inarticulate.

hey.

that's what we are. just "hey."

and with a "hey," i take your hand, and you and i become us.

it's simple, really.

your heart is my home,

the home i don't want to leave when i grow up and go to college.

i am sorry.

i am sorry for letting you fall in love with me.

but when you first held me in your arms,

i wanted to cry because it felt too right,

and i wasn't ready for that.

why is it so impossible to say the words to your face?

we say we know it, we say we don't need to say it,

we say that every smile and action expresses it more eloquently than words do,

implicit and understood, i'm willing to throw my faith in that

but maybe, just maybe, we have to know we mean it before the words pass our lips.

you deserve so much more than hesitant footsteps and the quietude

of a girl you'll never quite feel like you will truly know,

only because i can never articulate my thoughts when i try.

i want to tell you i love you,

i want to tell you i do, i do, i do

but every time i start to think it,

a voice in my head mutters that i don't know what the fuck love is.

it's true and yet

what i do know is that i can't imagine it with anyone else.

you know that i love you, i do, i do, i do,

if i can speak the truth.

Espresso Stories, 5/29/11

All he really wanted was to be free to die in the arms of the man he loved.


She was sure that salad would fill the voids in a way that ice cream never had.


She never really understood the concept of rings; she figured that if you wanted to make something yours you just had to pee on it.


Nobody ever woke up and said, "You know what would make the world better? Helicopters." They're just the platypus of industrialism.


Why did Pinocchio want to be a real boy so badly? I know for a fact being a real girl isn't all it's cracked up to be.


He slipped notes filled with ideas between the cracks in the sopha, hoping that someday people would find them while watching the mind numbing tv.


he wanted to graduate from high school with style. so he wore a morphsuit.


even though i don't question it's true, i never understood why people enjoy kissing so much. what's the evolutionary logic behind humans putting their mouths together as part of courtship?


"Well, the woman wears white, and the man wears black, and then they exchange bits of gold in front of a man in a robe." "What a strange mating ritual. I'm glad our species is more sensible."


Nothing. is more romantic than exchanging potentially deadly bacteria under a full moon.


sometimes, when angst isn't enough to get you notcied, y'just gotta get happy.


In the end, we're just two people trapped together on a desert island. We can work together, we can ignore each other and fend for ourselves, but we're each other's fates, for better or for worse.


he had to wonder what had become of the world when the seven-year-old girl quipped a "that's what she said" joke.


Bi lesson #1: Never tell the boy you're with that he reminds you of your ex girlfriend. 


She would hold his hand. Just for now. Just until he needed her to let go. Just until she could make it on her own.


--Christie, Patti, and Julie

Espresso Stories, Special Edition: Lady Gaga

Mark wrote up a bunch of Espresso Stories based off Lady Gaga's new album Born This Way... here they are! 


--Patti


Premier Moon gives me more hope than Junkie Sun – why would anyone marry the night?

When Lady GaGa wrote her song – she didn’t ask whether I wanted to be born this way.

I love when the best of the best are more corrupt than the worst of the worst. 

Where would we be without Judas? Without the completion of the prophecy of life. Where would we be without Jesus? We’d have made our own prophecy.

She doesn’t speak our language, only our actions. Let’s kill her.

And as he drew a slanting cut across his hair with those ever-sharp scissors, he couldn’t help but wonder why he felt compelled to do so.

You know you’re the shit when marijuana isn’t good enough.

Remember the day when dancing was only okay when your penis wasn’t grinding against my butthole? I don’t.

And as they walked on stage, he would only watch. ‘We’re here to honor the best of the best’. Forever he would think long and hard about why the bad kids got no recognition.

‘That wasn’t the answer I was expecting.’ Love still lingered in the air, twisting threads in her hair. ‘Sorry.’

I want a man who likes heavy metal and hot chicks. The most masculine are always the gayest.

‘Let’s get married in a rock n’ roll chapel.’ ‘why?’ ‘So god’ll never steal you from me.’

Relationship Status: it’s complicated. I can just imagine you saying it over and over and over. ‘you and I you and I you and I’. two words never to be conjoined. 

I’m on the edge, and you better be worth falling for.


