again. I steal covers. I promptly return covers, only to take them away again. Unkind unconsciousness. Overfawning awakeness. You grunt and I struggle to make out your slumber monologue. I'm early to rise, usually watching the 7am minutes flash past, waiting for a 'decent' hour to commence pre-wakeup cuddling, inching my hips back until you give in and give up, wrapping an arm around. This is not why we can't sleep together though.

There are some days I fall asleep unexpectedly. On those days I'm whisked up like an infant and placed in my egg-carton padded bassinet (or rather yours). True, my bed was made for the littlest Goldilocks bear, but that shouldn't matter I feel. My widest part, my hips are 36 inches around, which means laying down they're about 18 across. Your hips are not nearly as wide, which means we should be clearing the 39 inch measurements of my twin, especially if what we say is true. We should be like a kitten pile, an amorphous mount of hips and limbs and eyes and tails. Go ahead, blame the bed.

I've slept in armchairs and plane seats. I've slept on bathroom floors and ballroom floors, couches half my size. I've found you asleep in front of drafty windows, wearing little, arms pinned under your own weight. Tonight I came closer to finding sleep much in the same way as I would catch small prey- by standing very still.

I think I'm too kind a bedmate. I feel awful even as I write now- that the erratic keyboard taps will keep you up (though I'm convinced an atomic bomb can go off and you would not always stir). I want your peanut shoots to ground themselves and sometimes, for me, that means hugging walls or curling around the edge of the bed, one foot on the ground. An attentive nighttime farmer.

There goes the refrigerator hum. No stirring.

A train screech and yell. Nothing.

No, the reason why we can't sleep together is rather simple. It's not you, it's me. I don't sleep, even though I would desperately love to. Such a fickle friend, sleep. Capricious at best.

And though neither of us really sleeps when we're together, I would rather feign sleep with you than to sleep honestly alone. 4:30am now and you look more handsome now than you have all day. I know when you leave that my pillowcases will smell like you and there will likely be an orphaned hair or two. When you leave, I'll sleep for real, the kind where I keep my eyes shut and my body half shutters.

In the meantime, I suppose it's a decent enough hour for cereal. And needed teeth brushing. I'd say goodnight but I mean adieu.




Urban Outfitters Wall Art vol. 2

Catholic school with Catholic rules


via Fox News:
Opponents carry injured home-run hitter around bases

Firstly, it is an odd occurrance for me to turn to mainstream news, especially Fox News. Secondly, it's strange to have a strong emotional reaction other than disgust, dismay, or despair, but this is something else.

Sara Tucholsky of Western Oregon University scored her first home run ever and then majorly fucked up her knee rounding first. Unable to get up, she could be replaced by another runner, but then the homerun wouldn't count. Rather than muse at such luck, two girls from the opponent team carried Tucholsky around the bases so her homerun would count, thusly eliminating themselves from the playoffs.

I actually welled up reading the full story. le sigh.


Horse-talk for Marzipan

Dream sequence:

Last night I rode a mechanical horse along the river. We didn’t stop to drink the water but that’s only because it’s full of pesticides and herbicides and infanticides. In short, it’s full of bugs. This horse of mine, she’s sweet tempered while I’m hot embered. I carry a split stick as a riding whip, but I’m the one who needs it because I, unlike her, enjoy uncrossed sitting and off-bridge spitting; I peep into the medicine cabinets of strangers. In short, I’m not a lady. I like to pretend though, like when I cook dinner in expensive pearls and conservative sweaters, like when I wear “slacks” not pants, like when I say “yes, please, ma’am.”

So anyway, I was riding this horse along the way when we got to the Teeth Fairies. This is the part of the trip where I realized I shouldn’t have been riding so fast, wearing so little, with so little rear padding. Wouldn’t it be strange if your parents handed you a little bag, with a little tie, with all your little teeth you thought you lost when you were little? We could use it as currency then, a value forever rooted in childhood with zero inflation, which means the aggregate demand curve will be stable (…or maybe it’s the supply).

With these Teeth Fairies we whet our whistles with mathematic fermentation. The first variable is a glass of wine, which inevitably makes you giddy. The second variable, a second glass, makes you sleepy. Therefore, they cancel each other out like factional reciprocals leaving you with two empty glasses and a fuzzy brain, which is naturally to be expected when doing math.

It’s funny that childhood snacks like grapes become so bitter with age. We’ve become less round, more fluid. We’re less sweet, more fizzy, less bounce-able, more dizzy, and all-in-all we’re swimming in horizons that teeter. No wonder why we’re cranky with age, why we demand more high-fructose happiness.

My happiness, you see, is spreadable and I call it Jiff, I call it Jelly, I call it Mascarpone, but mostly I call it Marzipan. Not that I have anything against mascarpone, but I’m swimming in something sweeter these days and it goes great with cold milk.

“Hey, horse, where you going?”

“Back to the color factory to mend these split hooves”

“Think they can fix this split lip?”

“Oh I reckon so.”

*snaps fingers*

Now, wake up.