You Are What You Eat It was obviousupon taking off her lidthat she liked Spam.There was a stenchof oversalted preservationthat oozed out; it wouldsmell the same ten years from now.Her meats: just byproducts,processed and processedand formed to fill a mold.She greased her pork-loafin jellies of the same foul stuff;it slides easy from the canand lies trembling on the plate.In the pan, she sizzledand popped as her juicesmingled, but the smell never wavered fromoversalted, discarded pig parts,chopped, pressed, and shovedinto a can and sealed.
Fine Print With all apologies to Mr. Vonnegut.So it goes. No one knows that it was a coincidence that Adam caused the apocalypse a year before the world ended in 2008, and that’s because everyone’s dead now. That’s part of the world ending. Here’s how it happened. In 2007, Adam heard about Kurt Vonnegut’s death on a Sunday News program. In about two minutes, the program had neatly and concisely summed up the writer’s life and the details of his death, then cut to commercial. Adam had never read any of Vonnegut’s books or even heard of him before, but he was intrigued. The next day, Adam went d
Contact His hands live in her crevices,as bored mandibles that consumeflesh. They focus, myopic,on pink-tinted, supple skin,passing intent across synapses.A rush of blood, sanguine triggers;itchy finger. Intentions of tiny deathflow eye to eye; rods strainagainst empty cones. Dilation follows.Poppies, too, spread their petals widebefore being devoured, slopping on the lips of this beast.He's nourished by herendorphic release.
Living Up For all the similarities, I am not my father.I've got his face, but I wear a beardto keep a distinction.His swaggering walk: I don’t have that.I think it came from years at sea.Don’t have those either.A scar; his finger nearly severedin thirty-foot swells of churnedocean. That's why I've never heardplay guitar.I would trade every inch of unspoiled skinto have his stories.
Breath Therapy I must remember to breatheas the workday ends,and again,as the bank ignoresme for twenty minutesof toe-tapping.I must remember to breathe deeply before I drive my car(missing: driver’s side mirror)and park above my oldoil stains.Breathe in, then out,and then in again.In time, the additional airtakes effect. The hours of screen-staringthat follow soon lapseinto fevered sleep.I dream of driving, fast,in my pristine car;I’m over the waterand sinking quickly.Anxious, I steer for land.I must remind myself to breathe.
Headline News Today, during the morning trudge,a hawk was pecked to deathin mid-air by a murderof crows. They pickedat the body until the roadkillcrew removed the corpse.
Untitled Our Boy George decidedway back when that he would notbe a King.Thus a nation of equals,freed from the aristocracywas founded.Two centuries later, we all equallyprosper, regardless of familyties. Even our boy george.
Channeling When he meets the Oracle, she instructshim to lay, then embrace her, from behind.She places her hand on his and centers them above her bare navel:she is her own ouija board.They hover; the spirits movethem, slowly at first. Glacial.Soon they quicken, as the ice melts.She presses his hand to her fleshwhen the incantation is complete;he sees his future, then sleeps.
Dear Writer: It is a struggle,to decipher… intent,from words; between misplaced,commas and… unneededellipsis, that perforatethe page a searchfor the period,that isn’t… thereworseiswhenyoudecideyou have no n-e-e-d to give us cluesno inkling or insightinto your pr ocesswe. Want toknow honest
Good Morning His eyes flit againsta premature morning sun,then crack lazily, lettinghis irises adjust to conscious-ness. He no longerworries about drowning;he is land-locked.Suffocation by the knotsof his bedsheetsis far more likely.He sits erect, and fumbles with his lighter(eyes again closed).He draws heavily,exhales with relief.He continues until his cravingis gone.He grumbles to the kitchenfor coffee.He sips, but can’t helpbut notice the suddenmoistnessas the room fills with water.
