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or, another eulogy

A poem.

“i don’t care.”

the words reverberated through the weeks
that passed since you spoke them
though they always felt like years.
i was still seething, when it was the smell
of your freshly-dyed hair that i wanted to be breathing.

it should have been a celebration.
did you ever lay with a man without your phone in hand
or in reach, just in case
what you thought was a connection was merely malaise?
i am capable of sitting around all day
doing nothing, progressively,
expecting some sugar with my coffee and cream like every man since the dawn of society.
“too sweet to be sour, too nice to be mean.”
timely.

look at me.

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Jay’s Take: House of Gucci

A spoiler-heavy & deeply-subjective movie review.

Ridley Scott, what are we to do with you? Guy’s movies consistently underperform at the box office and yet he still keeps pumping them out, and studios are happy to let him. Why is that? We’ve all heard the story about when Kevin Spacey was edited out of “All the Money in the World” and Scott reshot his scenes with Christopher Plummer in one week (we also heard about how Michelle Williams was paid less than a HUNDREDTH of what Mark Wahlberg was to come back but, forget that, because Ridley Scott doesn’t have time for your bullshit). The only reasonable explanation I can come up with is that his are the ultimate in money-laundering fronts: high-class picture-films with sky-high production values that add legitimacy to the Lizard People’s ever-domineering hold over the global sex-slave market. Or the Big Studios’ hold over the encroaching streaming & independent markets. Plus, he’ll shoot it for 20-bucks on a weekend: fast, AND cheap! Look, any idiot can make an “important” film on his iPhone now, but it takes a serious “auteur” like Scott to make an “important” film with unlimited resources at his disposal and STILL have it turn out to be plodding garbage that no one is interested in paying money to go see.

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there’s probably something wrong with her kid

A poem.

she lost all that baby fat just for me.
that’s what i see

and it’s disappointing.
she didn’t have to do that, butt-ass naked
but you can’t change what isn’t yours’ to blame.

he scares me when he stares
and when he doesn’t speak to me
or when we’re side-by-side and i say “hi”
and he just outright ignores me.

she keeps it up, week after week,
while i dismiss her in reality but cling while i dream.
there isn’t anyone else
who captivates me as much
from one-hundred-and-forty-four feet away.

i don’t know, maybe ten years ago?
he’s jumped around departments more than i have
but always seems to end up just down from where i am.
no, he has a wife
and she’s nice
and i wouldn’t do anything to wreck my work life.

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fair enough

A poem.

i see your resignation
and i feel your frustration
but yours’ is not a unique situation:

that way you remember, all those
years ago,
when you look in the face of your daughter and you see
how her mother looked back at you like Anya Taylor-Joy
looks over her shoulder at Edgar Wright
when he needs her to do one-more-take of guarded plight,
just like she thought she might
when she graced the cover of a Shyamalan fright:

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