*franki elliot

author of Piano Rats and Kiss as Many Women as You Can

[frankielliot]

the hearts of famous people.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the hearts of famous people. Chopin’s was hidden in a jar of cognac and smuggled from Paris to Warsaw. A hundred years later, his heart was one of the few things the Nazis stole and then returned after the war.

And when Howard Carter opened Tutankhamun’s tomb, the heart was one of the first things he noticed was missing, an oversight no embalmer would make when it comes to the after life of a king.

And when the romanticist poet Percey Shelley washed ashore a week after drowning, it was his calcified heart that refused to burn during cremation. His wife Mary, who knew a thing or two about body parts (being the creator of Frankenstein), wrapped his heart in a shroud and tucked it in a drawer with locks of their dead children’s hair.

Back then, it wasn’t uncommon to give someone you cared about a lock of your hair or a letter threatening suicide if the object of your affection didn’t love you back. Many famous writers met their wives this way: a suicide letter can be quite convincing and, as it turns out, valuable.

Baudelaire’s suicide letter to his mistress just sold for 234,000 euros in an auction. The irony? He wanted to die because he was tired of being poor. The Irony? He lived. His suicide attempt may have been his greatest failure. He still had decades left to write Les Fleurs du Mal and reinvent the words of Edgar Allen Poe, before he actually died, not of his own hand, but of Syphilis.

History tell us that so many of our greatest heroes died of a sexually transmitted disease that it almost made promiscuity seem honorable.

Whoever said promiscuity was dishonorable anyway?

*

By the way, they say men are likely to die of suicide four times more than women but we don’t like to talk about that statistic, as if mental illness or sadness discounts strength or masculinity.

Sometimes, these men have to go into schools or bars or synagogues or wars and play God with the lives of other people before executing themselves to prove they aren’t weak at all. The ego rationalizes itself in any way it can and often at the great expense of others.

If you ask me, these men become famous for not having any hearts at all.

*

By the way, there’s a cemetery in Vienna where many of the famous composers are buried together in a circle. The #71 tram takes you there and sometimes it is cheekily said that when someone dies, they took the 71.

I took the 71 last summer and sat for an hour in the blazing sun next to Beethoven’s grave trying to feel something, anything. Instead, I watched old women in straw hats tend to the famous and the forgotten graves. I watched a woman drive a small cart of broken tombstones and dead flowers from one side of the cemetery to the other. Where do broken tombstones go?

Twenty years ago, a grave robber somehow stole the teeth of the surrounding composers (Strauss, Brahms) and no one would have known if he hadn’t shown them off on YouTube. He skipped over Beethoven’s grave, maybe those bones were too sacred even for the conscience of a thief.

Beethoven didn’t take the 71. He was buried several times before he ended up in the spot I sat next to, feeling nothing. And there’s a group of cardiologists who insist that Beethoven’s heartbeat affected how he wrote his music. It was the unusual rhythms in Opus 81 that led them to diagnose him not with heart-break and genius but cardiac arrhythmia.

Cardiac arrhythmia is just fancy medical talk for an unusual heart beat.

It isn’t a surprise that the physical heart can say a lot about a person’s life and death, though. They recently dug up Chopin’s jar in Poland to make sure his heart was still safe. It was a secret ceremony in the middle of the night crowded with whispering scientists and historians and clergymen.

His heart remained gloriously pickled like last season’s harvest. They took a thousand photographs and concluded tuberculosis killed him before resealing the sacred jar with wax and returning it inside a pillar.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the hearts of famous people. *

[frankielliot]

The Inner Monologue of a One Night Stand

The guy you think you are in love with, the one you think you’ve been in love with for eight years, has been on tour all summer with a massive pop star, and he’s just told you he’s fucked more women in the past few months than he can remember.

Three years ago you kissed (once). He was so nervous and hurt from his ex that he stopped you when you tried to reach your hand inside his jeans. You really wanted to reach your hand inside his jeans.

Two years ago, he told you he was probably in love with you but you had a boyfriend and he’s politely never mentioned it again.

You had been thinking about him all summer, thinking he was the only good guy out there and how finally you were both single but now you feel a bit deceived after receiving his news. He is coming home soon and now you are less excited, less charmed, less interested. Suddenly, he feels like everyone else.

