Walking down Oak Park Avenue in Berwyn I hear what sounds like the impressive crack of enormous wings taking flight. I look up and see a bare-chested, beer-bellied guy standing on a balcony shaking out a T-shirt, rug-beating style. Maybe the bird changed form before I could see him. "You're not ready yet, child. Soon."

Later the same day, taking Metra home from Berwyn, there's a cute as pie cornfed guy sitting with his girlfriend. He's got ruddy cheeks. I bet his brother played football but he carries one of those art portfolio things back and forth on the train.

This morning my kitty actually seemed kind of hurt that I didn't sing to her like usual. I was rushing around trying to make sure I caught the 7:40 train. She looked like she was missing more than just Fancy Feast. Her eyes said "…please?" Or maybe I'm just one of those crazy cat people. Anyway, I belted out "Lilyyyyy – is – our – fav'rite – kittyyyyyy" to smooth over her world.

Why can't people be like that? Like in a musical. Songs could make me powerful. I could be the fucking president. I could be clever enough to be the 100words.com feature.

You don't even know how much love is in my heart. You peer over the cauldron but see only your own reflection. Dip your spoon in and see ripples of light dance, your preconceptions dissolve and shift and open. Lift the spoon to your lips and never be hungry again.

"You better speak up now if you want your piece…it won't mean a thing later…yesterday's news is tomorrow's fish ‘n chip paper…"

"The problem is you ain't been loved like you should…"

You could be loved. Your blinders are vestigial yet nonetheless require surgery. And that's where I come in.

So bored. It's finally the weekend and I'm sick as a dog. Of course The Mister says "oh, so then I don't have to go to YOUR Mom's house next weekend?" "Hey, I been up all night sneezin', it's not that I don't WANT to go – what, you think I hired a sound guy to hit ‘sneeze' every time I bend my head forward? To hit ‘brrrrrrRRRRRR' every time I pick up a tissue? I ain't Ferris Bueller, baby – I'm from The Wrong Side of The Suburbs… You don't wanna get messed up with me – I'm a loner, a rebel…"

Hey, I never try to rhyme, do I?
I wonder why?
Seems tedious,
The neediest
Poets must need this goof
For proof
That they're deep, man,
That poetizing they can
Do
Ooh poppa doo, how y'all do?


God, this is lame
It's slowin' down my game.
If it means something and sounds nice,
Who needs this silly vice?


Trash cans shrilly spillin'
Garbage strike…unions be illin'
Ask the businesses,
"what this is?"
I should take my trash to Wrigley Field
Only there the strike will yield.


Do I get an A for effort?
For the stupid rhymin' crap I blurt?

Trying to rhyme feels like I'm being punished,
Like the world is a gym class laughing at my
Weak attempts at pushups.


Maybe that's how the Gold's Gym gorilla who passes out the fliers by Union Station got his job. The Gold's Gym employees had a "Push-up Off" and he was the loser. It's creepy to interact with someone wearing a mask. Can't you just see the E! True Hollywod story: "He stood in the throng of bustling Big Shoulder professionals, no one having any clue that the unassuming gorilla-clad fellow would soon be the subject of a national manhunt…"

How do you make yourself known?

Do you make a grand entrance? Do you come on like gangbusters? Do you stalk an invisible red carpet? Do people use the verbs "saunter" or "slink" to describe your movement?

Do you assume you're the spark that sets it all off? Did you imitate screen idols alone in your bedroom mirror, or were you never alone long enough to get the chance? How would you complete the following sentence: "When sad, I – a) Whoever gets sad? Life is a grand adventure! b) Count my blessings, c) Write poetry, d) Inventory the medicine cabinet."

Bought the new "It" book, "The Fortress of Solitude," about a white kid growing up in a black neighborhood in the ‘70s.

I'm not far enough into it to have an opinion yet, but so far so good. I can say that the paper stock it's printed is suh-weeeeeet. If they had a paper stock expo like they have car shows, this would be the tricked-out Car of the Future that all the hunched-over know-it-alls would be creaming over. "I knew about this back in '93, dude…" It's soft as the hair of the first person you've ever kissed. Sigh…

I saw this billboard on my way to work that said "Black sheep. Now comes in red." With a picture of a car and the words "NISSAN MAXIMA."

What the fuck is "black sheep" about a Nissan Maxima? Why would Nissan want people to think their car was a "black sheep" car? I'd think a black sheep would either not have a car or would have some junky-ass thing that would get laughed at on "Sanford and Son." It makes about as much sense as an ad saying "Midtown Office Supplies: Bad To The Bone."

I don't get rich folk…

To anyone who thinks depression isn't real: I assure you, if I were makin' shit up to impress people, I'd pretend to know rock stars.

Gettin' caught on hitches,
an embarrassment of bitches
follow in your footsteps;
when you left they'd wept.


One of them dug up the ground
fresh with the imprint of your step.
She pulled feathers from her down
jacket and sprinkled them on top,
marinated it with tears, lint from your pocket,
a strand of your hair
an altar to your oblivious self…
The only place her dreams come out is there.


