Walking

When I need them, they need me, and I find them and walk. And they are jumping, pawing, playful, patient. And we go on our way. Into the sun, we are smiling, And I feel light of wing, walking with my friends.

And with my brother. Me and my brother. We walk. A racing, knowing ballet, organic and one. A cock of the head and we fly to one side and jog and skip and step. Making sure the other doesn’t stumble. And we are shouting, screaming, laughing. Walking with my brother.

And walking with you, my love. You wander ahead and I watch you, grinning. And my stomach, it tickles, and I blink it away. Walking to nowhere or sometimes just standing. I hold you. Your hand. And we walk. And I need no reassurance. Than to walk by your side.

And those that aren’t here. Or once were. Still are. I walk with them. All who taught me to walk. And they are in each potent motion. And I’m living. Walking.

Nostos

Ce palais, il a des chambres, des grands halles, des personnages, des fenêtres cassés. Ce palais, il est le notre en fait. Ce palais est vieil avec des secrets, des escaliers cachés et laids et perdus dans les ombres.

Personne ne parle. Mais dehors, on chante. On partage ce palais seulement parce qu’on ne peut pas s’échapper. On dine et fête, tous ensemble, mais après on rentre chez son coin froid en doutant soi même et chacun là-dedans.

En tout cas, on est fier d’habiter chez nous, on se défend comme des nuages de tonnerre, on ne nous menace pas. Sauf nous mêmes, entre nous. Ce palais, c’est à nous sa destruction. Même la vieille tour au centre, elle ne brille plus, on ne lui chante plus.

Ce palais, il est le notre en fait. Et quel beau palais.

Snow White / La Blancanieve By Elena Atanasiu ( English Translation – Siobhan M.)

He worked with women of all ages. He would fix them up from head to toe. Tall, short, thin, and thick, when they left his salon, they looked like beauty queens. He would put makeup on them, fix their hair, and he would also choose the clothes that they would wear for this very special occasion. One day, she came, well, more like her parents brought her. She was a brunette with blue eyes, about fifteen years old. She was different from the others. Although she had a fresh scar that cut her check in half, he fell in love at first sight with her. Amor ad conspectum primum, as his medieval literature professor was prone to call this feeling. He started to fix her hair and didn’t put much makeup on her because he didn’t want to spoil her natural beauty and her skin that was whiter than snow. He picked out a pink dress and when he was finished, she looked like a princess. The girl wouldn’t stop looking at him. Although she didn’t say anything, he felt like those eyes desired him. He touched her check and kissed her. She didn’t resist his first kiss or the many others that followed. The peacefulness with which she gave him her body made him much more excited than with any other woman he had ever been with. He penetrated her over and over again very softly because he didn’t want her first time to be painful. When he came, he kissed her little pink lips, under the rose colored dress, and he stored her inside the freezer next to the other cadavers who were waiting to be buried the next day.

/

Trabajaba con mujeres de todas las edades. Las arreglaba de la cabeza a los pies. Altas, bajas, flacas y gorditas, cuando salían de su salón, parecían unas reinas de concurso de belleza. Las pintaba, les arreglaba el pelo y también elegía la ropa que se iban a poner en esta ocasión tan especial. Un día vino ella, o mejor dicho la trajeron los padres. Era morena con ojos claros, tenía más o menos quince años. Era diferente que las otras y aunque tenía una cicatriz fresca que partía su mejilla en dos, él se enamoró de ella a primera vista. Amor ad conspectum primum, como solía llamar a este sentimiento su profesor de literatura medieval. Empezó por arreglar su pelo y no le puso mucho maquillaje porque no quería estropear la belleza tan natural y la piel más blanca que la nieve. Eligió un vestido rosa y al fin la hizo parecer una princesa. La niña no paraba de mirarlo. Aunque no decía nada, él sentía que estos ojos lo deseaban. Tocó su mejilla y la besó. Ella no resistió su primer beso ni los muchos otros que seguían. La tranquilidad con la cual ella le entregaba su cuerpo, hacia que él se excitará como con ninguna otra. La penetró una y otra vez muy suavemente, porque no quiso que su primera experiencia fuera dolorosa. Cuando se vino, besó esos labiecitos rosados, bajó su vestido de color rosa y la metió dentro de la nevera junto a los otros cadáveres que esperaban su entierro al día siguiente.

