zero to hero, thirty seconds...

zucchini, flecked with salt, with pepper. printed with garlic, tips of thumbs. water waits, then boils over. hits the stove, rises as steam. sounds like "hiss, boo. fuck the presidency..."

whispers gone unnoticed. she's in the shower again, body at the dark. poking hips, counting ribs. "one-two. three-four." fingering the walls, asking outloud, if she exists. "can you hear me? am i real? am imagining, again?"

pot & zucchini answer, but she doesn't hear them. (she is self-involved). this type of thing takes time.

pity, about it:

*zucchini turns mush, a puree. is hardly edible.

*body hasn't changed. she is, as always, half-in, half-out. dangling. a shoelace. uncomfortable cotton.

*secrets are beginning to get to her. squares are not circles, cannot be.


the cycle had ended, again. she set herself against the grain, becoming steeled. she made dark, hefty assurances, to no one in particular, besides herself.

she was leaving the next time, for good, both him and his godforsaken cat. and she sure as hell wasn't coming back, no matter how much he promised to change.

you know the type...

year was: 1987.

winter. mother went away, for awhile. vacation. there, she threw pottery. shaped mud-flecked clay into masks with her hands.

there, she strung bracelets,
opalescent glass beads
stacked on invisible thread.
mother knew how to tie
all types of knots.

she liked to draw on paper
with charcoal and
pastels.

it calmed her.

she did not call home, & we were not allowed to visit.


now, 2006.

"i finished rinsing my hair, and i turned off the water. i pulled back the curtain and reached for the towel. i dried myself. i put on my bathrobe, and i tied it closed, with a bow. then i sank down into the bottom of the tub, which was still wet, and i cried. i can't say how long i was there for, but it was hours. my skin was like ice."

she touches my arm, while we are walking.
her words are soft, uneasy with guilt:


"i hope i didn't pass it into you..."

despite a lackluster budget, both mother and father felt pressed to show the children what existed outside of suburbia. and so they traveled: roadtrips, mostly. mother packed meals of sandwiches: tuna on white, peanut butter on rye. ham on thick, kaiser rolls, which father ate while driving: steering wheel pressed with his knee.

"look, boys-and-girls, at our family, out enjoying the road. out enjoying the country. we are a wonderful family, aren't we, boys-and-girls? and fortunate, too, having each other and these big, open spaces at our immediate disposal? aren't we lucky, dear children?"

"oh yes father! we surely, we certainly, are!"

x-amples of piss-poor behavior...

"x-tra, x-tra, read all about it..."

the girls from high school had all turned fat.
'too many cheetos, not enough running around'
was the way that she figured it.
served them all right, anyway.
root cause didn't matter much.
root cause was only a
shallow excuse.

it was hard to feel sorry. those were the girls who had looked at her, up down & sideways, day in & day out, for years on top of years. they said sickening things:

"i heard he fucked you under the bridge, and when he was done fucking you, he came in your hair, he rubbed it around, and then he left. he left you there, all alone, in the dirt."

those girls. each with an eating disorder all her own. they wore them on the outside, like clothing.

there was no point in finishing high school. he had soft lips, thick hands, and was in adequate physical health. she allowed him to do however he pleased, and subsequently, their disagreements were few. he took pride in appearance, and bought her a cadillac for trips to the market.


she saw all of them there, those girls she had previously known. they were stuffing ring-dings into their tired old purses and smacking on cheap brands of gum.

waiting, (on common ground)...

with or without?

there was no longer a question as to
with or without.
there was only with.
and with would have to do.

at least for the present moment.
current time.
and all other things having to do with
the here, the now.
the temporary:

they fought through walls.
both too stuborn to admit that,
down deep,
they loved each other,
more then they cared to confess
or were able to say.
it was a sick feeling,
covered in soot,
and ash. felt thick
at the back of
the throat.

it hit her, one evening, that it could never be the same as it had been before: without him, the bed felt chronic, empty, hollow & cold. though on the nights that he slept soundly beside her, there was simply not enough room. she kicked & she tossed, screaming loudly into the night so that he woke with a start, voice choked on half-spoken words.

years down the line, after the california king had been introduced with it's deep-fitting sheets and oversized pillows, she would come to realize what, in many ways, she had already known:

it had nothing to do with the size of the mattress. nothing at all.

vengeance, 3 am...

"violent?
i can't really say, you know,
i didn't see it happen.
i can only tell you what
i heard,
shrieks so dense
they seemed caked upon
the night, so,
that when the
screaming finally stopped,
the sound hung there,
heavy and thick,
draped across the trees,
illuminated by a pale,
crescent moon."

in morning, there was a pile of loose, wet feathers. the ground was frozen, mud dusted in places with white. the sun was rising. light, sliced by branches, fell in unusual patterns upon the dirt, caught on the carcass of the bird, which stood out hard in the corner of her wandering eye. there was nothing to say then, nothing to do, except let go of the bread she'd been holding & stare at the crux of the tree.

