i.
Watch review, January 12, 2009
**** out of *****
By Judith O. (Lexington, KY) - See all my reviews (REAL NAME)
This review is from: Kenneth Cole New York Men’s KC1395-NY Classic Watch (Watch)
I ordered this Kenneth Cole watch for my son for Christmas and had it sent direct to his wife for wrapping. I know it arrived on time and not having heard otherwise, I’m sure it works well.
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ii.
What do you tell your mother?
Do you tell her you did it on purpose? Do you smile at the sound of her voice, when and where you do hear it, and tell her she is beautiful? Do you tell her that her neck has seen better days and that you know a few places that can fix it. Do you call her by her name? Do you call her a bitch? Do you call her?
Do you ever wonder why she only rarely calls you and only in an emergency or with bad news?
Do you tell her what you ate last night, and the size, shape and consistency of your bowel movements the following morning?
Do you tell her about the time that you spent 3 days in an empty bar getting high with the bartenders and then lied to your boss later so as not to get fired? Do you tell her what kind of dog you wished you had had growing up? Do you tell her jokes?
Do you tell her that you yourself are not a coward and that there’s a lot that you are doing right now and please shut up? Do you tell her that you regret that she had to spend so many years sleeping in your bed with you because you couldn’t sleep otherwise? Do you tell her thank you?
Do you tell her about the time that grandpa ate all your vegetables when she wasn’t looking so that you could get ice cream later? Do you tell her the lies that form like surgical tubing? Do you tell her when you are healthy? When you are sick?
Do you tell her that you are surprised that she and dad are still together? Do you ask her if it’s because they are hardly ever together? Do you tell her to eat the either/or sandwich? Do you tell her bumper stickers are for pussies?
Do you tell her she’s a horrible driver?
Do you tell her about the tremors, the fevers, the nights awake and sweating? Do you tell her the dreams you had about how you were wandering the yard with a gun and a list of names? Do you tell her about the colors you cannot see, and ask her later if one of them is her favorite? Do you tell her she’s grandeur but sliding?
Do you tell her what it’s like to smell yourself in the morning?
Do you tell her about the dicks you sucked for drugs and the phone book? Do you tell her about the need to experience everything? Do you tell her about the kindergarten cutouts and the people without ears?
Do you tell her it’s not the reasons it’s the cause? Do you tell her the difference?
Do you tell her you hate vying for attention? Do you tell her cold?
Do you tell her you wish she aborted your brother, he’s such an asshole?
Do you tell her you were fed as much by her stupidity as her sickliness? Do you tell her she can turn the light off her goddamn self?
Do you tell her about your book of ideas and how none of those ideas will ever come to pass in reality and how even the book itself is just an idea and that’s what conceptual art is, if you have to ask? Do you tell her that’s not true, not really? Do you tell her you wish she kept her secrets to herself in the mornings? Do you tell her she was great at reading aloud, and the books she read were magnificent, and you can’t recall a single thing from those books they were so boring?
Do you tell her you hated the fake nails, always have?
Do you tell her you want to hold her hand when she dies, like she did with her mother?
Do you tell her you get concerned?
Do you tell her how you approached it, slightly adjusted it, and destroyed it?
Do you tell her about your wife and how she doesn’t want any kids because she doesn’t believe she would be a good mother? Do you tell her you agree with that assessment?
Do you tell her you depend on the support of not having support at all?
Do you tell her about the time you ate the whale?
Do you tell her the pain’s in the middle? Do you tell her nothing so much as every stripper you sowed? Do you tell her exactly, in detail, what’s on the screen of your computer as you jerk off, 2 times a day, every other day?
Do you tell her you prefer the earlier, thinner, pictures you have of her?
Do you tell her the holes are very small? Do you tell her there’s nothing left for Peru? Do you tell her about the time you were blown by a drunk kid in the middle of the sidewalk while people passed awkwardly by? Do you tell her you enjoyed it? Do you tell her you were thinking about nothing, nothing alone, at the time?
Do you tell her you piss sitting down?
Do you tell her even in public?
Do you tell her how you thought she caused the earthquake? Do you tell her how nothing she did seemed right, especially the thought she had that you were always wrong? Do you tell her to stop all the slow bullets?
Do you tell her you disapprove of how she performs gender?
Do you tell her you did it all by yourself, that you didn’t need any help, because you’re a big boy now and can handle, perfectly manage on your own and that this is the reason you are able to stand tall, go to sleep at night, and fight with everyone who disagrees with you because you know better than everyone else and are better for it thank you very much?
Do you tell her it’s May, not April, May?