Little One

 

 

 

 

 

Little One

While the rain fell outside

I heard God in your breathing,

wet, like the kiss of a snail,

tell me how lucky I am

and I woke with this little poem

 /

Poemita

Mientras la lluvia caía afuera

oí Dios en tu respirar,

mojado, como el beso del caracol,

me dijo cuanta suerte tenía

y me desperté con este poemita

 /

Le petit 

Pendant que la pluie tombait dehors

j’ai entendu Dieu dans ton respire,

“humide comme un baiser d’escargots,”

il m’a dit combien je suis chanceux

et je me suis réveillé avec ce petit poème

Starbucks Shenanigans

This shit is like my own personal version of The Never-Ending Story. Every morning that I have to work, I leave the house a few minutes early to grab a coffee from Starbucks. I leave at 7:35 to be to work by 8:00 sharp.

I go out of my way to go to the Starbucks south of my house because I can’t imagine trying to get in at the one on Virginia and California. For those of you that aren’t familiar with Reno, that Starbucks is right across the street from the Wild Orchid, a notorious, huge local strip club, there is hardly any parking, and there’s a new huge neon sign with boobs all over it just across the street. Needless to say, I can’t handle that shit in the morning.

I’m gonna go to Starbucks, though, I have loyalties. I’ve got the gold Starbucks card with my name printed on it that racks up points and gives me free shit. Now that’s commitment. So don’t get me wrong. I do like Starbucks. I just can’t seem to find a good Starbucks in Reno.

Now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I venture to say that every Starbucks employee in Reno is… retarded. They cannot function in a timely manner much less keep their goddam voices down so that I don’t have a heart attack at 7:42 in the morning from their crazy cup-throwing, name-shouting, pastry-doughnut-coffee cake bullshit. It is too early. Let me spell out a few typical scenarios that befall me all too often in this writhing mass of down-syndrome-infested bitches that I call my local Starbucks that fucks my shit up every morning.

Names on Cups

The following should be a perfect illustration as to why Starbucks employees should do away with writing names on cups and just stick to preparing coffee, which we all thought was their job to begin with, not making my morning miserable, and also why customers should fucking pay attention to what drink has been prepared and only take the one that they ordered.

Customer: Can I have a medium latte please?

Worker: Sure. What’s your name?

Customer: Rosario.

Worker: Turns half-way turns around, can’t figure out what the hell the customer has said, doesn’t write any name on the cup, looks up and says “That will be ready at the end of the bar.” and smiles. Cultureless c***s. Rosario got her coffee in the end anyway.

The Masquerading Whore

There is one woman who, bless her misguided, obnoxious soul, is just in my way in the mornings. She is always there with four men who I assume she “works” with who are all in their late fifties or early sixties. She’s probably in her early forties, is involved with some business, or at least thinks she’s a businesswoman, and attempts to dress to the nines every day. Every. Goddam. Day.

Why, just a couple of days ago, I opened the door to said Starbucks only to be greeted by the image of her stumbling toward me in a bright salmon colored mini-skirt, terribly long bangs, black nail polish, gold hoop bracelets, and SHINY NUDE COLORED PLATFORM HEELS. I say stumbling because she looked like she was walking a large dog that was dragging her forward. Her legs were buckling and bending every which way. I mean, I think it’s because no one ever taught her how to walk in shiny nude colored platform heels. I had to close my eyes.

And this bitch is LOUD! She wants you to know she’s there. As if we could miss her!

Oh, honey. If I wanted that in the morning, I’d be getting my coffee at the Wild Orchid.

The Workers

These workers. They try. They do.

Yesterday-

Worker: “I like you’re hair today!”

Me: “…………………………………. I know.”

Instead of even taking a single glance at my hair, why don’t we concentrate on getting my coffee order in less than eighteen minutes please. PLEASE.

Memo to All Bitches

If you are a teenager, in my way, ordering some fancy douche box drink in front of me in line so early in the morning that I can hardly drive straight… I will slap you. To quote Princess Peach, “Don’t do it. Just don’t do it.”