Willing lamb to slaughter.

Good news was burning a hole in her pocket, an unfamiliar feeling.

She wanted to shout it out to everyone on the train, but she knew that insane (just barely, though – it was like the voice of reason coming from Extra #678 in the parade scene of a movie).

How best to cut up and serve this blessing to others? She was so hyped up and confused – it was the mindset of someone who's rent an instructional video on cake cutting. As if people would judge her cake cutting ability and not see the cake. Apparently self-loathing smacks winners, too.

"Being a self-aware asshole doesn't make you less of an asshole, it makes you twice the asshole. The things about yourself you are aware of are the things you have the ability to change." – Nick Mamatas

Heh. You rock my world, Nick Mamatas. Though my mug is only filled with cold 7-11 coffee, I raise it to you. I wish I knew a cool toast. They seem to sound cooler in Polish, but I don't know Polish.

Old Kitty hates New Kitty. Have to see my family today. Listening to "…all little sisters like to try on big sister's cloth

It's like my mind is leaving my body…like my body's this shell taking up space – a shriveled up, popped balloon, my brain a helium balloon on a long string, floating far above it all, remote as a star. "When you look at stars, you really see a shadow of a star because it takes the light so long to travel to where it's visible to Earth." Figure anything genuine would take so long to translate I don't bother. I can feel my matter dissolving like a dying star. Life stripped down to meaningless gestures is a joyless march toward death.

Fall is here, whisper of winter in the air. I love the colors of the changing leaves. There are these huge trees near my el stop that are full of bright yellow leaves. So majestic and bright, like cotton candy shaped torches proud to do their duty. Maybe the trees just seem big with their ostentatious manes.

Fall makes me think of going back to school, even though it's been years. Wondering who'd be in my class, wondering in my dorky "Square Pegs" way if I'd be popular that year. Fall feels like possibilities, like a volleyball stopped in mid-air.

On the el I take out Jonathan Lethem's "The Fortress of Solitude." A cute guy hanging onto the overhead railing bends toward my seat and says "is that a good book?" "Yeah…it is…" The kind of moment you wish for when single.

My ego can't help but wonder if he'd been checking me out and was delighted to find the book provided adequate texture to spark a conversational match, or if he's an artistically inclined fellow who gets jazzed by such things and couldn't help commenting. Did his mind register "GIRL! reading book" or "girl reading BOOK!" So sue me…

So the Cubs lost the last game of the pennant series. I watched a bit of the last two games, just ‘cuz it would be so history-making and all.

Remember that Mountain Goats song? "They're gonna find intelligent life up there on the moon…and the Canterbury Tales will shoot up to the top of the best-seller list…and Bill Gates will single-handedly spearhead the Heaven 17 revival…and the Chicago Cubs will beat every team in the league…and the Tampa Bay Bucks will make it all the way to the top and I…will love you again…I will love you…like I used to…"

Everything seems so shiny and brittle. I couldn't sleep last night. I drank some coffee to be alert for Job #2 and then I was all wired and couldn't sleep and sang TV theme songs into a jar of Vapo-Rub. So now I'm all tired.

I swear, I'm a slave to The Man. Working so much is really fucking with me. Shake up my electrolytes and peer in my eyes for the Magic 8 Ball message of what mood I'm in on a particular day. It's like a David Cronenberg movie where your sleep is divided into billable hours. Oy…

I peruse the candles in the drawer, checking each one for heft, quality of wax. I find one smooth as taffy, white as a wedding dress. Its smell reminds me of church. Its girth reminds me of…well, just never you mind.

Having found a satisfactory specimen, I turn to exit the pantry, closing the drawer with an absentminded thrust of my hip as I do. I reach up and yank down the string lightbulb switch, walk out and close the door. Back in the kitchen you wait for me, nervous. I sit, try not to smile – poker face, poker face...

You try to act casual but my gaze makes you uneasy.

"So…what do you want me to do?" you ask, helpful as a cartoon neighborhood boy. As if I need help cleaning.

I say nothing. A tiny smile twists my lips. I slump and stretch out in my chair, my body at a 45 degree angle from the floor, my breasts lurching toward the ceiling like animals rousing from sleep. Your eyes head there, your mouth involuntarily falls open as if in silent plea. Ha! You're so predictable... I break the trance with a loud metallic thud on the table.

Your skid back and fly out of your chair. You try to look like an Outraged Citizen Demanding Answers, like an extra in "Frankenstein." But I can see you shiver in fear. You're breathing so heavy a girl might think you liked it, liked this game…

"What…" you sputter, pointing at my hand on the table, "IS that?"

I smile and lift my hand to reveal the thing it had been hiding, the thing I'd fished out of my pocket. A Zippo lighter on its side. I spin it around with my finger, teasing circles I picture on your skin.

