Nothing

I found your blog and I think you're crazy

Free for sale

After the midnight showing of The Thing, in April because that's when The Skitterscrape does marathons, I thought we were pretending to maybe buy the blind man's chair. 

The chair sat sighing on the curb in front of the house. Its cushions went deep. The polyester blue of it reminded me of a Trinitron-sized Olympic pool. In its softest spots it had grown dimples, the kind worn by girls too smart for their own good. To it and to you I said no, even though you promised this chair would be big enough for us to fuck and fight on. When I pointed out a grizzly marking that could've very well been caused by period blood, you said, well, this thing probably hasn't been sat in since the last day on earth that man could see. And we argued, because I knew the man who once owned this chair was not very blind. 

In the summertime I had seen him picking up his poodle's dogshit without even having to pat around. The dog was shaking in its boots. I watched wide as he just scooped the poop up from the weedings in a smooth and accurate ladle. The man could have been laughing, or he could have been grinding his teeth down, milling them to a pulp. Since then, he might have lost his teeth, but since then, he was not blind.

You accused me of falling asleep during the movie, as well as being indifferent towards this potentially killer block of furniture, as well as not giving the blind man a benefit of any doubt. And I told you and told you, really, I saw it all, and one must lie in order to become anything. I said the chair knows we wouldn't be able to stand it. Just look at the way it lacks itself. 

You couldn't slap me so that's why instead you picked up the chair. We set out for home. Flicking a dollar from your teeth through the blind man's gates, your arms were pulled close around that upholstered wood; I didn't even have to hold your hand. 

Heroines

Because of the sea

(and because

she had another lover boy whom she could miss)

it was easy for Our Tommy to roll himself under her.

He notices all he has to do here is

blow spit bubbles (over the seashell part

of her ear) and massage his own lymph nodes and

say,

out loud and clear,

"It must be the quitting smoking."

The way he was thinking about it was:

well,

her body does not know anything,

and my body will do what it wants and,

running, it ran,

so how easy was it

he was thinking,

if i wanted to add distance, say,

and an absence of one?

When Our Tommy slid his sticking fingers

past that little scoop-ledge of her collarbone,

when she became the softest at his touch,

and bubbling,

he was already traveling east.

She was Ours, too, except maybe not as loved.