The Shit You Say

You say you’re washing dishes and serving drinks at a bar in the Southernmost part of Australia. You say you’re living in a camping trailer out back of the bar through a yard filled with dog shit and bones. You say it’s white trash off an island of Tasmania. You sound angry. You say you are like a small retarded child crossing a busy highway and that I must hold your hand. You say, Jesus. You say, Jesus, you really had me going for the past few years. You say I am not who I say I am. You say you wish you were a creative powerhouse too. You say you love me too. Once you said you loved me “so much” but you never say that anymore. That was a one time occasion that I remember with pathetic detail. You say you feel like you’re the tortoise and I’m the hare. You say: Be careful with your drugs. You say: You can’t write when you’re dead. You say you love me but that you have a lot of people. You say that you have a lot of love. You say if I ever have the inclination, I should print out all of our emails. You say when you read our old Gchats it makes you want to kiss Google. You say if I ever have the inclination, I should watch the movie Bob Le Flambeur. I promised myself I would stop talking to you but I say why. You say the lead girl reminds you of me. I say why. Irreverent, you say. You look like her, you say. (You’ve always called me irreverent. You’ve branded me irreverent. In my mind you invented irreverent.) You say if I ever have the inclination, I should listen to the song, Mountain Bed by Wilco. You say you love it. You say it’s beautiful. You say it’s heartbreaking and I listen to it and I agree.

You say you used to feel like you were with a wizened spiritual monk. You say you have now returned to that monk’s hut, only to find the monk sitting in his underwear, smoking cigarettes and laughing his ass off while watching Frasier. You say the monk is me. I tell you I’ve never been a monk and that I have no idea what you’re talking about. You say you can’t figure out why you’re so gullible when it comes to me. You say it is very difficult not to respond to me. You say it’s nearly impossible. You say I quickly become hurtful and mean. You say my feelings always change. They always do, you say. Re-send that email when you’re not so manic, you say. Re-send that email when your feelings have changed. You say I dramatize people. You say I afford them qualities that they may or may not possess. You say I need to decide if I want you in my life or not. You need to decide! you yell, addressing me with my first name. You say that you don’t know if it is a generational thing or what but that you are NOT ALWAYS PAYING ATTENTION TO YOUR FUCKING PHONE. You say yes, you are coming back to New York. You say maybe you will start sending me 6,000 emails a day the way I do to you. You say I’ve had a million phones since you’ve met me. You say that you can’t help but feel that muses are real and that I am yours. You say you don’t want to be left behind. You say that most people in the world are sheep but you don’t think I am. You say you feel lost and lazy and self-absorbed and groping. You say you would never live with me because you would go crazy. You say you know what it’s like to have leftover love. You say you hope that I don’t give up on you completely. You say we’ve got something special between us and that we both know it. You say you think we will have joyous times again. You say you truly think so. You say that no one says I have to show my mom every single thing I write. You say if we shared a desk we’d alternate fucking and arguing across it. You say you have highs and lows. You say you’re sorry that you’re so up and down. You say it seems like I am plugged into everything I am around. You say the energy sky-rockets when I enter a room. You say it’s like we absorb one another. Then you say you don’t know what you mean by that. You say will you shut up for one second. You say you don’t remember what you were saying. You say you can’t even hear your own brain. You say my eyes are blue even though I tell you they’re green. You say you will put your dick in my armpit next time we have sex. I say what would be the point of that and you laugh and say, because it would be weird. You said once, that a woman’s body changes three times in her lifetime. We were in the bed we called The Tent Bed when you said that and it was winter. My body was changing. My breasts were fluctuating. Months later in another bed, I bring that up to you and ask you to elaborate. You exhale your weed, giggle, and say,“What? I said that?” You shake your head and you say, “Maaaaaaaaaaaaan. Jesus Christ. The shit I say.”

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