Girl of the Twenty First Century/Wannabe Socialite

14 of 365

14 of 365

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

I decided to buy the flowers myself this morning.

Nothing special, just a few colored roses. Yellow,

white, a red one, and some pink. None of those

tacky turquoise ones, anyone that gets those doesn’t

understand the point. I woke up early and went

out for coffee, because all we had was instant.

On most days that’s fine, but I wanted to enjoy

myself this morning. I didn’t wear anything special,

but the other morning-people still stared at me.

As if I was wearing something grand. I’ve never

understood but you know, you get used to it.

The air was cold, still the sun was bright. The

coffee really wasn’t much better than the freeze

dried shit we had, but it felt nice to tell the

barista to have a good day after they wished

me one. I walked with the flowers peeking out

of my backpack and I thought about how I wished

you were behind me. To catch me, as if I were

a shot from Italian Vogue. Slightly sepia toned.

You’d see the flowers later, next to my bed side

table, and we’d both know they’d die soon but

for the moment, they were still alive. Still in bloom.

13 of 365

13 of 365

The Smell of Rain in Carroll Gardens

The scent of rain is different in Carroll Gardens.

It isn’t sweet, like at the cemetery on the lush grass where

my parents lay under the tree that grows next to them.

It isn’t cold, like the desolate hills of Binghamton, NY.

Or like the drowning worms who hurry to the concrete

of the suburbs, just to shrivel up and leave their mark when

 the sun comes back out. Little kids squishing their remains

as they run by in their light-up sketchers and sweatpants.

The scent of the rain in Carroll Gardens, smells like Emmylou

Harris and garbage juice. Overpriced salads and trash cans

that are filled with free trade coffee grinds. Pizza places with

 $10 card minimums, and brownstones with curb appeal.

The scent of the rain in Carroll Gardens, isn’t anything like

when I’d drive around after a heavy downpour. With my

blue Volvo station wagon’s windows down listening to Top 40.

Nothing like the smell of the lace curtain blowing inwards

as Mom frantically ran around cranking the windows open.

The scent of the rain in Carroll Gardens may be different,

but the light of the golden hour after the sky opens up

is the same. The sky is always bluer, and the street is

always slicker. People smile more, and my hands get

clammy. From the humidity and from thinking about

what the rain smells like to you, wherever you are.

12 of 365

12 of 365

Be My Valentine

The only Valentine’s I ever got were from the kids

in my elementary school classes, and my dad.

We’d go to the dollar store and pick out a pack of

cards, I usually chose Scooby Doo, and Kit-Kats bars.

The rule was you had to make enough for the whole class,

 and I’d always draw hearts on the ones for the boys.

I’d write one for everyone, Brian Bylicki, Jen Doumas,

Marianna, and the boys I knew I wanted to kiss someday.

Then on Valentine’s Day I’d wake up and Mom would help

me choose something red to wear. With lil hearts on it.

I always hated the sweatpants with the elastic on the ankles.

I don’t know why, I hated them but Mom always put me in them.

I’d go down to watch Good Morning America and eat my slightly

burnt Eggos or Pop Tarts but on the table, would be my Valentine.

Dad always got us our Valentines’ day gifts. A card, a rose, and

chocolate for the girls. A card, and double chocolate for me.

I always wanted a rose, but boys didn’t get roses I guess. I still

don’t get roses from boys, but I buy the flowers myself these days.

11 of 365

11 of 365

Good Tomatoes Are Hard to Find

I hate those days, when you’re waiting for his text.

Those days where you don’t know where you stand.

I hate those days when your sandwich is bland,

because they don’t grow good tomatoes anymore.

Those days, when you get into your favorite outfit,

and you sit and check his social media to see if he’s coming.

Those days when you think about making guacamole,

but the tomatoes, which are firm, just have no taste.

Those days where he tells you that something came up.

Those days he promises you’ll meet again soon.

Good tomatoes are hard to find. The grocery stores only

care that they have a long shelf life, not that they have taste.

Good men are harder to find. But you still take them

home, even though they don’t taste as good as they should.

I still pick up a thing of tomatoes on the vine but they don’t

taste anything like the ones Mom would grow in the Summer.

The ones she’d slave over every year. With the wire cages

and the weeding and all the other bullshit that came with it.

But once they were grown, they’d sit on the window sill. We’d

just cut off a slice for a sandwich and our mouths would water.

When the Summer would be coming to an end, she’d start

to make her sauce and stuff pasta shells with ricotta cheese.

But those days are long gone, and now its all bland tomatoes

and men that don’t stand up to my Mother’s tomato sauce.

10 of 365

10 of 365

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

I think about love too much.

I think about boys and I used

to think about a skin head,

in England, who would bruise

me and call me ‘faggot’ in bed.

Then I started thinking about

‘the cowboys’ and the ‘John Waynes.’

I thought about making them

chili in the winter, and at night

he’d keep me warm because

my window is drafty and

my feet get cold. We’d drink

beer and I’d tell him about my

Mom and he would let me cry.

I’d keep our cabin in Brooklyn

clean and he’d pay the bills.