On a whim, you decide to text the person you’ve been sporadically sleeping with. He replies surprisingly fast and invites you over to his place. You’ve never been there before so you ask for an address, leave the party you’re at and head home to shave your legs in the sink.

This person you’ve been sporadically sleeping with is someone who isn’t really in your life but also isn’t totally out of your life. He’s a parenthesis, actually. Your friends don’t know anything about him, though they allude to the nameless, faceless men you have casually mentioned over the summer with raised brows while complaining about their boring boyfriends.

The guy you are about to see was very intentionally chosen for a quick hook up three months ago because you had completely cut off contact with your serious boyfriend. When the whole ordeal was finally over, you had dramatically convinced yourself nobody would ever sleep with (or love) you again. So you made a goal for yourself: to sleep with at least one or three people, you know, to move on.

“Time to move on,” like the song says.

The problem is you don’t know of anyone to sleep with. Since you’ve had a boyfriend you had stopped paying attention to any men around you and you aren’t as confident as you used to be. So you find this guy through a popular hook up app that most single people have downloaded and deleted and downloaded again on their phones, an app that you declare has destroyed romance.

The guy you choose on there is tall and cute. He likes sports (you think). He wears flip-flops. No, he doesn’t like to read and he can’t remember the last time he had been to a concert but that’s perfect. You want someone like this, someone who isn’t a musician or a writer. Someone who isn’t your type.

You want someone different than you.

Turns out he wants someone different than him, too. To him, you are a hipster, an artsy girl, a weirdo, and that turns him on a little bit.

When he asks you what you are looking for, you simply reply: transient validation through sex

…and he laughs at your honesty.

So after a string of flirty texts, you decide to meet at that lame bar on Hollywood. You find him attractive but conversation is whatever and after less than an hour, you leave. To your surprise, he texts you afterward saying he wished he had kissed you.

What the hell, you think, this is why you met him in the first place, right? You daringly invite him straight to your little apartment, saying: the door is open, come in, take a right at the end of the hall and don’t speak, just start fucking me.

Thinking back, you’re lucky you didn’t get killed.

But this is something you have wanted to do all your life and you’ve always been a fan of fulfilling fantasies. Turns out he is a good listener. He arrives quietly, enters your room, immediately kicks off his shoes and pulls off his shirt as you watch from your bed.

Pretty soon his lips, his body are on you. He doesn’t even fumble when he puts on the condom, he’s that smooth.

And so you two fuck.

It all happens in less than twenty minutes.

He didn’t even say hello.

He doesn’t say goodbye either because that wasn’t part of the plan (no talking) but as he leaves, he places another condom on your desk and says,

“That’s for next time.”

To this day, that is still one of the hottest things a guy has said to you. You didn’t expect to actually talk again, his purpose now served, but you are both so blown away by how hot it was that you stay in touch.

You are both out of town a lot and have opposite schedules, but you manage to meet again.That night, the sex is just as good and you realize he is actually fun to talk to. He is surprised by how cool he finds you. This happens a few more times with months in between. Since you don’t like him and have nothing in common, you can go weeks without texting and not give a shit at all. Tonight at the party is one of those nights you decide to talk again.

You text him and he says right away: come over.

You haven’t seen him in awhile but you’ve been so busy with work and horny that this feels like a good idea. Because it’s LA, the electricity is randomly out on your entire block. So here you are, shaving your legs in the sink by candlelight and putting on lacy black underwear. You decide not to wear a bra.

You drive to his apartment and are surprised to find that he lives in a modern condo surrounded by palm trees, bougainvilleas and other equally fancy condos.

The air on this side of town is distinctly warmer than in your neighborhood. When he lets you in, you enter what can only be described as a bachelor pad. There is nothing in the living room except for a grey leather couch and a massive TV.

He offers you a water and courteously pours it in a glass as you watch and make small talk. You feel like he has his shit together because he uses a Brita filter. He looks cute and although he is going a little bit bald, you don’t mind. He is wearing flip-flops, something you made fun of him for before, basketball shorts and a tee shirt with the Nike logo.

He looks like the guy next door. He’s all-American, the kind of guy who would’ve made fun of you in high school. You notice how sterile the place is, not a single piece of clutter, not even a piece of mail or a misplaced shoe. Nothing on the walls. You search for signs of what kind of person he might actually be.

