Highlander’s monologue (edited)

Highlander’s Monologue

Aghrrr, to have a powerful fist
punch this dumb mountain straight to his heart
So that he feels what it means to be weak
And squirm in agony like a wounded giant 

I, his bogeyman, a disturbed phantom
Heir apparent to suffering and endurance
Wander his belly with my ceaseless hunger
And the frustrated screeches of unapeased insticts 

The mountain stays dumb, even if every day
I rummage his back playing with death
Toiling for our meager daily bread
Deceived by hope, the cruelest of His jokes 

The mountain stays dumb and in dumbness laughs.
I am in pain, and in pain expire
What about me? Hey! When will I laugh?
Or must I first irrevocably die?

Aghrr to have that powerful fist
Punch the dumb mountain straight in his heart
See him squirm under my unlawful hit
And enjoy it immensely with a laughing cry

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I am sorry for the inconvenience mail to you.

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T H A N K Y O U
Take care
Pradip
India
)
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We like to party.

I decided to have a party the moment I set eyes on my new apartment. Roomy, with big windows, two bathrooms and (gasp) a balcony. And it is within walking distance to public transportation. I love it.
I do not know why, but while my mom and my sister see the apartment and think in terms of curtains and carpets, I think in terms of parties and how many drunk people I can fit on the pull-out sofa.
I love giving a good party, something where everybody’s shoes are off and the neighbors are knocking because of all the yells and laughter, and the pants are half-way down. I do not care very much about expensive wines and crystal all over the place, but the cups have to be full at all times, and the tongues and teeth have to be black. Not reddish, not slightly purple, but black.
So, tonight I had a party. A housewarming party to be exact. American style with no Napoleon or baclava. I invited cousins, I invited my old friends, I invited my new friends, my everyday friends and my work friends. So many friends, it felt like a wedding. But hey, not everybody comes right? In this case, wrong. Almost everybody came bearing gifts and smiles, old gossip and new gossip. My ex-crush was there with fiancee and ex-fiancee who was there with her fiancee. My friend, her brother, her boyfriend who hate each-other to death came (thankfully at different times) and behaved themselves. My cousins came with their crazy gossip and fake blood. My in-laws came and actually enjoyed themselves, as did I. And I had my token Americans and my wonderful but fleeting twins who better stay longer next time or I will make them talk to my dad.
To stop myself from looking like I normally look, I had my hair cut and blow-dried, and my mustache waxed. The Korean hairdresser charged me twenty dollars and took one hour to do my hair. He knew only three words in English “You want bang?”. Seeing my confusion, he mimicked cutting my bangs and then I understood he was not offering me the Korean Surprise Special, but a hairstyle. Of course I wanted no bang, just a plain haircut with a long V down the back, which I got and enjoyed all evening.
To stop my guests from being food poisoned, I had my sister cook and my mom fix the apartment. Another two bright ideas which ended in success. There was couscous cooked in chicken hearts and all kinds of fat and pork roast. See, we do believe that any dish, no matter how healthy has a great potential for becoming a heart attack. But it was excellent.
To keep them from becoming bored, I unleashed my dad. My dad is not like other people’s dads. He has very outlandish ideas that belong to him alone and no one else. He is the only man I know who is 60 and still cooler than me. He has this habit of arguing his point until he completely and totally obliterates your belief in your own argument. And the moment you agree with him, he starts arguing your point, leaving you confused and in need of aspirin. But it seems to work wonders with the men especially after bottles and bottles of wine and beer. They did not even need the music.
So the party was a success. And now I have the recipe for a success party:
1. Have a credit card.
2. Make your sister cook, your dad talk and your mom clean the dishes.
3. Have your brother-in-law (Angel in disguise) buy the drinks.
4. Do not let your Korean hairdresser give you bang.
5. Do not worry about the guests but about their empty glasses.
6. Enjoy your own party.
And start making plans for the next one.

thursday night

Sometimes it is good to get drunk. You get to revel in the drunken camaraderie of your drunken friends, your drunken boss does not yell at you, and your drunken and handsome male coworkers have a legitimate reason to rub your hair and plant a full lipped kiss on your cheek.
Let me tell you that sometimes that one cheek kiss with full lip in it sears hotter then a full tongue Frenchie with honey and chocolate. One such kiss brings back all the hottest and most awkward high school moments when other girls were learning how to slowly draw a pant zipper down and I was learning the location of my mouth.
There is plenty of shots on the table and plenty of fun around it. Our crew is mixed as all true New York office crews are and our skin color spectrum is only paralleled by our clothing spectrum. But we all drink the same. The trick is to know when to pass on a round of shots and to focus on the long road home. Not enough to obscure the enjoyment of the evening but enough to know that if you get shitfaced there will be no one to walk with you the weird long trip home over the bridge and that you will quite possibly find yourself in three pieces in some honest citizen’s freezer if you lose it tonight.
So the trick is to drink enough to enjoy the company around you and to feel they are the sexiest people alive and you all want them in your bed, but to retain enough sanity to know that you are drunk as a skunk and so is your radar and therefore sleeping with your married coworker will be a horrible idea in the morning especially if you are office mates and females and your she-boss is watching.
But hey yeah, tonight was fun. Pray that I get home ok. Smoochies!

some like it differently

i gave him a song
he said thank you kindly
and then gave it to someone else
i gave him a smile
he treasured it for half a minute
then bent to collect from the rest
i gave him a verse
he wrote a poem of yore
and won a prize to hang on his wall
i gave him my back
he painted a picture
and flayed the skin for his wall of fame
i walked away
he cried for a day
then saved his tears for somebody else to dry
i figured then
some like it differently
no matter how much it hurts.

