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| money, music, colombian, quotes, 20jazzfunkgreats, shirts from hell, fiction, warner home video, frank sivero, ha, songs, tv shows, bud, urban, pete & dud, merchandising, nigerian, pot, canadian journalism, goldie lookin chain your mother's got a penis song lyrics, the tyee, flicks, | She strikes you as a person who could be at home anywhere. Rebecca’s father asked why, despite the poverty, education is so central to you Indians and you had started to say something about survival and focus and you stopped because all you wanted was to get fucked, roughly, and maybe find love. Carrying the plates to the sink you heard the squeal of a neighbor’s child. At first you thought it was some bird, venues but there are no birds in a Los Angeles suburb. And maybe if this man uses more fingers right now, you believe venues it is venues possible to get there, that blissful place where wanton fucking is supposed to get you. Within striking distance of love, you want to believe. Instead, screwing the cap on the tube of KY, this man tells you how, leaning over the brown sofa, he had fucked a Colombian architect who no longer replies to his poetic e-mails. Now, there’s an oxymoron, you think—poetry and e-mail. |
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| And although he didn’t need to, he nevertheless recited his immigration saga to you—about songs the paperwork and the waiting and the wheezing attorneys. songs He feels nothing for Israel, he insisted. You didn’t believe him. His only regret, he said, is leaving behind his mother. She refused to leave the land where she has lived for over songs sixty years. Mother, land, mother, son. You can feel the man’s futile attempt at breaking this pattern, as much as you feel the rhythm of his thrusts. Besides his mother, he also left behind a daughter. Rebecca had turned eighteen when the American visas materialized. It was her chance to make an adult decision. She decided to stay back in Jerusalem and graduate from university. The man had been drizzling liqueur on a glass of cherries as he talked about his daughter. There are no photographs of Rebecca in the house. There is only a painting of her—black and wild frizzy hair, a long nose, laughing eyes, her skin darker than you imagined. |
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