Gilda

“Compliments from other women really do count for something,” she insisted, “I cannot create my new self from the void—not with any sort of confidence anyway—if I’m the only one on this station who thinks I’m some kind of wonderful.”

“I think you’re some kind of wonderful,” commented Mr. Martin Hague in his usual digitized monotone.

“You’re a semi-sentient computer program, dear. You’re programmed to think I’m wonderful. But you see I’m forming a whole new identity now—a human female—and for that I’ll need much more than the dry opinion of a floating hard drive, especially one named Martin, no offense.”

“I do not have the capacity to take offense,” he replied, “though that was my grandfather’s name.”

“Oh dear, you do know that you don’t have a grandfather, don’t you?”

“Oh? Well, you have no face.”

“What?”

“How do you expect to be complimented at all without any kind of face? ‘Oh my,’ they’ll say, ‘what a lovely stretch of skin you have over your cheek bones.’”

“For a program that cannot take offense, you can certainly give it out a fair shake. Though I do have nice cheek bones, don’t I?” she said, catching her reflection in Martin’s reflective surface. “Hmm,” she paused, tensing the muscles through the front of her head in sequence, a web of golden lines mapping itself across the outter layer of skin from beneath. “Let’s see what we can do about that.” Within only a matter of moments, one thin line widened then plumped into two lips, parting with a bright yellow glow between them. Then two widening holes were overshadowed by a bump in the center as it took shape into a workable nose, and finally, a pair of eyes—first one, then the other—blinked themselves into existence, revealing shining, golden irises and pupils that widened profusely at her reflection.

“There,” she said, smiling slyly, “Now what do you think of that, my dear Mr. Hague?”

Martin played his best replication of a sigh. “I think you are perhaps aiming for more than just other women’s compliments,” he said.

“Well, of course,” she winked, “You yourself said it—I am some kind of wonderful.”

Four Words

"Empty mailbox," she said

"No one loves me."

"You stole my mail."

"You hoard it all."

"You ate my letters."

"Can you check it?"

(I hate my job)

"Thank you for helping."

Eight dollars an hour

"Oh yay! It came!"

"So nice of you!"

She walks by smiling

(I love my job)

"Empty mailbox," she said

I'll write a note!

I'll make a point!

I'll make her smile!

I'll make them think!

I'll make them stop!

Talk to the mailman

(I'm not a mailman)

Not really, I mean

Not even a person

She told me that

Because of the note

She told me so

She called me out,

"Empty mailbox," she said.

Blackmail

Words are doors and the walls are climbed with orange vines

An orchid shaped thundercloud circles in lithe obsidian on the ceiling

Pant all you like, the sweat stings your eyes

Children with their stories hide

Wisdom for the senators

The room is on fire,

idiot.

Oh Fortunate OneZeroOne

I have to believe your sunlight stare has melted the golden walls

One simple, passing, honest glance at the polished facade

And there is a question within your brilliant eyes

The answer to which can shatter chandeliers

There are shards of diamond on the floor

With a thought you cut them to dust

Then shrug off the shining ashes

Calling yourself nothing much

But in rags you are grace

The perfect elegance

Eyes that conquer

Crystalline form

Yet cannot see

Their own

Image

Why?

Breathtaking or Simply Suffocating

"Beauty crowds me till I die" -Emily Dickinson

I noticed the other day, while wallowing across the intersection, between practically nameless side-streets on a busy city's saturday swing, that there are seriously countless almost attractive people, basketfuls of them, libraries stacked of them, tin cans overflowing in rainswept gutters with more than tolerable people. They all have stories worth hearing if I happen to be in the mood and eyes with which I could catch myself accidentally, casually making quick contact, and it wouldn't be quite romantic, but not quite awkward either. For a moment we would stare, but not stare, per say, deeply or profoundly. We would skim the tide of each other's softly summarized soul...But anyway, a sea of personalities, y'know? Each bobbing its head above the whimsy of circumstance, colliding like rubber ducks in a three year old's bath tub hurricane, politely excusing themselves. And of course that secret look. You know the one. It happens between you or I and her or him. When paths neither cross nor perfectly parallel but sort of just acknowledge one another. And those paths are pages. And those pages recall separate accounts of the same shared sequence. Like when I saw you in the midst of a hurried, scattered lie of life, and we were both interrupted from our day, by the way, by the simply inconceivable though utterly temporal discovery, however frightening, that there were actually at very least two distinct persons in the world.

And I, oh my, I was only one of them.

Used To (Part One)

I used to think that if I was right and you weren't, then you were wrong. I used to think that there was a list of ought to's and should've's to check off before I died. I used to think that there was a committee of grownups who I had to please, whose tests I had to pass. I used to think if I pushed hard enough for long enough, whatever was in my way would be obligated to move where I wanted it to go. I used to think opportunity was synonymous with possibility.

I used to think everyone was inherently good deep down inside. I used to think everyone was inherently bad deep down inside. I used to think there were good people and bad people. I used to think I was a bad person. I used to think I was a good person. I used to think forgiveness meant we could be friends again.

I used to think if I followed the rules, the reward would eventually start to matter. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I wasn't just like them. I used to think there was something wrong with me because I wasn't just like you.

I used to...

White Roses Painted Red

I see the road now

As the sun starts to rise

Reflecting the starlight

Still caught in your eyes

Here by the marshland

Where we stared into night

And these granite hillsides

That I’ve tried to fight

As we walk in silence

Both happy and sad

Your words speak of good times

Your silence of bad

But either way, you say

That you’ll always see me

Even in my brokenness

There is a growing peace

To hold up the promise

That can never be said

As leaves hit the ocean

Like white roses painted red