Starry Night
'We are drinking champagne and smoking the occasional cigarette at midnight on one of the bridges that overlooks the Arno. That thick vein of a river that runs through the center of Florence and makes one half of the city accessible to the other only by a series of bridges. I don’t remember the name of the bridge we are on but I do know that its the only one that has a secret ledge that juts out into the river and feels dangerous when you are on it. I love it. And so does he. The city lights are bright on either side of the river and they kiss the banks with their shine. But the stars reflecting into the black water are the real distraction. River the color of moonlight. Moonlight the color of river, and stars like fireflies shining in both. He’s in his standard outfit of jeans/white t-shirt and geek chic glasses.
I love him in those glasses.
I love him.
He's my first love and I live in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
My entire life feels like Van Gogh's Starry Night. Whimsical and magical.
Im in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings with layers and layers of silver bangles on my arms..both arms chime like a thousand bells every time I move. I raise the clear plastic cup of champagne to my bright red lips and the bubbles kiss my nose. The City sounds whir all around while my moonlight river colored eyes take in the sights through the rim of the crystal clear cup. Its cold up here. Which is one of the reasons we like it. I hug my knee high booted thighs a little closer to my body and snuggle closer to him for warmth. Each time we come, we bring our plaid, wool blankets up to our ledge and lay them amongst pieces of old gum and trash over icy, graffiti covered concrete. We will later take these same blankets back to our room to make love on and never think twice about their cleanliness or get grossed out. Im 20 years old and I don't give a fuck about where my blankets have been. And the world belongs to me.
And him.
And us.
And this night.
And this night that goes on for eons in the pockets of my mind. This is our ritual in this city, in this spot. Our spot. And hundreds of nights sipping champagne and smoking the occasional Pall Mall Cigarette have somehow become a single moment in space and time.
This moment.
And this moment.
And the next.
Forever stretching time moment by moment until I am an old woman in his arms and we have lived lifetimes together. Our children are all grown and gone and our bodies show beautiful signs of wear and rejoicing. We have lived a good life and these geeky glasses of his have become more endearing with each passing year. On Sundays we walk to the cafe on the corner for fresh baked croissants and strong coffee. He stops to buy me a bouquet of yellow daisies -- always yellow daises -- and even though its been our ritual every week for the past 50 years, I always act surprised when he presents them to me from behind his back. We sit at our favorite window table dipping buttery crusts of croissant into strong cups of coffee and watch the people of the world pass us by in another lifetime.
But today it's just me and him on the bridge, sipping champagne with the occasional cigarette and the world belongs to us.
I love him in those glasses.
I love him.
He's my first love and I live in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
My entire life feels like Van Gogh's Starry Night. Whimsical and magical.
Im in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings with layers and layers of silver bangles on my arms..both arms chime like a thousand bells every time I move. I raise the clear plastic cup of champagne to my bright red lips and the bubbles kiss my nose. The City sounds whir all around while my moonlight river colored eyes take in the sights through the rim of the crystal clear cup. Its cold up here. Which is one of the reasons we like it. I hug my knee high booted thighs a little closer to my body and snuggle closer to him for warmth. Each time we come, we bring our plaid, wool blankets up to our ledge and lay them amongst pieces of old gum and trash over icy, graffiti covered concrete. We will later take these same blankets back to our room to make love on and never think twice about their cleanliness or get grossed out. Im 20 years old and I don't give a fuck about where my blankets have been. And the world belongs to me.
And him.
And us.
And this night.
And this night that goes on for eons in the pockets of my mind. This is our ritual in this city, in this spot. Our spot. And hundreds of nights sipping champagne and smoking the occasional Pall Mall Cigarette have somehow become a single moment in space and time.
This moment.
And this moment.
And the next.
