aye dee dee

You're the only thing i want anymore

live on coffee and flowers
____The National










untitled, Tamara Lichtenstein


his daughter sits in a room, staring at the wall and swallowing facebook until she's swollen with jealousy and whose new what has a thing or the other. __he cranks his head to the right when he reads, his ear almost lying up against his shoulder. listening. now that he notices it, drives him crazy. like glare that tires his eyes in summer.
rain reminds him of swimming. he thinks of it when his dad cries. he stands with his shoulder (that speaks to his ear) facing him, until he notices the wet eyes. then he decides to sit and be motionless for a while. __as usual, he can't think what to say, so he just nods. his dad waits to hear something from him. he asks his eyes to speak for him, but he's not sure what they say.

after the fit subsides, he walks around his room, listening to his pajama pants drag on the floor. rubs his eyes. he decides his hands smell so he washes them. again. again. the piano keys are sticky. the computer keyboard too. the white desk. the green pen. the black pen. he washes his hands, _again. (but it's stopped raining. it's quiet. loud. nothing. too much nothing.

he thinks about reading, but he hates the way paper judges him. the way his hands feel when they touch it. the way they pile on desks and coffee tables and on the floor like dried organs of ghosts slowly growing greener grass for skin. (don't think about spring). (summer's around the corner). (spring). (what f*cking hemisphere am i in this time?)

___i'll try to be more romantic
___wanna believe in everything you believe

___but i was less than amazing
___fall asleep in your branches
___you're the only thing i want anymore

goddammit turn this song off.
it's still there. like telling someone to pull the alarm clock out the wall.

mom's out. been out for about 3 years. comes in for little spurts. leaves puddles when she walks - no one, not even the rain has such small hands. there's a trail of emails. 15 unheard messages. won't pick up the phone anymore. won't do it. won't print anything unless i can print on both sides. i'm sick of killing tulips and cherry trees. can't take the disappointment.

so he opens the windows instead. lets in air. might as well get it all in before summer dries their hides ; after which he'll breathe scales and dusty fur. better let it in when it's green.
somewhere there's a car made to drive far enough. maybe run to the beach. to the park. to the edge of something. stand on the coffee table, try it on one leg. listen to Bach. the Shins.

sleep? no no. won't work. not like this. wrong sleep. like entering through the wrong door. won't work, won't get you where you think it will. or should. just play it again. the song. the game. the afternoon, repeat it. again, again. better to be stuck with it again then have to risk the silence. the nothing. can't have that.

for a week he tries to decide whether it's better or worse sleeping in a bed alone. took him 9 days he slept in the middle of the bed. felt wrong. territorial sovereignty ought to be respected. so he looked up from the ground when he passes them and smiles. yes, yes. hello. here, here's a joke for you take that. they laugh. he nods. thought it'd work. keeps walking relieving to be observing his shoes. __write me something nice.

so he opens his notebook to a blank page and writes: NY be nice to my GF.
NY, don't f&ck w/my gf.
LETTER TO NY.

then he ignores that.
sorry, where?
it's about troubadours. and the story takes place no-where because it's no story really. just, nevermind. screw you.

drink more tea. so he does.
words are no company, not even friends. where to go, where to go. you know there's rum and credit cards for problems like these. hide it, the inside of new shirts and jackets and dried with the ink of our unbled thoughts. whatever that means.

i'll get gold teeth. and take up BDSM. everyone needs a hobby. trailer-living. i've been meaning to read George Sand. i'm quitting to play the piano. i've only made a ginger-bread house once. that's why this is happening. the frosting wasn't so good. the bus shook the thing fell down. didn't even eat it. damn earthquakes. a natural disaster ruins every holiday season. what the hell are you talking about? she wants to know. i'm sorry, i didn't realise i was speaking out loud he says. you weren't, but you had loud thoughts she responds and he just looks at her.

there's a green swing. it's around here somewhere. i didn't leave it behind too long ago. 2003 i think. until then she smoked on it, in the rain. she had blue eyes. and he sat and stared out, because he got tired of getting wet. it's not here, it should be. there's no time to lose these things.

you're dumb if you don't know how smart you are he says and he pretends not to have heard it. no nononono. shakes his head. i just read everything. but not enough. more. later. more later, not now. because right now we have to have a fit. it's the time for it. time. schedules. important.

when was the last time something was actually interesting?
i gotta get outta here.
i'm tired.

it's all i want, but i can't spell the words.
coffee and flowers. that seems about right. Denny's maybe. here, hold this spoon for me, i saw my napkin fly out the window i'm going after it.
who says the devil can't fly?