he was sitting in a minivan with thom (soft t-h) when ada called to ask where they were. thom said huh oh we're well not there yet, and there was a silence that was the kind you can hear and feel.
so when ada tells him that she's been waiting for half an hour, told him when she would be getting in and had a fucking plane to catch and was only coming by to say hi because he'd needled her into it, when she tells him this thom really is not sure what to say. none of us are, really. this is a conversation you have because you feel obligated, and no one likes to feel obligated. we get them over with as quickly as possible and pass them to the right, and allen happens to be to the right so the phone is his.
a week later he's calling her up one morning to remind her to go pick up her medication, which is for her allergies or her bad back or her big ass or her pliable teeth or her stomach parasties if that's even what they are or her farts. or for that sharp point you hit when you have to make a decision that means one thing or another.
allen has nailed a sign to the door
it reads
we have built a storm machine on the roof and are watching it work, we will be available when it is done.
he is not lying.
we have built a storm machine on the roof and are watching it work, we will be available when it is done.
he is not lying.
in the jungle it is quiet at night
all you hear are the leaves going fffft ffffft ffffft when there is a breeze. you hear the bugs that could bite you and you hear the chestnuts or walnuts falling. or it's the squirrels taking them. you hear the squirrels when they fight or chase each other, which is either fighting or foreplay or just irritating.
in the jungle at night you can hear the cars in the parking garage coming and going, ususally only four or five, because it is late, and the parking garage at night for the community college of philadelphia is slightly emptier at this hour.
you hear the vendors of jamaican d's packing and unpacking and preparing to be jamaican d's.
sometimes at night in the jungle when it is quiet, you can hear all the things you didn't do and steel yourself.
sometimes at night in the jungle it is quiet and you are the only thing to hear.
sometimes at night in the jungle, there are mosquitoes. and squirrels, scampering.
and if you wanted to, bit by bit, you could take apart your nightmares and put them back together, reinforced with krazy glue, and determination. and atom bombs. because nothing beats atom bombs. not rock, not scissor, not paper, not the insecurities you cut off like foreskin and left flapping in the trees for someone else to wrap around their neck.
in the jungle at night you can hear the cars in the parking garage coming and going, ususally only four or five, because it is late, and the parking garage at night for the community college of philadelphia is slightly emptier at this hour.
you hear the vendors of jamaican d's packing and unpacking and preparing to be jamaican d's.
sometimes at night in the jungle when it is quiet, you can hear all the things you didn't do and steel yourself.
sometimes at night in the jungle it is quiet and you are the only thing to hear.
sometimes at night in the jungle, there are mosquitoes. and squirrels, scampering.
and if you wanted to, bit by bit, you could take apart your nightmares and put them back together, reinforced with krazy glue, and determination. and atom bombs. because nothing beats atom bombs. not rock, not scissor, not paper, not the insecurities you cut off like foreskin and left flapping in the trees for someone else to wrap around their neck.
something of an explanation
thor had been playing civilization iv for 3 days straight and when he conquered sparta he found it full of jews. and then his people were upset because they wanted baths and restrooms and places for their kids to go to school, plus sparta wanted a fucking synagogue.
so he walked away from his desktop for a week. borrowing history textbooks from 6th graders with heartbreak in their eyes, he sat on the steps with a carton of camel wides in his lap and an old cardboard scotch case for an ashtray, waiting there and watching the skies and the sidewalks for an answer.
the next day he turned on his monitor and saw that somebody had bombed pancake town, the cradle of his civilization, and that the people of sparta were still demanding a syagogue and that syrup city still needed baths and aqueducts. so he threw up his hands, grabbed a gallon of olive oil, said THAT IS IT! I FUCKING QUIT! I CAN'T TAKE THIS PRESSURE!
and that is when my friend thor moved to the jungle.
so he walked away from his desktop for a week. borrowing history textbooks from 6th graders with heartbreak in their eyes, he sat on the steps with a carton of camel wides in his lap and an old cardboard scotch case for an ashtray, waiting there and watching the skies and the sidewalks for an answer.
the next day he turned on his monitor and saw that somebody had bombed pancake town, the cradle of his civilization, and that the people of sparta were still demanding a syagogue and that syrup city still needed baths and aqueducts. so he threw up his hands, grabbed a gallon of olive oil, said THAT IS IT! I FUCKING QUIT! I CAN'T TAKE THIS PRESSURE!
and that is when my friend thor moved to the jungle.
we dream of raised fists and spin moves. ice rinks and peanut butter.