This is something you notice every time you talk. He is impossible to get to know and also doesn’t want to get to know you. Maybe this is on purpose. There’s a wall and you accept that because you are/he is just a fling.

The only book he owns is yours, which he secretly bought online after the first time he met you. He never told you if he liked it so you assume he didn’t read it, didn’t understand it or didn’t care for it. You always wanted someone to fall in love with you solely from reading one of your stories but it hasn’t happened. There are certain people you truly believe should be in love with you but they aren’t.

It’s eerily quiet as you sit down in his apartment, so quiet that you can hear that constant white noise that is stuck in your ears from all the loud concerts you’ve attended over the years.

Somehow, you begin talking about his “career.” Which is second photography assistant for reality TV shows and commercials. You ask him what the endgame is, what he wants to do because everyone in LA wants to do something.

He isn’t sure. Says maybe he will be a producer and when you ask him what that means, he gives an evasive answer. You don’t like guys who don’t have impossibly large goals but this doesn’t matter:

you are/he is just a fling.

You tell him maybe one day you will work in television too and with great delusion of grandeur you talk about all the TV shows you would like to be writing for. It seems, you think, that the universe owes you this. A paycheck for being a writer. Because why not?

Then you admit, as you sip on the filtered water, that the problem is you don’t have any fucking ideas.

What good is a writer without any ideas? You ask.

He laughs for the first time and you start to feel comfortable.

You cross your legs on his couch and then realize the leather is too nice for that and put them back down. You touch his arm and tell him he’s so normal; he doesn’t even have any tattoos. You mention you want to get another and he doesn’t ask you of what, just where.

You get up to use the bathroom and while washing your hands, you think to yourself how wonderful it is to be young and in Los Angeles and in this apartment with such an all-American dude, about to have hot sex. We’re all adults here now. You feel like you are watching this scene unfold from afar instead of being the main character.

You return and ask him to put some music on and after laughing at the few playlists he has made on his phone, you quickly pull together a couple of sexy albums, and finally the mood is set.

You ask him to kiss you.

He jokes and says, “I thought you just came here to hang out.”

And then he kisses you.

You can tell he is already hard through his flimsy basketball shorts (you have never been friends with the kind of guy who wears basketball shorts) and he leads you into his bedroom. There, he lights a candle and you have to reset the mood by playing music on your phone.

His bedroom is just as empty as the rest of his apartment and you glance around trying to find some sign of his personality. You feel as if you are in a catalogue for a furniture company. He asks you if you think his pillowcases should be grey instead of white. The whole room, his carpet, his bedspread, his walls are grey and you call him a bachelor.

He stretches out, all masculine and confident, already naked on top of his sheets. He watches you undress and calls you a hipster, with your skinny jeans, as you struggle to slide them off.

There’s nothing more to talk about so you walk over to the bed, let your lips hesitate for a moment in front of his, and then kiss. He’s admitted to you before he’s “not really a fan of foreplay” but you try to tease him anyway. You climb on top of him, your knee between his thighs, pushing rhythmically as you kiss his neck.

You make sure not to be sloppy with your mouth. You bite his bottom lip, you bite his nipples maybe a little too hard and work your way down. You kiss his torso in a way that makes his whole body arch toward you. He is quiet so it’s difficult to tell if he likes any of this.

You listen to his body instead.

When you finally go down on him, you make note that he has shaved down there and his hand is on your head trying to push himself deeper, faster. You slap him away and your slap says, “I’m in control.”

He has barely touched you but by the time you’re done, you’re so wet it doesn’t matter. He slips a condom on, again, smooth as fuck.

You start having sex.

He’s on top of you and really, it all feels very passionate. The kind of sex that could trick you into thinking it means something if you aren’t careful. He goes really slow this time and he doesn’t feel as hard as before and you think to yourself that probably means

1) he thinks you are gross and ugly

or 2) he’s trying not to cum too soon.

This works in your favor because the pace is achingly slow, which is how you like to have sex, and after a few minutes you reach your hand between your thighs and tell him to go faster.

It isn’t long before you cum, hard.

In the back of your head, you think of your girl friends that say they can’t orgasm without an emotional connection and you think of that article on the Huffington Post that says there is no actual proof there is a g-spot and most women can’t have an orgasm during sex. You are grateful that none of these things pertain to you.

