It IS a Small World After All.

I had an interesting moment at my work today.

I work a 9-to-5 at a desk in an accounting department. The details of what I actually do are not really important and I don’t like to talk about them too much because I know my name has gotten googled more than once by some of the people my company works with.

Anywhoo, I share an office with a great guy who is about 55 and has a couple college-age kids and our office connects to my accounting department boss’s office. He’s probably about the same age.

Because of the industry we’re in, sometimes we have outside agents drop by to bring in paperwork/ask for money. Well one of those guys happened to drop by today and he was in talking to my accounting department boss (I also have an Operations boss, which is why I keep making that distinction) and I could hear snippets of their conversation over the Prince that was playing Pandora-style in my ears and I realized that I was the only native born American in this situation.

The guy I share an office with is from the Philippines originally, my accounting department boss is Irish and the outside sales guy is from West Africa.

It gave me a moment of pause and my frantic fingers grew less frantic on the keyboard and I just thought about it for a moment.

I am a big fan of this whole melting pot idea and while I come across as cynical and unimpressed all the time, I really am a sap for the whole idea of America. Not the idea that the founding fathers had (do you wanta live in a loose affiliation of agrarian states with a weak centralized government? ‘cause I sure as hell don’t) and not the idea that the Regan-ites had of America as a gleaming beacon of righteousness and not even the idea that John Winthrop had when he imagined a Puritan city upon a hill.

What I like is the idea that America is a place that was built by the people in it, the people that came here to be part of it. And yeah, one can say that America was stolen (which it was) from the native Americans who were here first, but you know what? I know about that whole land-bridge-from-Asia thing, you guys stumbled ass backward onto this continent just like the rest of us.

But am I straying from the point?
Yes, a bit.

The point is that I felt heartened by the fact that three quarters of us in that office at that moment today were from other places and here we all were going about our lives, trying to get through our day, working together (more or less).

So look, I know that this all is starting to sound a little we-are-the-world at the moment, but stick with me …

I like this place, I like this country that lets people in, that lets people adopt it as their own. I like this place. The guy I share an office with is good at his job, he is thoughtful and genuine and he is a good person (probably a better person than me) and his being in this country has made it better. And the same goes for the others in that little accounting department office today.

What a strange and amazing place this is that we have built, this odd country composed entirely of people from someplace else. And you know what? I have done less than those other guys in the office today. I once moved from the middle of California to the bottom of California. These other guys crossed oceans (literally, crossed oceans) to be in that office this afternoon, and they did it because there existed in them some kind of hope, some kind of faith, that this weird place called America maybe belonged to them too.

We have spent about 230 years telling the world what this country is and it turns out, we never really had to. This isn’t a nation that belongs to its history, at least not in the way that other nations do. This is a country that is constantly renewing its history, constantly writing and rewriting it. And I like that about this place.

And look, I live in a part of town where when I drive to work I drive past the guys waiting on the corner hoping to get picked up to mow somebody’s yard, and I grew up in a place that simply couldn’t function without an off-the-books labor-force of people willing to do excrutiating, backbreaking work (you try picking strawberries for a day) for too low pay. So maybe I’m a little more liberal than a lot of others, but I appreciate this country for what it did for me and what it continues to do for others.

I’m not so naïve that I’m ignoring our faults (of which we have very, very, very many) or our awful, nasty, filthy, unforgivable history (or which we have very, very, very much), but just for a moment today I had this interesting moment that made me love this place very much. And I am banking it. So that the next time I see that Arizona is trying to take away the citizenship of naturally born American citizens (children of illegal immigrants) or the next time I see the latent racism of those Obama-as-Hitler bumper stickers (there are a surprisingly large number in Southern California), I will just go to my happy place from this afternoon.

It was quite a happy place.

With all that said, I will now return to my default position: the nihilistic, hyper-ironic mockery of everything (but thanks for listening).

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Jessica Alba Naked.

I just had a revelation!

So Blogger (the free blog site that this here website is built on top of) has this thing where you can go look at how many people have read your blog and what posts and what countries they are from and other fun (but privacy-protecting) stuff like that.

Well! I just realized that when I click on the “stats” thing, it automatically displays statistics for the current week! ONLY THE CURRENT WEEK! That makes me so happy because in the past when I have clicked on this thing (which I try not to do) I thought that it was readership statistics FOREVER!

I know, right?