Forever stretching time moment by moment until I am an old woman in his arms and we have lived lifetimes together. Our children are all grown and gone and our bodies show beautiful signs of wear and rejoicing. We have lived a good life and these geeky glasses of his have become more endearing with each passing year. On Sundays we walk to the cafe on the corner for fresh baked croissants and strong coffee. He stops to buy me a bouquet of yellow daisies -- always yellow daises -- and even though its been our ritual every week for the past 50 years, I always act surprised when he presents them to me from behind his back. We sit at our favorite window table dipping buttery crusts of croissant into strong cups of coffee and watch the people of the world pass us by in another lifetime.
But today it's just me and him on the bridge, sipping champagne with the occasional cigarette and the world belongs to us.
Checkered And Plaid Couches
I sit on the old stained blue and white checkered couch in the Italian boy’s living room. Virginia sits next to me with her back against one of its arms smoking a cigarette, she extends her legs onto my lap. Her short dark hair frames her face and as she gestures and talks, ash from her cigarette lands into her lap and the seat of the couch. It's hot. It's always so hot here in August. And still. No wind at all. Like the entire city took a deep inhalation in July and never bothered to exhale. The house plants are crispy brown and the dirt from the pots spill onto the carpet surrounding them . . . covering the walls with chunks of drying earth and dust where they were knocked over and righted but the contents were never replaced.
The entire room is dusty and in the rare corner where sun is permitted to shine you can see discarded paper clips, candy wrappers and clumps of white fur from Bobby's cat.
Outside it's that twilight hour and we haven’t turned the lights on yet, so the overall effect of the room is more romantic than macabre in the dim light.
I'm perched on the very edge of the couch trying to touch as little of myself onto its surface in my backless yellow sun dress. Beads of sweat form at the nape of my platinum blonde ponytail and begin to drip drip drip down my naked spine one vertebra at a time. My black Mary Janes are nestled on the purple shag carpet in front of me where the coffee table sits. The glass coffee table is covered in tiny particles of weed, strips of rolling paper and small rolled up pieces of cardboard filters. Bobby is across from me hunched over the table on the yellow and red plaid couch. He’s wearing his long sleeve flannel shirt and his long brown hair hangs limp and stringy around his face. Held tight in both hands and working fast is his red weed grinder with the sex wax sticker on it. On the glass table in front of him lay the perfect filter and rolling paper combo designed to create a blunt worthy of the gods. On either side of him sit his two nameless and comatose friends . . . casualties of the first round of Bobby’s craftsmanship. I'm realizing that this “epic party” Virginia invited me to is just a way for her to not have to come here to get high alone. Just then the doorbell rings and team plaid couch perks up. The coke is here. We need to leave.
The entire room is dusty and in the rare corner where sun is permitted to shine you can see discarded paper clips, candy wrappers and clumps of white fur from Bobby's cat.
Outside it's that twilight hour and we haven’t turned the lights on yet, so the overall effect of the room is more romantic than macabre in the dim light.
I'm perched on the very edge of the couch trying to touch as little of myself onto its surface in my backless yellow sun dress. Beads of sweat form at the nape of my platinum blonde ponytail and begin to drip drip drip down my naked spine one vertebra at a time. My black Mary Janes are nestled on the purple shag carpet in front of me where the coffee table sits. The glass coffee table is covered in tiny particles of weed, strips of rolling paper and small rolled up pieces of cardboard filters. Bobby is across from me hunched over the table on the yellow and red plaid couch. He’s wearing his long sleeve flannel shirt and his long brown hair hangs limp and stringy around his face. Held tight in both hands and working fast is his red weed grinder with the sex wax sticker on it. On the glass table in front of him lay the perfect filter and rolling paper combo designed to create a blunt worthy of the gods. On either side of him sit his two nameless and comatose friends . . . casualties of the first round of Bobby’s craftsmanship. I'm realizing that this “epic party” Virginia invited me to is just a way for her to not have to come here to get high alone. Just then the doorbell rings and team plaid couch perks up. The coke is here. We need to leave.
