Saturday, May 30, 2009


The blue regret knocks you off your feet, maybe into the thorns and brambles next to the road. The blue regret gives you poison ivy.
The white regret is bright and blinding and makes it hard to look at anything else. The white regret attaches chains to ankles and weights to chains. The white regret is solitary confinement, which all the studies say is cruel and unusual, in that it causes insanity.
The blue regret is around things that can be hidden with effort. The white regret is around that which can't not be hidden. Public versus personal. Man versus self. Firemen versus justice.
The blue regret is as expansive as the sky. The wind propels its little sails into maelstroms of up and up and up. The white regret is a mist that takes the shape of its container and is heavy and hard and makes movement impossible.

In this example, there is hardly any blue. There is some blue, but the white blocks it out, as the white distracts from anything not so white as it. The lines are twisted together, can not be separated, are brothers in bitterness, in paralysis, in deep drowned bones that turn into coral, eyes that turn into pearls, hopes that turn white, plans that turn white, attempts that turn blue, people that turn white, children that are never born, ideas that are never conceived, blue and white wine that turns to vinegar in the cellar.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

I can't _____ when I can't _____ w/ you.

There's a cerealical roundness to the body, if that's not redundant. It's true even if it is redundant. Things which pertain to cereal tend to be round, for example: spoons, udders, oats, froot loops, cheerios, oreos, bowls, morning hugs, balanced diets, wide eyed bewonderment, morning routines, healthfulness, diabetes, sweet dreams, and you don't have to wake me when it's over.

Also to the body an exposed midriff is, and you gotta admire her confidence, don't you? It helps that she's the hottest little number Kensington, but still, that body, you wouldn't expect it. She's got a kind of a cerealic roundness to her belly, a belly type that's not represented in Maxim, FHM, Taut Belly Monthly, or Midriff Laffs. You gotta admire her confidence, but there's still the question of is that appropriate to teach school in?

Contrary to popular belief, it is not only radical lesbian feminists who find fat old limestone venuses erotic. Other kinds of radical lesbians do too.

The body cavity is red and irritated because the giant's heart is constructed partially of thorns. The striated muscle is checkered with them and they point in every direction and put him in a bad bad mood. You would be too if you had a heart full of thorns. Good luck though, the townspeople are gathering all their turquoise and they're going to melt it down or do what you do with a bunch of turquoise and build a new heart and then their plan is to knock the giant out, surgify him, and put the new turquoise heart inside his body. The hope then is that he will stop raping and pillaging their butts and they can then get back to the things they like, like mining turquoise. There's a certain celearical logic to all this. Doesn't make it not true though. Nothing is truer than lies (except truth, obviously.)

Tuesday, May 26, 2009


Stop trying.

completely, letting stable, planful, superego, letting the very it takes door of foyer, the umbrellas drip.

there entire house, house, a the house Korean sauna pile of.

room made is a and there steam and. There is tart and made of another made made of room made is a and there cubism and. There is questions and made of another made made a room there is quanta made of another made a room there is dry and of denim daring and and another another made made of room there around each question and in the is in the house keeps the earth runs cool earth and the and flowing happens. That's.

the kitchen the foyer, possible and hidden beneath the room still trying you're not in the.

even close, come in.

gold sauna
red sauna

Wednesday, May 20, 2009


Stop trying to understand.

Letting go completely, letting go of everything precious, stable, planful, letting go of the superego, letting go completely is only the very beginning. It's only what it takes to open the first door of the first antechamber, the foyer, the little room where the umbrellas drip in the corner.

Between there and answers lies the entire house, and it's a big house, a many roomed house, like the house in Clue, like a Korean sauna castle, like a big pile of house.

There is a room made of gold and there is a room made of ice and there is another made of steam and another made of grass. There is a room made of tart and there is a room made of spinning and there is another made of feathers and another made of leather. There is a room made of email and there is a room made of wine and there is another made of cubism and another made of serialism. There is a room made of questions and there is a room made of collars and there is another made of brick and another made of clay. There is a room made of ringtone and there is a room made of quanta and there is another made of call and response and another made of racism. There is a room made of delft and there is a room made of dry and there is another made of denim and another made of daring and another made of drunk and another made of dreary and another made of dicta and another made of dust. And in each room there is a thing and around each thing there is a question and the answers are all in the kitchen and the kitchen is in the deepest part of the house where the cool earth keeps the produce and the hot earth runs the stove and the cool earth is dark and soft and the hot earth is red and flowing and that's where it happens. That's where we bake.

