Fried Cheese Cake- Food Snobs Please Leave Now

I once explained to my date that we needed to have the check paid immediately following the
order for fried cheesecake because I was gonna need to leave the scene of the crime as soon as I was finished like it was my dirty little secret.

Fried cheesecake is dirty. And no one should carry that burden alone.

I mean, you need to be putting your coat on as you are still eating it, take the last bite standing, and walk briskly toward the door like you suddenly got called into a late-night work meeting.

It reminds me of working at a restaurant where we served bite-sized pieces of cheesecake to the guests on a shared platter. It was always a dilemma of etiquette until there were two or three of us just standing around the table like vultures looking at what the table had left behind: un-touched cheesecake pieces, allowable by the health department...

An Eight Hour Nap

After one five hour nap during the night,
I took another eight hour nap during the daylight hours.
It was too hot when I woke up the first time, so I opened some windows. And once my feet were frozen, I decided to make some Indian food and watch an Indian movie.
I drank an entire pot of coffee. And then I took another "nap".

During the nap, I had an awful and adventurously vivid dream.
I was on my way to the airport.
I was supposed to fly the plane, I was supposed to ride into the plane on wheels. It was something between a quasi-military- shipping -out and evacuation.

On my way to the airport, my bags kept changing.
Like, in real life when I was on my way to catch a bus to New York last week, I suddenly decided to switch luggage?
I dumped out my back pack in the living room and put everything in a big duffel bag one minute before walking out the door.
In the dream, this happened a few times. I had to pack and re-pack. I had to re-pack on the sidewalk, on the bus and on the plane. I had to dump everything out and do it again.
The climate kept changing at my destination until nothing made sense.

Need a bathing suit? Now you have loafers for your first day of school!
Everything was like that... not making any sense. It was a stressful dream and I hope that when I do actually go on my trip, this doesn't really happen.

My Internet friends were alarmed by my being awake at seven a.m.
Really, the only reason I ever wake up early and stay up is so that I can avoid insomnia later.
It's all part of my sleep-credit plan.

The ultimate sleep credit debt is when you are sleepless for so long the only choice is to "stay up" the whole way through the night and then CRASH hard the following night. It only works sometimes and it is a desperate measure.

I am thinking it had something to do with the acupuncture session I had on Tuesday. My body told my body what it wanted and I had to yield.

Now about to enter another night, I will attempt to sleep 'as if' this whole dirty, obscenely decadent, dream-filled day never happened.

Shameless, I have fresh pajamas on and my socks by the heating vent, drinking Hi-C and tea and chain smoking like nobody's business.
It's all in a day's work.

And I forgot to mention a job application was submitted in the mix... so who knows what could have happened while I dreamed the day away.

The house makes creaking noises like it's alive and waiting to swallow my wintry life in a comforter the size of Texas.

Taste Nothing Waste Nothing

Kids two doors south are partying because it is a holiday.
It doesn't bother me because I am awake;
but when I had a job and woke up at seven I used to complain to neighbors
until one day I decided I didn't like myself complaining to strangers
and I had the brilliant idea to buy a package of construction worker style ear plugs.

I treat my moodiness like a bumper car,
it is inevitable, but the more foam earplugs I have, the less reason I have to be mad.

I had my first acupuncture treatment yesterday and the doctor told
me to stop wasting energy.
I am wasting energy on thoughts
While exercising gives me energy,
thinking about wasteful things physically drains me and makes my shoulder hurt.
Chain reaction from the brain to the body.

Tired all the time and not doing anything;
Building up reserves.
( Having nothing to do except laundry and dusting under the bed and typing and writing the definitions of constitutional laws repeatedly on neon color coded paper... the thing that drains the energy is the dread of studying so that I can think the way a 70 year old man wants me to think for a multiple choice test.)

The kids are talking and and their voices are echoing onto the insides of the porch roofs and it sounds like they are just outside my door.
Thinking about the activist I went on a date with in August who has a maid and wanted to write a Thank You note to the girls who made his Persian rug as we turned it over to examine each loop of thread that was hand woven. My thoughts are not sentimental, just happy to know that I could have a maid one day if I wanted to become an activist.
And one day I will have an art studio that I never have to clean up.
Because I can close the door, my love.
I had more emotion when I cut my foot on another man's rug.
It still hurts.
The shape of the glass that was in the rug that cut my foot in the kitchen was the exact shape of the chip at the top of the French press. Hmmm.
I only knew it so intimately because it was inside me.

The glass.
And the coffee is too.

Practice at Home

Made exceptions.
I get locked out in the alley wearing dressy shoes that aren't mine and a pit bull
runs up to me like a murderer and I don't have the armor
of my cell phone.

I need running shoes in a situation like this.
Fetish for leggings;
Fetish for not wearing pants.

Red ones came in the mail today.
Dressing as funny as possible.
Wearing all the colors I feel like.

The hours get late;
drinking the rarest tea in the world...
that's the sales pitch.
Turn out the lights and music up the air open the windows and light candles;
stay still
shaking
quivering all over like a tower with bendable parts.

It's over in the begining.

Asan Found

Breakfast is cheesecake. And tummy ache.
Appel, Apple, Appelonia.
Prince!
I yoga you.

Suicide Chess

Freaky Bourgeois
Junoesque Jealousy.
Wavering,
Stalemate.

Sweat in the Night

We talk. And we talk more. Communication is more than the key, it is the lock and the door, and the room to walk into. We walk, and we walk more,
and the walking leads to more talking
we can walk fast
and fall down.

We can talk fast too
overlapping and excited
sharing the stuff that is important.

Flash back to "why don't we fucking talk like this all the time?"
Shouting and feeling catharsis,
real friends talk without a motive.

Real friends don't have to watch their step.
Real friends are not guarded.

Tell me you hate my apartment.
Tell me you love what I've done with the place, but it's a shitty place, so there's not much more to say.
Tell me that you don't want to love me like that.

We don't have to say dramatic things,
bleeding heart things.
We don't have to say these things because we
fucking show up.
We show up at your doorstep when you are not awake yet
and wait for you to open the door,
because we make ourselves at home wherever we are.

I wasn't supposed to be alive.

I know there are signals, but I have had my eyes closed in the grey
sky, and in the ashtray, and my eyes are on the ground in the parking garage.

I walk past the memories.




I keep walking.