Kristi is a poet, artist, and story teller, currently attending Naropa University's Masters program for Writing
and Poetics. She writes, finding her voice in the shadow of the mountain and realizing inspiration in touch,
and the landscapes of her own body and memory. Her work can be found in the upcoming issue of Monkey
Puzzle Press, on street corners, coffee houses, or scattered somewhere in the mountains, where she feels
most at home. She would like to thank everyone who has touched her, in some way, and who has left a mark
that she can now trace in ink.
and Poetics. She writes, finding her voice in the shadow of the mountain and realizing inspiration in touch,
and the landscapes of her own body and memory. Her work can be found in the upcoming issue of Monkey
Puzzle Press, on street corners, coffee houses, or scattered somewhere in the mountains, where she feels
most at home. She would like to thank everyone who has touched her, in some way, and who has left a mark
that she can now trace in ink.
Break Aside
She is walking, alone, in the dark. It is two, maybe three, something completely irrelevant, something that doesn't really matter.
She is holding a cigarette in her hand. She is wearing a short green dress and gold sequined heels. Her hair is sticking up in all
the wrong places. Her lip is split. Two of her nails have been ripped off. It makes holding a cigarette difficult.
"Damn," she thinks, and keeps walking.
I.
His name was James but that was not his real name. He told her to call her by his real name. Not the name of his birth but the
name of his re-birth.
"My name is Osiris," he said. "Call me Osiris."
"Why?" She asked and called him Jimmy as a compromise.
Jimmy only drank filtered water and Spanish wine. He had traveled the world and felt justified in calling himself enlightened.
Jimmy was convinced of his potential, and he found evidence of his genius, everywhere. He spoke with conviction. He was
centered and focused. He directed all his energy towards the future he was dreaming himself into -- a yoga studio, a house and
a car, a career at the investment firm, a six digit salary, and a quiet place where he could retreat and write and not be bothered
-- the life, he said, of a true artist.
"Really?" she asked, amused and unable to disguise her sarcasm.
"This is important," he said. "THIS is about me."
Jimmy dared her to disagree.
II.
She loved strange characters and drunk conversations that lasted until dawn. She never dreamed and insisted that sleep was a
complete waste of time. She had a phobia of locked doors and cold water.
She was a waitress at an Italian restaurant down the road. She scribbled haikus on her checks so her tables would remember
her:
Merlot corner table
Her lips are red
Red like the earth
At dawn.
Skin like porcelin
Cold. Cream?
No. You'll take your coffee
Black.
When Jimmy would come to pick her up, he would sit and wait in a corner.
She was never sure of his intentions. But she liked that about him. She liked his arrogance, his indifference to her, his complete
lack of shame.
Jimmy liked to watch her. He entertained her fascinations. She amused him. He liked the blind strength, the conviction, of her
innocence.
When they were alone, he whispered in her ear, "you are what would happen if God spent an hour on an etch-a-sketch."
"Thanks," she said, thought about it, and asked a minute later, "what does that mean?"
"If you treat a woman like a book, she'll read like a book."
"What?"
"With reverence," he added, "something worth having."
III.
He always called her at the worst times, when she was at work or in class -- she began to think he did it on purpose. He left
long messages on her answering machine -- five minutes of gibberish, baby sounds, a run-on of obscure words whose meaning
he was sure no one else could possibly know.
If her machine cut his line of thought short, he'd call back and continue, picking up right where he left off until he was completely
satisfied.
When she called back, hours later, he asked, "Do you know what hippopotomonstrous means?"
"No."
"It's the fear of big words."
"That's a funny thing to be afraid of."
He stopped.
"I want you to come over," he said, "I realized something today."
"What?"
"You care about me."
He hung up.
IV.
He drove the wrong way down a one way street and parked in the middle of the road. She was sitting on the curb. Jimmy told
her how happy he was to see her.
When she stepped into the car, he gave her a list of his favorite wines. Tonight they were going to the liquor store. They were
going to do things, like normal couples, like buy wine, and watch movies, and hold hands. He had a plan and was very happy
with himself for thinking of it.
But it was Sunday. The liquor store was closed, and he was very angry.
She hated him when he was angry.
"This is ridiculous," he said, waited and repeated, "this is ridiculous."
"You're silly," she said. His grip around her wrists tightened.
They went to the supermarket, as a compromise, to buy a few random things -- sponges, energy drinks, snacks for later.
He spent ten minutes in the detergent isle.
"Do you think the green stuff on a scotch brite is organic?" he asked.
"Why would it matter?"