In the dream, I am sitting there in my room. I hear a noise, at the window. There is a light and I do not like light or noise when I sleep, so I have to stop. I sit up. I am sitting up and, when I look over, I see my shadow on the wall, because of the light.
Yeah, well, and here's the thing - the shadow gets up and grabs a shadow knife. It makes its way to my parents’ room, where I am pretty sure they are having sex. I see my shadow pull back the covers and I can see it on the floor and going up to my parent’s room. Because my parents room is upstairs, and I can hear their bed hitting the wall, and it's my fucking dream so of course I know what's going on.
I hear voices in the living room, and all the boys I’ve ever kissed are just sitting there, as my shadow goes by killing all of their shadows, ,and I feel like I’ve lost control of the dream. Then I laugh, because there they all are, and now my shadow will never let them get into Never Never Land. There are no cars outside. We can never escape.
I start to forget this is a dream when I look out the window and realize there are no cars. I see my uncle there under a tree, completely inebriated and totally appropriate: his penis is out. He is peeing nutragrow on the lawn.
Then the dream changes. I’m in my car. I worry I’ve fallen asleep driving again, and that's when I see it. A deer. It's standing in the road, illuminated by my headlights like spotlights because they are on the front of my car to show me the things in the dark I cannot see, and I freeze, and I panic because this is a fucking deer. It is standing in my headlights. It is the only thing I can see because everything else is fucking black.
Then it jumps. Straight at me.
As I see its head go through the windshield, I know how it will break, the windshield. I know it is a girl deer and not a boy deer. Because of antlers. I know that they’re not there, and how this is probably somebody’s mother and how that is worse than somebody’s father. I know then that this is all clear even though my hands are covering my eyes and mouth because I forget how to close it, and I might be peeing a little.
When I wake up, it's more to remember that I was dreaming than anything else. I pick up my phone and send Allen a text message to see if he's up, because I’m not him and I don't call people at three in the morning, just because I’m lonely. I say I had a bad dream and now I can't sleep. I say, “foureyes.”
He calls. "So, wait, what happened?"
"I had a bad dream. I can't sleep now. I will soon though."
"Well, hey. I'm real proud. I am glad."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Because it's good. That you can overcome this terrible obstacle. That something bad happened and now I get to feel like I’m important."
"So this is about your vanity."
"This is always about my vanity. What was the dream, Ada?"
"Why do you care?"
"Was I in it? I was. You had to wake up and tell me you dreamed about me. It's ok."
"Oh yeah? Dreaming about you would be a bad dream."
"Which is what you would say to raise my concern."
"Mmm."
"So I expect to know when you dream about me."
"I won't dream about you."
"Ada, you had a bad dream and now you're talking to me. While it's true that I can
lull people to sleep, let's face it."
"Thought ends there?"
"Right there."
"Good."
"Yes. Hey. How's your bones?"
"Ache-y."
"At least you're consistent."
"Mmm. Allen, I'm going to sleep now."
"Sweet dreams, Ada."
And when he texts me the sound of a raspberry, I think it's cute. I don't know that I understand this.
Yeah, well, and here's the thing - the shadow gets up and grabs a shadow knife. It makes its way to my parents’ room, where I am pretty sure they are having sex. I see my shadow pull back the covers and I can see it on the floor and going up to my parent’s room. Because my parents room is upstairs, and I can hear their bed hitting the wall, and it's my fucking dream so of course I know what's going on.
I hear voices in the living room, and all the boys I’ve ever kissed are just sitting there, as my shadow goes by killing all of their shadows, ,and I feel like I’ve lost control of the dream. Then I laugh, because there they all are, and now my shadow will never let them get into Never Never Land. There are no cars outside. We can never escape.
I start to forget this is a dream when I look out the window and realize there are no cars. I see my uncle there under a tree, completely inebriated and totally appropriate: his penis is out. He is peeing nutragrow on the lawn.
