Her red hair was suddenly blue, blue like a blueberry muffin on top of her scalp. I wanted to cup her and gulp it, gulp those mountain blueberry swirls, gulp her like the muffin she is. I wanted to eat her out completely. The coffee was hot, hot like me. I took a sip.

I waited for something but the silence was warm; it was a fine and kind kind. It was fine. Silence can be kind and fine with her in the air–she makes the silent air kind and fine I find. Yes. Kind and fine are the words for her.

“I like my coffee black,” I said, “Black and bitter like my heart. I do like it dark though, dark like my thoughts, dark like you,” I smiled.

She smiled, such a wide delectable, lickable smile, “Tu es stupide! Mais, oui, je aussi aime du café noir. La vie, c’est comme la merde, n’est-ce pas?” She understands my sarcasm and has nothing but quips and smiles about it, no scoffing from her. She knows I’m just bullshitting because I’m nervous yet calm. No, I’m anxious. Anxious for her, for longings past and longings to come.

“Oui, un mangez et fait chier et baiser et mourir. Pur merde!” I sipped my black, cold coffee. How did it get cold so soon? I’m still hot!

And I gazed waiting for her to purr some more. I wondered why does everything I love run behind the fridge only to come back out from there to nibble–bite after little bite–tearing at me slowly until I become gangrenous? Is that why I feel like a zombie?

Green, I am. Black, I love.


Note: Native French speakers, apologies for my terrible three-and-a-half semesters college-battered French.

The other I is crepuscular when it’s nigh

to the feeling of being inept, and

in a single sigh,

it  feasts on my modest breast.

Taught to sit.

I only sit. Agitated.


becomes the night,

only long after

meals and memories invited

by wine come and dine

with I and the other I.

Because an evening meal

is never finished

until you’re left by yourself

and hating yourself.

Or maybe not, but just not

quite ready I say.

Just not yet, I’m still so small.

Still so inept.

I’ll just sit in my high chair

and look down at it all,

the floorboards shaking.

And what will you get at?

I ask the other.

When will you get at it?

With thoughts

piled in a chamber, dark and heavy like

a miner’s bushel of coal

ready to carry fire and crumble into–

I and the other I

stuck in a rolling barrel, rolling

head between

the consumption and the

place of self creation

and self annihilation.

What are you getting at? I ask her

the better half of me

stuck between the bark.

Peeled skin like an apple–ripe, too ripe–

thin and brittle little red peels ripped

from me.

Think I say.

God, just think, but not too much.

That’s just it, you think too much,

to the brink,

to the brim you fill your cup.

How long will you let the

self-defeating wake you,

intoxicate you?

How long will the self defeating

thoughts abate your creativity?

You’re late.

Say, how long will the rumination

grow thick

pockets of smoke

that mosh between those

ringing ears while your

abilities slowly choke?

© PAZ 2011