So this whole time I have been thinking that this whole damn blog has only been looked at by the world like 12 times or whatever, but it turns out that it has been looked at 12 times this week! I dare not click on the button that displays stats for “All Time”.

This is so exciting.

Not that it justifies – in any way, shape or form – the amount of time I spend bent over this computer working on this blog, but it is nice to know that you care, the world.

Oh!

Also, there is a cute little map of the world that lights up when someone from a given country looks at this blog (I’m talking to you, dude in Saudi Arabia who must have accidentally gotten lost here looking for naked pictures of Jessica Alba) so if any of you are going to like China or Siberia soon, check in with us here at Standardkink so that those countries will light up! Also, Australia or Brazil would be good (I’m trying to get as much acreage as I can)!

Holy shit! Somebody in South Korea is on here RIGHT NOW!
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Christmas Haiku!

Well folks, they can’t all be winners.


Some Christmas (Haiku) Thoughts
by james bezerra


Too much Christmas food
makes me feel like a Hobbit:
short, fat and awkward.

I ate pie and cake,
potatoes, candy, beef and
washed it down with wine.

Perhaps this is why
Santa is such a fatty.
Or is he obese?

No one thinks to ask
what Santa wants for Christmas.
Maybe a Bow-Flex?

The man has the time
to shape up, he only works
the one day each year.

That’s a decent gig,
and obviously he’s got
some magic, that helps.

Have we looked into
the source of Santa’s magic?
Is it hope? Joy? Meth?

I don’t really want
an underemployed meth head
in my house at night.


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SpongeBob Square Pants in China.

Thanks Mr. William B. esquire for showing me this.

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Anarchists: Still Willing to Pay Postage.

I know that I shouldn’t be, but I’m kinda tickled by the fact that Anarchists are bombing stuff. I mean, I know … I know, it is not funny that people are getting body parts blown off, but … come on! Anarchists!

Is there anything more patently, self-servingly silly than grown up anarchists?

(There is, BTW: grown up nihilists)

I just wanta be all like, “Hey anarchists! Good job using the postal system to distribute your bombs! Also, rock on with that whole targeting-the-Swiss thing. THAT will teach everybody a lesson! I can totally hear all world governments beginning to topple!”

Catch up on the latest anarchist developments in letter bombs here.

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Yeah, This is Real.

So do you enjoy having your mind blown open?
I’m not a particularly techie guy, but even I found this to be the coolest little bit of technology since they invented that USB incense burner.





Thanks to Mike the Director for sending this.

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New Short Story!

Below is a new piece of writing. It is just an exercise really. Just some words and some ideas and some characters and not a lot of story, all brewed up together. Dark and sweet, like really good chocolate.

Enjoy.




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Red, And.

Red, And.
by james bezerra


She was wearing something gray.

It was a gray skirt that hung loose around her legs, the way that she had them crossed that way. And a ribbed gray top with three-quarter sleeves, not quite as dark as the loose skirt. And red shoes. Red and with a strap over her foot. And with clunky, squarish heels.

And I wanted to breeze up to her table and say, “We should have an affair.”

And she would maybe run her fingers through her straight golden hair and maybe shake it out so it would catch the light coming through the dirty café window like ripples on a sunset ocean, and she would probably just laugh a little and her thick clunky bracelets would rattle a little and she might say something back like, “Do I know you?” But what she might really mean is, “Why not?”

But I don’t breeze up to her just then and I don’t say that to her and she doesn’t laugh and shake her hair and her hair doesn’t catch fire like dust flakes too close to the sun.

But I do look at her and she does see me looking at her and I don’t look away when she sees me. And neither does she. So there we are. She isn’t flirting and neither am I. So here we are. Looking at each other.

And it isn’t lusty or haughty, the way that she’s looking at me.

Maybe just a little haughty.

And I don’t think that there’s any lust in the way that I’m looking at her. Or, at least not too much lust. A little lust is good. What woman who owns shoes like those doesn’t want to get looked at with at least a little bit of lust – be it respectfully looked at – by an attractive stranger.

Though I’m not that attractive.

Attractive enough I guess.

I dress well.

Or try.

I know who makes her shoes, so there is more than just lust to this long look I’m giving her across this café. There’s admiration in it too. And maybe that’s why she is curious. Not quite sure if I’m gay. Not quite sure if I’m looking at the silky fabric of her billowy skirt because I want it or because I want to take it off of her.

The truth is, both.