Then the dream changes. I’m in my car. I worry I’ve fallen asleep driving again, and that's when I see it. A deer. It's standing in the road, illuminated by my headlights like spotlights because they are on the front of my car to show me the things in the dark I cannot see, and I freeze, and I panic because this is a fucking deer. It is standing in my headlights. It is the only thing I can see because everything else is fucking black.
Then it jumps. Straight at me.
As I see its head go through the windshield, I know how it will break, the windshield. I know it is a girl deer and not a boy deer. Because of antlers. I know that they’re not there, and how this is probably somebody’s mother and how that is worse than somebody’s father. I know then that this is all clear even though my hands are covering my eyes and mouth because I forget how to close it, and I might be peeing a little.
When I wake up, it's more to remember that I was dreaming than anything else. I pick up my phone and send Allen a text message to see if he's up, because I’m not him and I don't call people at three in the morning, just because I’m lonely. I say I had a bad dream and now I can't sleep. I say, “foureyes.”
He calls. "So, wait, what happened?"
"I had a bad dream. I can't sleep now. I will soon though."
"Well, hey. I'm real proud. I am glad."
"Yeah? Why?"
"Because it's good. That you can overcome this terrible obstacle. That something bad happened and now I get to feel like I’m important."
"So this is about your vanity."
"This is always about my vanity. What was the dream, Ada?"
"Why do you care?"
"Was I in it? I was. You had to wake up and tell me you dreamed about me. It's ok."
"Oh yeah? Dreaming about you would be a bad dream."
"Which is what you would say to raise my concern."
"Mmm."
"So I expect to know when you dream about me."
"I won't dream about you."
"Ada, you had a bad dream and now you're talking to me. While it's true that I can
lull people to sleep, let's face it."
"Thought ends there?"
"Right there."
"Good."
"Yes. Hey. How's your bones?"
"Ache-y."
"At least you're consistent."
"Mmm. Allen, I'm going to sleep now."
"Sweet dreams, Ada."
And when he texts me the sound of a raspberry, I think it's cute. I don't know that I understand this.
1c. my friend thor
my friend thor carries around a small bass drum in a messenger bag he got at target and had to leave catholic school.
it wasn't over anything big. with a name like thor you'd think he would have done something awful or bad ass. he got dread locks. he played ice hockey. he was real italian. but his name was thor. that was something i always thought was neat.
anyway the other night we cut off thor's dreadlocks. we were drunk. he lost risk. he didn't notice, really. in the morning his hair looked just like little stevie van zandt in the sopranos. not with that stupid fucking doo rag bandana. that hair that you can see where it was glued on, even though it wasn't.
things like this make you wonder what else we hide.
my friend thor hides a small bass drum in a messenger bag he got at target.
my friend thor rocks his adidas and he's never rocked filas.
my friend thor decided one day to move into the jungle between 16th and 19th and between callowhill and hamilton, what used to be noble street. 19130. philadelphia, pa.
it wasn't over anything big. with a name like thor you'd think he would have done something awful or bad ass. he got dread locks. he played ice hockey. he was real italian. but his name was thor. that was something i always thought was neat.
anyway the other night we cut off thor's dreadlocks. we were drunk. he lost risk. he didn't notice, really. in the morning his hair looked just like little stevie van zandt in the sopranos. not with that stupid fucking doo rag bandana. that hair that you can see where it was glued on, even though it wasn't.
things like this make you wonder what else we hide.
my friend thor hides a small bass drum in a messenger bag he got at target.
my friend thor rocks his adidas and he's never rocked filas.
my friend thor decided one day to move into the jungle between 16th and 19th and between callowhill and hamilton, what used to be noble street. 19130. philadelphia, pa.
