Tim looked up at me from his glass of bordeaux, “How old is your son?” Three, I said. He mentioned his was ten, and that it goes by so fast. I agreed. I told him my son doesn’t like to brush his teeth. He said, “I practically have to hold him down so he’ll finish his homework.” I said I was the same way and Tim confessed the same. I asked how often he gets to see his child and he said it was a strange question, and how often do I get to see mine. I said, “Two days,” and that the child was not actually mine. Tim said, “Two days are better than no days.” I agreed, and admitted I have a hard time waking him up in the morning, and that sometimes I just scream. “Don’t scream at a fucking three year old,” he said. I began talking about preschool, but he finished his drink, got up and walked away.
In the cup that Claire Morgan was drinking out of was hot black coffee. On the outside of the cup it read WORLDS BEST MOM and Clarie could not stop thinking about whether the waiter chose the cup specifically for her. She was a regular. She knew her waiters name (Michael or Richard). Holding her egg and cheese croissant, the bacon twisted it’s way onto the outer portion of the sandwich, and taking her first bite—it fell. ‘He’s seen me in here with a couple guys,’ she thought—wiping her chin. ‘Is he making a joke of my promiscuity. Continue reading Claire Morgan And Her Damn Coffee Cup
Everyone in the park looks like a picture. This one has a bonnet, this one has a book. This one holds a ring, this one has a smoke. Another is staring into a tree, into the ground, into the sun. It’s all the same. It’s all the same to me.
I don’t have a job. I have a job interview, which is why I’m in a park in the first place. I’m not a park person. Park people usually carry guitars, walk around with their shirts off, have this fixed stare that says ‘I’ve suffered’ or ‘life hurt me,’ but if you look just a little closer you can tell the real ones from the fakes. The fakes need props (books, bonnets, cigarettes); something to distinguish themselves from the rest. The real one’s cover it up well. They look happy. Like you and me. Probably from years of practice. The fakes look like they practice, too. They probably work on it at home before they show up. There’s a guy, just like the one I’m talking about that’s been following me all day. Continue reading Park People
You may be wondering why you receive bottles without tops on them. Mostly water bottles (poland springs) sometimes gatorade bottles (lemon-lime, fruit punch); You’re their, working, recycling—in the thick of it. Maybe you’re suspended ten stories up—a mountain sized recycling bag on your left, a mountain sized recycling bag on your right. To the left go paper, to the right go plastic. Tossing, tossing—You’re on a roll! And Bam. Where is the top to this bottle? You stop recycling. It needs the top. How can someone not know this, you think as you look toward the sky—Who doesn’t know this! Who! Continue reading Recycling
Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.11th ed. 2009.
China is buying oil from Iran. Iran is using the money to buy plutonium; which alarms Israel—which alarms the United States. President Obama is planning to send his top aides to China [hopefully] convincing them not only of the dangers of Iran having nuclear capabilities but much worse—preventing an all out war between Israel and Iran—which got me thinking how bad of a turn this could take.
United States: Stop buying oil from Iran.
United States: If you don’t—Israel will go to war with Iran.
China: Then we will go to war with Israel.
United States: Then we will go to war with you.
Iran: Do we have a say in this?
Israel/China/United States: No.
So now a full scale war is imminent, Continue reading We Watch Through Glass