In fact, the opposite is happening. Every person you have slept with in the past year has been able to make you cum on the first or second try and quite easily. You attest this not to your sexual prowess or their skills but mostly due to the fact that

you know how to use your hand

you’re a good teacher

and

3. you had thrown away your last bottle of Lexapro.

This, you think, is your reward for spending weeks in withdrawal, dizzy and nauseous as you weaned yourself off the drug. The drug that made you tired and asexual. The drug that turned your rail thin body into curves that you disdain. But it’s also the drug that saved your life when three years ago going to places like the convenient store or riding the train seemed like impossible feats, and you could only eat a tiny list of “safe” foods.

You want to bask in these small orgasmic victories now in case the panic attacks return, in case the depression returns, in case your shitty life returns, and you hope that they won’t because you’ve (mostly) gotten over your past and your fears and you worked really hard to do that.

After you orgasm, he asks you if you came, which annoys you because it’s quite obvious and then he is suddenly super hard, poking at your g-spot that the Huffington Post claims doesn’t exist, and you moan encouragingly while he asks you where he should cum.

“On my tits,” you say like a good girl playing bad.

He pulls off the condom and once again, is a great listener.

When he stands up and leaves the room to get you a towel, you turn to your left, where you realize the closet is actually a massive mirrored door. You look at your face and then your breasts and your stomach and your thighs as you cringe. You adjust your legs and arms in a way that might make you look sexier, skinnier but it’s hard to look cute with a puddle of cum all over you.

You give up. This is how you look. You remember he once told you being insecure was a major turn off yet he’s never called you hot, he’s never called you funny or smart, he’s never called you anything that might provide the fleeting validation one seeks from a meaningless lover.

Finally, he hands you a towel and then goes back into the bathroom for what seems like an hour, washing off his dick. Then you go in there and wash yourself too and pray that you don’t get a UTI because that’s how your body punishes you when you have sex with someone you probably aren’t supposed to.

You return to the bedroom and minor cuddling ensues where you scratch his back and he wraps his arms around you. This is your favorite part, you think. Not cuddling but the conversation that follows an orgasm. This is when the wall goes down.

But the mood shifts.

He mentions that he would never date a girl who he slept with the first night he met her and that most guys wouldn’t. He says it makes her less desirable and makes guys want to put less effort in. He only likes girls who make him wait. All guys, he says, think like this.

Obviously, he has slept with you the first night so this feels a little awkward. You roll through the list of men you have dated and whether or not you slept with them the first night. You ask him if he’s ever been in love and when was the last time he had a serious girlfriend and the answer is yes, in high school he was in love (you say that doesn’t count) and his last girlfriend was 6 years ago, when he was 22 (also doesn’t count).

You say it’s obvious he has never been in love solely because he doesn’t understand foreplay and you are feeling a little offended that he has lumped you into a category of women he wouldn’t date (even though you don’t want to date him either) and wonder what other guys have lumped you into this category (probably everyone).

You remember last month how he wouldn’t fuck you because you were on your period and vaguely wonder: is he a misogynist?

He talks about how he once met a girl who he thought could be THE ONE; she had all these perfect qualities.

She was a teacher and liked to run and do yoga and cook and paint her nails to match his favorite sports teams and you wonder if his dick had really just been inside of you.

You don’t know how to steer the conversation away from this and start to feel beside the point. Then he asks you about the new guy you like, an Australian composer, and you try not to give many details. You stupidly had mentioned him at some point in the past few weeks. He is fishing to see if you have slept with him and you don’t want to answer.

This suddenly isn’t feeling fun at all. The vibe is off. You feel inelegant and like an idiot. You feel like, let’s just go ahead and say it, a slut.

Your immediate reaction is to flee.

Fight or flight.

Somehow, the conversation takes an even worse turn and he starts talking about his penis and how girls like his size. You instantly think to yourself how many girls? and you find yourself assessing out loud your own stupid fucking opinions on penis size and he is probably thinking to himself how many guys? if he’s thinking anything at all.

It is the least intimate conversation you can have with someone you have just been intimate with: lying there talking about other people you’ve slept with and other people you like more than the person you are with.

Suddenly, you feel very alone.

You are the most alone person in the entire world.

(Earlier, you had applauded yourself for being so sexually free. Now, you scold yourself for being in this situation, for giving life to this sort of relationship and conversation.