Flee A girl: fearfulinsomniac. Her doorwaywould loom: a bright monolith.She laid in bedwatching for her father.The shouting below ceases.She (A woman) stands: timid, small;she cowers before the lengthof his shadow like a whipped bitchand crosses the damp parking lot.Her footsteps echo, staccato.When she turns to look,he stands like a beast in the doorway.If she doesn’t peek,he might be chasing after
Window Shopping She clicks up behind me:"See something you like?"I want to tear the hotpink-and-black pleatedminiskirt from her waist,to reveal the embroideredcartoon skullbetween the stalksof her legs.(suggested re-tail price: $12.99)Pull her raven-black hair(raven, you know, like that Poe)to make her squeallike the stuffed pig from Japanshe likely keeps by her pillow.Her eyes squint, now friendly slits;a smiling, “Cash or credit, sir?”She's paid to flirtlike that; she's stillin high school.
Patience with Amphibians Following up on a juicyrumor, he walked into the petshopand purchased a brightly colored frog;he snickered to himselfat the warning on theglass case.Back at home,he ignored his inborn instinctto avoid contact with brightly colored frogs,and he allowed the amphibian’s slimesto comminglewith his ownandhe waitedandwaitedfor something to happen.His frustration followedthe sunas he waitedwith his petfor the warnings to kick in.His new pet perched on his fingerand he scowled at it, scoffing“What a disappointmentyou turned out to be”Now called Froggy, it turnedin his direction as i
You Don't Look So Good Let’s see who’s made famous for losing a person’s worthof weight, next on Today.Portion control is key, obviously; first:You gotta eat this cheeseburger with onions and bacon (for extra), and get two for the price of one.But next, on Dr. Phil we have the most extremecase of anorexia we have ever looked at,mmkay?Here she is, a skeleton with a paper skinpurging on TVfor us.And you can lose weight fastwith a phone call and brand new (unapproved) pillif you’re having trouble with your figure; for a fee,we think you can lose it all.
Cut Off He is polite sniffling and a covert snort,stifling a cough as he looks backto hold open the door like his mothertaught him; he averts his eyes (recognized)and he’s hazilytrying to remember a name, then where this storyleft off. Failure,followed by awkward pauses-shifting weight from one footto the other,thoughts of escape, and inwardly cursingthis interruption.He’s lost his place.To backtrack:Awoke to choking on snot and spit,head pounding, and sweat. Hatredfor this meatbag oozing fluids.Lung butter churning, incubatedand gobbed on pollen-dustedpavement.Hacking, it feels like a knife
Boxed Up Despite the years of gathered clutter-an accumulated childhood-it only takes a few hoursto box it all up. My movementskick up ages of dust, snowdriftsof refugee specks that hateall this commotion. They can't stand mebeing here. I displace whole countriesof dust as I try to decidewhich memories are worthy.I commit genocide on the dustthat hides and desperately clingsto what's worth keeping. They can havethe rest, the reminders of teenageinadequacy, and an awkward awarenessI've run from since I left this house.But just as surelyas the courts of dust will bring meto
Detour When the roadsign blinks to alert morning driversof a “LAW ENFORCEMENT FUNERAL”from “12 PM – 4 PM”and to “EXPECT DELAYS”it means that I need to expect delaysthis afternoon.I do and try to bypassthe clogged circumscribing super-highway by squeezing myself downa smaller vein and spurting outsouthward, towards home.Later, a friend will tell me that he tried to shoot through an alternate arterybut found his choice too popularto be effective and was stuckjust like everybody else.My squeeze gets tighter as I am divertedby the funeral colorguard (that somehowfound me) onto unfami
True Story I spend saturday night drinking scotch (but not champagnebecause the bubbles bother my gut), smoking fine cigarswith local big-wigs. It’s kind of a big deal, rubbingelbows with big-wigs because important things happenwhen they go to work and somebody wants morechampagne, so I drive because I’m not drunkyet. There are at least six small liquor storeson this street but I go to the first I findbecause it is so cold november dark tonight.The door chimes and in the corner some young one’sdaddy says one more for daddyand someone young asks when are we goingto win and daddy tells him right now,we’re go
Surplus I can see howwearing a woolen military overcoatand feeling invincible against cold,then stopping to considerhow wool stands up to bulletswould make me feel like just another chump.
Sta.sh