Office talk

-Look at that – I say to my coworker – What do you think?
- Wow – she squeals – where is that? It is gorgeous.
It is a place where i was once as a teen, a magical part of the world with blue green sea and impossible sun shine. It is a little corner that always photographs like a postcard, no matter what camera or what angle. It is the paradise my mind escapes too when things become back, the image I hope will once greet me from my open veranda, and the background of my first intense erotic fantasy.
And my cousin is grinning his smile in it almost holding but not quite a big fish. Typical tourist photo.
-My country – I say – a village in the south. Nice view huh?
-Well yeah. How much does it cost to get there? You know if it is reasonable, I could ask some of the girls and get organized for next year. It could be real fun. Is there public transportation?
My coworker has already started planning and calculating and looking at flight details. She is a very organized woman. Meanwhile I get hit by a panic attack. I explain to her that to get there her friends and she will have to fly for 13 hours, then either catch a cab for another five, or catch the dreaded public transportation (the van with the leery driver, or the bus with its butt hanging out of the road for most of the trip) But once they get there, ah once they get there the view of the perfect see and the best mojitos in the world will probably make up for all the hassle. Probably.
I maybe should explain to her a bit further and maybe try to dissuade her from this Albanian dream. But I feel bad because Albania is very beautiful and deserves visitors and admirers and adorers who will discover her secrets and fall in love with her, and keep her images in their hearts to start in their own fantasies. And yet…
I can’t imagine what they would do to the village, a whole bunch of fun loving New Yorkers, born and bred in the Bronx, who can raise up pretty much any roof they happen to find their selves under. I know that the village has seen its share of strange and foreign people drive through. Yet, things might get pretty interesting next summer. Stay tuned.

Moment

frequently

rivulets of thought, bearers of pain,
pain of no essence, absurd wishes
wishes with sugar for a sweet tooth
of a tooth fairy with broken wings
wings that ache instead of flying high
high up where my eyes can’t see
the unsightly truth that we once were
werewolves blinded by the moon
moon howlers but with no hair
hairs are not in style nowadays
nowadays neither is faith
in love and in war unfair
unfairly fair becomes at last
at last we are no more

if this thing is fairly painful to read, scratch your eyes out.

Eyes on the butt

I am turning into my grandmother. That is whenever adoring eyes and cooing voices enfold our little precious bundle, there goes the little old lady inside of me screeching “Eyes on the butt! Eyes on the butt!” I have twice threatened to poke holes in my brother-in-law’s shoes, and I had my sister whip out the garlic in a panic as soon as an adoring passerby asked to see our sleeping prince in a basket.
I see him when he sleeps, a tiny little miracle in the middle of the large and cuddly feeding pillow and I strain not to spit in the air around him and disperse the evil eye. Surely, no one can help but be envious of the warmth and peace that surround him, the strange highlights in his hair, the oriental tilt of his miniature eyelashes and the tiny fists he puts on his ears as if he is tired from all the oohing and the aahing his every little gesture elicits. And that envy, i was taught, that evil magnetic force can cause high fever, uninterrupted hiccups, colic and all kinds of other little torture that affect little angels and make them uncomfortable and their mamas and daddies miserable and gray with worry and sleeplessness.
Hence, the little magics of the earth and women, the ancient and secret murmuring upon the modern cradles, the “singing” in the babies’ ears, the baths of eggs and honey/sugar, the garlic, the keeping them away from people with “evil eye” who will take one look at the infant and “eat” him with their eyes. the soft, demure new brides, the old and shriveled great-grandmas, the stylish and well preserved grandmamas, the nubile and promiscuous bevies of aunts and cousins, they all congregate and pull together their knowledge whispered to them or dreamed about, and try to build the wall of protection, warmth and nurture for the little prince or princess or maybe both born to them.
so here it is people
newborn babies cannot be seen by other people before 40 days.
wash your girls with eggs and honey in the bathwater to make their skins soft and pretty and their fortune sweet.
wash your boys with warm water and a bit of milk to make them hurt less in life.
don’t kiss babies in the nape of their neck so they do become obedient.
never kiss babies just breath their aromas in.
give babies to unmarried girls to hold so that they be fertile and get married quickly.
don’t look at babies when they are asleep or feeding. you’ll take the milk away.
poke holes in people with new shoes who visit the new baby. bad juju, don’t ask me why.
never let the mother of the lady giving birth know when her water breaks, or her labor will be very difficult.
don’t ask what your grandma is singing to the baby and why she is waving the new broom twigs around.
keep lots of garlic cloves handy, hidden under clothes, in the carriages or cradles. garlick is the best protection.
shave the first hair of the baby when he is about 18 months.
and don’t forget:
Eyes on the butt! Eyes on the butt! Eyes on the butt!

this cooks my goose

any time any place anywhere. there is simply no other way to recite this poem. i tried for many years and in front of a lot of mirrors, but i can’t do it.
ah the times when watching a film actually made me cry, made me feel patriotic, made me feel like going out there and killing a couple of nazis.
now i watch chick flicks but there aren’t any sexier lead men than Timo Flloko.
Be still my heart!