But the kitchen is far away from the foyer, as far away as possible and the trap door is hidden beneath an ornate rug and the room is locked and you're still trying to understand which means you're not even close to getting in the house at all.

Not even close, but you're welcome to come in when you're ready.

the gold sauna
the ice sauna
the red sauna
the blue sauna

Monday, May 18, 2009

The Importance of Aging

There are new frightening pains, spots on the windshield, and yes, visibility is reduced. At the same time though, simple moments matter more. It turns out they aren't simple at all.

Light breaks through the clouds. It takes clouds for that to happen and sunlight, which means insane chemical reactions millions of miles away. It reminds me of the first time we went to the islands, and light broke through the clouds in a similar way. The same light. Different clouds. I haven't seen your body in twenty years. Is it different? Mine is.

It also reminds me of God's white hair, which he dyes black for his high school reunion, but otherwise leaves natural. Every time he lets a little light through the clouds it's just to remind me of that time in the islands. I thought, there will always be another opportunity. I thought, there will always be more of this. I thought, maybe I don't want this because I have it already. I thought, happiness is my birthright. I thought, happiness is only in stories. I thought, I have all the time in the world. I thought, it's too soon. I thought, grab it while I can, and I did, I grabbed you, but you were so hot that I let go and dropped you and you shattered into a million pieces on the tile floor. I thought, I should sweep you up myself but instead I left your pieces there and your dust to be hosed away next spring.

The gang's all broken up you know. Did you know? Do you know? Have you been back to the restaurant at all? It's all strangers there now except for the new people. Our new people. Their old people.

One of the new people, the boy with the curly hair, asked me about you. I said I didn't know what you were doing, but of course I do know. I have tv. I have newspapers. I get your messages. I see the lines behind the lines. They write about gaza, I see your green eyes. They write about baseball, I see your boobs. They write about Canada, I remember the time in the islands. Remember we had no food to eat. Remember we got creative.

One of the new people asked me about you and I punched him right in the face. Who is he to ask me about you? What does he know about what drew us together and what pulled you away. What did pull you away? Was it me pushing you? Is that what pulled you away?

Do you have white hair now? I don't have white hair, I have no hair. I didn't believe you had really left for over a year. Your second birthday in a row. The second time there was no email , no contact. The second time I wasn't involved in your life. The second birthday after you left I decided to tell people you'd left, but by then I didn't know any people.

I still don't know any people. There's all these new people at the restaurant now. They don't remember how we used to do things.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

BClhoesrsroym Girl

It can pray every day but it won't help with the green skin. The green skin represents some kind of molting. It feels sick. The room spins. The great outdoors isn't so great and is too far away anyway. Pressure behind the eyes mean pressure on the mind.

Then, all at once, things clear up. The air thins. The auto-tune becomes actual singing. The million dollar prize gets cancelled. Hunting season ends. The truth is written on a fortune cookie. The pills start working again. The calls get made. The call backs get made. The instruments play themselves.

All is light, ease, shadowy warmth, breeziness. It's raining eggs. It's raining life. It's raining green grass.

She opens her eyes, so big they encompass the whole grove, the whole world. So big they even make room for the past.

Come my love, step into the garden of roses. This is the evening of roses. This is the evening that comes every seven years when there is no war. This is the morning of roses. This is the morning of dewdrops. Neither of us have to put on our uniforms this morning. Neither of us have to clean our rifles. Neither of us have to get our tickets punched.

Defending the garden of roses is exhausting. I am exhausted. You are exhausted. He, she, or it is exhausted. Don't step on the egg. Don't let anyone else step on the egg. Don't touch the egg to move it to some place safe. Don't scare off the mother by getting too near the egg. Don't sit on the egg to keep it warm. Don't imprint yourself on it. Let the egg hatch into a baby rosebush. Be careful not to cut yourself in the garden of roses or roses will grow from the cut and you will end up roses.

Someone is throwing cinnamon around. Someone is singing quietly. Someone is extinguishing a candle in a dented tin cup of wine. Someone else is in the garden with us, or someone will be, or someone was.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Feliz Yo Mamma

Come all ye christians and learn from a sinner, Santa Fe. There were birds all around, but I was sixteen going on seventeen. Remember when the bloods circled us and did the mexican hat dance? There was lemon then. There was cinnamon.

