Cyril Wong
		Choice In The Matter    for Aimee Mann       "Pulled down by the undertow,       it's lucky I know how to row."          - Aimee Mann Even after an hour of exercise, the ache in my mind does not depart to join the real ache in my abdomen, my arms. Your guitar turns everything to music, accompanying itself with the fan1s low whir, the sustained moan of the washing machine. I take a bath. I take out the laundry as my father once did. Hang them up to dry like lies on the long line of my conscience pulled down now to a wide, strained grin. This is not the life I desire. This is the life I desire. Life. Desire. Such words ride off into the past like the last few notes of your song whose lyrics do damage to me in ways I do not want to understand. Somewhere, a man is laughing together with another man. Somewhere else, a garbage truck is turning over inside itself again, crushing its contents. Feeling sorry for myself is something I have counted on over time. My father stopped talking to me after he heard what my best friend and I were doing in my room, by pressing his ear against my door like a man listening for a heartbeat. That was twenty years ago. The man I love left. This was a year ago. I have one last set of sit-ups before I go to bed. I have what I have always wanted. To live alone. A different song is on the radio now and sweat creeps into my eyes. This song is about moving on, straining forward into the future and leaving nothing behind.
		Smoke I love to smoke in the dark. I love the shapes smoke makes. It is not night but almost morning. And you will wake up soon for work, for us, for me. You cannot count smoke, except maybe its curlicues that disappear quickly like Japanese spies. You told me to stop smoking since our university days. "Don1t do it for me," you said. "Do it for you." I count how many puffs I can suck all the way into me in a minute.