Monday, April 4, 2011

Gmail Chat - Jordan Castro & Brittany Wallace


showin off fo da cam
are you still listening to this bitch
brittany: no, this one now
jesus, this one...
me: someone hit the first bitch in the mouth because she had a moustache
i have no control over my life here in ohio
that is a sentence i just thought
how can a person whoi thinks things like that like
like
that sentence
is dramatic and retarded and i dont like, believe it, or whatever
but i like.. thought it convincingly
somehow
brittany: post that on lake effect blog
me: lol, ok
brittany: i have
no control
over my
life (in ohio)
me: doing a funny thing
brittany: i feel like the only time i felt legitimately bullied was when some retard told me to shave my arms in high school man i'm glad i didn't like come out as a lesbian or something

Sunday, March 6, 2011

psychedelic cowboy (our growing arms)

"this is a birthday party and
we have nothing to give"
drew pulls behind the florist shop
we open the dumpsters and
pull flower after flower,
fistfuls of flowers, growing
three pairs of arms cannot
hold all that we found

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Fried-Velveeta-Miracle-Whip Sandwiches

I don’t remember exactly when the kitchen was remodeled, but one day there were white counter tops complete with golden flecks. There were plastic Robin egg blue curtains and a microwave new enough to act as a status symbol among the neighborhood girls.

She was indeed the first on the street to own a microwave. Now she had a bit of extra time to light her own cigarettes. There was no man to light them for her and so she would flick restlessly through the television channels on her evenings off.

I could tell that in many ways the microwave calmed her nerves.

Favoring bright colors in dress and in makeup
my childhood memories became scented clouds of sugary hairspray.
oh no it’s 4am and I just smashed through your bedroom door on some handsome drunk man’s back with the bad teeth and he also punted your ceramic peacock lamp and said “its like if Queen Latifah wore a shin guard on her face”

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

A Conversation Between An Old Black Man, An Old White Man and Myself

Inside of a Post Office, Mid-Afternoon

Old Black Man: Daaaayyyyuummm...

Me: [nervous laughter]

Old Black Man: Dis place look new. Dis a nice place ya got here.

Me: Yeah... It's actually like, kind of new. Like, it used to be over there [points right] but it moved here like, a few months ago.

Old Black Man: And it's nice outside too! For wintertime I mean. Dis place nice doe, dis place nice. I be like... I was like... comin' from Severance... Up on Miles? Or - I mean, Miles, and, uh, this is just way easier to git to y'know?

Me: [nervous laughter]

Old Black Man: Everything is so spread out nowadays.

Me: Yeah.

Old Black Man: I mean, I could do this online, and pay with my... with my debit card, y'know? But then people be... people be stealing yo number and what not. [Loud noise, expressing disbelief]. You never know what people are gonna do nowadays. It's crazy. Life is crazy now. Life is... [Loud noise, expressing disbelief].

Me: Yeah... Man... But... Hasn't it always been crazy?

Old Black Man: That's what I'm sayin'. Life is crazy. [Turns to Old White Man, standing behind me in line]. You know what I'm sayin' my brotha? Life is crazy. You just don't know anymore. You get old and you just don't know.

Old White Man: [Stares blankly ahead for ~10 seconds]. You know... I was just hearing on the radio... Teachers being accused of having sex with students.

Me: Jesus...

Old Black Man: Real?

Old White Man: It was just on the radio. On the way here. I was listening on the way here. A female teacher accused of having sex with an 8th grader. A student. But then it's like, people are saying that they bribed her. You know? And a lot of people were calling in saying she's innocent. But who're you going to believe - the 8th grader or the teacher? There weren't any witnesses.

Old Black Man: You don't say.

Old White Man: I would not want to be a teacher nowadays.

Old Black Man: Right. And my own kid... I mean... My own damn kid. But... I mean... It was for some girl. But my own damn kid, can you believe it?

Me: [grinning] I... I believe it.

Old Black Man: Crazy... Crazy... [Walks away].

Old White Man: I would not want to be a teacher nowadays.

Me: [Walks away].

Monday, February 7, 2011

f u winter

today i used a hammer to smash a sheet of ice on my steps.
i was swinging the hammer as hard as i could.
it made me feel really tough and strong.

no one's going to slip and fall and die on the ice.
not on this porch.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Poem Where I Am Cold

Dear Mom,

When I told you in the morning
I had “pocket-called” you
the other night, at 3:32,
I was not telling you the truth.

I had actually left my bag somewhere
and had locked myself out of
my apartment building
and it was cold
and I was drunk
and I didn't know what to do
and the snow wouldn't just
shut the fuck up and let me think
and I thought you could maybe
think for me.

J

Dear Mom,

Actually, I'm not finished.
I rammed the building door
for a while, with my shoulder,
without getting in,
so I rammed another building's
broken door, and got in.

And I slept there, in the hall,
in the fetal position.
Not crying or anything,
just cold.

J

Mom,

I put my headphones on,
and slept very badly.
I don't know what I listened to,
it was soft.

I unscrewed the hallway light,
and felt very tired and cold
and repeated “God didn't mean
to make me like this,”

which is just a thing I say.
You know I don't believe in God.

J

Mom,

A nice man woke me up
at, I think, 7. He asked
if I had somewhere to go.
I told him yes, and I went
to the BP. I thought it
was really nice of him
to ask that.

The leasing office
opened at 9.
I got the spare key and
told the woman (not nice)
that I would bring it
right back, and I didn't.
I went inside
and slept all day,
and into the next day,
when I got your message
asking why I'd called you
at 3:32.

Dear Mom,

I think I mean to start
all of my poems that way,

especially the poems
where I am cold. It is probably
something to do with looking
more like you than dad (I suppose
you'll recall that you never
breast-fed me, so if it's not
how we look, I don't know).

I think probably all poems ever
ought to be read like that,
with the “Dear Mom” implied.