I don’t trust men
who don’t wear socks. Could
it be the hint of villainy
or my envy at not being
able to pull it off? Or
because the shamefill, shattered
part of me that so profusely
sweats through missteps and debts,
bedclothes and socks, wonders
where, exactly, they hide
their guilt?
Author: Jared
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Columbia House introduced me to Gerald Levert
in 1991, before methamphetamines replaced cassettetapes as the drug of choice for nice, Iowa boys.
I couldn’t say no to the nice lady on the phone,and to this day freeze in the face of the entire
service industry. Servers, cashiers, mechanics allwant to know where I want to do and suddenly I’m
that fox we passed on I-75 caught in a rictusof terrified indecision, knowing that things have
drastically changed, things are bigger, things arefaster, and I do not understand except that they
expect an answer, a crossing, at their convenience. -
The door isalready terriblyheavy,its PUSHbe-liesits PULL,intentionally poorlydesignedso that the effortequals my give andI have none tospare you,rushing toward theclosing gap,oranges tumbling fromyour bag.
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There’s something, I think, a flap
or flange on a plane that lets its
fuel tanks hold hands across the
wingspan of a particularly strenuous
crossing, and I think about that
flap whenever I make you laugh, or
when you order the Chinese take-out,
and I pick it up. -
Once you’ve squozen the recommended
allotment of shampoo relative to hair-girthinto your palm, be careful when letting go
the bottle for its pop-back-reset,or the mintfused molecules will panic and,
with eucalyptous hands, cling to eachother in a desperate, schlurpy retreat back
into the globuly hive, leaving only aninvigorating, sulfite-free residue in the air,
your hair plastered, and unwashed.Like the deep-cleansing morning I spent on the
front porch with my coffee and my dog andsuddenly remembered the day my mother changed
the locks on all the doors and my father,and I hadn’t even showered.