Nový Svět

A petite elder gentleman in a mismatched suit with a beard down to his belt and mud on his boot. He took from his tote a small box of pens, an assortment of cards and some decorative friends. One coffee, white with two, he unleashed his inner self prose after prose sending, his wisdom to a list of lost loves.

On the Deutsche Bahn. Two grown men bicker over table space. A small amount of an orange’s skin lays tattered and tarty to the east side. This makes for one grumpy writer. The culprit does not hesitate to continue with his infliction from the west as he slowly moves the mouse of his bulky laptop further toward the contour. Now both absorbed in their childlike war zone, the gentleman who writes spreads his notes over the border and glares into the eyes of the orange killer. The murderer gnarls like a bitch protecting her young. He packs up his things and heads for the sun. …Perhaps to kill another orange.

When I am bare without an ounce of makeup, I see so much of my mother in me; from the shape of my ears to the shade of brown pupils, down to the arch in my eyebrows and the space between my eyes, though I do think my slightly slanted double eyelids came from my father. I see her reflected dazed look when I stare in the mirror, as if I can see far in the distance behind me rather than what’s in front of me. I see my father’s rounded forehead and pudgy cheeks when I apply my bronzer and blush before I leave the house. And then, there’s my flat nose. That, I can’t seem to figure out who I got it from. But somewhere on my face, my parents are getting along, holding hands on the foundation they’ve agreed on. Even if they do not sleep in the same bed now, at least they are resting on the same cemetery when I apply eyeliner on my lids and red to my lips.

(via

Tokyo, Japan, Asia, 2014

“Maybe…you’ll fall in love with me all over again.” “Hell,” I said, “I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?” “Yes. I want to ruin you.” “Good,” I said. “That’s what I want too.”