Look at this stuff, isn't it neat? Wouldn't you say I'm the counterpoint? The counterpoint that's got everything? I am the very model of a modern major counterpoint. The minor key is for adolescents and people with shallow minds.

There's a heartbreaking story at the center of all this. A tale of love and loss and things that never got a chance to be. Eggs which never hatched. Blankets never woven. I held you til you fell asleep and then I woke up and found out I was just a car. Did you have fun fun fun til your daddy took me away? I know I did.

Nobody wants to have to crawl through the sewer pipe in the pitch dark, hunched over, things moving around the ankles, hunting for something poisonous but necessary. These are the positions we find ourselves in when first we begin to wonder why. Pass around the bottle and everybody put a note inside. On the other shore they may find them and not be able to read our language but they may send help anyway. Or else they may try to conquer us, a fool's errand, we who meet on the streetcorners, we who are already conquered, we who believe in fate.

Do you believe in fate? Believe in fate. It's burning up the quarter mile.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Broo # 365

The ode to bitter things didn't go over as well as planned. It may have been because nobody likes bitter things.

Buddhists like bitter things if they are meant to be bitter, but not if they are meant to be sweet. Have you seen the tapestry of the three vinegar tasters? It is about three men tasting vinegar and they have different reactions. The first man is upset because the vinegar is sour, the second man is happy because the vinegar is sweet, the third man is happy because the vinegar tastes like vinegar is supposed to taste. Why this has to be explained through tapestry is anybody's guess.

The larger point is that two out of three tapestried men become happy when they taste vinegar so buy some for your dinner table tonight, pack some in your kids' lunch bags, your husband's briefcase, the guy your having an affair with's duffel bag. Just don't end up in the duffel bag yourself, unless that's what's supposed to happen, then everything will be as it should.

The thing about buddhists is that they love to wear sandals. That is why there are no buddhists in cold places.

Did you hear the one about the buddhist monastery on top of a mountain? It turned out to be a Disney attraction. They call me the count because I love to count.

What do tea and women have in common?

Either one may be bitter.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009


A cross between a thump and a crack. A pigeon egg falling through the overhead netting at the underside of the overpass. The parents' brains are too small to notice. Just be glad it's not crap. Where are the redemptorists? Who are the redemptorists and what do they redempt? Invisible lines in the water, hooked food, a happy meal with dynamite inside. A place to relax. Death comes easily to the redemptorists. Who are the redemptorists?

Dangerous thoughts that don't lead anywhere. Dark places in the imagination that can get you arrested in certain states and definitely get you cut out of the inheritance in any country, even this one. Peking duck pizza, you might say, or actual peking duck. For the genuine article take a trip to Peking which is now Nanking which is now East Belgrade which is now New York which is now Flint, Michigan, which is now Seattle, which is no Pasadena, which is now Anaheim, which is now Stratford Upon Avon, which is now Annandale on Hudson, which is now Ham on Rye, which is now The Star Bellied Sneetch, which is now the Butter Battle Book, which is now Where The Sidewalk Ends, which is now holding half an acre folded in that scrap of paper which is now holding constancy in the dark which is now holding four of five cards to make a flush which is now holding steady in the face of age, terrible terrible age, which is natural and terrible.

You are natural and terrible. Your face is natural and terrible. Your mom is natural and terrible. You are natural and terrible.

When are the redemptorists, if not today? What do they think they will catch with their baited traps and five out of six packs of beer. Look, the battery. Look, a hot slut. Look, the statue of liberty with newly reopened crown. Look, water. Look, water. Look, something to drink.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Foot Dragger

For falling asleep without meaning to, thereby discovering the naked need to do so, there is no remedy but the symptom itself, which takes time, maybe time already committed to something else, some worthier activity, or at least something inflexible, something that can't be sacrificed, won't be considered being sacrificed, until it turns out there is no choice because unconsciousness rolls along the bed sheets like clouds over the bowl of a southwestern canyon, roofing in sleepy campers who ought to be making a fire before it gets dark but whose reptile brains recognize sun worship as the only true religion, who fall asleep holding hands, who smile beatifically at the sky gods, who are carried back to childhoods and especially to imaginary childhoods by the pine bouquets, the evocations of the roadrunner landscapes, the impossible softness or roughness or smoothness or hairiness or paleness or richness of the skin of the other hand, the skin/flesh/bone of the fingers and palms pressing into one two-tone limination of warmth, a second sun, smaller, yes, but also much closer than the one that toasts the bodies drifting on the shifting rocks and forests of desert canyons, coyote graveyards, campgrounds littered with beer cans, charred wood, trampled grass, ridiculous hopes pinned to one vacation, lost schedules rendered moot by the sudden implacable need for napping outside the half assembled tents, by the impulse to love, by other things that can't be understood by the human parts of the brain.