Raspberry Tuesdays
Whispering candy colored roses into the seashell of my lover.
He has my heart, and I hold the key to all of his stars.
We met years ago on the deck of his favorite moon landing.
And in that single instance, we knew that we would never be able to drown in whiskey fumes and Alaskan summers again without the others consent.
I manifested him.
Driving up the trail to his den, I shared with the gypsy his image in my mind.
How he would act, dress, dance, smile. How we both would.
A wooded vision destined to become a thin veiled reality.
Sharing all the most intimate details of his inner plain on that dive, and then in an instant, we were one on that single slice of moon.
Stars locked, hearts trembled, universes expanded and in that moment we knew.
We were unspoken air plants needing neither water nor daffodils to survive.
Only each others brass bands in beating rib cages and the comfort of sandpaper kisses.
We left behind our planets to become one alien being of merging plasma and purpose.
He worked in the painting the sky department and I was in charge of soul stretching. Noble occupations, but our pencils were destined to be fine tuned in some other cave. So we jumped off the diving board into outer space and said yes to the crystal cosmic journey of time travel.
It has been so worth it.
Ive never met a man who loves both the ancient art of buddha sleep and backbending brush strokes. Who’s Amazon grin and Tinkerbell laugh can bring me back to the very first time on that moon landing when we fell into space and never returned.
Sweet sweet space. Sure more popular songs have been sung about the secrets we share with moose ears, or the way a pufferfish plays the piano. But the ballads written about space are by far what rock my Beethoven and carry my Mozart down the Nile.
Where does he intro and I crescendo? Where do I nest and he burrows?
We were a part of a Rubik's cube for awhile and it was softer in the beginning before it got too difficult to stand. So we solved the riddle, grew kale in the garden and juiced raspberries on a Tuesday. A see you next Tuesday kind of Tuesday. And we never looked back.
He has my heart, and I hold the key to all of his stars.
We met years ago on the deck of his favorite moon landing.
And in that single instance, we knew that we would never be able to drown in whiskey fumes and Alaskan summers again without the others consent.
I manifested him.
Driving up the trail to his den, I shared with the gypsy his image in my mind.
How he would act, dress, dance, smile. How we both would.
A wooded vision destined to become a thin veiled reality.
Sharing all the most intimate details of his inner plain on that dive, and then in an instant, we were one on that single slice of moon.
Stars locked, hearts trembled, universes expanded and in that moment we knew.
We were unspoken air plants needing neither water nor daffodils to survive.
Only each others brass bands in beating rib cages and the comfort of sandpaper kisses.
We left behind our planets to become one alien being of merging plasma and purpose.
He worked in the painting the sky department and I was in charge of soul stretching. Noble occupations, but our pencils were destined to be fine tuned in some other cave. So we jumped off the diving board into outer space and said yes to the crystal cosmic journey of time travel.
It has been so worth it.
Ive never met a man who loves both the ancient art of buddha sleep and backbending brush strokes. Who’s Amazon grin and Tinkerbell laugh can bring me back to the very first time on that moon landing when we fell into space and never returned.
Sweet sweet space. Sure more popular songs have been sung about the secrets we share with moose ears, or the way a pufferfish plays the piano. But the ballads written about space are by far what rock my Beethoven and carry my Mozart down the Nile.
Where does he intro and I crescendo? Where do I nest and he burrows?
We were a part of a Rubik's cube for awhile and it was softer in the beginning before it got too difficult to stand. So we solved the riddle, grew kale in the garden and juiced raspberries on a Tuesday. A see you next Tuesday kind of Tuesday. And we never looked back.
Mansplain
Does the old man at the counter tell you to “smile sweetheart” as he pours your accomplishments into beautiful bowed boxes? Do the group of guys on the street heckle and low whistle as you walk by? Did that guy on the train..the stranger you have never met, try to tell you how you need to, are supposed to, should absolutely be doing this that and the other to run your life in a successful way?