Really.

I feel like I’m in drag when I’m dressed as a man. Though I am a man. And though I do dress in drag – just a little - it doesn’t feel that way when I do. Usually.

So perhaps she is holding this look this long because she’s trying to define a curious glint in my eye. The way a chef might pause and linger over a brand new flavor. And maybe I’m that new flavor.

She carefully smoothes down the fabric of her skirt along the tops of her thighs, though she doesn’t look down as she’s doing it. I don’t know if this is some kind of calming, self-securing gesture for her, or if it is something for me. Something for me to see, to witness. Some act of innocent self-touching that is otherwise innocuous here in the café. Some quick, secret-code of eroticism that only she and I have the key to; a coded message on a radio band that only we know to listen for.

And I sip the last from my tiny cup of coffee. Espresso, it actually is. I dislike the taste, but enjoy drinking from the tiny cups, so do.

Just like she must actually hate walking in those red shoes, but does.

Finally she smiles a little smile. Just a white flicker of her teeth beneath a tight-lipped smirk. She looks back at her table, back at her friends, who have been talking to her this whole time, unaware that she and I just had a curious moment.

They’re unaware that I just imagined the person who is her and that she just imagined the person who would be me. Her friends are unaware that we just saw each other and mapped one another and assessed one another. And they’re unaware that so many imagined moments just passed between us. But not between us, they passed separately about us. That she wondered how my voice sounds and what my little bit of stubble feels like. On her cheek. And I wondered how the skin of her shoulders feels, what her hands are like. I wondered about talking to her and what I would say, who I would suddenly be once I spoke to her. If I would be funny, if I would be droll. Or maybe I would be serious, calm. Cool. Maybe I would be the man who can wear this suit and inhabit it without trying to. Without knowing that he’s wearing the very smallest of women’s panties under these slacks. Or maybe I would be the man who could do that without wondering what she would think, what she would say when she unzipped these slacks. Maybe I would be the man who became sexier to her simply because I wear them. And maybe she would make a small noise, pull away from our kissing, from my mouth and from my tongue and she would look down at them – the silky red peeking out of these open slacks - and decide that she liked me this way, “Sure,” she might say, and then return her mouth to my mouth and quickly and simply slide her fingers beneath the flimsy red fabric that covers me. Maybe she would feel me and I would feel harder and bigger and more impressive to her because the coarseness of my skin causes a delicious kind of contrast against the feminine silk I wear.

And perhaps – I had thought this about her – my hand might slide up her calf, up her knee, up along the inside of her thigh, my thumb might hook the hem of her skirt and hitch it up, drag it up as my hand slid up along leg, up along that softest part of her thigh, until my fingers were there pressed between her thighs and she might wiggle a little there in the booth where she sat in this café, might wiggle a little so that she could part her thighs a little so that my fingertips could just brush the breath-thin fabric of her own panties. And I might pull her skirt up higher; that light, loose fabric bunching up around her hips and I would see that hers – small and dainty and delicate – were the same color underwear as mine. And I would look at her and she would laugh a little laugh and shake out her straight golden hair and it would sparkle and I would kiss her softly on her neck and she would feel the coarseness of my little bit of stubble on her cheek.

But of course not. This was just what she imagined of me – or, possibly, what I imagined of her – during that long look, before she turned back to her friends.
Before she turned back to the people she actually knew and the life that she actually lived, and thereby closed off all of the possibilities of all the lives that she didn’t lead. And just like that I passed away, passed out beyond some event horizon of her possibility. But maybe, just maybe, I stuck there, ever-expanding along the rim of the black hole of her forsaken possibilities. Stretching like a beam of light toward that dark center, never really disappearing, just slowing and more slowly and more slowly ceasing to exist in any relevant way.

And part of me liked this. About her. About me. About the fact that that long moment of ours would never really cease to exist because it had never really existed in the first place. And the moment of her unzipping me, of seeing me, of accepting me, of liking it, of liking me, of enjoying the red fabric along the back of her hand while my skin was on her fingertips, that moment when she did better than not caring, that moment when she cared and liked it. That moment doesn’t go away for me. We shared that, whether she ever knows it or not.

I replace my empty little espresso cup on its little saucer. I fold up my paper. I fold it in half and put it under my arm. I leave some bills from my pocket on the table. I look at her in the instant before I move toward the door. She sees me but pretends not to. Her lips press into that tight smirk again.