We are human and we are animal and there is no contradiction, and it is that contradiction that makes us.

Sunday, May 10, 2009


The glass makes no sense upside down. Hot glued to the ceiling, the wrong side has gathered all that dust. The bowl is still clean, incapable of holding wine, or anything. Below, the small awkward gathering drinks water from matching wine glasses; matching each other and matching the extra one on the ceiling. The bed, the couch, the kitchen, the bookcase, the bathroom. The five distinct messes have spread and swirled into each other. There are bed sheets in a pile with some encyclopedia volumes. There is a 10” skillet, crusted over from when the yolk split during a routine breakfast.

Crust has begun to creep up the walls, a few feet only, for now, the scouts, the advance guards, the first casualties, unofficial, that don’t even make it into the statistics, that won’t even be a footnote in the history books, or any books. A plunger, upside down, is leaning against the wall, dropping brown and yellow streaks to the floor, its handle being used as a bookmark between pages five and six of a novel, boring, outdated, and rancid, but on the crusty list of things that ought to be read by the educated class. Reading Proust is eating your vegetables, but nobody ever got big on Proust, except, obviously, for Proust.

Something falls from somewhere into something, releasing a cloud of some particles or something.

That’s not the only movement though, far from it. In the area that once would have been considered the couch, but now might be the bathroom, they are drinking water from two water glasses. He has no idea what she means when she calls it classy. When her clothes come off they will never be seen again, not never, but never when they are being looked for. A section of the apartment-organism is pulsing with hunger already.

There are disparate appetites in the room and they will find a way to work together. Gently, lovingly, he removes a steel knitting needle from where it has stuck four inches into her thigh, rips off a crusty strip of cheese cloth from under the coffee table to tourniquet the flow. It had been a curtain until it was needed to strain the greek yogurt until it had been needed for something else. You knit? The stabbing has relaxed her. I think those are from a previous tenant. A thick black lump buzzes against the Dukakis poster blocking the window, then flies off to bump into something else.

At once, the ceiling glass falls and crashes onto the old pile of broken ceiling glasses, adding to the delicate stalagmite.

There will be no cuddling in the morning. We can’t stay still too long or the mold will take us. Look, the small of your back is already crusting over.

Friday, May 8, 2009


Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize 'humongous'

Things are not surprising with the right perspective. That a shadow look like another shadow is nothing jealous. Shadows, for, are imprecise and capture, something surely, but are not detailed, like life. Life is detailed and leaves marks on itself, unique among itself, and within itself. Do you read my twisted knots? I think they will make a lovely tattoo at some point. Not for me, obviously, but for someone else, someone willing to make a lasting decision.

Do you think you shouldn't ever risk regret?
Is there anything it's impossible to regret?
What is the place of regret, anyway?
Where does regret live?
What really is regret?
Why so regret?
Do you think you should never do anything you might regret?

It is easy enough to disguise yourself as another person if that person's shadow looks like yours and if whoever you're hiding from can only see shadows. We can all only see shadows, but that' not really relevant here. Please stop introducing irrelevancies. All the doctors say you shouldn't do it. Any doctor that says you should do it is a quack, because all the doctors say you shouldn't do it.

Night time speed. Streetlight altercations. Shadow moves independently of you, impossibly, in lieu of a compass point, we find many compass points, a sphere, a cloud, no true north, no clear direction except into the past. Out, out, brief insight. Youa re too delicate for this world, this only world, the world.

There is one world and its name is the world. It is called the world because it cointains the world and is the world. Live in it or risk floating into the land if wind and ghosts.

Please toast my memory. Please acknowledge or invent my impact. Please feel something of my uniqueness, my very uniqueness, my uniqueness. Please feel something humongous. Remember to repeatedly utter my name. Please drink deep. Please drink with the right people. Drink with everybody who will have you. Anybody. Hobos are the only people worth knowing anyway. Are you a hobo? You are. To the extent that you try not to be, you kill yourself.

