Laundry List
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Amy Herschleb
woke up startled by a loose metaphor crawling around the bed, roach or mouse, woke up thinking “who’s in my bed?” oh. this bitch. bad blood in these sheets that may or may not smell like sloppy joes (I won’t get into it) add them to the lists of Things That Must Be Washed, Things That Must Be Checked For Stains, and Things, Regardless we’re not friends: we’re rivals high self esteem but easily led astray, and I don’t mean by the hair of a maiden. you can tie the unicorn up and haul it home with the shirt off your own damned back. cotton is a resilient fiber, unlike meat, which you may pound until it howls and chews the pillow. my housemate doesn’t know I cook, comes home to pots boiling. this is what I call reverse tapioca: boil five minutes, then cool rapidly in an ice bath. the water seethes pink & lace. you make panty pudding your way, and I’ll make it mine. a decade of underwear on the clothesline, these I may someday need, these I wear, generally, these I stopped wearing so I could hang them on the wall and consider problems of art, of artifice, of home-decorating, of hygiene.
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there are places around town I should probably wear underwear, or long pants, like the coffee shop. or the bar. what is the incidence of Yes and No at either of these, anyway. Things On Which The Stain Is Indelible: my bridesmaid’s dress, my leg, my pride, my chief internal organ.
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the Principle of Adornment states: (and I do not quote, I don’t give a hot damn for accuracy or hurt feelings) or better, the Principle of Hurt Feelings states: everyone who cares how they are dressed will be better-dressed according to how much they care, and how badly they are hurt.
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These Things Are Not Reciprocal: how much I love to fuck and how much you love to fuck me. and when you know what I mean, the whole sky will light up like the interior of the laundromat where we used to spend Monday nights in Eagle Rock.
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