Your jeans have ripped.
you tried to sit on the arm of a chair
next to the broken window
in your living room, next to your exboyfriend
closely, closer than you've sat in a year
and your jeans tore silently, but you felt it,
under your right thigh near the crotch.
You say, "My jeans just ripped,"
Your ex nods, half in conversation
with a friend who sits on the couch,
pink teal and white crepe streamers
hang in bright loops from the cieling,
there's confetti on your shoe.
You reach between your legs and find the hole.
The denim there soft, it tears more as you finger
it.
You get up, a freshly full plastic cup
of ice whiskey and coffee in your right hand.
You approach a cluster of friends near the kitchen,
"My jeans just ripped"
"where?"
"right here between my legs" you touch the spot
"you can't see it"
someone says
"that sucks" and shrugs
"no" you say "I've had these jeans for 4 yours. They are
my favorite jeans they were $250"
"you spent $250 on jeans?"
"but they are great, they are french but they fit so good
and they are ripped. I was supposed to wear these jeans when i was forty"
You realize that you've always expected to have these jeans forever
you imagine yourself bloated greyed and slouched, a belly pushing over the
waistband of the jeans, the ankles and calves tight on skinny legs, wide black suspenders keeping them up, like your father.
"you can patch them" someone says
"yeah, ill mend them"
"isnt it sad that i thought i'd have these foreveer, that's so weird..."
they shrug.
An awful song comes on the stereo and your rooomate,
topless with a voice almost completely gone from screaming
starts in on the chorus, loudly, croaking along
he drops to his knees in the middle of the floor, two strands of gold chain
hang from his neck and tangle in his chest hair. Tan
arms outstretched eyes wide and wild, and hair askew, he sings at the cieling.
Another friend starts vogueing up and down the length of the room
and another roomate rummages for and finds a strobelight.
he plugs it in and darks the rest of the lights.
the strobe is irregular, it skips beats.
3 more people start dancing, and one lipsynchs along.
they perform for the three entangled on the couch,
a potential or wayward threesome of two men one woman,
a straight couple and their long time faggot friend,
half hugging half fighting.
your ex sits in the chair
by the broken window
cup of booze held tight to his chest
grinning.
you tried to sit on the arm of a chair
next to the broken window
in your living room, next to your exboyfriend
closely, closer than you've sat in a year
and your jeans tore silently, but you felt it,
under your right thigh near the crotch.
You say, "My jeans just ripped,"
Your ex nods, half in conversation
with a friend who sits on the couch,
pink teal and white crepe streamers
hang in bright loops from the cieling,
there's confetti on your shoe.
You reach between your legs and find the hole.
The denim there soft, it tears more as you finger
it.
You get up, a freshly full plastic cup
of ice whiskey and coffee in your right hand.
You approach a cluster of friends near the kitchen,
"My jeans just ripped"
"where?"
"right here between my legs" you touch the spot
"you can't see it"
someone says
"that sucks" and shrugs
"no" you say "I've had these jeans for 4 yours. They are
my favorite jeans they were $250"
"you spent $250 on jeans?"
"but they are great, they are french but they fit so good
and they are ripped. I was supposed to wear these jeans when i was forty"
You realize that you've always expected to have these jeans forever
you imagine yourself bloated greyed and slouched, a belly pushing over the
waistband of the jeans, the ankles and calves tight on skinny legs, wide black suspenders keeping them up, like your father.
"you can patch them" someone says
"yeah, ill mend them"
"isnt it sad that i thought i'd have these foreveer, that's so weird..."
they shrug.
An awful song comes on the stereo and your rooomate,
topless with a voice almost completely gone from screaming
starts in on the chorus, loudly, croaking along
he drops to his knees in the middle of the floor, two strands of gold chain
hang from his neck and tangle in his chest hair. Tan
arms outstretched eyes wide and wild, and hair askew, he sings at the cieling.
Another friend starts vogueing up and down the length of the room
and another roomate rummages for and finds a strobelight.
he plugs it in and darks the rest of the lights.
the strobe is irregular, it skips beats.
3 more people start dancing, and one lipsynchs along.
they perform for the three entangled on the couch,
a potential or wayward threesome of two men one woman,
a straight couple and their long time faggot friend,
half hugging half fighting.
your ex sits in the chair
by the broken window
cup of booze held tight to his chest
grinning.
Post a Comment