Maria Thayer. Maria Thayer. Maria Thayer.


Why do you show up in my dreams?

You’re an employee at my local supermarket. I discover pounds of cocaine in the ice cream section. We, together, call the police and await their arrival. They show up and we go off on a date. There we see one of your male friends. He’s likable enough, not threatening to my one hope and dream; to love you. You tell me the great lengths you went through to make him happy when he was sad. You took him to Vegas, you took him to a movie once, etc. But nothing sexual happened. And you and I start making plans together.

And then you hug me. It’s a good one. The hug of the ages. No fucking back-patting. I hate that. None of that one-arm bullshit. This is a whole-body hug. Warm and welcoming. Like our new lives together are as important to you as they are to me. What a feeling.

Stop showing up in my dreams, Maria Thayer.


Oh, and you like my music, too.

I’ve been trying to get a gig, any gig, at Duke Coffeehouse here in Durham. I’ve found the best way to get responses after (I’m not exaggerating) years of attempts to elicit a response is to post on their Facebook page. This worked! Hooray! After all that trying, a response!

“Hi Gilbert. We aren’t currently booking new artists for the year.”

I hate this scene. I hate it. So insular and inbred.


One thought on “Maria Thayer. Maria Thayer. Maria Thayer.

  1. I dreamed about her again last night—-she was holding me in her arms. Her skin was so smooth. She was so….nice. Warm and welcoming. Her boyfriend had a big head. They were looking to buy silverware or something. She had to go.

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