(she felt her face drop).

the head had gone missing and the ribcage was hollowed, gleaned and chewed to the bone.

mikey (third from left)was taught, early on,
to love anything posessing a
heartbeat. consider the tragedy,
then, when it came time for father
to kill the chickens
for food.

unusual circumstance...

underneath it all was an anger. laced, like eyelashes,
long and lean, frayed endpoints.
deteriorating,
picked at & pulled. hanging, like
sinew, in strips
from the old,
weathered bone.

House went silent again, pulled inward. Dog hid under the bed and licked at her toes, feigning disinterest. nothing else happened. [i promise].

in addition:

there was no cake.
there was no ice cream.
there were no rabbits or celery,
paper or pens.

nothing was documented.

years later, after House had
burned and the children
had gone away, it would remain
as it had been originally, a

~he.said~she.said~kind of thing~


(mirroring countless
other arguments to soft
to be had).





her mother always said:
"if it's not ticks, you can bet your behind that it's fleas!"

"well momma," she thought to herself, "take a big ol' look at me now."

"time after time..."

thanks cyndi. for nothing.

she looked high and low. in the sugar bowl, the trash can. in the hope chest, the fishbowl. under the cushions, even, and then under the couch itself. never did find cyndi, or a single one of her aquanet groupies, either.

just another case of unreliable media, she supposed.

[broken promises].

she was used to being
lied to,
left behind.

in an act of retaliation,
[self-pity]
she did what any girl
in her position
would normally do:

prepared a snack of one-and-a-half-grapefruits, no sugar. sucked the juice from the rinds and tossed them into the sink. toasted a-half-of-a-pita, whole wheat. smeared it with peanut-butter-and-organic-honey. stuffed two-mini-krackle-bars-into-the-pouch, folded it over.

threw it all down her throat &
finished with a glass of flattened champagne.






don't be fooled.
in those rare times
of sadness,
she let the mascara,
the eyeliner,
run in tracks down
her face.
left them there,

overnight,
as proof of the way
she'd been
feeling.

saw him just the other day. he was with somebody else (insert/her/name/here)...

homemaker, homewrecker.

to hear her tell it, she

fit the description of neither.

still, there was no

pretending.

women, including those

which enjoy having their

breasts cupped by

men without faces,

were simply too dangerous

to be left to their

own devices.

sawdust, in the
front pocket of his
shirt told the story,
plainer than his mouth
ever could have, even if
he'd tried to explain,
which was a longshot.
he was working again.
which was all that
really mattered,
in the end.

over tea and moldy paperback books, the women discussed how they had come to know, relishing in the instances of things to which they had turned a blind eye: long, dark hairs in the laundry, unfamiliar perfume, statements from so-and-so at the supermarket, the library, along with

(other dreary cliches)

there were whispers, of course. piled in the backseat of their cars and sneaked into their purses, cradled between fresh tubes of lipstick. whispers were considered standard, part of the territory.

after all, what good is an affair without the whispers?

relishing in the aftermath...

raked across hot coals:

was how it felt. a foreign, unapproachable sting, a white pain. the House was mostly dark; swayed by flecks of streetlight which came in at the corners. House left her to her work on worry & suffering, which were both as plain as any-old-day, and visible from all angles of the room.

she wiped the kitchen counters, shook the crumbs to the floor. sat down, crosslegged, and swept them into a neat pile with her hands. from there, she pressed her fingers into the mess, which was really not a mess at all but a very ordered thing instead, and raised her hands to her mouth, ingesting each stuck crumb individually. she took care to bypass all things which did not, (for whatever reason), fit:

stray bits of hair & pocket lint. dried snaps of mud tracked in on her lover's big shoe.

the little voice in her head went on screaming, as always.
demanding a recount which quite simply
did not exist.

"if no one had been looking,

she would have acted

differently.

he'd cry over it all, and she knew it.

oh, he'd be a big blubbering mess

on the floor alright,

if he'd have had any idea regarding

those things she was

capable of.

don't be disturbed, though,

it's quite alright.

a girl is entitled

to her secrets."

qualm, before the storm...

quality: has nothing to do with
body image.

(HELLO!!! this is NOT
a public service announcement.
it is not an
after-school special,
either).

ah, ick. it's the same old story. "my body my body. and how i hate my fucking body. oh, you know, all the things that are wrong with it... sides too fat. thighs too thick. and just look at my face. this ain't baby pudge, you know. this is... too many m&m's, after the husband has gone to bed. a direct result of the way that i pour them down my throat, one after another, without even tasting. red-blue-green-brown-yellow, in handfuls. without even tasting. just for the simple fact that NO ONE is looking..."

oh, it's nothing new, so don't feel sorry. it's been years on top of years.
layered, like the sandwich that i am
afraid to eat.

(not that there's anything wrong with that).

why, just today, i saw a little girl at target. she was a twin. dressed in pink and white. i believe she was hispanic. i belive she was seven or eight. i recall she had dark hair. i recall she was short and wearing payless shoes. i recall she had some form of HOPE.