--Mark

Eternity

It's twelve to midnight
And we're looking at the stars
Trying to make sure they aren't quite so far
That we wouldn't be able to reach them
If we really tried

And you're right by my side
Holding my hand
and I wonder if you see pin up girls on the moon
The way I sometimes see gay men in the stars
Because I always wonder where they are

We're best friends most of the time
Except for when the full moon
Pops its big head into our darkness
and then we're lovers
Embraced under our egos

But right now it's a crescent moon
So little light shining down
That I figure your pupils must be as dilated as a womb
About to give light to a new life
Somewhere in the world

No darling
I don't know what your looking for
And I know you don't know how my mind is reeling right now
But it doesn't matter
I like sitting here

Searching for your balmy palms
With my nervous fingers
and just pretending
That this is the definition of
Forever.

Disciple.

oh, when I see you together.
sickens me to my damn stomach.
all I want is a little privacy,
so why can't you want the same?

and now your damn charm's hitting me too.
is it too much to ask to be alone and happy?
your silly, ignorant, beautiful face.
stumble back on out of this town boy.

your stupid tight american smile,
laugh at something else boy.
we all know how you get around,
and it sure as hell ain't by car.

I pity you child.
isn't it funny how you have double the 'friends',
but I have quadruple the appreciation?
learn to live a proper lie, boy.

if only I was as enthralled as everyone else.
I could make the choice for you.
sure, I'll join your clique.
but take it upon yourself for once in your
easy, ignorant, heavenly life.

because without the lone betrayer,
the ultimate prophecy of life would be incomplete.

long time no see.

"hey, look who's here!" even though i'm always here at this time of the day, he appears surprised to see me as he strolls into the room with her by his side.

i glance up, return to the papers in my lap, make a noncommital noise. "hey."

"how are you doing?" he sits down a couple feet away from me, upbeat and casual; she makes herself comfortable on his other side. "i feel like i haven't seen you around much anymore and it's been a really long time. i dunno why."

well excuse me, i don't know either. maybe it's because ever since you met her, you've followed her around all the time just to see more of her smiles and hear more of her sugar-spun dreams, and neither of you bothers to include me in your plans anymore. it looks like the time we spent together no longer matters. somewhat disappointing, of course, but it upsets me less than the almost genuine tone of bafflement in your voice. you chose your company, after all.

"yeah, i guess."

for a while, you listen to her audacious rambles about college and the indie fad and other significant things in life, and when she leaves, you trail behind her. the six seconds that it takes for both of you to complete your egression stretches uncomfortably long, but finally i am left in the room the same way i was before you came: alone and at peace.

Espresso Stories, 22 May 2011

Ironically enough, all the hipsters were, at heart, just people who cared about things too much.

"You guys! Having fun is so mainstream!" But we were too indie to care.

in the end, nobody knew her by name. in the end, the only name by which she was known was "hitler's sister".

"This isn't solitaire! It's a company-wide, competitive solitaire tournament! You know, to boost morale!" "...You're still fired."

Every cloud has a silver lining; every star will burn you alive.

In all honesty, she just couldn't understand why an aching nipple made the flowers look so gorgeous.

Happy people are pacifists. Just ask them politicians.

Life is like solitaire: you never know when your game's gonna end, so why the hell are you spending it playing solitaire?

The last smudge of red rouge was smothered against her blue skin. Against the walls of her coffin, all she wanted to scream was that she'd always hated purple.

It doesn't matter how many layers of clothes I have on, I will always feel naked around you.

How could a number like 95 make her feel so young?

baking chocolate cookies couldn't change the world. but she still did it. both baking chocolate cookies and saving the world, that is.

he was known to use many a colorful string of curses, but this was a full-blown double rainbow of profanity.

‎'we're defining our generation,' she breathed, swallowing that last hint of smoke, as if every gem of cigarette was a raid against the universe.

--Patti, Christie, Julie, and lynn 

Templates.

You'll always be doing everything to get over her
Write poem
Do drugs
Go to school
Study
Walk
Talk
Kiss
Write a play
Bite a human.

Everything
Just to get over her.

Because you keep telling yourself that it's life
You move on with it
When something dies you don't die with it

And you won't
Hon.
You're not gonna die with her.

You're gonna live for her.

And that'll just be the trend
You're going to do everything
Just hoping
That she might look at you
And either die of jealousy
Or fall helplessly back into your arms.

