on conversation

If I am asked a question
               I should not answer it.
               should I answer it?
               will I answer it?
               I will fail at giving an answer
                             deemed desirable.
                             that answers the question.
                             that is decisive.

Today I saw Eileen in her office. Came in to return books she let me borrow almost 2 years ago. She told me that at 23, ages 23 to 27, it's difficult to get by, or rather those years were difficult for her. At that time she relied on people for meals, couch hopping, lived off other people's money.
She asked me about my parents. I told her very little, the relationship isn't as typical as it must have sounded to be; I am not just weary of my parents and distant, what I told her, I am also greatly in awe of their ethics, what I made no mention of.

Have been thinking about our conversation since leaving her office. I've been continuing the conversation in my thoughts, explaining myself, amending to what had been said as though she were there.

I was told by a friend, while waiting for coffee, no longer thinking and talking in my head, was told by this barista friend that his Nancy t-shirt has been getting acknowledged by people who think they've heard of Nancy Romero, the writer.

I laughed.

Writer: a moment of commiseration.

I don't know my future, so why do I think life is pointless, life, like I already know the future, and it's meaningless, what I see for myself. Talking to Eileen made me realize I don't know anything because I am too young (maxim and harshness in tone is my inclusion). So like, this is the answer. Right now, for the question "What is the space between living and death?" It is the part in living where everything you do is forgiven or neglected. I am forgiven for every step I am going to take. Although good steps.





Nancy Romero, December 2007

Watermarks or Shadows

At some point it all has to end. I’m very comfortable in my bed. Children in the world starve while we grow cows on trees. It’s going to crush us, the weight of it. I haven’t touched money in months. My wealth, for I am rich somewhere, hovers about my head, a green aura of credentials. I need more than I need, and that’s ok. And we’ll all be surprised, shocked, then terrified, and then, still wonder: why? We don’t worry too much these days. What good would that do? It won’t just happen to us. There are comfortable people in every country. Even the pueblos with their tiny courts, are being denied sanitation so somewhere someone can buy a new silk pillow.

To one, he says: you go there. And to another: stay where you are. He gives them knives and tells them to kill. One man dies and the other only survives. ‘Only,’ because one cannot win when one loses a hand.

You there. And you there. You, move to that position and say what I’ve told you to say. State it clearly. They’ll never believe you’ve been stabbed if you smile while you speak. Remember who you are. Always be that person when the lights are on. The curtain will fall, that we all know, but that you are not who they think you are, that is key. My pockets grow with the day and continue on through the night. They never slow. When you sing in the first number, try to bleed.

He wants the child to be an intellectual and so he works everyday at exposing his son to the word “book.” He says “book-book-book, yes, book” as he shakes his head before the baby, tickling his chin. “Book?” he asks. “Yess, book,” he replies. Soon he finds it difficult to say book when there are so many other things he must tell the child: eat, sleep, etc. Soon he has to describe dangers and love. Soon he can no longer only say book.

Six hundred houses piled up. All the doors and all the windows shut. Belongings scattered about the floors and walls. Six hundred and one? —one asks—I bet it falls.

We're all deserving of tragedy. All men are created equal, it’s true.


-felipe martinez
December 2007

Deplete, Delete

My heavy-haunched depletion, attached to the gut by multi-pronged polyps.
You offered to cut the tissue, to detach with broad arms. And I said no leave it and you complied-a quick shift of heels. I was disappointed, as I am apt to be.

You take what can be gleaned, the plums of my misery picked clean off bone for your bountiful consumption. And you leave me voiding-the ink spreading-and I choke.

-Saehee Cho
November 2007