Everything Was Fine Until Whatever (3 page)

Maybe Her Pending Corpse is a Window

 

Kate is dying. She is getting close to death. Her houseguest, an Internet stranger named Ira, who has arranged to sleep on her couch for the next four days through an online social network catering to travelers, is halfway on the sidewalk and halfway on the street in a strange town, and he is watching her die.

“Kate,” he thinks, but then his thought just ends. They met less than an hour ago. They were on bicycles. He thinks this is just perfect.

He doesn’t know much about her. They had dropped his things off at her apartment and were on their way to get a few groceries. He is traveling through the states. He has recently been dumped by a girlfriend and is determined to find himself. He sublet his apartment in Detroit to a couple of his ex-girlfriend’s close friends. He wonders now if that was a good idea.

It is a powerful image for Ira, Kate lying here, her unfamiliar stomach fat drooping over her pants unpleasantly. It’s like live reality television.

Kate’s apartment was messy when they stopped in. Things were dirty, and the place had a certain monotonous quality. The couch appeared to be woven with itchy synthetics, had a sick-looking orange cat sitting on it, and was generally unappealing.

Kate’s voice, if he can recall, is deep but cheerful. She’s friendly and enthusiastic, but entirely unattractive. Her face is too complex to be beautiful. The lines around her nose and between her eyebrows are deep and unmistakable. When they met, he immediately abandoned the sexual agenda he had been, in three short emails, pretending not to have, and began hoping that she hadn’t had one. It’s supposed to be innocent, travelers helping travelers. But Ira hasn’t had sex in four months and to him, everyone was a possibility.

He tries to look helpful. He uses his cell phone. He waves down drivers. His efforts are dutiful and attentive. There are no frantic memories flashing through his mind, and he gives no passionate cries for help. He is thinking clearly and is satisfied with himself for that.

Kate’s blood is on the ground. It is moving in circles.

“It isn’t possible to live without blood,” Ira thinks.

He has never hugged her, so it doesn’t occur to him that this is the same blood that would’ve made any such hugs warm. As Kate moves closer to death, Ira feels himself becoming alone and stranded, sees himself standing on the black concrete uselessly, a lone parasite that has found himself without a host, staring blankly at the pending corpse of what was once an abstract sexual fantasy. He sees the thoughts in his head as if they were lines of an instant message:

(3:46pm)Does the world know it doesn’t need me?

(3:46pm)It does, it definitely does.

(3:46pm)Maybe the world needs me. It’s possible, I think. Is it?

(3:47pm)It doesn’t. It’s not. No.

He briefly wonders if it would be appropriate to get the keys from her pocket and go back to her apartment once the paramedics get here and take her away with them. Keep to the itinerary despite the unexpected tragedy. But Kate has a roommate, Ira knows, and he wouldn’t want to have to explain anything to her. The roommate would be overemotional and cry, probably. She would be confused and unsure about Ira sleeping there and distressed by his graphic and technical account of the accident. She would silently disapprove when he decided to sleep on her bed instead of the couch.

Kate’s fingers shakily form a fist and then uncurl.

“Was that it?” Ira thinks, but he sees that she is still breathing, gently and sporadically

What’s the point of having sex organs when my main purpose in life is to write unemotional poems using full sentences?

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I shouldn’t work in customer service.

 

I’m at the point in my life where I wake up in the morning and literally don’t know what to do.

My mom says this feeling is my hormones telling me to have children, but it feels more like my hormones telling me to buy the Goosebumps series books on eBay.

The most emotional sexual experience I ever had involved a hallucination of someone I loved being in the same room while I gave someone else I loved a handjob.

But that seems strange because I’m pretty sure I’ve never loved anyone.

I’m at the point in my life where I masturbate to memories of cuddling.

My mom says there are some things she really doesn’t need to know.

I hope it’s okay that I’m not referring to all the text messages I’ve received while writing this.

I try to drink coffee and look out of windows but eventually I have to crap or blink.

