How to Quit Smoking: A TheoryI have come up with a system to get people to quit smoking. The concept is pretty simple: a facility that provides blow jobs (and cunnilingus, girls aren't left out!) to smokers whenever they get a craving for a cigarette. Eventually, the smoker will dissociate his/her craving for cigarettes and re-associate it with blow jobs, eliminating the need for smoking altogether.How to Quit Smoking: A Theory9 years ago in Editorial More Like This
I know, some of you are thinking, "Well, Angel, that just changes the smokers into a bunch of nymphomaniacs." And even if you're right, so what? Blow jobs never killed anybody; and even if they have the death count can't be even close to that of tobacco use. Besides, we can't cure EVERYTHING. We're focused on smoking here. Let somebody else deal with nymphomania. Shit.
Possible names for this place are "Blowers for Smokers" and "Cum! Quit Smoking." Our special brand of blow jobs and cunnilingus, "Lickotine*" will replace your craving for the cancer sticks. It's brilliant and without any scientific observation or testin
pull out your pockets.Have you ever stolen something?pull out your pockets.7 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
Have you ever stood in the middle of a friend's swamped room, the debris of their life all around you, books like stepping stones to what they do on Thursday nights, a cluttered desk like a hive of bees with their stingers lopped off? Did you watch them excuse themselves, ask you if you wanted anything to drink while they went to get their refreshment if you say water, they'll feel bad about grabbing a soda and chips, because their weight is always relative to yours, to their best friend's, to the world's, did you notice that passively as they walked off with their arms dangling off stringy, sinewy shoulders? And when they were sufficiently out of sight, did you peer at something, some knick-knack, some pair of jeans, some pencil with a nibbled eraser or a destroyed Crayola? Did you slip it into your jean pocket, your purse, your overnight bag, and did you make up excuses in your head with paranoid energy what? No, I don't think there wa
swallow your marbles "mama,"swallow your marbles7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He says, I would like to connect with stars.
He pretends the fireworks are for his dad. They shatter when they reach the air and a million thousand arms rain down on the ocean before they fizzle, taken aqua and blue and green, and the seaweed entangles until there are just hands under the sea, holding. His mother holds a flag tucked in-between her fingers like a cigarette and sometimes she brings it up to her lips, her eyes rolling backwardssometimes she forgets. Someone is throwing up in the bathroom.
At home they stew, alone. It is easier to watch the pot when it refuses to boil, and she stares at the empty stove, fuming, bubbling. He plays with his fork and tries to stick it up his nose, and smiles at her, because he is a little boy and that is what they do: they stick things, they bury things, they brea
a heathen or six billionYou said where is god?a heathen or six billion8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
We looked around in nooks and crannies and beaten-down mobile home parks where the dust settles when youre asleep, wake up in the morning and brush it off and make a frenzy of your life.
You stem out of a desire I think I never had, and you draped over a red couch and I painted blue all over the easel even though there is no blue color at all here. You spark like a vein above an eyelid of silver. What do colors tell you when Im not looking? If you look at all my paintings over a viewer it will tell you things about me that I have never known.
I have an eyewitness view that says that when we had that conversation down the sidewalk and you batted your pretty eyelashes and I titled my head back and laughed like youre supposed to when jokes are thrown sideways, I was walking alone.
I will wear all red to your funeral, I promise I promise I promise, leather-bound like the black book you keep in your pocket and stroke sometimes when you pretend
love + the respiratory systemyou ask me what love is as it flees from your arms like willing water tumbling down imaginary stairs, traced in the air by wings and insect feet.love + the respiratory system7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
she told us she and depth perception had a falling out after the war and she has not seen it since, though every once in a while she'll catch the glint in the corners of her eyes. he hugs diabetes close to his chest and when it tries to run off, he pulls it backwards and whispers sweet words in its stilted ears, his mouth full of words and frosting.
he and resignation have been getting fancy with each other, we've seen them on his porch with their hands stacked on top of the other, like some fleshy distorted cake; and the other day, i caught her with her hands up the shirt of pills, and we gossiped into our lidded hands to prayer, who spoke with ribbons in its teeth.
in the morning she found a puddle of tears outside her doorstep and she let them in and gave them form, and was up in the morning with her face in the bowl and tears holding her
existentialism in heaven1. First, we have a lesson in breathing.existentialism in heaven7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
(I stutter, and in the back of my head there is a slide and small children are slipping down and losing their lungs, tucking under inside of them, and I came around afterwards and picked up all their organs and buried them inside the tanbark, hid them away in a little box that only I will have, every thought they expelled with their breath and would've liked to keep, and I press my fingers down and they are gathered around me and they say st-st-stutter with their necks like paper cranes for hope and peace and a hopeful mouth. They do not love me.)