"It can't be natural. Nothing that color is natural."
"It's green."
"You wouldn't understand," he said.
"Understand what?"
"I'm not mad at you for not understanding. But how do you expect to learn anything if you don't listen to me?"
They drove back to his apartment. He had to park across the street. All the spots in the parking lot were taken.
It was always little things that set him off.
He hit the steering wheel. "I'm mad," he said with conviction, "that makes me an asshole, doesn't it? I am an asshole, aren't I?"
"Sort of," she said.
"You're not supposed to agree with me," he whispered.
She laughed. She didn't know what else to say.
V.
His apartment was small but warm. She told him it felt like a home with all his things, his books, his clothes, lying on the floor.
"It's dirty," he reminded her, "sweetie, find your spot, please," while he made himself a snack.
She had a spot in his apartment, a place that he set aside just for her - a chair where she was supposed to sit, where she was
supposed to put her things, her purse, her scarf, her jacket, when she came over.
She never remembered. She hated the thought of being boxed in, of being confined to so small a space. She would spread her
self out, in corners, on the counter, on the table, on the floor.
He hated that about her.
She sat on the bed and watched as he assembled the various pieces of her and put them back where they belonged.
"Aren't you happy?" He asked her.
"About what?"
"That you're with me. I'm not afraid to express what I feel," he wrapped his hands around her back and pushed down. "How
many men have you been with who can say that?"
She said nothing.
VI.
She remembered.
Jimmy had called himself a Yogi. He was obsessed with the legend of himself and he embellished that self with big words he
imagined into reality. It was his right, he claimed, as a poet to re-write himself. Just for her.
But when she committed him to memory, she remembered that he was tall, strong, confident. He smiled, even when he was
upset, even when he was frustrated, even when he was angry. He smelled like spice and chai. He told her stories about Tibet
and India and Africa. He told her that he loved her mind, her imagination.
He told her that she looked like a ballerina, like a fairy. He called her his muse.
That was the part she remembered, the part she loved about him.
Still, she could never bring herself to call him by his real name.
VII.
On his bed, he told her she was weightless. Like a little bird. Something precious. Something easily broken. He told her she was
built for him to love.
He grabbed her hand. He wouldn't let go.
He said, "slow and hard. I'll give it to you."
Slow.
Hard.
"Pretend," he said, "pretend not to like it."
Black Out
She is walking.
It's cold. There is a storm coming. A blanket of clouds wraps around the hills. The leaves brush across the concrete, rolling
over her toes, like crinkled tissue paper. The wind is sharp. The trees bend in shadows. A lamp on the curb flickers.
Her shoulders are bare and she can't stop shivering. She left her jacket, somewhere in his apartment and she is not going back
to get it.
"Fuck it."
She is walking, alone, in the dark. It is two, maybe three, something completely irrelevant, something that doesn't really matter.
She is holding a cigarette in her hand. She is wearing a short green dress and gold sequined heels. Her hair is sticking up in all
the wrong places. Her lip is split. Two of her nails have been ripped off. It makes holding a cigarette difficult.
"Damn," she thinks, and keeps walking.
I.
His name was James but that was not his real name. He told her to call her by his real name. Not the name of his birth but the
name of his re-birth.
"My name is Osiris," he said. "Call me Osiris."
"Why?" She asked and called him Jimmy as a compromise.
Jimmy only drank filtered water and Spanish wine. He had traveled the world and felt justified in calling himself enlightened.
Jimmy was convinced of his potential, and he found evidence of his genius, everywhere. He spoke with conviction. He was
centered and focused. He directed all his energy towards the future he was dreaming himself into -- a yoga studio, a house and
a car, a career at the investment firm, a six digit salary, and a quiet place where he could retreat and write and not be bothered
-- the life, he said, of a true artist.
"Really?" she asked, amused and unable to disguise her sarcasm.
"This is important," he said. "THIS is about me."
Jimmy dared her to disagree.
II.
She loved strange characters and drunk conversations that lasted until dawn. She never dreamed and insisted that sleep was a
complete waste of time. She had a phobia of locked doors and cold water.
She was a waitress at an Italian restaurant down the road. She scribbled haikus on her checks so her tables would remember
her:
Merlot corner table
Her lips are red
Red like the earth
At dawn.
Skin like porcelin
Cold. Cream?
No. You'll take your coffee
Black.
When Jimmy would come to pick her up, he would sit and wait in a corner.
She was never sure of his intentions. But she liked that about him. She liked his arrogance, his indifference to her, his complete
lack of shame.
