I'm looking for the good robin of everlasting sewing. Easy as a bed to bed. And his words are mints. My shock in the ghost of the guest of my boyfriend. First there is the Father. He would not like me to tell you about him. He is punching holes right now. Saying petit, petit, petit. Garbled—he can seem like a balloon. Such a skin. A kingfisher. We are afraid to touch him. Like too many nights of touching ourselves. He might plan to take us on a picnic. We must be ready. We must be hungry. I finished my blue necklace. She tries to convince him because he was here on earth. Dad quits his job for the umpteenth time. I'm wicked lonely. We are in a department store. I buy him a blue bracelet because it is right there. And I would wear it. I buy it hoping he bought me something for Christmas. This is never true of course. We talk about religion. Of jasper things in trees. He wears an engagement ring. I am shivery, full of V-8. He drinks too much and cheats all the time. All of whom he left behind in the Bible belt are singing Yes, yes yes We put our hands over our face, our neck. We are overcome, saying, "No, no. I can't. I can't."
One Night Only
The recipe invites itself to eat and laughs at its own jokes.
Puns of tripled and quadruped meanings.
Was I ratting on you?
I invite everyone. Everyone is my friend.
Would you like some of my sandwich?
I really mean you can come forward
with your mouth open.
Once, I wrote a play. There was only one scene.
A girl lists the food she wants to eat.
Jasmine rice sautéed in garlic and sesame oil. A fish you caught yourself.
I put gold flecks in the sauce so everyone will know how happy we are.
I call the play Loves You Long Time.
The manuscripts are drying and dying out in mouldering museums.
1. Filipinos don't care about their history
2. Filipinos can't afford to preserve the manuscripts in this kind of tropical heat.
3. Los manuscripts no existe. I only told you about them because I love you and you love me.