And the mother of them all, The Mispronunciation of the Word “Venti”

(I’m pretty sure this is an atrocity that happens all over the country, not just in the Biggest Little City…)

Now, I’m no linguist. I don’t speak any other languages. I have no experience with anything even remotely related to Italian. But, by the looks of the word “Venti,” I’d like to make an educated guess that it is by no means pronounced “Ventay.”

EX: “I’VE GOT A VENTAY CARAMEL FRAPPUCINO LIGHT WITH EXTRA CARAMEL AT THE BAR FOR LESLIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Couple things. Why are you screaming? No one is awake and we are all clearly waiting, trying as patiently as we can, for you to prepare our FUCKING coffee and we are all standing within three feet of you. Second. Why is some bitch ordering the largest size of the most fattening drink on the menu, adding extra caramel, and then making it “light?” God. Bless. America. Also, why are you including everyone’s name? She’s the only bitch that ordered the liquid hear attack. Lastly, WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING “VENTAY”?!?!?!?!

This goes for customers and Starbucks workers alike. Again, I’m no “barista,” but I think it’s pronounced “Ventee.” Hence, the “i.”

As someone recently clarified for me, it’s not actually pronounced “Ventee.” It’s pronounced “Vanna White.”

EX: I’d like an Iced Skinny Vanna White Soy Foam Mocha Strawberry Macchiato Double, bitch.

Any douche bag that doesn’t spend their time with their thumb in their asshole, which is actually most of Reno, knows that “vent” as a Romance word root implies the number twenty.

Compare the following: Spanish – veinte, French – vingt, Latin – viginti, Italian – venti

Venti. As in twenty ounces. Fuckers.

La máquina de aprender

Y ¿qué es el éxito? Y ¿quién puede decidir? Alguien dime ¿cuál es lo que empuja que uno salga bien o mal o siga teniendo tal éxito o tal desgracia? ¿Por qué los exámenes? No los logro. ¿Por qué es que ninguno de mis profesores no me enseñan nada? No me enseñan cuestionar la vida ni mi mismo ni cómo exegir más de mí ni más de la vida. ¿Cómo es que los únicos de quienes aprendo algo son los a quienes nadie presta atención? ¿Cómo es que un papel con unos símbolos dicta que uno sea inteligente o estúpido o entiende o falla o vive o muere?

¿Cómo es que hay niños de Asia o Centroamerica o Africa tejendo sandalias para un puto playo imperialista, para que la gente de su país puedan llevarlas unas seis semanas del año antes de botarlas, que vive en bohío y sólo tiene de comer a perritos callejeros, cuya familia acaba de morir todos de una pesta, quien ni podría soñar con concebir que hay gente miles de millas lejos gritándose y discutiéndose sobre estas letritas empresas en papelitos que se llama literatura o ciencia o hechos y quienes deciden quien puede supuestamente estudiar algo o cuan inteligentes sean las demás personas comparadas con otras o comparadas con ellos y quienes deciden supuestamente quién merece qué?

¿Qué significa merecer algo? Y no es justo. No es justo que a los estudiantes no les interesan nada hoy en día. No es justo que no gane más dinero. No es justo que mi hermana rompie la pierna. No es justo que esa puta salga de la casa con esos dientes con esa cara de sonrisa de mierda de mentiras de soluciones de no sé que. Y ¿qué mierda lleva de ropa? Lástima.

Y bueno. Voy a tener mi propio éxito. ¿Dónde mierda está esa tequila?

Unas historias verdaderas

¿Sabían que el 19 de marzo en el hotel de Harrah’s, Sandy Dee, a los 70 años, cantó su última canción como drag queen, salió del escenario, se cayó, y se falleció?

¿Sabían que una amiga de mi marido, una viejita en Japón, que lo ciudaba cuando tenía cáncer del estómago, está luchando para sobrevivir entre toda la desturcción del maremoto que destruyó su mundo?

Y bombardean en Libia. Y el ONU lo aprobó.

Y las tribus del Perú, supuestamente no descubiertas hasta recién, pierdan su selva.

Y aquí lloramos por un puto exam en esta máquina de “aprender.”

Y ¿quién es el desesperado?