Jimmy liked to watch her. He entertained her fascinations. She amused him. He liked the blind strength, the conviction, of her
innocence.
When they were alone, he whispered in her ear, "you are what would happen if God spent an hour on an etch-a-sketch."
"Thanks," she said, thought about it, and asked a minute later, "what does that mean?"
"If you treat a woman like a book, she'll read like a book."
"What?"
"With reverence," he added, "something worth having."
III.
He always called her at the worst times, when she was at work or in class -- she began to think he did it on purpose. He left
long messages on her answering machine -- five minutes of gibberish, baby sounds, a run-on of obscure words whose meaning
he was sure no one else could possibly know.
If her machine cut his line of thought short, he'd call back and continue, picking up right where he left off until he was completely
satisfied.
When she called back, hours later, he asked, "Do you know what hippopotomonstrous means?"
"No."
"It's the fear of big words."
"That's a funny thing to be afraid of."
He stopped.
"I want you to come over," he said, "I realized something today."
"What?"
"You care about me."
He hung up.
IV.
He drove the wrong way down a one way street and parked in the middle of the road. She was sitting on the curb. Jimmy told
her how happy he was to see her.
When she stepped into the car, he gave her a list of his favorite wines. Tonight they were going to the liquor store. They were
going to do things, like normal couples, like buy wine, and watch movies, and hold hands. He had a plan and was very happy
with himself for thinking of it.
But it was Sunday. The liquor store was closed, and he was very angry.
She hated him when he was angry.
"This is ridiculous," he said, waited and repeated, "this is ridiculous."
"You're silly," she said. His grip around her wrists tightened.
They went to the supermarket, as a compromise, to buy a few random things -- sponges, energy drinks, snacks for later.
He spent ten minutes in the detergent isle.
"Do you think the green stuff on a scotch brite is organic?" he asked.
"Why would it matter?"
"It can't be natural. Nothing that color is natural."
"It's green."
"You wouldn't understand," he said.
"Understand what?"
"I'm not mad at you for not understanding. But how do you expect to learn anything if you don't listen to me?"
They drove back to his apartment. He had to park across the street. All the spots in the parking lot were taken.
It was always little things that set him off.
He hit the steering wheel. "I'm mad," he said with conviction, "that makes me an asshole, doesn't it? I am an asshole, aren't I?"
"Sort of," she said.
"You're not supposed to agree with me," he whispered.
She laughed. She didn't know what else to say.
V.
His apartment was small but warm. She told him it felt like a home with all his things, his books, his clothes, lying on the floor.
"It's dirty," he reminded her, "sweetie, find your spot, please," while he made himself a snack.
She had a spot in his apartment, a place that he set aside just for her - a chair where she was supposed to sit, where she was
supposed to put her things, her purse, her scarf, her jacket, when she came over.
She never remembered. She hated the thought of being boxed in, of being confined to so small a space. She would spread her
self out, in corners, on the counter, on the table, on the floor.
He hated that about her.
She sat on the bed and watched as he assembled the various pieces of her and put them back where they belonged.
"Aren't you happy?" He asked her.
"About what?"
"That you're with me. I'm not afraid to express what I feel," he wrapped his hands around her back and pushed down. "How
many men have you been with who can say that?"
She said nothing.
VI.
She remembered.
Jimmy had called himself a Yogi. He was obsessed with the legend of himself and he embellished that self with big words he
imagined into reality. It was his right, he claimed, as a poet to re-write himself. Just for her.
But when she committed him to memory, she remembered that he was tall, strong, confident. He smiled, even when he was
upset, even when he was frustrated, even when he was angry. He smelled like spice and chai. He told her stories about Tibet
and India and Africa. He told her that he loved her mind, her imagination.
He told her that she looked like a ballerina, like a fairy. He called her his muse.
That was the part she remembered, the part she loved about him.
Still, she could never bring herself to call him by his real name.
VII.
On his bed, he told her she was weightless. Like a little bird. Something precious. Something easily broken. He told her she was
built for him to love.
He grabbed her hand. He wouldn't let go.
He said, "slow and hard. I'll give it to you."
Slow.
Hard.
"Pretend," he said, "pretend not to like it."
Black Out
She is walking.
It's cold. There is a storm coming. A blanket of clouds wraps around the hills. The leaves brush across the concrete, rolling
over her toes, like crinkled tissue paper. The wind is sharp. The trees bend in shadows. A lamp on the curb flickers.
Her shoulders are bare and she can't stop shivering. She left her jacket, somewhere in his apartment and she is not going back
to get it.
"Fuck it."
Kristi Yorks