You'll go far far far far far in life
A thousand miles away from Jello shots
And teddy bears.

But she'll always be right behind you
Right in front of you
Your fingers resting on her hips
Pulling her closer
Your breath on her ear
You'll be whispering I love you
And saying you hate her


And that's all that will ever motivate you.

The New Girl.

tell me things even though you don't mean them.
walk me through everything you love about me.
write me a poem about how much you care.
watch me see the world through my own eyes.

have me preach for double standards.
buy me the newest and latest and best.
paint me pink and the town red.
love me like I've never been loved on before.

spoil me like I'll die tomorrow.
lead me to the ball in style.
treat me like I'm your one and only princess.
lend me your cash and I'll close off my ear.

bathe me in the gold and silver of your troubles.
caress me when they turn the cold shoulder.
look me in the eye as the other boys pass.
bring me anything I ever desire.

for what more could a girl want?

injury.

when he walked into the room, she was still rubbing her hand, trying to ease the throb. although she was half-joking, an irate undertone sharpened her voice.

"dude, you have to stop doing that to me--ow, that hurts! seriously, before i need to get a restraining order against you." she massaged the back part of her hand, right beneath the knuckles where he'd accidentally elbowed her.

his eyes were wide. "well, you were the one attacking me."

"well, you touched me first. stop touching me. it's not okay." she paused her rubbing to gesture accusingly towards him, her voice rising with her temper to caustic levels. "seriously, i mean it. stop doing that. don't touch me without my consen--"

"okay, okay."

there was pain in his voice as he interrupted to cede, eager for the cessation of her bitter monologue. sighing, they sat down, facing opposite walls. his focus turned to the floor; she examined the tiny, pale bruise blossoming on her flushed hand. it wasn't his fault, not really. he'd done it all in jest, the way they'd shared jokes and friendly nudges years ago. no, it was she who had petrified her sunlit feelings for him into cold obsidian, thin, brittle, and quick to shatter under pressure. broken by the fervor of her anger, she stared vacantly at her fists, silent. she was biting her pride, but she couldn't swallow enough of it to admit her remorse.

Espresso Stories, 15 May 2011

Better than swag? Yes. Much better than swag.

someday we're all going to let someone else take care of our problems, and even if the world collapses, no one's going to do a thing.

He brought the knife down to end it all, not yet realizing that "it" was only just beginning.

You know what I love about the 21st century? The fact that a 1% minority of a third world, extremely macho country can demand the right to be human and get it. unanimously.

‎"SHE. STARTED. IT." "And you continued it."

She logged off her facebook for the last time; and only hoped that people would never notice the only picture she deleted.

"This... this is my first time." "Drinking?" "No. Having friends."

Quietly, he placed the rose on the ground next to her name. Out of everything everlasting, true love was the most ephemeral one he ever knew.

"What's ephemeral mean?" "It means you're gonna die."

It was such a small coffin. Such a small coffin. Meant to hold just a baby. One little baby to take up the space of one small coffin. But somehow his mother managed to bury her heart in the same small box.

"Love doesn't go bad, does it?" "Only if it's not refrigerated"

She couldn't compare him to anything else she'd ever seen. He just didn't bother trying to compare her.

The butterflies may get smaller, but they'll never fly away.

Life is most worth living when it's lived on the edge of death. She smiled and put the gun down, letting the bullet sleep another day.

She had waited so long to kiss him...and that was the moment she finally realized she was a lesbian.

The mother sits in the chair patterned with floral to watch the broken shambles of her family fall down the stairs every morning with her cup of earl gray tea.

You know why theatre people are so liberal? It's because they've walked ten miles in everyone's shoes.

Life has given me lemons so long that I'm not quite sure what to do with the oranges.

As he drunk-en-ly spun around the room, he grabbed onto his chest as the alcohol burned through his pipes.
He then came to the realization that he had really, really, /really/, nice tits.
for a flat-chested dude, or course.

"Children, remember this if you remember anything you learned at this school: 'It bit me' is never a good excuse for anything."

sitting on the rooftop, the wind tousling her hair, she was free, finally free, and she couldn't imagine living another moment any other way. so she didn't.

