by tom miller

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5:50 p.m.
june 18, 1999

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it's been four days since my last entry.

not much has happened worthy of note.

i worked at my job, but i always do.

i read poetry on thursday at the civic media center,
but i always do.

i tried to get laid, but i always do.

i ate food, but i always do.

i drank alcohol, but i always do.

i wrote poetry and prose, but i always do.

i talked to boring people, but i always do.

i gave money to a street person, but i always do.

i masturbated, but i always do.

about the only thing i never do, ever, is cry.

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i got on my $10 dollar bike and went downtown.

i went into harry's restaurant.

i sat in my favorite seat, in the smoking section by the television.

i ordered the florida lobster. $21.95.

i read the paper and watched the t.v.

my food came, and i ate it.

i was alone there.

harry's used to be the only place where my x-boyfriend and i
would never fight. it was like sacred ground. a church of sorts.

i promised him once i would never take a date there with me.

i got up, and i left.

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it was pouring rain as i made my way to midtown and to the
civic media center.

there weren't many people there.

i lit up a smoke and had a conversation with a self described
farm worker who told me all about amway and how he was
going to begin selling his wares on the internet.

"i'm not religious about it, like some people," he said, "but
amway has made all the difference in my life. my wife lost her
job and we were in the sticks, but when amway came into my
life, everything changed. now, it's all i think about. but as i said,
i'm not a fanatic. i'm not religious about it at all."

"yeah," i said.

"so what do you do?" he asked.

"i'm a bartender."

"have you ever thought about amway?"

"no."

"it could save you," he said.

"oh, the reading's starting. let's go inside," i said.

i got away from him.

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there was a beautiful mexican young man sitting in the second row.

he was well dressed and seemed prepared to read poetry.

they called him up and he introduced the audience to a writer
named subcomandante marcos. he had written a children's story
with the financial assistance and support of the national endowment
for the arts. apparently, the n.e.a. withdrew their support for the
work when they found out the man was the leader of the zapatista
guerrillas in Mexico. ironically, the book was a based on a folk tale;
and it's about how the macaw got its colors; a reflection on the idea
that there are many colors or ideas in the world and a place for each
of them.

the mexican read from this book, and his voice was so beautiful to
listen to. he struggled with some of the words, and you got behind him.
"come on, you can say it. say it. we need to hear it," i thought. then,
in broken english, he got out the word and moved on to the next one.
obviously, well read and highly intelligent, there was something
immediate about him. perhaps a depth that i enviously admired. a
culture difficult for me to understand. and beauty; sexuality.

when he was finished, everyone politely applauded, but they always do.
you could get a lesbian up there with an out of tune guitar playing a
cover of freebird for eleven minutes, and they'd applaud. i'd leave, but
they'd applaud.

then, he said, "i have a surprise. i want everyone for to pick a number
between one and ten.

"seven!" somebody shouted. the mexican lad nodded his head no.

i looked him right in the eye. my mind locked on the number. i knew
i had it. "three!" i said.

"jes! das it!" he reached into his satchel and pulled out a red book marker.

there was a picture of subcomandante marcos on it. he was armed,
had rounds of ammo on a belt slung over his shoulder, had his face
wrapped up in a shroud, and was smoking a pipe. in short, he looked
like one of the sand people from star wars. and beneath the picture,
a quote.

"el mundo que queremos es uno
donde quepan muchos mundos."

then, the mexican read a poem of his own construction. it was written
in english. he struggled through his own poetry, but the words were
good. the poem was beautiful, complete with imagery, metaphor,
spiritualism, passion. damn, spanish! a romance language if ever
there was one. this handsome, beautiful, soft male form was
lifting me up; holding me; kissing me; making love to me with his voice.

polite applause from the audience.

then i read my work. a poem about cleaning my butthole. a poem about
a man squirting cum on his girlfriend and then rolling over to sleep.
a poem about rats. more shit. a poem about roaches.

enthusiastic applause from the small crowd.

even the mexican was cheering and smiling.

"this is so fucked up," i thought. "i have no depth. i have no passion.
i don't even know what a zapatista is or what they're fighting for. all i
know how to say in spanish is fuck you, my mother's a cow, and
she has 'em big for sundown.

i walked off the stage and over to the mexican. i was holding the book
marker in my hand.

"what does it mean?" i asked him.

"that one world is made of many smaller worlds," he said. he looked
me directly in the eyes. i looked at him. there was something like a pure moment. i
loved his humanity; he loved my shit poems. and i thought about
what it might be like to be his lover; spending nights in the moonlight;
drinking cafe con leche while he teaches me what it means to be
human; eating yucca and massaging one another; holding each other
as we dream.

"thank you," i said.

i left quickly and i didn't look back.

i had to get away because now i was picturing myself sucking his
mexican cock; fucking his mexican ass; shooting on his mexican neck.

and though he will probably remember my poems for the rest
of his life,

for the life of me,

i can't remember one fucking word he said.

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that night at work, my x-boyfriend came in. he was angry, but he
always is.

"hi, jamie," i said. "i'm sorry i haven't returned your messages, but..."

"just forget it!" he sniped. he paid and went into the club.

"oohoo hoo shit!" said kenny. "he got them evil eyes going on."

"seriously!" i replied. "man, it's like you don't know if he's gonna'
kiss you or kill you."

"you better watch out. he might throw another drink on you."

"if he does," i said, "he won't ever be able to do it again. i'll tell you
that."

later on in the evening, jamie stormed up the stairs and headed out
to the patio.

"jamie!" i called out. "what's up? why are you being so mean to me?
what did i do?"

"i'm in a bad mood," he said. "okay?"

"why?" i asked. "what's the matter?"

"my new boyfriend's a crack head. there! happy?" and he stomped
out the door.

i felt bad for him. i wanted things to work out.

there's too much pain in his life.

there's too much anger.

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yes, i was happy.

i'm ashamed to say, and maybe it's wrong; i was happy.

but then again, i always am.

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