1b. 19th and Spring Garden, a few weeks ago
i was just walking down spring garden, i was, that was all that was it and then AND THEN, no, i said to him. you're doing it wrong.
well fuck you, you tell it! and he took a cigarette from me to let me know things would be ok.
so i started in: this white guy on a motorcycle with a mustache and a short sleeve dress shirt was behind this minivan with black people in it (at this point he says to me YO WHY IT GOTTA BE ABOUT RACE and then barks a laugh and looks at his feet) because sometimes it is, that's why. ANYWAY the motorcycle decided to make a right turn and that in order to do this THIS IS NOT THE STORY I WAS TELLING! is what he goes in with and i say hey, i say this happened too. this is a part of it but ok, so he went to pass but he did it by sneaking in on the right between them and the parked cars so they didn't notice when they went to make a right turn and he didn't see the signal because all he could see was into the back seats and he didn't want to look at the fucking poor black kids in there what did he care anyway when OH MAN LOOK OUT there they were, stopped in the road yelling alot.
so we found this out from a guy leaning into a fence post and just watching it all. he kept watching as we went away and he knew this whole scene from before but with different people and it was as cliched as that analogy. this is getting more about what i'm thinking, i didn't say that bit out loud.
out loud: so we walked by him and this shortish black woman comes out all wide eyed and says what is that supposed to be? and i say that's a traffic problem and she says no (she's not looking at us, she never really did otherwise i'd have known what she meant next when she goes) no i meant that (and then she looked at your white dreads). THAT, is an IN SULT. and we walked away
fuck you! he goes. i totally said 'is that racism? is that what that is?'
maybe, i said. the only part i spent alot of time remembering was the asshole in the motorcycle trying to pass a blind spot. sometimes i focus on the wrong thing.
yeah, he said, yeah maybe. and then we were in that diner inside the corner market, getting rubens and shit.
well fuck you, you tell it! and he took a cigarette from me to let me know things would be ok.
so i started in: this white guy on a motorcycle with a mustache and a short sleeve dress shirt was behind this minivan with black people in it (at this point he says to me YO WHY IT GOTTA BE ABOUT RACE and then barks a laugh and looks at his feet) because sometimes it is, that's why. ANYWAY the motorcycle decided to make a right turn and that in order to do this THIS IS NOT THE STORY I WAS TELLING! is what he goes in with and i say hey, i say this happened too. this is a part of it but ok, so he went to pass but he did it by sneaking in on the right between them and the parked cars so they didn't notice when they went to make a right turn and he didn't see the signal because all he could see was into the back seats and he didn't want to look at the fucking poor black kids in there what did he care anyway when OH MAN LOOK OUT there they were, stopped in the road yelling alot.
so we found this out from a guy leaning into a fence post and just watching it all. he kept watching as we went away and he knew this whole scene from before but with different people and it was as cliched as that analogy. this is getting more about what i'm thinking, i didn't say that bit out loud.
out loud: so we walked by him and this shortish black woman comes out all wide eyed and says what is that supposed to be? and i say that's a traffic problem and she says no (she's not looking at us, she never really did otherwise i'd have known what she meant next when she goes) no i meant that (and then she looked at your white dreads). THAT, is an IN SULT. and we walked away
fuck you! he goes. i totally said 'is that racism? is that what that is?'
maybe, i said. the only part i spent alot of time remembering was the asshole in the motorcycle trying to pass a blind spot. sometimes i focus on the wrong thing.
yeah, he said, yeah maybe. and then we were in that diner inside the corner market, getting rubens and shit.
1. draw yourself a thunder cloud
the thunder clapped all around them and they sat there on the couch, watching the whole storm via satellite.
the weather moves how it wants to, is something she's learned to notice and he just sits there. grinning with half his slacked jaw at the things he can't control.
the thunder clapped all around them and they sat there on the couch, which had three white cushions the length of a forearm or so on a wooden frame. and cushions in the back.
the weather moves how it wants to, is something she's learned to notice and he just sits there. grinning with half his slacked jaw at the things he can't control.
the thunder clapped all around them and they sat there on the couch, which had three white cushions the length of a forearm or so on a wooden frame. and cushions in the back.
the early edition
he said i once wanted to write a poem about how falling in love with you was like a first cigarette, but i wasn't really sure where else to go with that, and she said that was just the problem baby, sometimes you're all premise. when he asked her what she meant she just blew him a big wet raspberry red kiss, and opened herself an iced cold coca cola.