She opens up my mouth, peeling back the ridges of my lips with her claws, and she looks inside and peers into some sort of mess and she says I can't sort through this with my hands alone, I can't, and she closes it up and says no, no, that will not do. And she holds her palms against my stomach like twin suns framing my belly-button with her rabbit-colored thumbs and she peers into the hole and wrinkle
confessions at a dinner tableIn a house under the bangs of a neighborhood under a thumb of pooling sky look, I live there, the house with the lawn that stings and sticks out like an angry brown thumb, with the dead rosebushes and thorny mess, convoluted cars and shower-curtain Christmas lights bordered all around the gutters even though it's May? That house, there, the one where if you open up the door, you'll find musty smell and cream-stain walls, cat hair all around the floor and a lonely dining room, where a thoroughly-aged woman has set her knitting aside and taken up a three-pronged fork, drowsy and hungry?confessions at a dinner table7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
You'll see me, across from her, and know that if you darted down the hall you'd find a small festooned room, like a ruined and sinking ship; an empty guitar, an un-entertained television, lopsided papers scattered around, and a clean corner with a box no one touches, my Pandora's box, one where, if opened, all of my guts would spill out onto the flo
a little thing called gravityjennifer, he says.a little thing called gravity8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
nerves: two butterflies doing battle, a grating on your kidneys. a tightened necktie and a reassuring cheek-kiss: a shy hand gesture and the way you feel before,
spend the night in the backyard and he stands blank, blankly in the glass-window, playing with the thermostat and whispering sweet nothings to the light switches. i'll spend the next two years in prison and the decorum is just sad, sad, "i think i could do a lot for the prisoners there." it's easier to say when your tongue is a rope to the beauty inside, to the fragments of a bombshell you swear you have. a terrorist inside my gut and i love, i love lucy.
sunny tomorrow, he says. oh my god it's sunny tomorrow, it's shiny sweat on your backneck and it's a glance down the hallway, it's the paranoid mirror and it's the hesitant: puff. [i'd love to get a still-life shot of that one]
just for a child, a child to cradle and tell him there's no monsters, there's no monsters under her bed, bring hi
POPTART HAIKUoh lovely poptartPOPTART HAIKU8 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
how I long for your sweet taste
won't mom buy more soon?
The Washboard WindBody mimics water motion--The Washboard Wind4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
laundry skin, white wash, sweat,
your ribs are the hull of a ship
and heave night-breath. Bones
touch one another, unknowing
of their existence and you're scared
of the soundless swell in you.
You're no pirate. Don't fight this.
the other sondear james,the other son7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your name means "hold the heel,"
among so many other things,
and i think i could list them:
your eyes are funny. during saw v i saw your pupils
and i thought, hazel. his eyes are definitely hazel.
and they aren't: they are green-gray, they are gray,
they are tinted with blue, they are stung with brown,
but mostly, they are a soft, indecisive green, and your
lids are permanently half-closed, lazy, and you continuously
look like you may be waking up from a dream, and i am
continuously wondering if i was in it
i can recite things about you.
all kinds of things. your middle name is
david. your cat is a gray tabby with bright, vibrant green eyes,
and she has been de-clawed, and her name
is samantha. your bed is on the floor. when we are on the
phone and you get a text, and you sigh and tell me
to hold, i close my eyes and listen to the sound of your telephonic
keyboard, tap-tap-tapping, and think maybe i could
fall asleep to the sound, but there'd
over your shoulder: part twoThe list unfolds before us. We read, lightly, our eyes skimming like spiders dancing on the surface of water, daring to break skin.over your shoulder: part two7 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
The taste of apples, the sound of the rain, your first overheard sex joke, the day you catch your parents kissing, the moment you are not a kid anymore, the first time you visit relatives, the powdery smell of chalk, the first time you're touched, the face of your doctor, the days you think are your last, the feeling of your heart skipping a beat, the familiar stench of starvation, the first time you black out, the morning you wake up disoriented and wonder what's wrong with you, the first time your hands take something they shouldn't, the harsh throaty taste of chocolates you know you shouldn't have, the first time they forget your name, the time you walk into a room and realize all eyes are on you, the last time you trick-or-treat on Halloween...
every turned headthe couch cannot hold him for all the power weighted on the tips of hisevery turned head7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
thighs. he tosses an apple back and forth in his hands, the color of controversy
and the blood of trees who have never known a chainsaw the color of snow.
she sways like a tree in a winter prying to be alive, clopping on the roof of the
casket of her new home. she opens her mouth and pauses before speaking.