"abuela, abuela...
i'm a SMALL now.
PEQUENA, abuela, PEQUENA.
i haven't been eating as much...
i'm getting SMALLER..."


ah, ick. baby, i know just what you're in for.

"yes dear, but i don't eat ANY of it..."

practicality...

particles, formed inside of chimney, clinging hard against the brick:
experts call it creosote, hazardous at 1/4 inch thick.
buildup, takedown. (it only has to happen once).

she's bad at math, &
1/4 inch could be nearly anything: the width of a dime. the side of a lemon seed. two pieces of grosgrain ribbon, purchased at the sewing shop down the road, sewn together (back to back) out of boredom.
1/4 + 1/4 = half.
she knows that much. learned to double recipes early on.

ah, the creosote. just another thing to think on, to worry about. nightmares :

"it was both of us, and the dog and the cat. standing barefoot on the wet lawn, just watching. i sunk to my knees, you started apologizing, saying sorry, i should have heeded the warnings. should have put some money aside, called a chimney sweep, just to check things out. preventative measures, hindsight always 20.20, and so on and so forth..."

chimney fire took the whole place down. it certainly was a shame.

strangest thing:

while watching as it burned, all she could think of (besides the wedding album), was dick van dyke, and how, as a child, she'd considered him strange, commented on how mary poppins could have done better, if only she'd tried.



favorite pastimes include
(but are not limited to)
the following:

collecting aprons, (VINTAGE, of course!)
hanging & rehanging curtains,
warming up leftovers,
scrubbing the fishbowl,
roughing up the
ends of things,
dusting, panhandling,
eavesdropping
& making lemonade.

(please, whatever you do,
do NOT tell the govenor. he's:
in-his-chair-with-his-feet-up-and
would-hate-to-be-disturbed).

on opppsite ends of the spectrum...

once whispered, the words spilled rough from her lips, forming an uncanny shape upon the floor, a space which was neither "here nor there." she placed her hand against her forehead (as though she were attempting to hold herself together):

"parts of me are

beginning to come

unglued."

it occurred in dramatic fashion, as always. witnesses to the scene labeled it 'hollywood' and went on about noteworthy activities such as:

*transitioning from place to place,

*defining organized crime, &

*lecturing local youth upon dangers associated with growing old.

(side effects were noted in the text).

her impending partiality

was all but forgotten,

and certainly ignored.

never one to fade

into the background,

she cursed a blue streak and

spit into the gutter.

sat down upon the curb,

heels pointed outward, and

noted the time.

waited patiently

for the first piece

to fall.

"holding it all in," required not only

fortitude and grit,

but proper undergarments as well,

and though she did not like to

be touched, she

was willing to sacrifice

comfort for grace.

(and they all assumed corsets

were a thing of the past...)

nested...

night fell,
ash against powder, or
perhaps the reverse.
her back curved outward,
into the flex of his abdomen,
which rose,
quivered slightly,
sunk again.
she concentrated on his breath,
hanging heavy and
laced with burbon:
sweat which formed
against the windows of
the car,
rolling down in fingers,
casting long shadows
across his
face.

(august was as
summer month and
therefore very
far away).

theirs was a collective exterior

often referred to as

wholesome, which affected

them both little and much,

depending on

the state of the day.

was there gin in the freezer?

top notch?

alongside other

materials to

create the

perfect

martini?

mistaken for somebody else, perhaps a brunette...

merriment has its own
individual downfalls:
consider the mess left behind
after the crowd has
gone away,
paper stuck to the gutters of the street,
footprints crusted into
the leftover rain.
the silence of some boy,
gone to bed without her,
plainly addicted to that
heat between
the sheets. a
heat which has
nothing to do with
her body. nothing at all.

i swear to god the streets flooded last night as we slept. we: half-listened to the wind, flipping beneath the covers, tossing and turning, all the while thinking "aren't we lucky, to have a roof above our heads? we've really got our shit together, haven't we?" (and other random affirmations).

she hears it on
the radio.

the radio.

"i'm all out of faith. this is how i feel..."

radio refers to this as "the worst thing ever." she rolls her eyes and laughs.

"oh radio. yeah yeah and kwit-yer-bitchin. it's only another new year. it's only two thousand and six. what the fuck were you expecting? something new??? something better??? get over yourself, radio! breathe it in, soak it up. see it for what it really is: your " worst day ever." right radio? right?"

right. whatever.

her new year's resolution was to get her shit together for real. to put the focus on herself. to see him for what he really was, which was practically good/for/nothing anyway.




did he miss her in
her absence? did she even
cross his mind?
with crucial topics such as
golf and chevrolet
at hand, the safe answer was
a guaranteed
no.
not that it hurt her, knowing this.
it only stung,
a little. was
equivelent to a
tiny cut,
carved out at
the tip of
her thumb.

which happened
on accident,
of course.