Welcome to the Strange Society

She stood on the bus, striped trainers the label had faded or had been torn off but you guessed it was an N. She wore blue headphones and had a spiked Mohawk which she had shaven either side of her head. "No one noticed her," he said. "Perfect," you said. "Absolutely perfect" He and you went in tapped her with two fingers right between the shoulder blades and she fell on your arm. She looked thin and bony but weighed a ton or that's the gist of what you said. He and you ran carrying her. You went out of the subway up the stairs to the cold night, so cold it made the hairs on the back of your nice rise but you ran and didn't stop running until you came to the apartment. What were you going to do with her? He looked at you and gave you the nod. You woke her up and she was scared.
"Welcome to the Strange Society, you have been nominated," he said.

You Forgot the Toliet Paper

Running faster and faster, jump over the fence, through the alley, jump onto the fire escape, climb four flights up and then see the open window, yell boo as loud as you can.
"Jesus H. Christ! You scared me!" your roommate yells. This roommate is the same girl you have a crush on for two years now. The scent of curry powder, thyme and coriander drifts to your nose. It smells good.
"Sorry," you say after you come in. You close the window, a little. "I got grapes, milk and dish-soap as requested." You present your grocery bag as if you just drew a masterpiece of stick people as a four year old and you're showing off to your mother. She is not your mother and she is not gentle with her criticism of you. To her, you are a temporary thing until something better comes. So is this apartment, and neighbourhood and city.
"You forgot the tomatoes and toilet paper, who forgets toilet paper?" she says. She puts her plate on the counter and give you one delicious omelette. "It's alright, I'll get the toilet paper." She puts on her leather coat her mother gave her from the 80's. You put your head down. You feel like a failure. She goes down the lift. A few minutes later, you hear a gun go off. You leave out the window, down the fire escape and run as fast you can to the front of the building. An old man is being put on a gurtney in an ambulance. Police are shaking their heads. You find her.
"What happened?" you ask her. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," she said, shakingly. She isn't fine she got shot in the shoulder. "The police were passing by and the idiots shot the old man."
"And you," you say. "She's shot."
"The ambulance is coming," said the copper.
"Good," you whisper. You hold her. It comes after what seems like forever. They load her on the gurney. She grabs your hand.
"If I die," she starts.
"You're not going to die, you can't. I love you."
"If I die, make sure you remember to get toilet paper." she says.

A Day of Lexleigh the Flowershop Girl

I sit surrounded by wool, leather and polyester. The bus smells of people and it's making me sick. I wish the day was over but it only just begun. My voice is hoarse, I wish I didn't have my period on top of my bus-sickness. I think about Jean-Luc, his soft brown locks, his brown puppy eyes and the sound he made when he was about to come. He is gone now, not dead, but caressing another woman. I take out my iPod, looking for a song to fit my mood but finding none, big surprise. My stomach rumbles, great cramps. I feel like throwing up. I hate having my period and stupid tampons up my coochie. The bus slams to a stop and we all rock forward. I see the flower shop. I get off the bust and with my third key unlock the door. I go inside and lock it again. What? We're not open yet. It's cold and I'm the first one in like always, well the first one who doesn't live there. I go to the back to small garden and back cafe patio. We share gardens with a cafe. Gwen makes the coffee, it also sounds like a blender when she grinds the beans. The aroma of coffee overpowers the flowers. Just like Jean-Luc's sweat overpowers his cologne and it's always a mixture of smells.
She looks up and says, "hi" in sign language. Another thing to add to my bucket list, great. As if there's isn't enough things. 1 Have two kids who don't hate me. 2, have a husband who isn't gay. 3 Go to France. 4. Go see the Pyramids. 5. Learn Sign Language. 6, Have my own flowershop. I only know how to say two words/phrases in Sign, so far: hi and "Damn it." "Lexleigh cut the flowers, are ya?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm going to cut the flowers," I said, as an attempt to correct her grammar but it never works. She's just 22, a kid who barely learning about life as far as I'm concerned. She was married to a man so he could become a citisen and then stayed for twelve years until she discovered he was gay and then had her children hate her and call her a homophobe when she wasn't and lived in one of the most liberal cities for gays: Boston and couldn't get a divorce so had to wait another ten years. I am talking about Richard, of course. Jean-Luc was the only man who seemed like loved me, he's the one I fell in love with. I cut white forget-me-nots on the cutting table and then tied them.Jean-Luc said to me once after sex, "you have this mark on your breast, so lovely, it's like a white rose in spring and your face. Ah c'est majesté. Très belle. You are so full of life." But not full of wealth and apparently love can be bought if you're young and stupid. I wrapped the flowers and then open the shop. Our first customer (or so I thought) came in. It was Miranda, the woman Jean-Luc left me for. She's in her 50's but looks thirty, perhaps it's plastic surgery or maybe it's just genetics, who knows. She has an old fashion mink coat and silk slip on. Red lips and $5,000 blue Prada heels and a leopard (hopefully faux-fur) purse.
"Oh Lexleigh, dah-ling, I didn't know you owned a flower shop!" she said. "It's so quaint!" She put the purse on the counter and sniffs the air and then removes the purse. She hates flowers you see. Quaint is a word wealthy people use to describe ugly and small.
"I don't. I just work here," I said.
"Really?" she said, not interested. "You are right next to the diamond boutique. Well, so long dah-ling. She leaves. I go to the bathroom and throw up. The owner, Georgia, Gwen's mother, comes over to me.
"Are you sick, I don't want you to make my customers sick. Perhaps you should go home. I don't want people to think I run a dictatorship as a business. Unlike corporations, I can't stand them, I can't stand them!" she said. "Especially on Valentine's Day. If you are sick, just call me and I'll have someone else come in."
"I'm fine, I'm just having my period, I get nauseous," I said.
"Well okay, then. But you should go home...looking like that, you look ill, bad im-age, bad im-age!" she said. So she puts me back on the bus and I go home to my cat. I have 34 messages from unimportant know-it-alls. My cat doesn't care who feeds him or pets him, just as long as it's done. He misses Jean-Luc as I do but we can't turn back time. Never can we go backwards, we must move forward and move on to create our happiness, which is why I'm going to Egypt to see the pyramids. I booked a ticket and everything. I'm going to live my life without anyone who hates me. Georgia supports my going. She even said, "You have to fit your life to you, not fit yourself to other people's lives. Live on your own."

