Tenement Sonata #2 - Lisa Stopless

Filed under: New Writing   

My upstairs neighbors inspired me. Heard ‘em packing up. Getting out. Rent’s late. Work’s slow. They’re fast. Heard ceiling scrape in dream. Woke up. Dark, still dressed. Head full. Power off. Milk lumpy. Sluggish panic. Man, this bites.

Towel moldy. Called Devon. Collect. Sold the car. Sold the ounce of weed in the car. Sold the tapes concealing the ounce of weed in the car. Bought a pack of M & M’s, boarded a bus and left town under cover of poverty. Don’t worry about furniture or phone numbers. Don’t worry about numbers or me. Don’t worry about…

Worry…

Where do bad folks go when they die? Where do bad folks go when… Where do…you ever dream? About what’s behind door # 3. About not trying so hard? Imagine daddy’s holding you tight when Bambi’s mom dies? Do you cry? Pansy. Lost it yet?

…Losing it?…

Can’t lose what you never had.
Ain’t this empty strange?

Could’ve been…college lucid…corn-fed wholesome…A contender like Brando. I think you know where this is going, nowhere you ain’t been in my back pocket. Wanna cut my hair off.

Wanna cut my hair off?

Oh, why bother. You’ll probably be a millionaire if undercooked hot dogs don’t burst your heart first. I don’t blame you. I made you accept tortured illegible eyeliner scribblings on the bathroom wall. I’m still not giving up or sacrificing my extensive cocktail napkin phone number collection.

I never called anyone back.

I’m not scared of withering alone. I’m scared of what I never was haunting my peripheral vision. Baby powder splashed across my thighs, dusting for prints, cherubim scatter.

Somewhere outside Biloxi

The brittle papyrus tobacco stained man beside me asks what I do for a living.
I tell him the truth.
I’m alive.

Posted on March 1st, 2000.

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