*
when she said i'm leaving you don't listen anymore he was looking at the table. on the table there was a ring from a green yuengling bottle, one of those moisture rings, and he was looking at it, not because he wanted to clean it or because he was mad that it was there, but just to look. and while he was looking he said to her no no baby please you didn't understand, cmere an sit with me a little hey, hey, shh but
what he meant was good bye. and she moved for the door but she thought about that couch and the things on it. and history. like the sort you find in texts.
*
Allen and Ada started out emailing lists of questions finding ways to tell the other everything about themselves that mattered or didn't, because sometimes it's the little things too like thunderstorms over rain or the need to be comfortable or for silence. sometimes he'd worry that what he said would drive her off because he was cranky, then she'd text him little things & he'd feel a part of something that was maybe already there before him.
58 days later they stopped talking and a friend told him look at it this way: she didn't like springsteen. and she told herself look at it this way: he really liked springsteen.
*
he heard her snap open an iced cold coca cola and he said baby that could rot your pliable teeth, and when she then said the sound of lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, he said i thought you quit for your bad back, big ass, weak ankles, allergies or the stomach parasites if that's what they even are. after a pause and thinking who are you calling baby she said what do you care about my caffeine or if i'm smoking even and he said nothing really, but i feel that it's important for me to stay on top of these things and after another pause he heard her smile and then she hung up, in case someone was watching.
*
she smoked camel 100's because i don't know, they made her feel long and slim in a way being anorexic or bulimic failed to do.
she isn't, anymore. anorexic or bulimic
but she does smoke camel 100's.
*
she was going in for a kiss while looking over his shoulder stealth like and was heard to remark honey, your handwriting is awful. ('awful' in italics). he continued writing and said well you kiss like a dude.
she asked him just what exactly does that mean and was taken a step back and when he lit a cigarette she took a step forward
*
when they sat down she said to him i need to know if we're going to get drunk tonight, and he looked confused and said maybe. why?
because i need to count the calories, she said.
you know, he went, if we have sex tonight, that could balance things out.
what she said to that, while adding figures on a napkin: i need to know if we're going to get drunk tonight.
*
when she said i'm leaving you don't listen anymore he was looking at the table. on the table there was a ring from a green yuengling bottle, one of those moisture rings, and he was looking at it, not because he wanted to clean it or because he was mad that it was there, but just to look. and while he was looking he said to her no no baby please you didn't understand, cmere an sit with me a little hey, hey, shh but
what he meant was good bye. and she moved for the door but she thought about that couch and the things on it. and history. like the sort you find in texts.
*
Allen and Ada started out emailing lists of questions finding ways to tell the other everything about themselves that mattered or didn't, because sometimes it's the little things too like thunderstorms over rain or the need to be comfortable or for silence. sometimes he'd worry that what he said would drive her off because he was cranky, then she'd text him little things & he'd feel a part of something that was maybe already there before him.
58 days later they stopped talking and a friend told him look at it this way: she didn't like springsteen. and she told herself look at it this way: he really liked springsteen.
*
he heard her snap open an iced cold coca cola and he said baby that could rot your pliable teeth, and when she then said the sound of lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, he said i thought you quit for your bad back, big ass, weak ankles, allergies or the stomach parasites if that's what they even are. after a pause and thinking who are you calling baby she said what do you care about my caffeine or if i'm smoking even and he said nothing really, but i feel that it's important for me to stay on top of these things and after another pause he heard her smile and then she hung up, in case someone was watching.
*
she smoked camel 100's because i don't know, they made her feel long and slim in a way being anorexic or bulimic failed to do.
she isn't, anymore. anorexic or bulimic
but she does smoke camel 100's.
*
she was going in for a kiss while looking over his shoulder stealth like and was heard to remark honey, your handwriting is awful. ('awful' in italics). he continued writing and said well you kiss like a dude.
she asked him just what exactly does that mean and was taken a step back and when he lit a cigarette she took a step forward
*
when they sat down she said to him i need to know if we're going to get drunk tonight, and he looked confused and said maybe. why?
because i need to count the calories, she said.
you know, he went, if we have sex tonight, that could balance things out.
what she said to that, while adding figures on a napkin: i need to know if we're going to get drunk tonight.
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