Tag Archives: women

The Crash

They were fighting when it happened. Nothing, of course, just a little couples’ spat. They were driving home from a wedding in Danvers for one of His old bandmates. Some girl was saying shit about someone in the bridal party, some typical caddy bullshit but just the kind of thing that She could not abide by. So later that night, She made sure to spill a red cocktail on the caddy girl’s dress when they were both out on the dance floor, said it was an accident. Those were the kind of moments that had made Him fall in love with Her so swiftly, those unabashed displays of take-no-bullshit attitude, the moments She reminded you that She wasn’t just some passive pretty plaything.

When it happened, He just stayed back and watched, soaking in the moment and willing himself to sober up for the long ride home; She, of course, kept drinking, because hey, open bar. By the time the reception ended, He felt more than fine to drive, although as He’d later learn, physical sobriety and legal sobriety were two very different things. But She, in Her heightened state, was fairly upset with Him for not having Her back.

Like I said, it was one of those stupid fights. Every couple has them.

They were traveling down Route 1 and by the time they reached Chelsea, the fight had to come to an impasse, with both side asserting stubborn silence. The accident happened shortly thereafter, at the Junction of 16. It was late enough that there weren’t many other cars on the road, save one that they saw coming towards them in the opposite direction that had left its brights on. He flashed the highbeams twice (the universal sign to let the other guy know his brights on), but nothing changed.

The traffic light held green as they approached the intersection, so He kept driving, when the white hearse appeared, heading east on 16, and ran straight through the stop light and careened into the driver’s side of His car, sending it spinning out with enough force to leap the barrier. The trunk of His car collided with the oncoming car in the opposite line, knocked it directly into a telephone pole.

When His car stopped spinning, it was situated back on Route 1, mostly facing North. He peered out the driver’s side window, but it seemed the hearse had already escaped.

He then looked to his right. She was killed on impact.

New Girlfriend

I had a new girlfriend,
with lips full and bright,
but then I lost my job
and she had no insight

on where to find work,
and so even though
she said she’d support me,
I told her to go.

So I got a new girlfriend
with much bigger eyes
but she wanted a choice
for her dinner one night.

I said that was cute, but
I knew what she wanted.
She stormed off and left me
right back where I started.

So I got a new girlfriend,
and things were so great
until we had a baby, which
kind of ruined our dates.

It cost too much cash
to provide for all three,
and I felt I deserved to
keep all my own money

So I got a new girlfriend
who cost me no more
until the end of the night –
just another cheap whore.

And then she made me ill,
so I found me another
who could take care of me
like a boy and his mother.

Then things got all weird
when she felt like I owed her
for helping me heal,
so I found me another

new girlfriend, just like
that first one long ago,
but she still wasn’t perfect
so she still had to go.

Atlantic Avenue

Shattered shards of sunlight
off the greyish noontime clouds;
I am not tied down to the day.

Moisture still penetrates the air,
the sky is right, and I lace up my shoes,
music in my hand; a one-strap
backpack with cloth patches of bands
I haven’t listened to for years
but I’m stepping out,
so feet, don’t fail me now.

The inches of green that flutter and wave
goodbye: I’m led somewhere alive.
It buzzes and honks,
creates and destroys,
pollutes me with noise
but it’s alive.

My headphones drown
out the passing sounds,
suggesting the soundtrack
to the final scene of
another pretentious art house
film we should have never written.

Still, content, I march
towards the harbor
towards the sunset
of cliches, of every beautiful metaphor
that she’s already fallen for, but still
I’m stepping out:

Feet, don’t fail me now.

She offers me a penny for my thoughts.
“This is it,” I say, as I smile, laugh,
and make a wish.

The First-And-A-Half Baseman

I’ve made some difficult choices in my life. I’m sure we all have. But I’ve stood by my choices, and believed in my convictions, believed they’ve shaped into the man I am today. You can judge me all you want, but I know that in the end, I made the right decisions. I lived my life the right way. The only right way. And I think it’s important to put these down, and stand up as the voice for all the young men who were faced with the same decisions I was. These young men need someone to tell them, “Yes, it’s okay. It’s important.

“It’s the only way.”

Some people choose to wait, while others leap headfirst into it. But no man should regret his determination to experience, to explore his life. I truly believe that every man should experience the all-consuming thrill, the tremors and nerves of inappropriately trying to cop out at the wrong — no, at the right time. No one should live a life devoid of fumbling fingertips nervously tracing the babysoft curves of her belly, the tentative indecision that rifles through your nerves as your hand creeps up the bottom of her shirt — or wait, but maybe —  no, I shouldn’t — okay yeah I’m doing it — wait does she want — yeah yeah okay I should definitely go for it. The way that hesitant hand hums along her underdeveloped hips, and that momentary albeit momentous devastation which is immediately followed by elated titillation when she starts to swat your grabby little appendage away but suddenly changes gear and lets it happen. And you breathe a sigh of comfort as you realize that she’s just as sheepish and scared as you are. But now the decision has been made together. The threshold has been crossed, and there’s no turning back.

