[052] scraps
07/27/2009 04:06 p.m.
a communal puddle of piss, he shows her his teeth. after three hours of sleep on a
couch made for half of her, the window is open onto a busy street and trams drive down
it. in the next rooms live six or seven other people, not so much in straight lines or
rows, and one of them still rollerblades. yellow giant house with great big wreaths
and arcs in stucco and plaster, unused rooms in the backs of buildings on which
secretive guests sleep, extension cords, small computers, lights in great lines
rhythmic and bright and pulsing over and over above everyone's heads.

in the evening time four people shower together and scream and yell, the floor is
bright red and the walls patterned in hot colors, and drunkenness is extra because she
doesn't know the language -- babble babble babble. must find johannes, must talk, must
remember soviet cities left over ten years later that no one remembers except us, must
be creeped out by that guy from minnesota that insists that not everybody has weird
sexual experiences in their lives.

certain types of code define people as masochistic. if this is so complicated, why are
you doing it? configuration. scratching at the pads and soles of a twitching girl's
feet, tonight i am not ticklish. i have met you, you are infamous. you are known
across borders and seas -- try to understand why. don't. inflammable. who is this
little girl who came all the way over from russia for a boy from mid-new jersey, and
why did they land here?

women run around in tiny outfits and shine like gold. no excuse! i am not naked
enough. dressed like a kindergarten teacher because she is not from europe. over the
rainbow! and wet clothes stick to her like stray pieces and stain up the backs and
fronts of her skirts.

and teach her how to waltz or get out. and the sky is extra blue above these
countries. and the clouds tonight falls like layers of striated rock and crystals
built in tanks. and everyone knows the difference between a gargoyle and a grotesque.
in this day and age they've blocked up the gutters so who cares, who cares? because
the inside of the church is very pretty, but can you fuck it? and what is down the
chained off stairs no longer intrigues. still doing backbends still stretching past
her own feet. still flexible despite years of extra fat which have become looped about
one's ribs and innards and intertwined themselves in every story.

promises this to me. doesn't. and at least once everyone has to get stopped at the
border for police involvement and no one asks for identification anyway. card, please?
not now not now with pretty raised font and pretty sweet pictures on the backs and
fronts, i wish i could get online. unable to use the words i, me, my, mine or anything
else self-inflicted many people find themselves crippled. self-centeredness, achso.
people live better here, in the classier version of a touristic cousin, people speak
well and impress a need for greater knowledge, good good.

used to do yoga and write in odd poses. used to play assassin with each other, always
won. why? she doesn't have a guilty face and has only the slightest hint of a guilty
conscience. promises this to me! doesn't! and he doesn't even think of other girls
while she's away. and he says that he's so into her, especially when she's not
around. breathing fried noodles and chopped veggies in the mid-morning air.

this is the best wake up ever: staring out a window on a balcony in vienna, staring
down the street at people on scooters and bicycles, waiting for the trolley, as the
sun moves in and out of the clouds and cars i've never seen before consistently drive
by looking like little bugs.