This is a constant push and pull for you: wanting to be sexually free and not giving a fuck but also wanting to take your time, to save yourself for someone who deserves it, who has earned it, to attract something more meaningful into your life.

But the bottom line is: you’re better than this.

This is worse than that empty feeling you had earlier today at the hair salon where the woman next to you gushes about how excited her husband and family and sorority sisters are that she’s pregnant. That was when you realized you hate everybody, you will never be happy, you can’t imagine ever wanting to be a mother, you can’t even imagine that feeling of what it’s like to be loved, romantically or otherwise.

In fact, you keep meeting people who hate love, who don’t believe in it, who avoid it, who curse it and each one of those people has taken a piece of you.)

He is lying on his back now, with one arm resting over his forehead. The candle is leaving a sinister glow on his face. By now, your vagina has dried up like the Sahara desert as your thoughts snowball. You say you are going to leave and he doesn’t even pretend to want you to stay a little longer.

You grope around the floor for your clothes, your once sexy underwear feels slimy and cold and when you find your jeans, you move to the corner by the door to put them on.

“I hate that mirror,” you say to him, pointing at the closet door you are avoiding while pulling up your too tight jeans, and he says he loves it.

Insecurity, it really is such a turn off.

He asks you if you are leaving and you say yes (isn’t that what you just said?).

Only slightly confused, he gets up and starts to dress and asks if you are parked far. He says he will walk you to your car. What a fucking gentleman.

You find your bag in his living room and head for the door while he is still pulling up those stupid basketball shorts.

You’re embarrassed for having emotions.

You say in a not so great tone that you don’t need him to walk you out but thanks. Finally, he catches that something weird is going on and asks from across the room if everything is okay.

You have already opened the door, one foot out, but you don’t want your voice to echo down the hallway so you close it for a second and pause. You can’t put your finger on this feeling.

“That just wasn’t very good post sex conversation,” you say and shrug. You realize he has now lumped you into another category: crazy girl…(and you really could care less).

His eyes widen and he says, “Oh shit, I didn’t mean to bum you out.” And you leave.

You are, needless to say, bummed out. Not about him but more about yourself and your suddenly bleak future of dating, of love, of connection, of adulthood, of your lack of feminism when it comes to your dead-end relationships.

You walk to your car trying to figure out what the hell just happened. You sit behind the steering wheel trying to shake the feeling of the evening and he has already texted you. He doesn’t ask why you left, just wishes you a good night in what feels like a weak attempt to salvage the past 15–20 minutes.

You start your car, put on Bob Dylan, and decide to take the long way home.*

from my new book book Stories for People Who Hate Love available on Amazon

[frankielliot]

I wrote these poems in my early 20s. I never expected them to be published because my writing is...well, you'll see. If you like it, please consider telling a friend, following my writing on Instagram or buying an actual book (they are beautiful and small) at Curbside Splendor or Amazon. 

 xo. *franki

[frankielliot]

Franki Elliot is the critically acclaimed author of Piano Rats and Kiss As Many Women As You Can” published by Curbside Splendor Publishing. She has received praise from The Paris Review, Chicago Tribune, Paper Magazine, Time Out, LA Weekly, Daily Candy, Los Angeles Review of Books, etc.

Her books are complimented with stunning artwork by Shawn Stucky, a red/green color blind artist located in Chicago. Franki Elliot currently has an ongoing poetry street art project where she hides poems around various cities.

Follow it on Instagram.

[frankielliot]

about Piano Rats...

“At times mundane, awkward, offensive, and, ultimately heartbreaking.”  - The Paris Review

“Sometimes I run across a poem that makes me second guess my opinion on poetry. It could be a line in the poem that impresses me. Or a person in the poem that makes me wonder what he’d be like in another situation. Or a relationship that makes me want to know if it worked out. Or a memory I have while reading the poem. For me, Piano Rats by Franki Elliot had all of the above.” Shamontiel L. Vaughn, Books Critic, Chicago Tribune

[frankielliot]

[frankielliot]

Blue Jeans

The lady on the bus told me she met the Holy Spirit and he was wearing blue jeans. I don’t know why she’s telling me this cause everybody knows

I can’t keep a fucking secret.

[frankielliot]

One Wish

He called me up, it was 11:11 p.m.,

and said, “Every time I look at a clock at this time I make a wish. Do you want to know what I wish for?”