I have to walk past her table to get to the front door. So I walk past her table. The black linen of my suit makes a very satisfying sound as I walk. I push open the door. I like to think that she looks up to watch as I pass through the doorway and away. I don’t look back to find out. I don’t want to betray what we had.



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I Guess These Are Discoveries.

How long, do you think, until The Discovery Channel just throws in the towel and changes its name to “The Rednecks, Sycophants, and Reprobates with Stupidly Dangerous Jobs Channel”?

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Lame Duck Soup.

Lame Duck Soup
by james Bezerra

So
Don’t Ask Don’t Tell
went out with a whimper, not a roar.
Tail between its legs,
off to die alone like all cruel creatures do.
Bested – who woulda thunk it? –
by that magnificent mallard
The Lame Duck.
God bless America! And
her wild ability to always do
what’s right by all of god’s creatures.
Eventually.


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Roommate Writing!

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So my badass roommate Eggplant (still test driving blog names for her) totally got herself published! Click on this link to read up on her good works!

The very cool magazine is available in both print version (please buy a copy and help out some struggling awesome-neers), but also in downloadable PDF version.

Please spend some time on this here website and snoop around. These guys are doing impressively good work: Proxart.

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(my roommate's name is Erin, BTW)



*this image is from the esteemed Mathew Billington

Joke Writing is Hard.

Not that long ago I was goaded into coming up with some accountant jokes. I think that we all knew this would be a regrettable endeavor from the outset, but I gave it a shot anyway.

Oh, and before you get all like, “Oh holy hell those aren’t technically even jokes!”, I would just like to say, you try making up some occupation-specific jokes while you’re busy doing other things and let’s see how you do (and don’t try to half-ass it by chosing a funny profession like a clown or a proctologist either).

Here you go:

Joke #1.
How many accountants does it take to change a light bulb?
None, if accountants could work with their hands then they wouldn’t be accountants in the first place. Also, that’s what Maintenance is for.

Joke #2
ACCOUNTANT 1: Hey, do you think I can write off this burnt out light bulb from joke #1 as depreciated inventory?
ACCOUNTANT 2: Sure, if you like prison food.

Joke #3
What’s the difference between an accountant and an abacus?
The abacus probably doesn’t have a drinking problem.

Joke #4
Q: How many accountants can you fit in a phone booth?
A: Technically that would depend on the internal volume of the phone booth and the average weight and height of the accountants you’re trying to put inside of it.


ZING!!

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Found Music.

Today this band/group/music-making organization (I don’t fucking know) popped up on my Pandora and I was quite taken with them in a little-bit-too-much-like-Yanni-for-me-to-be-entirely-comfortable kind of way.

I couldn’t find a way to load the song I liked here on the blog, so click THIS LINK and scroll down the little list of songs until you get to “The Wolf Peach” and then just press play and close your eyes.

It really is quite beautiful.

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(Please Excuse the Obnoxious Amazon Logos Below)

Lately I have been going to the library a lot and I went tonight because it always feels like a candy store. I don’t go in looking for anything. I just go in with one of those salted caramel hot chocolate drinks (a guilty pleasure and the only time I drink hot chocolate) and a big empty hippy bag, and I spend some time wandering around and looking at, and touching, all the books. For me, this is like yoga or sitting in a mountain meadow or some such inanity.

Anyway, I came home with a pretty good haul tonight and I am so excited that I will share some of it with you.


Darkmans by Nicola Barker
I actually am in the process of reading this one and so checked it out again. I’m eight chapters in and have no earthly idea what it is about, but Ms. Barker is a wonderful writer so I don’t really care.


http://www.amazon.com/Poetry-After-9-11-Anthology-Poets/dp/0971865914/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1292307379&sr=8-1-fkmr0
Poetry After 9/11: An Anthogy of New York Poets.
Who likes their urban poetry with a little angst, anger and guilty introspection? This guy!


All the World’s A Grave by John Reed
It is a play and basically he takes the big Shakespeare characters and makes them all hang out together in a sort of crappy mishmash of Shakespearian plots. Gertrude marries Macbeth! Iago manipulates Hamlet! Juliet gets her groove back! I so hope this thing is funny.


On Kissing: Travels in an Intimate Landscape by Adrianne Blue
This is some sort of cultural history of the kiss and of kissing. Who did it when and why and what did it mean and how did it get them in trouble. I love reading books that try to rewrite history around one thing (coffee, tea, apples, etc.) so why not one about the better things that we do with our mouths? I’m game (plus it doesn’t hurt that the author has a name that sounds like a dirty French non-de-plume).



