The Magazines

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People is for sale.

All of them as one, wrapped in plastic. How did they get themselves caught?

At first they were too large. Big, broad shoulders too wide for scrawny dresses and heads the size of thoughts: they had to become smaller. Tiny phones holding the world of web made them crane, straining their necks into squares. One by one, person to person, they shrank.

Into the flashes of cameras, people curled up inside miniature frames. One shot shows a smile. Another, a wave. One shot has a pensive look. Another, shame. The eyes are scanned and recognized, but they all seem mostly the same. These are the people beside the candy bars.  

I’d like to buy the People. Every one of them, into my purse. Crinkling on top of one another, they cut up. Get plastic surgery. They slip around one another like business cards -I’d buy what they’re selling. Whether it’s clothing or just the material, People stands for stands of people. They still stand on top.

The Vintage Jacket

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On a long and chilly night when historical readings seem ideal, a distinguished jacket is imperative. With overcoats now joining the needlessly pompous, a subtle, yet sophisticated look is in order. Like John Adams and a glass of bourbon, vintage jackets at the local bookstore go hand in hand.

While some may still consider second-hand clothing to be used, this faded chocolate beauty is vintage in all the right ways. Dry cleaned and unwrinkled, its slightly slanted pockets keep your elbows proudly bent at an angle. You don’t just walk through the streets of Beantown in a 1970s zip-up: You fly.

Tan, faux suede, elbow patches are properly sewn to the fabric creating an authentic, non-ironed, professorial appearance. Whether you’re talking 1930s Bulgarian economics or quoting Yeats, crossed arms are a must. For a more pronounced approach in academically-inclined body language, try a sitting posture that includes a lifted forearm to the chin. A marginally cuffed sleeve exposes only so much of the wrist, leaving you covered for the times you need it most.

For only $67 this jacket has an original 1970s scent to go along with its impeccable taste in style.

The Rat Poison

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The bellies of the beasts with the sickness and the death mated from each other’s navel gazing.

“Look how beautiful we are,” said the first to the second.

She was long and sleek with the coat of a fox. She had a head like that of a peacock. Tall feathers sprouted from her scalp like bright ideas pointed high. They were out of reach. All she could think of was the beauty of herself and the ideas, like her feathers, moved beyond her.

“It’s almost too much.” The second stared at his expansive chest made entirely of beating hearts. Thumping in unison, he was a strong and steady rhythm. His body marched only for himself. With the blood of a thousand sons, his energy spiked mountains. His body was a gift from the Gods. He stared at his stomach, swollen from a feast, but suddenly noticed a hole.

“What is that?” The first said to the second. She pointed at her own belly in shame. She, too, had a tiny hole and it was tunneling to the center of her core. She was sure she would have noticed had it been there before, but absent of its memory, she gazed. A dark emptiness went straight through her gut. Coldness was hiding.

The second stared at himself. His worry was starting to grow. Poking their eyes as far inside themselves as possible, each beast could not find what they were looking for.

“Do you see anything?” The first asked the second.

“I see nothing.” The second said to the first.

The idea of a vast emptiness in the pit of such perfection was enough to make a grown beast cry. They curled their claws, reaching and prying into the depths of the nothingness. They reached for themselves and when they couldn’t hold on, they reached for each other in vain.

“I think I feel something.” The second said to the first.

After digging into the crevices further against her flesh, he felt the sudden movement of acid. Unlike possible organs nourished in the blood of a belly, this was a wetness that was cold.

Frantic with a mix of repulsion and curiosity, the second beast tried to melt her.

“What are you doing?” She asked with no answer. He was finding himself inside.

The acid crept closer to the ridges of her body, but it never once warmed to his touch. When it stung the sides of his clawed and gnarled fingers, he immediately retracted in pain.

The acid was out. Trailing against his skin, it tunneled through his stomach for the safety of an easy spot. His own body was contaminated. Like a hollowed out fish with a lifeless disposition, he could feel the clearing of his hearts.

One heart stopped beating. And then another. His strength began to fade.