I'm turning Dark Blue

Frozen lights

Blood Drips

Body hiccups

Camel spits

I see a gun,

A rocket, a missile

A dart, a knife

You think you’re so bad

For killing, pfffff, that’s nothing

Writing is worst

I am not gonna say “baddest”

“I hate TV contests”

Yet you’re glued.

How many people would cry

If Facebook or Twitter died?

“I’m not feeling well”

Who cares

“I’m going to the laundry”

Who cares

“I’m at the mall”

Are you telling me to go down and meet you there?

Apparently, I’m an old soul.

I had a conflict growing up

A wooden doll or a blonde bimbo—I mean Barbie.

All my barbies are broken

Then I moved on to fairies

You just wish you were a kid again

Just for Halloween

Instead of stuck in between

On your period.

Who cares about the mannequins in the window

“Il ya un film d'horreur sur les modèles” says a French-American mother

Where are the unarmed misfits ?

They’re all on facebook

Trying not to get a life

Some days I wish I had a time machine

To make all the pain go away

Who says there’s an audience reading any of this shit?

Maybe I’m just feeling pessimistic

About this bloody shite

It’s like 90 degrees without an airconditioner

And the heat blasting

And I’m supposed to be happy!

Why?

I like the fog and rain like a comfort blanket of darkness

“Howya” “Oh fine”

If I was really fine, then

How come I feel like that guy

Who was told cartoons can’t have sex?

I’m not saying I am one

But have you noticed that geniuses are always ahead of their time

If I wasn’t so lazy, I would call myself crazy

I say I have my own style

When they say I’m just mixing stuff: it’s not original

Fuck you then

I really don’t want to edit seeing I’m never in the mood

I don’t want to go back to high school

But all the TV shows do (why? It’s not that great)

Hey movie writers, listen up

Stop making movies from books we get it:

You have writer’s block, obviously.

You know, it’s sad when short films are ahead of you.

I’m sick of Hollywood telling me what I want to see

Don’t be a moggy-dan

I’m half Austrian and that’s why I look great in scarves

You know it’s true

Don’t try to tell me what to do.

Don’t make me sing when I’m turning dark blue-ahhh!

I feel like I’m falling down a hole

Look up at the clouds, so damn peaceful

Don’t try to figure me out

I’m just human

Who said there was any reason to make sense

In fact, we are all picking our alphabets from Scrabble

Makin’ up words like the old ones are going out style

Thou art a fool to be made of, so

“I bite my thumb at you,” ma’am, sorry.