What do you wish for? “A Champion.”

Not money, not fame, not for his mother to be alive again: A CHAMPION.

And now every time I look at the clock  and it strikes 11:11, I wish for one too.

[frankielliot]

Salesman

He said, “I’m not the person you knew before: I’m a Christian now.”

He said it as if everything we did when we were kids was a sin.

He said it as if everything anyone does is a sin.

And I get it. He felt cheated out of his childhood, he was always so goddamned shy.

Things happened to him that weren’t supposed to happen to a child.

And I get it, wanting to be a better person. I want to be a better person too.

But being sixteen and kissing in his garage, marred and tangled with insecurity:

I felt like that was more sacred, more beautiful than any religion a used car salesman could teach us.

[frankielliot]

Multiple Personality Disorder

I remember your mother: she had sixteen different personalities and got arrested because she thought she was a trucker, swearing like a sailor one night at the bar.

And I remember your father with his trailer and boxes of blow up dolls and dildos beneath his cot.

And I remember you with ripped pages from books plastered about your walls and quiet green eyes:

the words devastatingly beautiful and ice cream dripping on the sidewalk still come to mind.

You were the smartest one in Philosophy but passed notes asking to see my tits.

It was all because your Jehovah’s Witness girlfriend was cheating on you.

I’m not gonna lie, I always thought that was most sincere.

You told me she’s okay now, she only has one personality: a neurotic mother who smokes too much.

And your father grew a beard to his waist, moved to the mountains and shot himself, and you said something about wanting to join the army.

I said I wanted to sell roses in another language on the corner of a cobblestone street or you know, be a writer.

But you said, you can’t be both, darling, we aren’t that lucky.

[frankielliot]

Who’s Counting?

She called me up, didn’t say hi, just said “I need you to help me with my list.”

We had done this before, on 16th Street, over blueberry crepes at an outdoor cafe.

We weren’t paying attention, and my purse was stolen by a violinist  who got just a little too close.

I lost everything: my wallet, my keys, self-identity.

Two days left in that damn city and we had to break into my one hundred year old house,  the window crashing on her hands.

I wasn’t old enough but I snuck into the bar anyway while she left in a taxicab crying.

Tonight, over the phone, she reads off each name on her list and asks me if I can think of anyone else. I am surprised that I know almost every single one of her lovers.

It makes me feel like a good friend. It makes me feel like maybe I know too much.

We have a strange, desperate history but I always say growing up together is a beautiful thing.

I mention one or two more, we try and think.

This is bad, we decide. This is very bad when you can’t remember.

“Well, what about me?” I say. It had been awhile since we’d sat together in San Francisco.

I pull out a paper and a green marker because I can’t find a pen and say,

“You help me do mine.” But she doesn’t know most of them because I had moved and moved again.

Easily, I remember every single one of them in order. I have only had one one night stand and I decided that it doesn’t count. Or maybe I had three or five.

There are rules for what counts and what doesn’t, or at least there should be.

She and I, we share a name on our list. It makes us laugh and cringe all at the same time. He was my first, he was her second.

“Thank god he wasn’t both of our firsts,” she says. And he reminded me of a dial tone, a flat line, a shade of grey.

The last time we saw him, he bought everyone shots and french-kissed a boy at a leather bar.

In the scheme of things, we aren’t sure if our number is high or low, so I ask around.

My sister, who lost her virginity on a tanning bed, said she’s at about fifteen. “About.”

My writer friend, he says, “Maybe a little over a hundred but I don‘t really think it‘s any of your business.”

Holy Mother of God. I was his thirty-eighth and they say romance is dead.

One guy sheepishly says four, one girl says ten.

And Modesto, he’s engaged to a virgin now but he won’t stop talking to me.

All I can really say is: Too many to count. Too few to mention.

[frankielliot]

Heaven

He comes to the video store every day asking if they have windows he can wash, he’ll sweep the floors, anything at all?

They all know his name even if they don’t want to, they’re kind to him while they laugh behind his back.

We’ve all known him for years now, we ate our hot dogs and spinach dip at picnic tables while he told us about the lives of Ted Bundy and Jack the Ripper.

These days he lives in the halfway house down the street, talks too loud about Dr. Kevorkian, has a cat named Berkowitz

but everyone, EVERYONE agrees: he would never hurt a soul.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

He’s completely earnest when he turns to you, Windex and paper towels in hand,

and says, “Do you think Richard Speck is in heaven?”

