Kill Your Emily

The realization was that I didn’t feel right without the boss in my year/ear

Demands some strange type of curatipn. Confronted with another possesipns invited an artistry - what to keep, what’s purgatove, what’s indicernable, what’s inexplicable, what was a secret. Items that are disarrayed need a reason that can only be espoused when projects upon. It gives the loser a purpose- your invited into anothers history and that total access is commanding. It’s the most embraceable portion of mourning. It’s sour but a taste no less.

When I first started listening to Monday Morning by Fleetwood Mac, approximately two and half hours ago when just outside NY, I felt as if i was being invaded with suspicious tingles suggestive of scabies. A fantasy of lecherous men being lecherous with a childhood self materialized. It was provocatively appealing but fretful at the same time. I wonder if this nonstop repetative listenibg is compulsive or lazy. If I’m trying to tone out that weird feeling or fondle it some more.

‘M: an asshole. He left during the havoc years.
A: … because of the havoc years?
M: well, my psyche sure tells me so.
A: (hyperbolized awe) so, your a little fucked up
M: (eyes widened) good thing your a hardworker- Yale right?
A: actually, it was Penn, but praisable guess. I majored in french so this is going to be fun.
M: how, how does French have to do with anyth…
A: (cuts her off) transliteration m, it’s my expertise. And I’m really, really good at it.

once upon-a-probably six years ago i was leg deep in doctors scrubs and arms deep in a men’s xxl baseball jersey. i was watching bean’s little league game on an atypicaly warm march afternoon and i suspect, from a faint angle, I probably looked like a grunge snow white surrounded by a pool of at least 20 plus boy-dwarfs. the day is notable because it is my only reachable memory of being knee-deep in a collective of decent males- maybe not totally unaware, but unaware enough of the lewdness puberty had in store. like the lingering ding of the baseball smacked upon the metal bat- the boy’s insoucience buzzed reverberations in their teeth and ears and in between the eyes, delaying, for at least a few more years, keen reception to the rules of being a seasoned player.

when we walked down the street i held on to imaginary hands that provided in real time cold and its my fault for holding on to windchill and yours for being empty space