I’m standing in line at a McDonald’s, it’s close to eight on a rainy Tuesday night in Autumn. There’s this air-conditioner maintenance thing I’m supposed to manage at the office tonight, hence my punching in at the Bernie Goetz shift. And I have a sore throat.

There’s a family of eight before me, about to get serviced by the clerk. Odin the Allfather is scolding the hyperactive Loki and Thor, both about age seven to eight. The elder tells his sibling of this four-armed witch, wearing for an unspecified reason, a T-shirt with Souvenir from Chernobyl written on it. For the oddest of reasons the kid knows Chernobyl but can’t for the life of him get the pronunciation right on “McTasty”.

He should be talking of Fukushima instead. He should be having the Quarter Pound.

The twentieth century continues to haunt us like a dire wraith but it kinda doesn’t change a thing tonight. I haven’t even started yet and I so wanna go home and sleep tight under the comforter with Cybill by my side.


Vice (for Supergirl's girlfriend, L.L.)

Dear Lyla, what can I say?
I have just finished reading Ex Machina yes, after all those years.

You told me of it in 2006 with our skins painted in a watercolor of moonlight and sweat the very same night you changed my life forever. I started reading it a few months later. In fact, I read the first chapter the day I moved in to my new-slash-own apartment.
Six years later I have finally made to the last part. I wish I could talk to you, I so dearly wish you could hear me now, read this, this is the ONE post I'd actually walk a thousand miles over boiling lava just to make sure you'd read. I wish I could e-mail you right now, friend you on Facebook. But I can't, there's no sense in that, too many rules have changed, the three of us have changed: Mitchell Hundred, the protagonist, has changed. You have changed. God only knows the directions I chose to walk my hundred miles.

Still, you changed my life forever six years ago. I wish I could go back, just for a split second, to feel your skin against mine, to taste that very last drop of your sweat and what it will always smell of to me, just to tell you this one thing that will remain unsaid for eternity, that has perhaps long lost its meaning.

But everything's so different now. Everything's changed. We've all changed so much, the mere intention of ever going back sounds ludicrous at its best, like lucid dreaming at its worst.

In my vain pretense of looking back tonight, Lyla, I expected to see you, but the only thing I found was myself, six years ago, drenched alone in moonlight and sweat, waiting for the Monday morning Sun to finally come up past the skyline of derelict old apartment buildings, over the city, and towards a tomorrow I could never have planned ahead.


Old Books (a poem)

The perfume of getting

soaked wet by Summer rain

drying you up like dusty

parchment, crackling you

up like ancient leather,

murdering you in baby steps

like a lover's rose,

the aftertaste of a smile

or the consequence of an

open window

-- before fading to brown.


Joss Whedon loves comic books more than I do

And in a surprising turn of events, it turns out Joss Whedon loves comic books even more than I do. Wow.