Almost anyone with hiccups will sound cute. Just like almost anyone with a cold — when they speak, that is.
I like the way people’s voices sound when they just wake up. Sort of scratchy yet soothing.
Maybe people sound better or come across as more winsome when their defenses are down.
It’s not merry Christmas or happy holidays or have a nice Kwanzaa or Hanukkah. It’s:
Unidentified driving object.
Because I see more than my fair share of dicey, ambiguous-looking vehicles on the road here in Las Vegas. Trucks held together with twine & such. Rickety automobiles in danger of collapsing in a cloud of dust & smoke like the occasional hotel-casino implosions here in town.
How’s this for the first line of a short story?
“They couldn’t avoid being slobs at the restaurant table during their first date.”
I mean, anything can happen after that. Just anything. But I like it ’cause right off the bat it’s a predicament.
We could make these two people horny as fuck. And you know where it would go from there. Someone passes the ketchup, and then one thing leads to another. Mayhem. Half-cooked hamburger meat and everything else. Pickles. Soda. Hot sauce, for crying out loud.
Or perhaps they are guests at a wedding where lobster is being served. Assuming it’s a woman and a man, the woman would have to wrangle with the shell to exhume the meat, which may or may not look appealing to the male. Maybe the woman’s hands might look too masculine, or maybe she has really short nails, and the fact that she is digging into something moist and fleshy makes them look all the worse. And the guy — maybe he can’t bust open the shell. Or he gets stabbed by a claw and makes a big deal over it. Walks around in a huff looking for the first-aid kit and such. Yells at the waiter. The woman’s father shaking his head disapprovingly. Nobody getting any that night.
they had a long conversation over coffee at the coffee place. Uninterrupted eye contact. She was leaning toward him, hunched over the table. He was leaning back in his chair — reclining almost, wearing pricey sweats, footies and Nike SBs. She was in a dishy black dress and pumps, had big eyelashes on. She had long hair, nearly down to her butt, but she still managed to make a bun on top of her head, as in ancient Rome like a patrician. A participant of taxpayer-supported orgies. The guy, meanwhile, looked delighted. His nose was long and sharp. He had a maniacal smile. He showed her a photo on his cellphone. She laughed, mouth wide, in a deriding way. She was playing with her hair. He was gesturing, attempting to look sincere. She concurred. Leaned in toward him and laughed. She went to pee and then came back and nursed the last of her water. His macchiato was now just a puddle of foam and ice. They stared at each other, wordless. She tapped her upper lip with the tip of her finger, smirking at him, playing at suspicion.
The mushroom lady is afoot after a winter-long downtime. She has the air of someone who worked in retail or perhaps an administrative office in a grade school. In her Old Navy shorts and button-down shirt and her hair done like Margaret Thatcher, she prowls the grounds of the apartment complex for sprouts of fungi. Then she sits on the ground and tears away tufts of the lawn like a kid in a sandbox.
Did her line of work have her yanking out hair of her own?
Or maybe she suffered a broken heart?
A widow, sometimes she uses
her two small dogs as a ruse
to go digging for mushrooms
more than once a day, the
yield stashed in a plastic
bag in lieu of poop,
which she allows
the dogs to do,
but she does
A middle-aged businessman, dressed accordingly, at lunchtime does not enjoy the presence of his wife. He does not appreciate her neon green footies, worn with black patent-leather loafers. He doesn’t think much of her tie-dye yoga pants, which ride up above her ankles. He does not go in for her emerald green velour pullover. They sat on stools at the wine bar inside the restaurant on a workday afternoon.
“Wallpaper to ashes to sky / sunrise to necklace to embrace / we are running our hands through our hair…” -Kevin Weisner, from a poem called “Memoire,” published by the Berkeley Poetry Review in 1992, Issue 26.
From miles away, downtown Vegas looked like a smoker’s lounge.
the boy coaxing pigeons
at the park does not budge.
he valiantly holds a small wedge
of crusty bread from a family picnic —
his slender arm outstretched.
the pigeons brazenly convene
to feed, forming what looks to be
a hem encircling the boy’s feet.
the boy is resolute yet visibly immobilized,
as if standing in a ring of fire.
Cats notoriously assume they can paw or gnaw at anything that hangs or protrudes.
I can’t have sex while my cat is watching. I have to lock her out of my bedroom before things even get going. Tho she’ll nearly always scratch or push against the door or else start in with her meowing — maybe even break or rip something in another part of the house in retaliation. Just don’t let me hear it, is all I ask in those instances. Continue reading
Talking about dating, the well-endowed stewardess bearing her cleavage said, “I’m not a game player or a time waster.”
Talking about Hillary’s agenda if she claims the White House, the right-wing Republican retiree said, “He can’t just steamroll her in that direction.”
Talking about the future of Wall Street, the right-wing Republican retiree’s retired friend said, “The stock market is pumped up with funny money.”
» Guy waiting on couch as alpha girlfriend combs out her long, knotty, red hair on patio
» Girlfriend taking long
» Guy now looking like distressed dog waiting to be walked
my infatuation with Kendall-Leigh Neuner —
her pics in May 2013 issue of Inked mag
branded on my brain