-did you notice how the tv channels are all the same?
she scoots nearer to him on the couch and considers prying it out of his
hands, for the hope he would have to turn his eyes, rest on her.
-i mean -- watch. if you watch, it's the same people.
we know what she's not saying: it's the same petite, laundry-fold
anorexia nervosa. _part one a.anorexia nervosa. _part one7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
There is something you should know about me, before we begin:
I have anorexia nervosa.
The denial was thick.
Anorexics, I believed, were skinny girls with even skinnier bones, combing their falling-out hair against mirrors where they appear as a sliver of a profiled coin, dying as the air beats them and hating their folded-paper bodies. Anorexics, I thought, had to be girls who achieve your standard perfect grades and are incredibly athletically-gifted, all the while going on zero calories for days at a time. Anorexics were built of disgusted strength, sickened determination, and a muddied line between self-preservation and -sacrifice. Anorexics were withered girls on billboards, stealing the sun from the beads of the sky laid before them, pressing it into their arms, and yet somehow taking no pigment with them.
I was notand am, I am not, I am not I am not I am notone of theseone of t
argument The last time I spoke with you, it was like breathing underwater. My lungs were filling up, so that thin words kept swimming out of my mouth and I coughed up phrases that didn't make sense. Every speck of twisted logic you managed to shout suddenly fit, and I found myself wondering if you had been right all along. It was too bright. You were too loud. I didn't know what to say, and the fish were swimming all around me and brushing my shivery arms and my skirt was floating and freezing my bare legs. My hair was seaweed. My tongue was salt. I was not as pretty as a mermaid.argument8 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I'm not sure how, but underwater you were the most sensible person alive or dead. Your arguments, usually ridiculous, rang strong and true and made me look like a stupid foolish little child. My retorts were sloppy and ill-re
Butterfly BreathI caught raindrops in my palm,Butterfly Breath4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Standing on rough sand
And watching the ocean swell
With the fresh, new water of Spring.
The air tasted of salt,
Lilacs, and something forgotten
Lingering in my brain
Just above my spinal cord.
The boy was there,
Holding the sky in his palms
And weeping- always the same
That was when I realized it was a dream.
"Who are you?" I called.
He dropped the sky,
Blue shattered and the rain stopped.
"Don't break your wings."
He warned in a voice the colour
Of sunset poppies.
"Don't break them, or"
The waves crashed and he was gone.
I stood alone again on the sand,
Blue sky fragmented at my feet.
My wings fluttered in the wind.
I held up my hand for the rain to return,
And a monarch butterfly, regal,
Precise in every movement,
Alighted on my fingertip.
"Don't break your wings." It warned.
Its eyes were black as snakes.
"Who are you?" I cried.
"Why do you always leave me?"
The butterfly crumpled,
Dissolving as the rain returned,
Salty as the ocea
In the Year of Our Lord 1921Aug. 2In the Year of Our Lord 19219 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Two weeks out.
This far north
the sun barely touches the horizon
before it rises again.
No wind now for three days.
We have not seen the skipper since friday night,
but we can hear him screaming from his cabin:
"The sea has many gods!"
The sea is oddly calm;
his voice carries for miles.
This morning we dragged up
the bloated corpse of a sea lion.
The first mate stared long at its body
before he decided that it was not a mermaid
and we threw it back overboard.
The holds are empty still;
our nets drag useless behind us.
Cook says he hears bells in the distance.
He has been drunk for days.
The galley smells like stale bread and trench-death.
The skipper has gone silent now;
there is only waves against the keel,
and the first mate leaning on the wheel.
He mumbles foreign names
and stomps his heavy boots on the deck
to keep us awake.
We have not slept for weeks.
The wind is
Think TwiceThink Twice12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My throat hurts and i'm gone
Do you mind if i turn off the radio
I want to end this song.