Do you tell her the inside of the arms, the outside of the sex, the forthside of the frankness, the pigeon of the nest, the first time you kissed a girl, in the woods behind the school, knowing that was what you were supposed to do, being excited and indifferent by the thing you were supposed to do? Do you tell her how she told you later she had a crush on dad when she had him in the 3rd grade?
Do you tell her smells, lilacs, stills?
Do you tell her about the time you forgot her maiden name, right when you needed it the most?
Do you tell her how you sometimes wake up with scabs on your back, not knowing from what?
Do you tell her how here, inside the margin, you lost the flower to the high? Do you tell her you memory her into tossed salads by the coast? Do you tell her that no matter how many times she tells you you will never give a slacker an even break?
Do you tell her she knows more than you do?
Do you tell her you have a heart clear of it? Do you tell her your head turns, or are you kidding yourself? Do you tell her there are a number of shoe sizes and yours is nine? Do you tell her there are many reasons to call regret reason and that you continue to control the sways so that she is limited on that list and can sleep well at night?
Do you tell her that you hate that your vagina looks like what you remember hers to look like, from your memory of the times in the showers, now that you’re older?
Do you tell her yes?
Do you tell her the reason why you live so far away is that you cannot stand to be surrounded, in stripes, for so long as more than a few days at a time and you know this and you felt the same way and when you get sick I will be like your sister and be the distant one, it’s true, and there will be a few times I visit but I will be distant and disagree with everyone around me and that will be like what our final moments might be like and we’ll see, we’l see, we’ll see?
Do you tell her to question the things she takes for granted?
Do you tell her, yes, you hate how she repeats the same stories every time you call, yes, you hate how she ignores your own secular private life while constantly encouraging you to engage with her way of being, how, yes, you love her mispronunciation of words and phrases so easily attained by others and how, yes, you want her to spend the money she would give you in the afterlife on you now?
Do you tell her about the heads and drops and toes and the cramping therein?
Do you tell her how you stole 15 twenty dollar bills from her purse when you were sixteen?
Do you tell her that life is habit, repetition, lacking in meaningful meaning?
Do you tell her queer?
Do you tell her like the edge before everywhere how you were caught that way?
Do you tell her you want her to live her life before she was a mother, how that would make you feel better about the things that you put her through by being a mother, how unfair that was, and how you didn’t mean for it to happen that way, but that you’re grateful and sad by the way things end up sometimes, considering?
Do you tell her you hate salmon, actually, and that you’re sorry you told her you liked it in the first place?
Do you tell her but not really?
Do you tell her let’s approach the things you’ve killed in your knowing each other? Do you tell her that she doesn’t have enough strength left to smell? Do you tell her that you’re sorry she doesn’t have enough strength left to smell? Do you tell her doctors recommend better doctors? Do you tell her all of a sudden this adoration is inappropriate, but nice? Do you tell her she has a lot of explaining to do? Do you tell her it’s the past that choses you and it’s the joy that passes you? Do you tell her you think it’s her fault? Do you tell her how hair is what’s real? Do you tell her and then close the door opposite her? Do you tell her bank loans are daring at her age? Do you tell her the song is better suited to the saddle than the place where she normally likes to keep it? Do you tell her it means so much to you? Do you tell her it stinks? Do you tell her there’s a bunch of grandchildren she never had, hidden in dried out socks and T-shirts? Do you tell her you wish she showed you how to use a tampon, even if abstractly? Do you tell her about the plain pain laid out like butter on toast that you call condition? Do you tell her she could be jelly? Do you tell her the horrible assumption spoken at midnight? Do you tell her anything true or trust of tied to your tethers? Do you tell her you’ve fallen and can’t get up, as a joke, even when it’s not a joke? Do you tell her her lullabies were always off key? Do you tell her you remember no mention of fable? Do you tell her how you liked how she pretended to enjoy your nonsense soup, even when she couldn’t swallow it? Do you tell her he probably didn’t want to go again to that part of the place? Do you tell her how you sometimes can see her feathers fly in the distance, and how you are sorry they could not take her where she wanted to go? Do you tell her that there are so many things that you just realized about as to make it seem stupid? Do you tell her how much it hurt when she slapped you, both times, that you can’t forget the feeling even as you try? Do you tell her she was right?
Do you tell her but not really?
Do you tell her that you’re worried there’s not enough time left between the two of you and that there’s so much else you want to tell her but you don’t want to take up all that time with talking and how you’d rather sit and drink champagne and smell her smiles until the humidity lowers, the sun sets, and it’s time to go to bed even if you’re not tired you’re so tired?
Do you tell her yes, thank you, the watch works fine?