[frankielliot]

Poetic Memory

I’m walking down the street when a boy in fluorescent pink pants on a 1971 Schwinn Cruiser slows down, stares at me and says,

“Have you ever seen anyone die?”

And I think of you, of course.

“Forty-Four Cents,” you said. “The day we broke up, I saw a man get hit by a bus and die.

“I watched the paramedics pick his shoe off the street and thought to myself this is the biggest mistake I have ever made.

“Forty-Four Cents is all it takes. You owe me that letter.” 

But I don’t. It’s still here, tucked between two old records, unsent, unread, unforgiving.

It began with a smashed rat on the pavement, (I dodged our first kiss in the car, thinking I didn’t like you)  and it ended with the words: petulant child.

Or was it the words fuck off? I think it was the words fuck off.

Then: I give up. The words: I tried harder than you.

Note: I’ve moved on. Note: I’ve moved on too.

Edit: It should’ve happened sooner. Edit: I can’t even remember what this was all about.

There’s this 1905 typewriter that keeps calling me mercilessly serious.

I used to say it could only write love letters and somehow I have learned to breathe again. I’m expecting to see rainbows any day now.

Parting oceans. Cherry blossoms blooming. Ice melting. Birds on fences in rainstorms.

Whatever the fuck happens when the opposite of falling in love occurs.

You said you know that red envelope is going to make it to you someday but you’re wrong.

I’ve fallen out of love and I feel nothing but relief.

[frankielliot]

Miss in Polish

My grandma can’t tell you my name but she knows I live in Chicago.  She knows I have a brother, and he lives in Chicago too.

She adjusts her hospital gown and says,  “You tell them I’m not ready. I’ll show them. I’m gonna live another couple years.”

You drove me all the way there, through washed-up towns and stretches of oil refineries.  Wore a nice sweater and shiny shoes even though my family isn’t the kind you have to impress.

I liked that. It made me feel safe. It made me feel like I meant something to someone.

Sitting in the waiting room reading as strangers whispered grimly into telephones, you said, “This is the perfect book but man, is it miserable in here.”

The hospital room is freezing and the doctor stands with a clipboard, asks her what day is her birthday.

She said she knows there is a four in there somewhere. I know it because it’s the same birthday as Hitler. I don’t think she knows that. I hope she doesn’t know that.

And my grandpa has never held my hand before until today. He has tears quietly running down his cheeks when he says, 

“How’s the violin, ponnie? Still playing?”

[frankielliot]

Everclear

He took two shots of Everclear, hid in the bathroom  and shouted through the wooden door that I had used him.

This was months ago (the using) I had forgotten.

So many kisses, So many cities, Of course, I had forgotten.

“You put the moves on me,” he squealed. His face, ears red.

I know, I said, “What’s your point? This was forever ago, I know.”

But it’s the hypersensitive ones that always say I use them even if they can’t keep their dicks hard.

(He said it was because he knew I wasn’t a relationship girl. I said, I think it’s cause you’re gay.)

He took one more shot of Everclear and began to cry on the back porch,  talking quietly to a friend.

He said he thought he loved me and we watched from the balcony, sunburnt and laughing.

His friend put an arm around his shoulder, said, 

“Forget her, man, she’s just an elitist little cunt.”

[frankielliot]

Snake

There was that time I was walking up 24th Street when a man in a tank top and cowboy hat shouted at me.

He had a long, beautiful snake stretched across both fat arms, its tail flicking around his neck.

He said with the hint of a Spanish accent, “Go ahead, touch her skin.”

I touched her skin.

“I have been searching my entire life for a woman with skin as soft as this snake.”

He reached for my arm to test things out but I backed away.

I suddenly thought of that time you called me hysterical at 3 a.m.  after you read the news story about a woman in India who marries a snake.

“It’s just so sad, the whole town thinks the snake is God.”

I said we all do what we can to feel closer to him.

But marrying your own God, I can’t think of a more dangerous thing,  no matter how soft the skin may feel.

[frankielliot]

With an Obsessive Compulsive

I don’t have any friends but as I’m leaving I bump into a guy whose name I can’t pronounce while crossing Broadway. He tells me as we walk that I am too American, too skinny, says he hates blondes and when I get inside his apartment he demands I take off my shoes and asks me a favor.