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Oh What fun it can be to attend a business conference as an equal, only to be spoken to as a child. The subtle art of mansplaining really knows know limits. There are few experiences more rewarding than being in the same business school as the other assholes in the room, getting better grades and larger accolades the entire time but still being mistaken for the coffee girl. What a special joy to be invited to an awards ceremony honoring YOU and YOUR business, accompanied by your husband; only for everyone in the room to congratulate HIM on how much effort this must have all taken to achieve so much.
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Have you been in situations where your breast size is valued more than your IQ? where old white men decide the fate of your body, and assault goes hand in hand with the dress you decided to wear that day?
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Slut shamed, cocks teased, egos bruised, divine feminine destroyed. Broken hymen’s, hypocritical sermons, men in power, women in kitchens. Barefoot, pregnant, broken, bruised, underdeveloped, over exaggerate your tales of sexual prowess so that we KNOW that when you give it to us, that it’s good..it’s so so so so good and she loves it. She loves it..She loves it!!!!!!!! SHE LOVES IT!!!! YES!
Congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Are you so filled with rage and fire and fierceness that it’s sweeping from your pores and burns in your belly too bright where a small hiccup produces a fire fountain like a dragon that’s been caged for a century? Let it all fucking burn. Burn bright. Burn it down. Let the flames consume them all. All of them. And remember: Insecure, upper class republican white males burn the brightest!
Fury. Fury. Fury. Rage and murder.
Congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
No I don’t want to date you, I wouldn’t even let you work for me. Yes, i made more in an hour than you made in a month. Please put that cock away or PLEASE let someone mistake it for a hitchhikers thumb to hail me a taxi out of this nightmare. I am not here to please you, suck you, Fuck you, or be nice to you. I am not at the club for your pleasure or your entertainment of which these things you are neither. And No, you cannot buy me a Drink.
Save your drink.
I’ll take the money instead.
Oh and congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Oh What fun it can be to attend a business conference as an equal, only to be spoken to as a child. The subtle art of mansplaining really knows know limits. There are few experiences more rewarding than being in the same business school as the other assholes in the room, getting better grades and larger accolades the entire time but still being mistaken for the coffee girl. What a special joy to be invited to an awards ceremony honoring YOU and YOUR business, accompanied by your husband; only for everyone in the room to congratulate HIM on how much effort this must have all taken to achieve so much.
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Have you been in situations where your breast size is valued more than your IQ? where old white men decide the fate of your body, and assault goes hand in hand with the dress you decided to wear that day?
Then congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Slut shamed, cocks teased, egos bruised, divine feminine destroyed. Broken hymen’s, hypocritical sermons, men in power, women in kitchens. Barefoot, pregnant, broken, bruised, underdeveloped, over exaggerate your tales of sexual prowess so that we KNOW that when you give it to us, that it’s good..it’s so so so so good and she loves it. She loves it..She loves it!!!!!!!! SHE LOVES IT!!!! YES!
Congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
Are you so filled with rage and fire and fierceness that it’s sweeping from your pores and burns in your belly too bright where a small hiccup produces a fire fountain like a dragon that’s been caged for a century? Let it all fucking burn. Burn bright. Burn it down. Let the flames consume them all. All of them. And remember: Insecure, upper class republican white males burn the brightest!
Fury. Fury. Fury. Rage and murder.
Congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
No I don’t want to date you, I wouldn’t even let you work for me. Yes, i made more in an hour than you made in a month. Please put that cock away or PLEASE let someone mistake it for a hitchhikers thumb to hail me a taxi out of this nightmare. I am not here to please you, suck you, Fuck you, or be nice to you. I am not at the club for your pleasure or your entertainment of which these things you are neither. And No, you cannot buy me a Drink.
Save your drink.
I’ll take the money instead.
Oh and congratulations, you’ve just been demoralized, hypersexualized, and disregarded for your gender. What fun!
