thank you for calling

a women named debbie, with perpetual bad hair days somewhere in Oklahoma, where it has dropped from 105 to 75 degrees, helped me.

a lady named Mercedes, who had a particular accent and would trust me with her children, helped me.

and then there was Alan, a man who to say mumbled would be generous, did not.

transfer
transfer
transfer

ive given the same damn information to at least 16 different individuals. i feel as if im in the beginning stages of a language course.
6812
94124
5253
press pound (is pound the verb that activates it all) who's the subject, me or them?
124
44236
8734 9218 7342 9187
press pound
activate all over again
verify
verify
verify

Ive lost the reason for this call in the first place. but another twenty minutes on hold with bad electronic sym-phony music will clear my head and remind me in enough time to start the numeric conversation all over again
6985
94124
8734 9218 7342 9187
ill transfer you, are three little words i hear over and over again
i envision that i started at the top. called a man in the a corner office with a stellar view of a strip mall, abandoned warehouse and parking lot filled with SUVs, mini vans and one lone chartreuse beetle that belongs to the not gay-gay guy who works in IT.
with each transfer im dropped a floor of a 3 floored skyscraper somewhere in the plain states.

By the time I get to the basement Im hanging out with a lady 6 cups of coffee deep, who hasnt seen the sun in 5 years and has a husband who smokes reds and has a little problem no one talks about when at thanksgiving dinner, drunk he unknowingly knocks over a candle and sets fire to the candied yams and plastic tablecloth.
this women, named something to the effect of doris, elaine, betty or maybe lavendra, and i have more in common then id like to admit.
we both bake when stressed, smoke too many cigarettes on the sly from our family, and have a less than fulfilled sex life.
shes the last stop on the 87 minute phone conversation that will inevitably end up on a phone bill i wont be able to pay next month.
i give her all the same information i gave the last 23 people, shell perhaps take pity on me, type in my numbers, and since i cant go any deeper into the ground without asking to be transferred to a coffin company. she'll have to help.
deferred, forbeared, royally fucked, all words that hold no actual significance but mean that at least for the next two months i can breathe, cut back the booze bill, and save a little to start making payments again.

it all ends the same way, feigned chipper attitude, plastered smile and a false sense of hope, with 4 little words, "thank you for calling."

youll never love me. when i ask why

you look up and say youll never be in the sky

so inconsolable youll be when i grows a pair of wings

fly away and watch the sadness that it brings

man: i love you

women: stop

m: why? i love you

w: well i dont love you.

m. dont lie, it makes me sad

w. dont be condescending, it infuriates me.

m. im telling you i love you

w. and i am saying I. DO. NOT. LOVE. YOU.

m. i dont believe you. you know we only get one love in this life. just one. and there are only so many opportunites you get to recoginize it. and once thats windows closed its closed forever. and you know what your problem is, you think youll know it when it happens. youve thought so long about it that youve mapped every tiny detail. how itll happen, what youll say, what he'll say. the entire intrigue has played in front of your eyes a million times. you know how he walks, what makes him laugh untill he snorts, if he snores, the place on his back that makes him shiver, if hes a boot or sneaker man. youve thought youre great love to death, and the sad part is that hes never been born, except in the sad dreams that keep you up at night. youre wound so tightly around this image of what you think it should be like, you cant see whats right in front of your face

m. and its sad, but i still love you

w. fuck you

an old women and a young women sit on a bench

old lady: stop it will ya!

young lady: (confused) what?

old lady: just stop it ok?

young lady: im sorry i dont think i have any idea what youre -

old lady: really? you have no idea? hear lets try this on for size? STOP TRYING TO WRITE ME!!! youre never gonna know what ive been through till youve been through it, so just stop! stop trying to "tell my story" and "feel it" of whatever it is you "writers" try to do.

silence

if you can even call your self that

more silence

old lady: you may think youve been to hell but let me tell you little lady, youve never even felt the tips of flames. the horrors ive seen havent danced into your dreams at night, the air has been sucked out of my lungs the necks of everyone ive ever loved have been snapped in front of my tear stained cheeks so STOP!

they sit there, the old lady starts to cry and the young women has no idea what to do.

tea party

a small table is in the center of the stage with a very expensive tea set and all the fixings for a very civilized afternoon tea party.

