random love


Truth or tactLet’s haiku.

one. thousand plates fall
forty thousand rain: drops.  Hit
mute.  sanctify me.

flurries.  hard madness.
as bunny-milk ice cream pools,
red stream breaks even.

quiet   tulips give
chase, beckon.  ephemeral.
sharp edges   .cut.  Free

sun rays…..rapid beat.
They whisper: Run.  Fast.  Faster.
Burn. Spin. Break.             vanish

grey november days.
pine trees bend, invite…sadden.
it was always you


Should I delete him?

Should I delete him

Asks my friend.
Me: Do you really want to get over him?


Her: Yes.
Me: Then yes, delete.

I take one course of action to get over someone and thus far it has been 100% effective.
But I need to qualify that I have not been married with children.

The Rumi, aka Don’t Look Back, method:
1) Delete from contacts
2) Delete all text history
3) Delete or hide them from FB (and all other social media you share)
4) DO NOT respond to non-essential, emotional bullshit solicitations (i.e. requisite conversations about unjoining finances are an unfortunate necessity but responding to explanatory emails about his/her feelings blah, blah, absolutely not).

Too harsh?  What, like love-hurt isn’t?

Because this is what I know when it’s over but I’m not over them:
It fucking hurts.
The sorrow, the anger, the goddamn grief.

For instance, after a long-term relationship ended, my ex of not even a week was already dating someone, a specific someone they started talking to prior to our breakup.  That felt awesome: decade long relationship, one-week turnaround.  And a few weeks later, when their new someone came to our still-shared house to spend a lovely weekend with ex (because that new burgeoning love period is brimming over with so much damn infatuation), as my dumb luck would have it, I got to hear new someone be given a fat fucking orgasm by ex…goddammit y’all.

I thought I was doing so well.  I processed through writing as decade-long memories flooded me, Dylan on repeat in the background, and spent priceless time with invaluable friends who listened to me, quietly sat with me or simply joined me for a whiskey, give or take an occasional cry.

I thought I was getting a handle on the can’t-hardly-breathe stage and moving towards taking it week by week.

A few more weeks pass, my ex has left the state to live with said someone and I am told that they plan on getting married within a month.


There’s an annoying last step that completes my method:
5) Time.

Sweet, slow, tortuous, curious thing, time passing.

random love

We didn’t get arrested in Thailand.

We didn't get arrested in Thailand

Thank god.
Because that means we weren’t caught buying, possessing and using pot.

I don’t recommend doing what we did to anyone.
Looking back, our actions were at the very least risky and in general, really fucking stupid. Really fucking stupid.

Ok, GO.

My heart is pounding in my throat so hard, so fast.  We’re at the colorful night market on Silom Road in Patpong (infamous ladyboy district) and as we look through stalls selling random tchotchkes in the vein of cheap jewelry, counterfeit bags, sex toys, DVDs (basically everything you can think of and a lot more curious crap that you didn’t know existed), we come across a paraphernalia stand.

BF starts to make friends with the cute Thai guy whose face reads hopeful as we peruse one-hitters and glass pipes.

Here’s the thing about BF:
He can make friends with anybody.

I suppose he’s had enough experience dealing with drugs and drug dealers that I ought to trust his this-person-is-cool-or-not meter.  “I can tell by looking in their eyes, reading their body language, if they’re trustworthy.”  And it’s true that this young dude has a genuine air about him but I couldn’t help but notice that when we approached the stall, the older guy (whom I feel actually owns the stall) has disappeared into the black minivan with severely tinted windows parked on the street.

Granted, every stall has a large vehicle parked on the street behind it (how else are they going to transport their wares?) but the timing feels portentous.  Why did the guy disappear?  Because we’re more likely to buy shit from a young person who speaks decent English?  Probably, but as BF’s negotiations are leaning more and more towards the actual procurement of weed, I get anxious.

Young, cute Thai boy hollers at his friend and they’re parlaying fast and serious Thai that we shouldn’t comprehend.  But, as is often the case when illegal substances are the topic at hand, we get that they’re debating how far they’re willing to go to help us out.  The friend disappears into the black van which makes me fucking nervous.  This damn van is my ominous raven and my nerves veer towards paranoia.  Who’s in there?  Is this a set-up?  Are we making a huge mistake?  Is there no turning back?

Cute boy’s friend comes back and while we’re talking about random shit like American beaches and where people in Thailand go to vacation, BF shows me the bag that cute boy has passed on.  Okay, we are now in possession and my jangly nerves are acutely drumming through my skin.  So we buy a pipe and at this point I’m trying to Jedi mind trick BF into: Let’s. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.  I keep looking at the van, expecting undercover assholes to intimidate us out of all the baht we have and then some.
Or arrest us.

Finally!  Things are wrapping up.  Hugs?!  Why are we hugging?  Fucking hell, if this isn’t the most obvious drug deal ever I don’t know what is.  Why would we be so affectionate if we hadn’t just scored something?  Fine, yes, loves all around- now can we get the hell out of here?

BF: So…you think we should just head ba—
Me: Fuck yes.  Are you kidding?  No way are we walking around with this shit on us.

I get so paranoid on the walk back, I’ve halfway convinced BF that we’re being followed and I grill him 10,000 times over, making sure he didn’t give our hotel deets to the young one.  I’m ready for this adventure to be over so we run the rest of the way back. Because that’s not obvious or attention-grabbing at all.

And then we get high.
And it is magnificent.

We flush what’s left down the toilet and trash the pipe the morning we check out of Thailand.
We briefly consider giving the leftover and pipe to our cab driver but c’mon, y’all.
That would just be reckless.

random love

This is personal.

God, what a fucking grandiose statement, right?
Who is this bitch?

Nobody, sometimes.
A damn good friend/lover/partner sometimes.


I don’t think that’s so healthy.



Currently, I just do the best I can.





random love

120 seconds

120 seconds

at a time is the best I can do sometimes.

The first time:

5 blocks.
Hold on for five blocks.



But I can’t get air.




26th street.
Sweet fucking relief.

I made it.


So I count 120 seconds.
I’ve made it so far.