I’d wear fewer new dresses

and more aprons. He’d wear

Carhartt and jumpsuits,

and we’d appropriate

Middle American culture,

he’d be my Dan and I’d be his

Roseanne. We’d get fat as time

went on, and I’d pick up my parent’s

habits. I’d drink too much beer like

my Dad and I’d drink too much

Smirnoff like my Mom. One day

he’d come home and see my blood

stained sheets, and our kids would

have to smell death way too often.
 

I think about love too much, and now

I can’t get the cowboys out of my head,

just like how I couldn’t get the punks out.

I think about where they have all gone,

and I think about how I want to find

love on Grindr but know I can’t. I think

about love too much, and I think about—

you. I’d like to think about myself more, but

I can’t stop thinking about you.

The proverbial you, I haven’t met

yet and I’m not sure I’m ready to.

9 of 365

9 of 365

Can you switch positions? I think my dad is watching.

I think a lot about if my Dad watches as men spit on my face,

when I sit on my knees at men’s feet and beg for their dicks.

I wonder if he was there the first time, I asked a man to

fill me with his cum, or the first time a man asked me to call

him “Daddy.” I wasn’t sure how to tell him that my Dad is dead.

When I took too long to answer, he slapped me across the face

and made me call him “Daddy” and I thought “are you watching this, Dad?”

Does he watch when men hold me to sleep, or buy me dinner? Or does he

only watch when I let them beat me, and degrade me because I’ve

been a bad boy or any alternative to how they want to say it.

8 of 365

8 of 365

You’re Not Allowed to Listen to Patsy Cline

My mom and I used to listen to Patsy Cline,

in the back yard when she’d do her gardening,

or when she’d lay out by the pond. I’d lay out

with her, with my SPF 50 and we’d listen to Patsy

sing about how crazy she was for loving him.

My mom and I used to listen to Patsy Cline,

when I was a mama’s boy and I didn’t want to

play catch with dad. She’d keep me safe by her

side and she’d even put a clear coat on my nails

so I would feel special like my sisters with their

nails painted. She’d hum “you belong to me”

and I’d close my eyes and nap in the long days.

My mom and I used to listen to Patsy Cline,

when the sun was bright and the days felt

like they’d never end, but those days did

come to an end and now you’re listening to

Patsy and I’m going to need to ask you to stop.

Patsy belongs to me and my mom, and I can’t

let you take that from me. I’m sorry. You can have

everything else, but not Patsy. Please not Patsy.

7 of 365

7 of 365

The Coffee is Brewing, but You’re Not Here to Have Any

The coffee is brewing, but you’re not here to have any.

You don’t come over anymore, and you don’t leave your mug

by my bedside table when you leave in the morning.

You don’t text me saying “miss you” an hour after you’ve left

and you don’t say baby in that voice I liked.

Now the coffee brews, and I sit alone and I still make a pot

big enough for two. I sit and listen to old country songs

by women who croon for their men. They make love sound

so sad. Patsy wails, that she’s crazy for trying, crazy for crying

and I think I was crazy for loving you. I don’t think I want to

love as much as I used to, but I’ll still make a pot for two.

Just to be safe, incase you come to have a mug with me.

6 of 365

6 of 365

Please Curb Your Tree

Everyone’s curbing their trees.

Once covered in lights, and tinsel

now sprinkled with my dog’s piss.

Except my dog squats, he doesn’t lift

his leg so he doesn’t get the branches

too wet. Please curb your dogs, they say

but does that mean just leave their shit

there? If you ask me, that doesn’t imply

you have to pick it up. So Duke and I don’t

feel so bad when we run away, leaving

your Christmas tree and our shit by the

side of the road. You have a problem,

you can send your complaints to

faguette@faguette.com, otherwise

leave us be. Duke is cold and my outfit

is too expensive to be picking up dog shit.

5 of 365

5 of 365

This one is for you, Dad.

I’m sorry I don’t talk to you as much.

I’ve never really known how.

For Mom, its easy. All I need to do

is howl at the moon and she’s there.

But I just wanted to let you know

that I wore your old cabbies hat,

and so many people smiled at me

yesterday. At the grocery store, while

I picked up a chicken to roast, more

on that later, the cashier said in that

hat my eyes look almost “alabaster.”

I thought about how your eyes looked

almost alabaster at times, and how you

used to be blonde like me. How you’d

tease me and say I wouldn’t be blonde

forever, but you know, I’ve learned how

to buy hair dye. Did you watch, as I roasted

that chicken last night? I don’t know how

death works, maybe you’ve also noticed

that? I’ve been trapped in a cycle of

nothingness, but roasting that chicken

and picking at the carcass for hours

made me feel warm. I realized we weren’t

as different as I may have thought. So I’m

sorry. That I don’t talk to you as often, and

it doesn’t mean I don’t miss you as much as

Mom. I don’t know. Maybe I was angrier at

you, or maybe the opposite but I’m sorry.

This one is for you, Dad.

A man I realized, made me a man.

A man that I see when I look in the mirror.

A man I miss just as much as I miss her.