I pick up the Zippo and flip the top open and shut, open and shut, the flame appearing and disappearing like a Jack-in-the-box clown. "Have a seat," I say, smiling and nodding toward the chair you'd left toppled on its side. You grimace but swallow it, trying to look cool, as if I'd pointed out that you'd shit your pants. Oh come on, it's not that bad.

"Relax," I say, though I don't stop flicking the lighter. You pick up the chair and sit. You try to look annoyed, as if to say "get on with it…" This'll be fun.

"I bet you're wondering why I asked you here," I say, setting the Zippo down.

"I was a bit curious..."

"A bit, huh?"

Flip open my purse, retrieve my Marlboros. Slap the pack against one palm, nod toward it, shrug it toward you. You shake your head. Lift one to my lips, shut the pack, put it back, nod toward the Zippo. You pick it up, rub the flame against the waiting tip. It glows red, I suck in deep. A pause. You put the Zippo down. If you ever noticed the initials engraved on it, you give no sign.

"So," I say, exhaling, dragging the massive ashtray toward me with the pads of my fingers. It looks like a drop of lava suspended in animation. Looks like it's trying to crawl outside of itself.

"Were you surprised at what you found here?"

"Well…I mean, I thought you were having a party…" You sound excited and confused, as if you prefer our two person setup to some ol' kegger but aren't sure what you signed up for.

"Nope. Just you and me."

I can tell you want to ask why but are afraid it will pop the bubble of tension.

"I've been watching you for a while, you know," I say, doodling the ashes off my cigarette in a lazy zigzag on the uneven ashtray surface.

"I know we haven't talked much, but…I feel like I know you," I say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see you biting your lip and staring down the buttons on my blouse, as if a foreign language you squint at to translate. I set the cigarette in the ashtray, reach over and pull the candlestick holder toward me. I place the white candle I'd retrieved earlier into it, then light it.

I look right at the flame, waiting. After a few seconds I pick up the candle holder, set my other hand out, palm up, on the table. Like a kid greedily anticipating the release of a massive candy chute. Narrow my eyes, slowly dip my other wrist clockwise. The wet remains of candle land in inelegant drips on the center of my palm. I wince in pain in an inward gasp, then just as quickly exhale a sigh of pleasure.

"What are you doing?" you ask, horrified/fascinated.

"Have you ever tried it?"

You say nothing but hold out your hand.

I switch hands, grabbing the candleholder with the wax-kissed hand. I squeeze my palm around the base, pushing the hot wax in deeper, such exquisite pain. But…right. It's your turn now.

As if bestowing some strange blessing, I bend the candle toward you, watch as wax drops land in the center of your palm. You yelp, stop, then let out a sigh like crashing surf. Heh. Told you I felt like I knew you. I had a feeling you'd like this, too.

"My turn," you say, bolder now that you think you know what's going on. I roll my sleeve…

After we'd done this back and forth a few times – we'd anointed each other's forearms, ankles, knees, the tops of our feet, napes of our necks (God, that one almost made me lose it) – we started running out of options. Unless clothes start coming off, of course. We look at each other as if we'd just shared a great joke but the laughter was starting to die down and we weren't sure where to go from here. The microwave on top of the fridge said 11:30. You can stay about an hour more. I don't tell you this, of course.

Gotta move fast. But not so fast as to be suspicious. Or do guys think that way? "Snap out of it," I tell myself, "he doesn't know…he's yours…" I look straight at you and begin unbuttoning my blouse, translate the riddle you'd been trying to figure out. Throw shirt on floor but leave bra on; let you feel like a man. "Right here," I say, pointing coyly at my clavicle. You obey, pick up the candle, let the hot drops fall. I wince, sigh. Suddenly you get tender, brush my hair aside, pull down my bra strap, kiss my shoulder.

You unhook my bra with the greatest of ease; you, daring young man, must not be the innocent you play yourself to be. It falls to the floor and you trace my nipples with your fingers. Then your left hand stops and I know what's coming. I didn't even have to ask… Wow. I made a wise choice. I close my eyes to make it sweeter. The hot wax falls on my nipple and I'm reduced to porn screams, shaking in my seat. You turn toward me, taking my right breast in your mouth, smearing the wax on the left.

I yank up your T-shirt hem and you move away from me long enough for me to pull it up and over your head, remove this silliness between us. Your hands home toward my jeans, dumb with lust, like a dog trying to open a door by jumping at it. I pull my jeans down, you pull yours down, and we crash to the floor. You fucked me hard against the floor, my whole being like bread dough pounded to your will. I even returned the favor, finding a temporary new home for that candle (young guys…so sweet and willing…).

Now the candle rests inside your jacket pocket as you make your way home. Or maybe you threw it out. We were both kind of embarrassed by it once we were dressed. "A keepsake," I said, handing it to you and smiling. Well, you couldn't resist such a grand gesture. So now the evidence is yours. I didn't want to shower after you left, but couldn't much leave the wax on me, so I did anyway. Once again clean, I light a fresh cigarette. I finger the filigreed initials – W.M. – as I hear Willie Morgan's key in the door. "Hello…"