Drinking gave her superpowers; she could fastforward through entire days if she wanted to.

french silk pie was the escape, until of course it showed up in the mirror.

taking a drag, pulling it back. being one of the cool kids at last. hopefully the cancer would strike her before her ego would.

Why do we cry" "to get stuff out of our eyes." "how bout when we're sad?" "to get stuff out of our heart"

Someday you'll be forced to grow up into a nice, respectable whore.

‎"you remind me of honey nut cheerios"
"what?"
"honey, you're a nut."

He was a pimp. Using his words as whores. And all the stupid little girls payed them back with sex.

The world was closing in on me, and yet I kept repeating: I am more alive than dead. I am more alive than dead.

as the coughs destroyed the silence, her body curved inside itself, and for a split second she couldn't breathe between coughs, she swore her lungs were frozen and it was the longest second she's ever suffered through.
but then the next cough went tumbling out and she could breathe again.

"Honey, that dream was a limited time offer. You should've read the fine print before you signed up."

he really figured he shouldn't have asked his hemophobic sister for a band-aid when he got that paper cut.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH OH MY GOD INJURY AHHHHHHH."

--Patti, Christie, Julie, lynn, and Mark

Oh baby baby

I'm just another girl
Just another pair of lips
Just another night.

I get it.
I get it.
I really do.
But I wish I didn't.

I wish that I could fall into the traps of your words
And believe
That maybe
For once
I am an "only" and "first" a "special unique pretty different"
Kind of girl.

I wish.

But baby you're a writer
And you've invented and experienced more things than I can even bare to imagine.

Honey, I'd love this night to be reivented a thousand times over
For us to be able to have a agonizingly wonderful time more than
Just. This. Once.

But I get it
You're a writer.
And I'm just another story.

Just another character in the book.
In the play.

Baby.
I'm a fucking actress.


I can(t) deal with it.

Travis.

he was canadian.
he was short.
he was 15.
he had long hair.
he had gray skin.
he had shiny clear eyes.
he made me laugh.
he made me smile.

and we were
so.
close.

those 10 minutes were the most valuable of my life.
that changing moment.
where I altered my perception towards everything.
and it could have been
it could have been great.

but the glass shattered.
the illusion ripped off the wall.

and perhaps in a day,
a week,
maybe a month.

you won't remember me.

but I will always remember you.
because of what you mean to me.

love doesn't take a lifetime.
love happens in seconds.
in snaps.

I've never felt like this before.
and I never will again.

perhaps we'll meet again.
somewhere between toronto and naperville.
but probably not.

the media plagues us with the assumption that love is this stretched out story of passion and devotion.
where really it could be two people talking about a cardigan.

I can safely say,
for the first time in my life,
that I was in love.
and then,
it failed.
'technical error'.

home.

i am sitting in my house

but i am not at home.

home is where i feel accepted.

home is where trust abounds, radiant and secure.

at home, i can smile and share my thoughts

and people will understand.

what is this residence in these pretty chicagoan suburbs?

this is where i sleep at night.

this is where my blood family lives.

but this is not my home.

here i am aloof from the other strangers that inhabit this space.

they fortify their walls against my protests and encroach on my own.

they slam and coerce and decimate my one corner of comfort

so the only warm, safe sancutaries are miles and walls too far

and i am left to cry standing on the threshold to nowhere.

this is not home.

i don't know what is anymore.

Espresso Stories, 8 May 2011

"Mommy, why do we have rainbows?" "Because, honey, even God makes promises he can't keep."

He looked like a bad ass Jesus; and she was crazy to nail him.

Everyone brought an item that represented their youth. Among the teddy bears and dolls; the toy soldiers and ballet slippers; the crayon boxes and VHS tapes an empty whiskey bottle stood tall-- threateing to bring back the memories.

___________________________<---sometimes we just don't have anything to say.

She wished she could be on the plane, among those sleepy people from somewhere else; instead she was stuck on the runway, just one sleepy person from here.

she peeled the final label from the sheet of plastic and wrote in black sharpie. "Gay". she plastered it to herself on top of Thin, Lonely, and Karen. 

he knelt, feigned the everlasting cross over his chest, and waited for Him to reap His subjects. 