So many hours left in this day
The sun is setting and lights begin to fade.
Do you plan on stepping outside
Try to catch your taxi before i begin to cry.
The radio knob is broken and
My voice is beginning to crack.
I'm so cold.
Don't look back.
and, well,when i look at you i think of diamonds and stuttering and hands, but please don't ask me to explain that one.and, well,6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
you know sometimes i just want to learn about you, want to learn through the way you let your fingers covet your face and the way you speak when your mouth is very wide open, want to learn favorite colors and lucky numbers and inside jokes and secrets plodding around in your skull, twiddling their thumbs, and not because i think it would explain something great about you, like opening up your palm and reading the scratchy notes left there, lines of deceit and perky thumbs, not because i think i could read the naked future and its sea-creature body from the pentapod craft of your hand, no, not because i think i could read you like your spine was a collection of bony, itchy, hard-to-scratch words, but because i think it would explain something little, just a tiny bit, and
you know i want more words, more words, i want to hold them in my hand until they begin to twitch and shake a
i hope i find you flying kites Someday I hope to find you nursing kittens pooled up in your pulled-out shirt and when they die I hope to find you laying their small paws in the grass for the sun to rub liquid and gel waves over their pronged-fork toes and to let it take care of them until you no longer understand sight, and I hope to see you when you fall asleep in the big rocking chair on the porch and dream of a Heaven with cattails and triangle ears.i hope i find you flying kites7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Someday I hope to find you on broken avenues keeping your heart close to your thump-born chest and someday I hope to find you spooning bits of your stomach out to a gullet of eraser-mark poor people in a perished, lidded countryside. Someday I hope to find you attempting to grow wings by huffing your arms behind your purple-spotted back and when they do not appear I hope you cry tears stolen from the palms of salt lakes and water gods because lord knows you really could ha
2008.10.2008.8 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
And so it happens again, clean slate and empty litter box, earthquake tiles patched up with tape and stitched wounds like maybe the past could be forgotten, like maybe the world had forgotten to shut me down again.
The plate has little lacy gold bits around the edge, like fringe has been woven in by someone who knows what they're doing. Her macaroni and cheese, about half the size of the portion I took, oozes in front of her, radioactive seductive and smelling like orange factory cheese.
She makes a face into the noodles, small and withered, smothered and unalive; her face convolutes and twists like a scrunched rug, a state between depression and fury. She begins to pinch her arm, and her fingers are poised, elegant shears.
I examine her face, as though I'm smoothing the side of my imaginary hand over her chin, her cheeks, touching her red-wince eyelids, her sticky forehead. She's porcelain, pure porcelain, not pale or flushed, but a solitary uncolor, skin like a blank canvas. H
lately we've been dreamingWordspill:lately we've been dreaming7 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
I have been watching the pot for boiling. It attracts flies, hairy ones with legs dappled in tartar sauce, the shadows of your dreams, speckled across like fabric. When they near my ear, I bat them away, nervous, a palm shelled with cotton string, carrot sticks for fingers.
I want my brothers when they still laughed at fart jokes, and I want my grandmother when she still lived in San Francisco and it rained and I told her I was going to be a veterinarian up on a mountaintop so I could take care of all the wild cats and boars when they were sick, and they would all love me and I would never be alone. My father will only eat fish and chips when we go out to eat. My mother says she is starving.
I have want, I say. I have need. But these are lies, because I live in a nice house with a backyard I don't remember and telephone poles and security wires and roof shingles like big strong prisoner arms that refuse to let me go, caging me inside little cream-colored boxes, and I
anorexia nervosa. _part two o.anorexia nervosa. _part two7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I lean back against the rim of my bed and dig my feet as far into the floor as the carpet will allow. The panic leaves me like an ocean wave, scraping up against the sand of my head and leaving me breathless. I want to hurt something. My arms settle neatly around the other, touching on my wrists, rubbing down my forearms, clenching my hands together.
Someone should have shot me as soon as I made it out of the womb, I think, and my hands settle around my neck.
Sometimes, I broke.
There were two months where, every Saturday and Sunday, I had Poptarts for breakfast, which is about two hundred calories per individual Poptart. There was an entire month where I ate ice cream every night. The second month after I had started, late September-ish, I found that I couldn't take the hunger for very long, and I would eat a snack before dinner. This ended in mid-October, thankfully, and some of the shame subsided. I