There are things that are the same. There are things that are different. Nothing is different. Everything is the same. You are not so unique. There are many more unique than you. To be only as unique as you are is fairly common, to be expected you might say. You are literally the least unique person in the room. You are a shadow on the filthy road, your area cut by the gutter, by the sleeping animalperson, by miscellany itself. When the power blinks off, you blink off. It is, though, ok not to care, because right now the power is on. The power is on and you exist. You are on. You have opportunity. You can do things you may later regret. Like anything. The power is on and you are a shadow. You do not exist because you are a shadow. Two shadows do not, can not, look alike. There is always something different, some difference, and that difference is the entire world, the one that contains the whole world, called the world, the world.

Let it be known: Spellcheck does not recognize things which are humongous.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Oil in the Pan

Look out! Here comes a brave new paradigm. Ready for trouble? Doesn't matter. Ready or not, trouble will find you. Did you notice that money flows out of your life like water through the holes in the dam made by the terrorist cell that those arab neighbors of yours turned out to be all along. So who's the racist? The racist, or the racist who won't sleep with the racist? And by racist, I mean black person, and by racist, I mean racist.

Stop. Listen to the footsteps of your companion, your life partner, your childparent. Is she dragging her heels? Is he trying to walk the other way? Is anyone there at all? How do you know you're not crazy? You don't know. You could be crazy.

Ever taken drugs? Maybe that's the real sanity and the rest of the time you're all crazy, crazy. Maybe you're still on the playground and hte kids are all laughing at you and pointing with stubby little pointers and calling you Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! Man, that would suck to wake up to when you come out of your twenty year delusion.

Ever been drunk? That's pretty crazy right htere. Ever throw an empty beer bottle at a cop? Ever call your ex in the middle of the night and tell her you still love her? Ever drive?

Maybe you're not crazy. Nobody ever said you were. You can be sane if it's so damn important to you. But if you're sane, why are you so crazy all the time?

You can wear black and be all mysterious if you want to be. You can smoke opium and let your organs utrn to couch cushions. You can smoke grass and lie on the grass and jam out to some bluegrass.

So who's the racist? The fool or the fool who loves the fool? Drop some oil in the skillet and watch the dancing bubbles. Sometimes the hot oil lands on your bare skin. When a drop hits you it kisses you hello and then disappears. Maybe it leaves you a little dirty. maybe it lets you off the hook with a warning this time. Maybe it leaves a little scar, a bouquet of roses, something to remember me by.

I am oil in the skillet and I've been narrating your life this whole time. Weren't aware of me, were you? Thought you could just fry up some vegetables in me without revealing everything about yourself to whom so ever I should tell.

Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer. Buzzer.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Wine + 0

Before this, I did not know what a north star was. Now, I always know the right direction, even if sometimes I run the wrong way anyway. I didn't ask to be born. Not that anyone did. Not that anyone asked if I asked.

Not that you care.

Did you hear the one about the oak tree and the willow? The oak tree says "We've been growing here next to each other for seventy five years. Hello." And the willow goes "Ahhh! A talking oak tree!"

The end.

We've talked a lot about trees here today, and that's been a lot of fun. But let's remember that, technically, wines come from vines. Vines are different than trees. Go ahead and remember that please.



One thing about vines is that they wrap. They have tendrils. Hell, they are tendrils. They are merely creepy, as opposed to terrifying, only because of their speed. Specifically, their lack of speed. If something moved like a vine but fast enough that it could chase you, you'd lose your shit.


Don't gimme that old line that anything that normally doesn't chase you chasing you would be nightmare-world, because that's not true in the same way. Cash money chasing you, for example, would not be nearly as creepy.

Unless it was.

The bottle of ink is not labeled right. It really oughtn't to be called India Ink unless it comes from Indianapolis. Should you be angry about this? It's tough to know how upset to get about these little things because it's tough to know if these things are really all that little. Who, exactly, is the messed up label hurting? Not just who.

Who, exactly?

I want to run in the right direction. It's not a direction at all. I don't know what it is. If I know what it was would that help me run in it? Towards it? At it? I know what the north star is.

In theory.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 00005

Look, let's make a few things clear. There's much too much confusion up in this mother.

I'm not drinking this week. Gotta dry out after the weekend.

Fresh fish! We catch them you buy them!