I'd hate to be the one to tell my child that there weren't no pretty flowers to look at no more. that the bees were gone.

i wanted for us to be alone together, but now that we're together, i've never felt so alone.

"Mommy, I brought you some flowers!" "Those are weeds, honey." The little girl threw the dandelions back into the grass. "They look like flowers to me."

--Julie, Mark, Christie, and Patti

Pull the Trigger

What would it be like

to be the man who killed Osama?
What would it be like

to press the button,

to give the order,

to pull the trigger?

What would it be like

to see the people in the streets crying

Hugging each other

Waving their flags

Cheering the death of an old, unarmed man?

No, not a man--

A monster.

He killed so many

evaded us for so long

damn straight we're cheering.

But still a man

still a man with a long, long beard

and a wife who charged at the troops as they knocked down the door

maybe a heartless man,

maybe an evil man,

but still a human one.

They say that on firing squads

one gun is always loaded with blanks and mixed in with the rest

so that each member can pretend to himself that his gun was the blank one--

that he didn't kill that criminal.

Nobody wants to take a life, not even an evil one.

How many lives, I wonder,

does it take to cancel out one?

How many people does a man have to kill

before we have the right to kill him in return?

How many people before we can celebrate instead of mourn?

One million? Six million? Ten? 

How many lives until we can congratulate a murderer?

How many until it isn't murder any more?

And what about that brave, unlucky soldier

did he know the answer?

Did he wonder right from wrong as the bullet left the gun?

What did he wonder

I wonder

the man who pulled the trigger--

the man who killed Osama?

--Patti

Opposite inversed reciprical

She was dying
She was dying
Right there
In front of me
At this moment
Everyone knew she was going
Leaving
Forever
And
Ever
And.
Ever.

She was dying
But I could only think of myself
Think about how I would go on with out her
Think about what I would say at her funeral
Think about how long it would take until I could pick up the mess she left behind
Think about all the times I felt angry, confused, abandoned, sad, crazy, crazy, crazy because of her
Think about how many times she wronged me hurt me inhibited me
Think about my outrage my angst my disgust
Think about everything I had put up with
Think about all the things I tried to do
Think about the lack of  "thank you"s, "I love you"s, "I need you"s
Think about what I want to say right now

As her breathing movements become unsteady, whispy, farther apart
I don't think about her for a minute
The patience, the sacrifice, the love, the hard work
The times I've wronged her hurt her inhibited her

I only see myself as I whisper final words into the ears of the one who birthed me
"You're welcome"

Turn It Up.

the puddles of main street.
gray patches of precipitation splattered on the dull excuse for a road.
the pathway to a different dimension.
drifting towards the sidewalk on which she walked.

her pink boots bright.
umbrella raised high.
shock of blonde hair straightened to her elbows.
her eyes a pair of stars.

speakers pushed into her ears.
with each footstep the music seemed to grow louder.
and she began to sing,
with that soft, sweet, sickly voice.

"You don't say anything,"
she plodded merrily along the street.
a man passed by her.
the stench of urine wafted into her nostrils.

"You're talking but you don't say anything."
some mud splashed against her boots.
the umbrella being pelted constantly.
busy stores, empty minds.

"You don't do anything,"
she giggled to herself.
people stared as she ducked behind a parked taxi.
her head facing the ground, strands of hair touching the wet surface.

"You're moving but you don't do anything!"
she screamed.
her umbrella would hit the truck first.
and her body would follow.

so turn it up.

stories.

"whose idea was it, i wonder, that stories can never be real life?" -patricia wallinga

but of course they can be, somebody else says. that's why people write autobiographies and semi-autobiographies and fictionalized versions of their-

wait.

why does the truth have to be fictionalized?

i mean, it's the truth; the truth is always there,

even when it's dressed in different clothes.

the blood and the feeling and the colors are still there underneath,

dynamic and pale and flushed full of all the rolling colors of humanity.

but most people aren't comfortable seeing the truth dressed in our own garments

and i don't really understand why.

maybe because it's too difficult to perceive ourselves outside our own bodies,

and expressing our own truths in words is one way to place our insides

outside of ourselves

and most of us feel naked and insecure

and then other people look at the nudes and call it artistic

they like the realism

they like the truth because truth is beautiful

and it's easy for them to quietly feel the pathos, feel the connection

because they're not the ones who cut out their godforsaken hearts bits and molecules and vessels at a time to arrange for public display

hoping to be understood.

the jarred, uncomfortable details of experience are specific to the individual,

never to be fully shared.

others can imagine, form refabrications in the mind

and to them, anyone else's clothing but their own is enough

enough "falsehood" to cover the truly intimate parts,

the possibly painful areas,

the places that couldn't be seen even if somebody tried.

so i guess stories can be real,

but only our own.