“What have you done?” He said to the first, but she had no answer to give him. “You’ve infected me. You’ve made me sick. You’ve given me your own disease.”

She stared at the beast, now scrawny and deflated and shook her head side to side. “I’ve got nothing of my own. I’ve got nothing to give. What are we without our disease?”

The Brush

brush

 

“You’re so beautiful.” And the brush was good. 

When the brush was tiny, a comb with sharp teeth, he snagged against thick tangles in the morning. Large women with curls like a slinky proved the comb was not strong enough to fit. He pulled and he clawed, but he ripped at the root. He snarled until the women all screamed.

He was a small plastic comb that looked sharp, but was flimsy. With too much stress, the comb would snap, so he hid in the hair of many. Maybe she’ll forget about me, the comb started to hope as he buried himself further toward her scalp. 

The further he tried to disappear, the harder the women yanked. Stuck and clingy, he had nowhere to go. He bared his teeth again. 

“This is useless!” One woman shouted early before dawn. Her hair, heavy and wet, was too much for the comb to handle. With one jerk of her bangled wrist, the snarls of teeth and hair broke free. The comb was no longer. The mornings were bad.

In its place, several days later, the comb morphed into its softness. He had bristles like horse hair. His body was a spoon. No longer were there hard edged teeth and the small compact frame of something rigid. Instead, he embraced the shine that all women want. And there was evening, and there was morning. And it was good. 

The Trash

trash

Dear Trash,

I don’t know if it’s me or you.

Are you only attracted to something sturdy because you’re rachet? If I’m your last resting place, who was your first?

It’s always the same. Cheap white plastic drooling at the corners. I see you straggle in. You tell stories about parties while I hear who used you. Friends, you say. They’ll never see you again. You smell like flavored apple cigars, but the good kind.

How could you know the difference?

Empty boxes of cigarettes with the foil left shining almost look like chocolate. It’s a special treat., you claim. Every time it opens up, the packaging is still inside.  

Or maybe it’s me. I like to be the protector: the white night in the morning. I love the way you shine even when you’re empty. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the way I hold on.

I know you hate everything, but you know you love me. 

I make you you belong.

 

Sincerely,

Your dumpster fire

The Sentencing

 

the sentence2

 

Curled into tiny shapes and growing. Animal letters stretch carefully as not to be seen. Peering small sized and waiting. It takes a bent neck to notice. “Closer” they say – seeping further into the page. “My body of paper is eating us up. Is it cannibalism?” Still they stay.

These words weren’t always this small, but before the big, they just were. Limping on a question too old to hold: Can anyone read what I’m saying?

And when nobody could, they grew impatient with rage until the question split in half. HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE ALL OF THIS? They jumped into space. IS ENTITLEMENT NOT DESERVED?

But when one page’s letters became the volume of another, their meaning became the same. I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY. Said one sentence to the next, but nobody paid attention. I NEED TO PICK UP TOOTHPASTE, SPONGES AND SEEDLESS GRAPES. Another sentence took over.

Exclamation points were added to stand out from all the rest. HEY!! I’LL BRB!!! But they were ignored just the same. It was always besides the point.

A small period was stated and then The End. The words, at first, were devastated. But after the silence, when exclamations were forgotten, the words crept and curled. Like the pause of a tongue swallowing the “saids”, the animal letters

s t r e t c h

The Present

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Dear Present,

Thank God we’re over the past. It was an ugly time for anyone, but especially hard on us. There were times when it seemed you would never get here, but I knew you were stuck in time.

I know you think I was running from you, but really, who wouldn’t? You were so creepy with your insistence on everything now. Images of bad 90s workout videos to songs like Pump Up The Jam were a constant threat to my reality. Would anyone want to listen to that when Jane Fonda seemed so much better?

Everything looks better in Sepia. Even those bowl haircuts that boys used to have. Now they’re almost cute. Now that they aren’t around anymore. What is it that goes on now that will look better in the future? I know. I know. It doesn’t matter, it’s not happening. Future and past don’t exist.