 

I grew up poor and everyone who grew up poor has a somewhat decent sense of humor.

I have complex fears stemming from childhood that I don’t want to talk about right now.

When I was twelve someone bought me a case of SoBe and I felt rich and powerful. Ever since then my sense of humor has been confusing and aggressive.

Now I’m writing poetry because I’m beginning to feel serious about life.

Serious like
if I don’t write poetry right now, someone is going to make me do the dishes.

Or
if I don’t write poetry right now, someone is going to tell me about their day.

All I did was compliment someone’s jacket and it somehow turned into a two-minute conversation where I had to say
happy birthday
at the end. I don’t know how these things happen to me.

Nothing Can Make Me Feel Sincere Not Even True Love.

 

Not even love and not even MTV’s True Life.

I want to be in love but how can I.

I can’t even write a love poem without referring to MTV or Lord of the Rings or something. Plus everyone I know is in love with me a little which makes it hard to think anyone is special.

I just want to wake up in the morning and feel like someone is planning on seeing me.

And I want to like myself through someone else instead of just me all the time.

This is about as sincere as I could possibly be. And it sounds boring and self-assured.

I just want everyone to think I’m on my way to Burger King.

It Could’ve Been a Photograph of Anybody.

 

I created an indentation in my bed where I always sit and write. I think of this indentation as concrete proof that I’ve existed the last several months. It feels like a photograph of myself, but not exactly.

It makes me feel present, but not entirely.

It makes me feel like I’m sitting on a bench with someone I love and we’re holding hands in a strange way where all our fingertips align and we’re talking about a party we might go to and we’re making out a little and I feel kind of bad because I’ve just stolen a lot of cardstock from an art store that I respect.

Everyone thinks I’m brilliant –and I am—but I’m also modest.

I’m Not Drunk, I’m Big-Boned.

 

I want to erase everything I’ve ever written and go rent videos but I can’t because I don’t know what videos to rent.

I am letting myself feel detached right now.

I am always trying to sabotage my own work.

I want to end this, but I haven’t said anything tangible about myself yet.

Okay here is my phone number 707-888-1744.

I write poetry because if I don’t I will have to think about serious things.

 

I used to run track but then I got boobs and couldn’t run because I was very busy buying bras and crying about stretch marks.

But now I have had boobs for eight years and I barely have time to think about them anymore.

Yes, do the math.

I am writing poetry right now so that I can pretend I don’t hear someone doing the dishes.

I used to clean the neighbor’s house for money and she had a vending machine in her garage.

I used to make a magazine about wildlife and I sold a subscription to my neighbor but I got tired of making it so I just cut up parts of Ranger Rick and pasted them onto folded printer paper.

Now I have boobs though. Things are different.

Are you really still doing the math about my boobs?

Maybe I’m laughing while I write this because I have no capacity to take anything seriously.

 

I like poetry because it feels like television. Good poetry feels good like television.

I think it’s really funny to call someone
the history channel
but I’ve used this joke a lot of times and no one has ever laughed.

No, I’m lying.

When I said no I meant yes and when I said lying I meant ovulating.

This is what I mean by poetry.

My mom is at her house waiting for this poem to earn me some money.

We love each other because we look like each other.

I never take myself seriously because I’m not boring enough.

But I am boring enough to sit at a computer for hours typing out explanations of myself.

I should measure my heartbeat or something.

Even on Christmas I try to be in a text message conversation at all times.

 

Christmas trees can be enjoyed for about one day and after that it feels like someone is on their way over to cross their hands over their crossed knees and look at you expecting answers.

One day I will be a supportive friend but for now I’m still playing with the poetry refrigerator magnets.

Alone please, and yes I’ve heard of exquisite corpse.

I’m making it seem like I don’t like my friends but I don’t like anything except photographs of orphans.

My mom wants me home for Christmas but I want it to be my idea.

I want everyone to read this poem and say
I bet her tits are real.