“Would you mind...could you please just wash your hands...?” he leads me to the kitchen sink, one hand on my back. When I try to use soap, he stops me.

“No, no, you don’t have to use soap.” But I do, thinking of my father leaning over me when I was a child, making sure I scrubbed for fifteen seconds. Every time I wash my hands I’m counting.

I dry my hands on my skirt and look at him.

“Just cause, you know, you’ve been outside,” he explains. He sits at his desk and apologizes for the heat. He’s dripping in sweat but still is attractive. I have barely broken a sweat though the heat index reached 110° today. He pulls my hand down when I reach up to bite my nails.

There are hundreds upon hundreds of records lining his walls, photographs all around his apartment, and everyone in them looks like they are having fun, possibly more fun than they are actually having. That’s how it always is, it seems. I realize I have never taken a photo of a sad person and I think I would like to.

I look at the photos on his refrigerator while he pours himself vodka. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says.

In his entire apartment he only owns two mismatched cups, one filled with vodka and for the other, he offers me water. He opens his fridge and there isn’t a single thing inside. I can’t hold back my laughter.

“It’s because the grocery store burned down,” he explains, matter of fact.

He sees out of the corner of his eye that the blanket from his couch has fallen to the floor and rushes from the kitchen, demands to know why it’s there. I shrug. “I must’ve knocked it over.” He seems rather panicked as he folds it and tucks it back on the couch.

“I don’t mean to be forward,” he says, “but it’s much cooler in my bedroom...”

So I follow him. I can’t remember the last time I’d kissed someone.

And it is cooler. And he is forward.

After scrambling through his music collection for the right record, he asks out of nowhere, “Do people ever think you’re stupid?” The question is immediately followed by an apology. “Sorry, sometimes I’m too honest,” he says, pulling at my skirt. I pull away. “I mean, are people surprised that you read books?”

I don’t know how to respond. “Yes, people do think I’m stupid sometimes.” I try to bite my thumbnail, and he pulls my hand from my face.

He admits that us sitting on his bed is causing him slight discomfort.

“It’s because our CLOTHES have been outside, WE have been outside...”

He explains that in his country and in other countries, if you aren’t cautious of germs you die. “It’s not like that HERE but still, it’s habit.” He’s squinting at my thighs and talking nervously.

Now I understand why the blanket on the floor is cause for alarm, why he asks me to wash my hands and instantly I am self-conscious of the sweat running down my spine, the dirt under my nails despite the dish soap. I am suddenly nervous about the germs I am covered with and leaving throughout his apartment that neither of us can see, and I’m self-conscious of my saliva once he leans close and tries to kiss me. He leaves a little sweat on my cheek from his own face but I don’t mind.

Weeks earlier, we stood next to each other silently at a concert in the back of a record store. I remember how borderline painful the performance was, two people with microphones and a bunch of objects making unpleasant noises. The show completely frazzled him. Walking next to each other outside afterwards, he had told me he could only cum when a girl chokes him. He told me he has only slept with two girls and one of them he didn’t love.

Now, in his bed, his lips twitching, my fingers crawling toward his neck, he knocks me away quickly—almost shrieking.

“I wasn’t planning on choking you,” I say. When I bite him he complains of the pain.

“My people,” he says, his lips pressing against mine like a jackhammer kissing the pavement, “we are very affectionate toward our partners, we are more caring, more loving than Americans.”

There’s a half moment where I stop to think, what the fuck am I doing here? And then it passes.

“I never really liked skinny girls,” he says, tracing his finger up my thigh.

Weeks earlier when he told me about the choking, I had imagined whips and chains, domination and pain, but when I unzip his women’s jeans he is nothing but an uncircumcised child who whimpers in bed. He is my second Asian and once again, stereotypes aside, I am less than impressed. I tell him he should consider shaving. “Sometimes I’m too honest,” I say and I try not to hold his pretty, feminine hands.

How long, I wonder as he falls asleep, how long after I leave before he rushes his bed clothes to the washing machine to rid his sheets of my skin cells and bacteria?

I wait for the sun to rise; usually I can wait it out until late morning, until the guy wakes up but this time I don’t care about being appropriate. It’s not yet 7 a.m. and I nudge him awake, tuck my dried up underwear in my bag and ask him to lock the door behind me.