This is a graphic novel that imagines Snow White as Scheherazade in 1,001 Arabian Nights, spinning grim stories to keep herself alive (and it has pretty pictures!).



I Love It When You Talk Retro by Ralph Keyes
A kind of tongue-in-cheek reference book for all the things we don’t say anymore. I think ths book is the bee’s knees!



A People’s History of American Empire by Howard Zinn
I’m not really certain, but I’m pretty sure that this is a history of the United States as if it were written as by Chinese propagandists. Umm . . . I will let you know more when I figure it out.


Just so that it doesn’t seem like I’m making myself out to be cooler than I really am, I won’t read all of these cover-to-cover. What I will do is spend some time with each of them and, maybe, see how it goes. See if a little relationship develops there or not; see if we enjoy one another’s company long enough to make it to the end.


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Worst Ever Idea for a Crime-Fighting Duo.

So, admittedly, I have been taking a little breather lately from trying to keep on top of everything that is going on in the world (I figure it is a lame duck Congress and so I’m going to zone out a little before tuning in next year to watch the Republicans ramp up into full 5th-grade-bully mode).

However, I could not help but stumble across this tidbit (which you probably already know about because you’re Twitter pals with Sarah Palin [ironically, I hope?]), but apparently TLC forced some sort of crossover episode wherein Kate Gosselin and her brood trekked up to Alaska to go camping with Palin’s clan of white trash Visogoths (I call them that because it is funny and accurate, not because it is mean. But, you know, whatever.).

Apparently Palin - employing the winning subtly and twitchy wink that launched a million vigara-ections at your local gun club - tried to hold up Gosselin as an example of liberal/Hollywood weakness and dysfunction (Really, Sarah? Does you illegitimate grandson dance too?). Well, I will save all the bile and vitriol for another time, but here is a link to a quick article about the whole thing:

Palin & Gosslin Together, Finally; Two Other Horsemen Running Late, Apparently.


You know, Thumper’s mother told us that if you can’t say something nice, then you shouldn’t say anything at all. So I will now commence saying nothing …

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Ways in Which I Am Considerate.

Text message I just sent to my roommate Bouvardia (still test driving blog names for her):

Hey do you want me to drink your red wine for you before it goes bad?

I know, I’m the considerate roommate that you always wished you had.*






*If ever it seems like half the crap on this blog is just me finding myself entertaining, that’s probably because that’s what it really is. I mean, this is A BLOG after all. Anybody who chooses to hemorrhage their psyche all over the internets for fun probably does it because they find themselves fascinating already..
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Fear & Loathing in Cyberspace: New Poems.

What’s scarier than winged monkeys?

What’s worse than a TSA screener with cold hands?

What’s more horrific than the presidency of George W. Bush?

Only one thing: my new poetry.

Below please find poems about the lying nature of numbers, that time Frank Zappa jumped bail, and things that don’t rhyme with TRON.

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Sickness and Resurrection in 102 Syllables.

Sickness and Resurrection in 102 Syllables.
by james bezerra

Afflicted! Sickness!
Head cold: cough, sneezing. No good.
Please help me DayQuill!

Sinus cavities
are painful and disgusting.
Phlegm is my export.

My breathing labored.
My chest wheezy like dying
old accordions.

My energy sapped.
The end of this sickness seems
very far away.

But I know one day
I shall leap and cheer again.
But when will that be?

Perhaps tomorrow
I will wake and breathe freely
My resurrection!

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Never Trust A Number.

Never Trust A Number.
by james bezerra

Oh numbers!
Why do people trust you so?
You’re not so much better than letters!

Though your squiggles tend to be more curvaceous.
And the gentle, sumptuous slopes of all your zeros and eights are positively lascivious.
But why do people trust 3,582,676 to be real,
yet scoff at the words like appendectomy?

Remove the context and the meaning
and all you numbers are just interchangeable broken loops!
Letters at least work together in teams and -
like the Amish raising a barn -
build a whole.

Change a letter and a word may become useless:
No one deposits money in a cank.
Two people never fall in kove.
No one prays to Sod.

This is not so with you cetaceous numbers.
3,582,676 is almost identical to 3,582,675.
Who would even notice the difference?
You devious numbers, you!

