Phone Phucks

There are two types of people with whom I cannot stand talking on the phone...or sometimes just talking to in general, actually.

I. The "I Never Stop for a Breath" Talker

This is that dear friend who, for all the good about them and all their good intentions, just never takes a hint.  Phone conversations are lovely when they are quick and to the point.  Sure, a long talk here and there is great, but before you settle in for a good long chat, make sure the person on the other end of the line has the energy and time; please do not drag them, kicking and screaming, into "I wanna talk about me" land.

When I talk to someone, I like input.  I want to have a conversation, not give a damn sermon, so when people talk to me like they might just as easily be talking to a wall with no feelings or thoughts of its own, I call them preachers who bogart conversations and I will typically try to avoid speaking with them, especially on the phone, in the future.

This subject brings me to the second type of person I cannot stand speaking with, and they are called:

II.  The "I May As Well Be Plaster on the Wall Because I Am So Boring and Utterly Responseless" Individual

This is the one that bugs me the most, even more than the bogarter. This is the person that you can pour out your heart too, tell them what you think is probably the funniest story in the world, or with whom you bestow some other titillating little tidbits that you are excited to share with another human being, and what do you get?  "...Uh huh...yeah...grunt...*undetectable head nodding*...yeah."  Wow, thank you! I'm so glad we could have this conversation!  I may as well have just spent the past five minutes shellacking my toaster with cream cheese for all I have just gotten out of speaking to you just then.  Bravo!  Let's be sure to do this again...NEVER.

Thank you for reading and "Phuck you kindly."

Sicka Chicks

Chin strap beards in the corners of your photographs.
Glare on the hair dyed so many colors it's evident you can't make up your
mind.

I wonder what you see at the bottom
of that glass,
when it's on top
of your face...just space?
Swirlingspecks of lipstick
or lip-liner
or maybe a nice glossy shimmer, whatever you girls are wearing nowadays,
folded within the ebbs and flows of your drunken
backwash?

Is it fulfilling, this sight,
day in and night out, this sight, every night,
what life is all about?

 And it doesn't make me furious, that you leave me
out

because really
the next morning, what more have you gained?
Have you sustained
even a memory
from the washed-out stains
on your name...it's a shame,
because everyone has their party phase
but when it seems no longer to be just a phase
but, instead, a way to pass your days,
living long in that haze,
where potential's erased...

in your photographs, I see
you erode
at Mr. Toad's when that last call is called out
for the last
time,
and my rhymes might be all that remain
in your
mind, so have a good night
--now I'm gonna go
sHiNe.

Sal's Cologne

Every day and night, an old, old man who lives on my street takes a walk. He is always dressed to the nine, with a sharp hat and coat to match, and a thick, white handlebar mustache groomed to perfection. He stops to talk to people on his way up and down the street, and occasionally I run into him and stop for a chat. His name is Sal and he moved to Pittsburgh from Italy as a young man, evidenced by his thick Italian accent. He always remembers small details I tell him about my life and asks me about them when we run into one another, even as we meet in passing. He tells me about his homemade wine, and always gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, his white grandpa whiskers tickling my skin. It's heartwarming to know that such kind and caring people exist, and that even as a very old man or woman, there is still so much life to be lived, if only one chooses to live it. I will always remember my first deep breathe after each time we part ways, strong with the smell of Sal's cologne.

Lost.

You
are
sparkling...
gleaming
collecting
dirt, in the farthest corner
near the dustiest edges
of the most
forgotten
place.
I knew I'd find you
so I let you go, to
where?
Ah, yes, I know--that pocket
in that bag;
the space between the stove and the counter;
the tiny zipper part
of my purse, the spot
that exists solely for that moment
when you find it, that it you thought
you'd never
find
again...
the nightstand, beneath the nightstand, behind
the couch,
hovering inside
the bubble in the carpet--
you're there,
but as soon as I look,
try to measure you with my gaze
the uncertainty of your place, shifts space and
you're gone...
to my sock drawer, the dryer lint catcher, that box
inside the box,
inside the box in my head,
under the bed! In the covers...
hidden inside/under
just above/just below
beside
myself, I search and find
a line
of shimmering
dust.