Awoken from my dreadful slumber on the Devil’s Day, mine leering eyes did most suddenly happen upon the writhing, ranting, roaring masses of the web, violently screaming in frenzied fits of ecstasy broadcast in one hundred and forty characters or less at the sick injustice of Kim’s marital collapse, an act which shunned both sanity and sanctity, consuming the civilian concerns of a world engrossed in the Pagan traditions of change and revolution on that day.
I put my phone down and went back to bed for five minutes. But it wouldn’t go away.
Posted in memoir, nonfiction, prose
Tagged cthulhu, divorce, Halloween, i don't care, kim kardashian, lovecraft, marriage, ry'leh, Twitter
Is it when you start sleeping in the office
because it’s easier than leaving after midnight
and driving back at 6am? Or is it when
you enter the Xerox code as your pin
at the ATM? Maybe it’s when your friends
stop calling because you’re always sorry
you’re at work. Maybe when your laundry
is full of dress shirts and slacks, but completely
devoid of gym clothes. What about
when you work overtime with strep
because the world would end without you
in the office for a day? Is your time sheet now
a game of chicken between your health
and your workplace? Are you sure? Prove it.
No skin in the game,
just sit back, enjoy the ride,
ignore the fans’ pain.
Two to tie the game,
and a walk-off to win it;
drinks never on Freese.
All the happy claps
don’t excuse bullpen blunders.
Wash? Are you there, Wash?
Cruz fades back, waves arm.
The wall ain’t that close, so he
supplants Billy Buck.
OK, maybe not.
Making this game about us
is why we’re hated.
To every Ranger,
take it from a Red Sox fan:
never count down outs.
Chalk it up to the weather
Or the feather boa
Or the wink behind plastic
Her lipstick on your cape
The whole night
A leap of faith
Stay in character
Let freedom be the treat
You’re Batman, you’re Zorro
Their life is yours
So borrow the props
The tops on their costumes
Can decorate your floor
Tonight’s the door to someone else
You’re Mr. Fantastic, it’s no stretch
With the imagination
Of the nation
Find your inner
Sheen it’s Halloween.
I do like seeing them.
My grandmother made food–peeled and seeded tomatoes, onions caramelized in mint and butter, small chickens seeped in walnut and pomegranate paste–and stacked the house with cookware. When I came to Tehran she took my wrist and pulled me into one of the boulevards because the cars would never halt on their own, she said, you just had to go.
In California she read us Amelia Bedelia and when we were older, told us of her dreams and regrets, plans and pains. But for her a narrative was not something you built out of a lump in your chest. And so, she didn’t.
Anyway, those ribbons seem almost superfluous–I know. But it means the conversation is established, the stories are being told; grandmothers don’t have to bulk up their clothing so no one finds out the great secret. And that, for me, is enough.
Way to be, George Three,
biggest joke in history:
king who lost the colonies
and later on his faculties.
George Three, and weirdest yet:
married his wife the day they met;
through charity fell deep in debt
but kept Hanover as a pet.
Still, George, I’ll say of thee:
you had a killer library;
and every critic can agree
you couldn’t stand adultery.
George you lost to Washington
but sparked some Industrial fun,
and screw whatever else you’ve done,
you Waterloo’d Napoleon;
so call this treason, blaphemy:
I’ve got no problems with George Three.