Dear Cigarette Burn Girl,
Are there places in you like a beehive that throb and buzz?
I can feel the insects trying to escape me
Like a horse trying to swim
My heart twists like an oreo
Are there places in you like a pair of lungs that shrink and expand?
I can feel my breath trying to escape me
Like a turtle trying to flip
My heart sinks like a bathtub toy
Are there places in you like a robot that jerk and twitch?
I can feel the ghost trying to enter me
Like pushing a stroller up a hill
My heart breaks like a kit-kat bar
Are there places in you that hurt like a small funeral?
I can feel my love trying to scream out
Like a baby falling out of its crib
My heart tears like a piece of aluminum foil
Where are you?
Love,
Olivia
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Author
I made my way over to Ovarian Mountain in my coughing car with few miles left, headed to the author's house. The roads around the base were thick from the oil spill. I sped up to avoid some baby ducklings and pulled up to a stoplight only to see Shelly Vonavier's navy blue Hameroo in my rearview mirror. I slammed on the breaks and immediately got out of the car. I suppose at the time I wanted to start something with this bitch. Her stupid car, her sunglasses, her fucking book. Part of me wanted to photograph her for Bitch Century Magazine. The other part wanted to say, "So I'll meet you at your house then?"
By the time we got to the house it was dark. She served up microwaved curry meatloaf and pink wine. I toasted: to the inevitable gloom that is our nights. And so we heard the blizzard roaring outside and the smoke from my Hopscotches made a cozy nest beside my head as we feathered out the rest of the evening, saying one thing, meaning the other.
Finally, it was time to ask her: Did you ever sign an autograph for a man named Victor Vandido? And who can forget a name like that.
"I vaguely remember him. He had eyes like an abused coyote and his favorite number was six. He showed up with a large plastic man with shrunken elephant ears and a little pink round fellow about three weeks ago."
By the time we got to the house it was dark. She served up microwaved curry meatloaf and pink wine. I toasted: to the inevitable gloom that is our nights. And so we heard the blizzard roaring outside and the smoke from my Hopscotches made a cozy nest beside my head as we feathered out the rest of the evening, saying one thing, meaning the other.
Finally, it was time to ask her: Did you ever sign an autograph for a man named Victor Vandido? And who can forget a name like that.
"I vaguely remember him. He had eyes like an abused coyote and his favorite number was six. He showed up with a large plastic man with shrunken elephant ears and a little pink round fellow about three weeks ago."
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