Today… I lifted up the toilet seat and found two flies sitting on top of it. I waved my hand in front of them to ensure that they were still alive and capable of flight. I sat down trying not to dwell on the unusual occasion of toilet seat flies.

There’s been a rumbling in the plumbing system of my apartment. An apocalyptic melody moving its way towards me. Water trying to escape from the guts of my kitchen sink.

Conclusion… Everywhere I look there are signs of non-human activity working behind the scenes in my life.

I am so hungry for things that have

no taste.

no place.

no price.

no words.

no shelf-life.

that my insides are beginning to eat themselves out of a hole.

Palms

My hands hurt from all the productivity they have attempted. For trying to produce something that they can hold and give and see as theirs. They ache at being overworked and under-cared. Still, they want something to hold. They contemplate growing more fingers and palms and nails-that-could-be-painted simply to reach further, grab wider, and grip tighter. Instead, they drop what they were already holding and begin to shake out of both pain and desire. And they wonder - what are hands if they do not hold or push or grip or shape or write or caress.

Meanwhile, they die. They are no longer mine.

C. Dilemma

I am finding it hard to breath because the bones - that I cannot name - are out of line in the back, which I cannot see. I wonder if they would cooperate if I could simply call their names and expose the way they are restricting my living.

Mama

She wonders how my mind moves so fast and why I think so deeply about so many things. I am 8 topics past this question and have forgotten the 3 words before her last statement, but seem to notice that the pink ascot she wore last week matches a pink tie that my father received as a gift from some friends who visited Thailand 12 years, 2 months and 5 days ago. She denies the accusations I only partially make because half way through my grown up confrontation I lose the words to explain the thoughts and feelings I swear exist or swear into existence. She tells me who I am and I know she is right.

NYC: 5

Today I celebrated America.

I shot face-wash into my eye, causing it to swell and then seal itself with puss. How ironic that the thing I use to clean my face of impurities turns out to blind me.

Happy Independence Day.

NYC: 3

There is something rather uncomfortable about seeing trash on the streets.

Almost as uncomfortable as seeing regurgitated gum ground into the cement.

I'd rather that the [trashy] products of my mouth be dissolved in my gut or flushed away underground - not publicly showcased for every sole that nears it. I'd like to believe that if I don't see it, it doesn't exist.