But let me ask you one thing, before we figure it out. Did you ever say to someone “Live in the moment” only to laugh at yourself? Just for a minute. Disregarding the idea that you truly believe what you say, did the humor ever reach you, when you truly wished it wouldn’t?

Which moment, is what I want to know, did you decide you weren’t my future?

I enjoy what we’ve got going on right now and I’m not trying to give you grief.  But please, let me know: if you want to go further, I can always take you back.

Sincerely,

Yours.

The Thermometer

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11:28pm: Hey, u up?

Thermometer 11:28pm: What’s that supposed to mean?

11:29pm: Just seeing whats up

Thermometer 11:30pm: Who is this?

11:30pm: I’m your #1 fan

Thermometer 11:31pm: Do you even know me?

11:31pm: I know ur hot

Thermometer 11:32pm: Stop texting me.

11:33pm: Ok- I’m serious now. Ur the 1 for me. I saw you at the CVS on 5th street, remember?

11:40pm: You were in the aisle all by yourself. I asked for your # and you gave it.

Thermometer 11:40pm: Fantastic?

11:40pm: u know it

Thermometer 11:41pm: That was two weeks ago.

11:41pm: I was working up the courage to text

Thermometer 11:41pm: Really? You seemed pretty cocky when you approached me out of nowhere.

11:42pm: It was a facade. I’m shy underneath

Thermometer 11:41: You don’t have anything underneath.

11:43pm: What are you saying?

Thermometer 11:52pm: You’re a carpet cleaner. Expiration date passed.

____________

[Hi readers, I am trying to make a bit of money off my blog by trying Amazon’s Affiliate program. It might not work out – I’m not sure yet. Anyway, any advertisement I post, will be relevant to what I write. I respect my readership and your opinion.]

 

The Guide To Modern Dating:

The Spam Folder

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I take my job seriously because people depend on it. I protect the email. I protect the user. I even protect information. I am the Spam Folder.

Every day I catch stray spam, trying to weasel its way into the computer. Save 20% off your next purchase when you try SalonPro Scalp Control! It stands at the edge of my decision, pleading its case as if it was something new.

“The scalps of innocent people may flake off entirely if they don’t take precaution now!” I’ve seen it all.

Filled almost to the brim, I have become invisible. Please, just empty the spam, I pray to the user every evening before rush hour. I don’t know how much more I can take before completely slowing down.

Happy Dating Love Available For Destiny!!!!

I capture it, wrestling with the idea of actual destiny. Maybe there is something to the email. Maybe even if it is junk mail, the opportunity for love will conquer. I think of my user, tapping on the keys for hours at a time. Even at night the laptop is on. If real love existed, the power of online wouldn’t consume so much.

Real, live, girls looking for marriage! Good food! Happy home! Happy heart!

No, this is not beneficial. I pluck the email from an undecided cloud and bury it behind Mattress Discount Blowout!! Act Now And Receive Clean Sheets!!!

I have room for only one more email. The account is slow and I feel as if I am swimming through a public streaming of the Academy Awards.

Are you addicted to the internet?

It comes at me during a suspicious time: the small hours. Once 3AM hits, foreign spammers swarm with offers of everything from anti-aging miracles to fashion modeling careers. This goes against the script.

Do you spend more than 4 hours a day online?

I know for a fact that social media takes up at least a few hours of time per day. Once down the search engine rabbit hole, the spam accumulates to maximum capacity.

Do you feel less comfortable than you used to when socializing face to face?

This service, whatever it is, could truly benefit those from a certain generation.

Call now to set up your initial consultation at 1-900-293-2726. Please disclose your name, email address, cell number, and any social media account profiles that are active and we will get back to you within 2 business days.

The need for information seems inappropriate. Social media accounts are of no use to anyone except marketers. But perhaps this company will ultimately help detangle the addiction of online exposure. Not to mention, the email account could truly be destroyed if information isn’t handled properly. By letting the advertisement through, I could be preventing much larger problems in the future.

Do the right thing for real connections.

The email address contains a name. John McCall. There is a business account attached to the address. It’s probably a registered company. It’s probably legit.

_______________________

 

 

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