Barfly

I hate places like this. Always full of wooden men with glass eyed stares. Always with their looks wondering about creamy thighs and hands with fate lines that end at tonight. They tower above me, these giants. I debate about crawling up under a shoe, like a scorpion. Flick my ankles out, a twitch. I call it dancing. Liz says I have no beat, no rhythm, no metro-known. She puts her hands on my hips, side to side, up and down. She calls this dancing. I call her my puppeteer. Pull my strings taut, fish for my joints, hooked under my armpits.

I say I need to get a drink. I leave Liz dancing with flies. I don’t like being touched there anyhow.

This bar is boring. Full of people, smoking, drinking, dancing. And not one of them doing a thing. Even the philosophers in the corner with spit drenched napkins are really just trying to get laid. Only the bar tenders with the tight hard bodies and tight black polo shirts to hide the sweat see how dull the night is. They pour drinks, like a factory, one shot one beer one drink split the orange split the lemon split the soda water. I want to go home. But Liz is laughing, trying to puppeteer someone else. I can see she got her second wind. I try to breath on my wrists, try to tell them to wake up. But I just get a lungful of germs.


Notes:

Whoo-wee. It feels good to get a post up. Taking August off of work to do more portfolio work. Obvs, this piece is super unfinished, but it's a start.

"Yard work"

The sun struck sweat thick on my neck. Desert noonday and I’m out here burning leaves. But I got a hair up my ass to do it. So I did. A few months till moving and brush needed to be cleared. Took me a few times to strike the fire machine and work, but it came. Wind moves softly, delicately, like hands outstretched twirling in long skirts. Kicks up ash like snowflakes, sends smoke in my eyes, in my throat.

I turn to the porch to sit. I suddenly have the urge to smoke a cigarette, even though it’s been years. I turn the lighter over in my hand. I imagine the nicotine calm. But I’ve got none. I dig my hands deep into my pockets, letting them rest. I have to keep checking for blisters. Got to go easy on my hands. Dirt is ok though. Earth. But not mud. The rain doesn’t come here.


To be continued...

blurb

"Gossamer Girl in Garden"


I try to thread the pieces together. Make the string stick. But mud keeps getting stuck in my teeth, in my jaws. I spend my days eating dirt, oranges—pick the ants off the pits of my knees. Passersby’s tell me to start making mandalas, tell me it will be better if I just echo the stars. I am in no mood to listen to the dead. I listen to white ladies debate other white ladies about the effectiveness of sun block. I listen to panting dogs, to cigarettes hitting the sidewalk, of fucking and sucking. I wish I could grow spinnerets out of my ass and weave these pieces together. I try but shit just comes out instead.




Comments: Just kind of rolled this out in a few minutes. Not really sure how to end it--I don't really like that last line. I started to get more graphic with scatological references, but it just seemed too trite. I suppose this is my teen girl emo post? "Dear Journal, Mood: Pathetic"

Brother Alex

I switch it up and pull it back; pull and use my weight to swing it around. You used to call it take backs. I call it changing my mind. But what am I supposed to do, with you sitting there all eyebrows and lip cuts? Blood is thicker than tears, and you found me somehow. I’ll try to rack my brain later on who you could have called, scratching mom and dad off the list first.

“You got a light?”
“They banned indoor smoking last month.”
You look like you’re about to say something, opening your mouth in the beginning of a tirade but you change your mind instead.
“Whatever.” You rub your eyes. “I’m going out side.”

Chris, my usual server comes by, greasy coffee in tow. He’s nice enough, studying jazz or something at the university, always writing a paper of some kind or talking about “color” and “tone”. Tells me he used to sell drugs on occasion but got sick of dealing with trust fund hipsters. I don’t blame him. Putting up with the Arbor Vitae music crowd is only worth it sometimes, but less and less as of late. Everyone plays the Ukulele or the singing saw. Everyone tries to do the same old thing, trying to shock or educate or whatever but it always comes out kind of sad and tired. Kevin was ok though. He used to come in, all flannel and blues and folk and pass around cheap whiskey through the crowd. Communion, he called it. At least he didn’t pretend to be deep or original or know anything we didn’t. He was just a guy.

“Sorry man, but you got to go. It’s a health code violation. Pathogens and some shit,” Chris says, eyeing your mouth and the blood.

I can’t tell if you’re about to argue, about to tell him he’s a piss-ant or something like that.

“Sure man, I understand.”
“Thanks, it’s my manager…You can go two blocks down and there’s a free clinic that will stitch you up. Might be a bit of a wait, but at least you wont have to pay.”

Chris. He’s nice enough. I tip him more than what the greasy coffee is worth and we head out the door.

It’s not kick-you-in-the-stomach-cold, not the kind that makes you aware of your teeth floating ice cubed in your mouth. But it’s cold enough that I have to wipe my nose on the back of my hand in just a few moments of being out. Six o’clock in Michigan and its already starting to get dark. Yellow headlights push pathways through the road in salt stained snow cars. The sidewalks aren’t shoveled, only narrow foot wide canyons with slippery walls. The walking is slow. It’d be faster to walk in the street, but it’s rush hour so there isn’t much sense in doing that.

“Looks like Joey’s car up there,” you say.
A half-mile up, a gray Taurus with a red roof is spun around in the shoulder. No other car there, so probably not a fender bender. Most likely he hit a patch of black ice or tried to brake too fast.

“Want to go check on him?” I ask.
“Forget it. Joey’s a bastard; he’s always trying to get something from someone. Idiot doesn’t even know how to drive in the snow. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

I don’t argue. Joey is a bit of a bastard, anyway. Not the trust-fund hipster bastard, but more of a come over to your place without calling and start touching all your stuff bastard. Like he doesn’t have to ask for anything. He just assumes that you’ll be cool with it.

We finally get to a shoveled parking lot and at the end of it is the clinic. It looks more like a new dentist office than a free clinic. While the rest of the state’s economy is going down the tubes, with its auto parts rusting in backyards of dead factories and Bridge Card users filling the local Meijers on the first of each month at midnight, Washtenaw County is still pulling in a sizable income tax. Regents, Big Ten Football and liberal guilt pay for the green hybrid busses, recycling, pavilions for the homeless, and of course, the free clinic.

The glass doors are fogged over and a child’s palm prints jigsaw their way across the entrance. The grey mat is even greyer with mud and waterlogged snow. But it’s bright and warm. The waiting room is mostly full. I find some seats while you go talk to the receptionist. Oprah is playing loudly on a TV in the corner, but I don’t think anyone is watching.

“She said it will be about a half hour.”
“Ok,” I say.
Families with small children are coughing, some of them come from busses, others come from cars. I guess the other people can tell that we walked because we smell like snow with our red cheeks. Dr. Phil is on Oprah, talking to a well-groomed woman.

“How’d you find me anyway?” I ask.
“Mira told me.”
I can feel my ears go red. I am alert with a mixture of guilt and fear and arousal.
“How do you know Mira?”
“She works at the Youth Safe House. She let it slip that she knew my sister”
My mouth goes dry. I try to find words to make this work.

“How long have you been staying there?”
“Not long.”

***

Thoughts: I'm not sure where exactly I want to go with this piece. I really like the opening. You might be able to tell, but I wrote this right after I reread J.D. Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye." I think I'm going to change the last bit of dialogue--I'm not crazy about it. I'm also debating about changing the word "tirade" in the second paragraph. Stikes me as icky. To the two people who read this blog, if you have any suggestions or constructive criticism, leave it in the comments. Hearts and flowers, dizzyfemme