2 kids, Max and Marjorie, sit at the table dressed in their mothers over sized clothes.

which include but not limited to

puffy dresses

floppy hats

pumps

clip on earrings

strings of pearls

(max is wearing large yellow plastic dish washing gloves)

* a note, no matter how vicious the dialogue seems it should be delivered with the appropriate amount of decorum and politeness for well bred folks 

Marjorie: Biscuit?

Max shakes his head no

marjorie: petit four?

Max shakes no again

Marjorie: You know when i invited you to tea this afternoon i thought we could have a decent conversation... you know that thing where one person asks a question and usually the other responds...no? - nothing huh? a breath, a pulse??? anything????

silence

Marjorie: oh fine

(in a nasty whisper)i dont know what i expected from someone like you

Marjorie: you know, i know what you do at night. (she looks side to side to see if anyone can hear her and in a hushed whisper) with your pee pee

pause

Marjorie: oh well! i think its disgusting. people like us do not do things like that, we go to academy, and wear ralph lauren. for god sakes you are a child model, ralph lauren child models just dont do things like that. i just--- (shes overwhelmed her self)

(regaining composure) well ive said my peace. I think its disgusting and demand you to stop.

Max starts to pull off the gloves, Marjorie Freaks out, all decorum is lost

Marjorie: WHAT?!?!?!?!?!? NOOOOoooOOOOO stop stop Stop STOP STooooooooPPPPPP!!!! you touch that tea pot you buy it! i know where those hands have been and if you thinking youre spreading any of that to me and my friends (she looks around as if the room is filled with many people) well you just think again

max stops, takes his cup and saucer, drinks from it, gargles it around his mouth, tips his head back and as if he was a whale lets it spray all over marjorie, her perfect tea set and the floor.

Marjorie: You revolt me.

(as the lights go down we see marjorie pull out a bottle of lysol and spray max's cup, and the rest of the table right down to the last plastic scone) 

what you need

released disappointment

yet i thought

pending an oceanic churn,

ecstatic

perverse

and rhythmic questions 

just drift.

raw materials

spilling

instead of melting

you who worked subtly

stumble indefinitely

without suspicions of

A dionysian future.

in art

the viewers

palpable unease

is inescapably tied to narratives

asking us to play along

but behold

masked patterns

emerge

and we are reborn

partly its pleasure

and partly it violence

tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick... tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

the next choice you make is yours and yours alone.
not gods or your mothers
or the man that stands on the corner of 16th stinking of pastrami, waving a sign in your face advertising humanity's collective doom while asking for a quarter and a smoke.

its you, standing in the darkness. everything else has ceased to exist.
if there were such a thing as days, you think to yourself, it would probably be a Tuesday. you can just feel it where your gut used to be.

but since all of that have disappeared, sucked into a vacuum thats still humming somewhere in space, you have nothing to rely on.

you look down to where your fingertips used to be, but now they've been replaced with tiny lights. you wiggle them and they dance, momentarily leaving streaks of light in the air. you try to write your name in the sky but realize you dont know what it is. you think really hard. something that identified you your whole life shouldnt be this hard to remember, but it is.

you give up and decide you'll rename yourself. that in death you'll finally be reborn. (and why not with a new a name) but everything your mind settles on doesnt work. nothing captures the grandness you feel. your soul is too big, your heart too full. youre brimming with ectasy and any old name wont do.

you decide it doesnt matter. that you'll answer to everything.
a call to arms
a call to love
a call to lavender.
youll rush to their side, a pillow for their desire. you'll weave honey-laddened tales for their children to sleep on and their lovers passions.

youll be everything all at once.

youre dead she said, lighting a cigarette

i know he replied

what does it feel like?

the sun burst into a million pieces of glass and each one landed on my skin

the ground was left untouched by these floating murderesses.

my cells invited them in

and they silently stalked until they found the object of their desire

one by one they bit my soul of out of my body

and it disappeared forever with the sun

and the world was left in darkness

my empty body wandered the barren shell of a planet

eating nothing but the carcasses of once live fish

and walnuts that had grown salty with decay

i aint no founding father, but you can call me momma

a woman sits on stage

she is wearing a wig, but not one of those white ones all the "founding fathers" wore

she can change wigs as many times as she wants, for she is every women, man and child and she can reflect this as she likes

on her table is a typewriter and a copy of the constitution

as she types she speaks what she writes

(what she is typing are all the necessary changes to the constitution to make All the people in this country actually free)

read this

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/magazine/25desire-t.html?pagewanted=1&_r=2&hp