So you slide your sneaky palm up across her ribs, groping for her vibrant mounds, a fleshy, fatty feast for your fingers — and then you feel the padded lace and sturdy underwire of her brassiere, which I mean, kind of counts, right? And your sweating, shaking digits search sensuously for the clasp around the backside, discovering instead some complicated conundrum, a well-guarded barrier for which you hold no key. But that’s not enough to defeat you, and so you slowly pull your hands back around the front and press against the padding of her undergarment, filling yourself with a false confidence that this is indeed the Holy Grail of manhood, this guarded bossom, and you caress them with uncertainty but still with dedication. You latch onto bra like a handhold on a rock wall and squeeze as if lifting yourself up, climbing towards the greatest heights of adolescent ecstasy, using your vast upper arm strength to push yourself higher than any man has ever know before you, besides that kid in your gym class who says he lost his V-Card in a threesome with three pornstars.

Soon enough you will realize that the harder you squeeze, the closer you will get to heaven.

This is basically just my response to this asshole.

(because I quite like Katniss Everdeen)

they cast her wrong in the film, not thin,

a bone jutting from the rib, sharp and stick-like

good for poking out an eye, scrappy–

means nothing more than scraps, pieces not good enough for eating or keeping or even stitching together.

they fall onto the floor or into the waste bins and we feel, yes, that is where they belong.

Is it too bold to say women are scraps? That we are unkind to each other because we’ve never felt ourselves whole pieces?

(That we scrape by. That we scrap together.)

The force with which a woman will move the earth is a force we all know well,

that of our mother’s dragging us home by limp wrist, jerking us off the road where cars fly by, keeping our clothes clean so we may appear presentable,

ready for life.

(riverrun)

(be)
gin makes a Man mean
that is what
He knows thats
what he has
been told before
this happens
for a Reason he
sees it float
A way
a lone a
last
a Love he knows
the fate of
such a Stone
A-gain

Stranger In a Strange Year, or, All-American Spirits

She said it was something about the cigarettes. “There’s a lot you can tell about a person, they smoke American Spirits,” she told me as I pulled the pack out from my jacket and offered her a stick. “I’m Kara.” I was only wearing a light zip-up hoodie, despite the fact that it was December 31. The evening was unnaturally warm, which I took as a good sign for the new year still to come.

We talked and shared a smoke as we admired the swiftly melting ice sculptures that adorned the Boston Common. Turned out we shared the same affection for Flemish sculptors. She told me that she’d moved here a just few months ago and didn’t know many people. Her friends had ditched their plans for the evening, leaving her with no one kiss, and even less to drink, so I invited to a friend’s party out in Davis Square. Looking back, I think she may have invited herself, but I was in no position that night to turn down some company.

There was a loud explosion from the east, and we turned our attention towards the skyscrapers of the Financial District, heads tilted upwards towards the sky. It was barely even 7 o’clock, and the city’s firework spectacle had already started, ringing in the Irish New Year with booming Chinese lights.

We stood and watched the fireworks together and shared another cigarette. She thanked me with a sly, crooked smile, a curve that cut up the left side of her soft cherub face. She was coy about her age, and whether she was 16 or 36, I could have believed it. Butts burned out and stomped to the ground, we finished our loop around the Common and hopped the Red Line train at Park Street.

On the ride over, I started asking her questions about herself, tried to get to know her some. She claimed that she had grown up abroad, around, but wouldn’t tell me where. Her mystery was irresistibly alluring, and we shared a kiss on the Longfellow Bridge as the train crossed over the Charles River, the brilliant lights of an excitable city celebration glowing across the horizon behind us. I’d have sworn I saw more fireworks but my eyes were closed (it’s not polite to peek or stare).

Shortly after we arrived at the party, she started dropping hints that she wanted to leave, go somewhere else, preferably with me. That’s when I told her I’d been living with my parents on the South Shore after my girlfriend and I broke up, so I was actually staying with a friend that night. It didn’t seem to bother her, but she wouldn’t bring me back to her place either. She was giving me mixed signals all night — no physical contact, but she kept saying she wanted to leave with me, and so on. But still, I couldn’t tell where we stood, and I didn’t want to ditch my friends, so we ended up staying at the party until around 2am, although we kept to ourselves for most of the night.

Eventually we hopped a cab and got a hotel room out near Alewife which she talked me into paying for. We were both pretty drunk so I don’t remember the sex very well, but I know it happened, because afterward she told me to pay up. Eighty bucks an hour for the company, plus another hundred for the sex. Apparently prostitutes in this state don’t take American Express.