Espresso Stories, 5/1/11

The product of our last three weeks. Enjoy!


Through the torture of the crowds, she still believed peeing in that 0,50 euro stall was life-changing. 


It's like I'm a shark, and you're the reason I can't stop moving. It'd be easier without you, but I wouldn't be who I am.


Melanie had never learned how to mend a heart, but she knew fifty different ways to break a window. For now, this was enough.


with every step she took her mind screamed 'fuck it fuck it fuck it' but she couldn't help but imagine that gorgeous climax.


And as spring blossomed into summer drifted into autumn solidified into winter melted into spring once again, she pondered how long all of it took and how short-lived it was anyway.


The red plastic cup that once held chocolate milk and now held beer fell off the table as she watched the boy dive for the pool cue and crash into the floor. She wondered if, maybe, they had had more fun back then.


it was only when his chocolate-coated drops of hair smashed against the window that she wondered if there was something wrong.


She wasn't sure if it was the chocolate or the milk that tasted funny, but for some reason the hot cocoa in her current country was different than the one back home. Three sips in an she realized- there were no mini marshmellows.


her biology teacher said that people ate chocolate as an attempt to compensate for low endorphin levels. what her teacher didn't know was that her brain chemistry was too far beyond the reaches of chocolate to save.


as she curved her body into the crevice of the discarded tree trunk, the wisps of coiled seductively around the incline of her neck and highlighted her ashen-gray face with the haunting melody of something lost.


like a thrash of theives they marched in their black-outlined-red coats and together they banded together even though one by one they fell to the cold.


as eyes met eyes and he noticed those stone tracks of tears down his face, and the ghosted-expressions hidden by the foot of the bed, he knew that one of them wouldn't be coming back any time soon.


The world is full of ghosts, you see. Most people just like to call them memories nowadays.


"Momma, how do they make the cheese slices the same size?" "The same way you make dreams, dear. By machine."


"You're a big girl now; you can handle sleeping with the lights off." "I know, mom, but what if the monsters are still scared of the dark?"


In the end it was just a rock engraved in metal; in the end it was just another abandoned dream; but in the beginning it was a marriage.


Have you ever noticed how much worse things sound when they have forever tagged to the end? We'll be friends...forever; it'll be peaceful...forever; she's dead...forever.


Whose idea was it, I wonder, that stories can never be real life?


‎"And this is the button you press in case anything ever seems important." "But what if it nothing ever does?" "Then welcome to sales."


one day, your child will tug at your elbow and ask you how babies are made, and you'll say that a computer took mommy and daddy's genes and mixed them together perfectly and out came your baby, and it will all be true.


‎"ba-dum-kshh," sang the percussionist, right on cue. but this time, nothing was funny anymore.


the only things he broke better than jawbones were promises.


it started with a clumsy pinky-promise and ended with a slender wedding band. oh, how times have changed.


‎"He proposed on the swingset." "Aww, back in kindergarten?" "No, just last Saturday."


It was sad but it was true; his hand was the only woman that had never left him.


And as he walked down the wide-open tunnel he realized that he had smoked all his tomorrows and left only the used wrappers of yesterdays still faint from the leaves' burnt perfume.


‎"I don't think you understand, honey," he said laughing into his coffee at my wide-eyed confusion. "We're writers. We write our way into the grave."


"What does a mirror look like when there's nothing reflected on it?" "I'm not sure. What does a human look like when there's nothing reflected on it?"


It remembered everything that had ever happened. Quite clearly, in fact. But when it laid down to rest it all happened again.


"These statues in the rain always make me sad," she said. "I just want to take them inside and sit them by the fire." "Well," he answered, throwing his jacket over the shoulders of the abstract bronze man, "why can't we?"


--Julie, Patti, Christie, and Lynn