You each and always stubbornly retain your own value.
8 is always 8.
800 is just 8 one hundreds.
8,000 is just 8 one thousands.
I am not fooled!

If not for those enabling - but oh so plump - zeros none of you would
ever be good
for anything;
so insistent are you upon your own prideful importance.
Upon your own singular and specific amount.

I don’t trust or like you: the number 360.
Yet without you, we could not have words like
cathedral or circle or globe
and I do like those words.

I don’t like or trust you: the number 0.
And when some
say that you’re not a number at all, but
merely a concept,
I trust you even less.
And I resent that I have to refer to your amount in plural:
I have zero turnips . . .
I have zero lovers . . .
Because it makes me think you’re mocking me.
And it costs me an extra s.

Oh numbers!
Don’t act so high
and mighty just because
you form the fundamental basis of all math and science
and have an intrinsic universal meaning that
exists beyond nature
and time (unlike
words like bright or cold or lieutenant).
You’re not so special!

And I think that
people only accept and trust
your tyranny because
they are afraid of the loss of you.
Afraid that, if you’re angered, there will
be fewer and few of you
in their savings accounts,
in their blood platelet count,
or in their IQ.

I don’t need you! And
I don’t trust you, you wily numbers!
I don’t like you: the number 42.
For my part,
I will make due with forty-two.


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Frustration.

Frustration.
by james bezerra

How come IRON MAIDEN doesn’t rhyme with TRON?
And how could I not have realized that
before spending all of his time
trying to write
a science-fiction-rock-opera-poem?

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Mail Room Poets.

Mail Room Poets.
by james bezerra

Learn-ed men of the 19th Century and prior
were often muli-talented masters of many disciplines.

They were:
naturalists and statesmen,
or
lawyers and inventors
or
barristers and botanists
or
scriveners and astronomers.

Less so today.
With the notable exceptions of
rapper/actors,
writer/directors,
director/producers,
etc.
It seems that now
to be a man of mixed interests, one
must be
entertaining too.

Why have our
modern times driven
to extinction all the pirate/cartographers?
The physicist/patent clerks?
The ambulance driver/novelists?
The savior/carpenters?

Has our understanding of
identity
become this
narrow so
that it can
fit on a business card?
Or so Google
isn’t confused when trying to categorize solider/poets?

Where have they all gone?
The kung fu monks?
The mail room poets?
The furniture-selling mob bosses?
The assassin priests?
The homeless musical savants?
The hookers with hearts of gold?

Have they just gone underground?
Or were they always?
Are they still where they always were?
Only maybe even more so?

They, we, us, them,
are still toiling away. Blogging at:
ninja accountant DOT com
Or maybe
tweeting feverishly as:
Part-time CPA and full-time sex goddess.

Perhaps we are all of many natures.
Perhaps that’s too confusing to make a reality show out of though.
Perhaps we should just make our business cards
BIGGER!

Perhaps they should be
the size of a Publishers Clearing House check!
The size of a cartoon’s winning lotto ticket!

Instead of fitting
inside of our wallets,
they would/could – instead -
hold all the details of our souls;
all the minutia of our minds;
all of the contents of our hearts.

And there for
all to see
would be
the nearly un-bordered scrawl of
our passions,
the unconfined rigor of our minds,
the multiplexity of our interests.

Yours might
read:
music lover, dog catcher, pie baker, speaker of tongues, finder of lost keys, finder of lost souls, lover, ninja, sex goddess, inventor, pirate cartographer, mail room poet.

And all of that would be okay.

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Worst Limerick Ever.

Worst Limerick Ever.
by james bezerra

There once was a band called ABBA
that got in a bar fight with Frank Zappa.
The cops took them all to jail,
but soon after they all jumped bail
and now live happily together in Guatemala.

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Probably an Unhealthy Emotional State.

Probably an Unhealthy Emotional State.
by james bezerra

If you painted your car like a rainbow,
I would still go with you to that death metal concert.

If you filled the house with wild bees,
I would still go naked to bed with you.

If you carved your name into my arm,
I would still just lay here with you, charmed.

If you ate my heart with fava beans,
I would still watch your very worst movies.

If you planted your garden with all the things that I’m allergic to,
I would still help you till the soil.

If you lit my hair on fire,
I would still be happy just to burn for you.

If you called me the worst things that you could think of,
I would still let you to stay.

If you walked away,
I would still let you.

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