Number one. It is not possible to get to know every bottle of wine that's ever been produced. Even if you could get your hands on them all, they change from year to year. Number two. It's ok to lose sight of the shore. Number three. The food pairings are not mandatory.

Wow, was I plastered over the weekend. I don't remember doing anything I regret. I hope I don't not remember doing something I would regret if I remembered it. I don't think I did though.

Lady, look at this beautiful haddock. Have you ever seen a haddock like this? Never, I bet. That slimy guy is monkfish. I know. He looks terrible, but cook him up just right, your husband will swear he's eating lobster. Don't blow another dinner on pizza and skittles. Buy some fish!

Number four. Although the sense of light headed euphoria is an integral part of the experience, it is not the primary focus of differentiation among options. The world is full of things to make you light headed, and most of them have far less variety.

When the right balance of chemicals is the only thing holding you up, it's time to take stock. It's time to take stock right now. It's always time to take stock. I want to dry out in the sun but it won't stop raining. The rain is indistinguishable from drunkenness. Everything is obliterative.

But some fish! Cook it up in a pan. Grill it on the grill. Braise it in the braisier. Smoke it in the smoker. Roast it whole and eat around the bones and the worms. Covering it in a huge pile of salt will make it sweet, not salty. The omega-3 fatty acids will be there for you when you need them. We're not just selling fish here, people. We're selling a lifestyle. We're selling inner clean. We're selling change.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 000004

There's a shortage of honesty in the room. Really hot backless dresses though. Also booze.

There can be no protest without the proper permit.

There! Look! Something moved. Beyond the tree line. You don't see it? Look!

Truth Serum, they call it but it's not doing it's job. Other than getting pairs to slip out quietly, ditch their lying friends, couple up on the sidewalk and behind minivans. Not lying, really, that's not fair, but silent in the moments where truth is what's called for. Some version of it. It, as seen by the speaker at least, the friend getting into trouble over by the bar, one of the bars.

To march today, you would have needed to get the right papers signed six months ago and requested Burgundy level clearance one year before that. You would have been denied of course, because of what you want to say, where you want to march, how you want to rhyme it, the megaphones made in china, the sneakers made in sweat shops, the bag lunch made in the Park Slope vegan restaurant. You would have needed White clearance to appeal, which doesn't exist.

Let's keep moving. At least there are raccoons in these woods. Bears. Escaped mental patients. Smoke monsters. Philosophers with guns. It's dark here. I'm not a hippy. Let's not camp. I've changed my mind. I'm allowed to change my mind right? I want to change my mind.

A few deep brown glasses and a few more are supposed to get us to the point of openness but it's easy to swing too far, past the bawdy singing, and end up passing out. There is no serum. There is no truth.

You call it speaking truth to power but your truth is lousy with holes and your power doesn't live in a big brass building. You want to shout. You want to count. You want to fix things. You want to count. Yes, you could march. Yes, you could chant. Fifth Avenue is just an echo chamber. There is no building. There is no power.

The truth is camping never sounded good to me. I don't even like to leave Manhattan. I'm not interested in your interests, I'm interested in you. And if I'm gonna be in the woods, alone with you could make it doable. Maybe I lied, but you saw what you wanted to see. Anyway, there's something wrong behind those trees there. There is. There is.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Wine Harold Bin 0000003

You know when you purr it turns me on.

You made your eyes extra wide tonight and I'm not sure what that means.

You left your wallet on the street and I found it.

I always like it when you take advantage of my weaknesses. I pretend to guard them carefully, but really I just want to serve them all up in a silver bowl and let you pick through them until you find the ripest ones.

I know we're talking about a cheap theatrical trick but there was some kind of depth to the gesture. Nothing is by accident and I feel like your eyes are already a source of friction between me and the things I had going before I met you.

I rifled through it to find your license. I assume you don't mind because now you'll be able to get your wallet back and you won't have to cancel your library card. I hope you answer your phone though, despite the unknown number I will be.

It's not fair, you tell me, I know all your spots now, and I laugh like the bad guy in a movie, but secretly I'm glad you felt like you could show me where to touch you because now I know.

It's not fair to be more attentive to your needs than everyone else here, but your tricky eyes trick me.

It's not fair to get mad at me for tracking you down. Look at this great excuse I had, returning your lost property. If I ask you to get a drink with me, what's the big deal? What's the big deal if you tell your husband you're going out to get your wallet returned. It'll be the truth won't it? Just not the whole truth.