c

March 2010

Q uiet L ightning
sPARKLE
& bLINK

as performed on
Mar 1 10
@
Elbo Room

© 2010 by Evan Karp + Rajshree Chauhan

The following texts were previously published:
ƠThe Indexing of Sensationơ by Babel Fruit
ƠA Bed with Softer Animalsơ by The 2River View

Design by Evan Karp

Author rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from
individual authors.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means
without the permission of the author(s) is illegal.

Your support is crucial and appreciated.

For information:

Y
Y 

 
Y 



mc
contents

one day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
 
banana peels upon your bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
if they're on the ground two Us & an I may make a triangle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10



breakfast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Y Y 
vigilante justice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
spring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Y

the indexing of sensation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
a bed with softer animals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
 

ash awaiting dawn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
cadiz, cadiz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

 
the universe and everyone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
the virus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
joy on most every corner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

won't you be my neighbor? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

Y 
barcelona has 3 eyes and one leg 28
Y Y
a november dream | from room 8 at the albert 34
alternative rock doll 35
 
 
would you fuck rebecca 36
 

western union | blondes 39
the fat man 40

 
stalking dana 41
  
for research, kafe 99 43

 
reprise 45
revenge of the fish 46
 
another brother 47
 
mercurial 48
religious 52

roma 54

c
March 2010



Q uiet Lightning
is

a monthly submission-based reading series

with 2 stipulations

you have to be able to be there to submit

you only get 5-8 min

submit




each month

1 attendee of those who put their names in a hat

gets 2 weeks to respond

via mail or email

to the last reading b4 break

it will be published

on the blog

and read at the subsequent

Quiet Lightning
!
!

4
oNE dAY
I once met a woman at a party who had three hobbies: swimsuit modeling, DJ-ing
underground parties and designing websites for independent clothing designers.
ƠImpossible!ơ I shouted, behind pasted smile and marionette nod. No one
accumulates that much avocational glamour without giant efforts masking giant
insecurities or else being a cyborg from the waist up. Worse, she dismissed my oohs
and aahs with the following retort:

ƠIƞm just a big geek,ơ she said, explaining away this cache of pastimes. She then
went on to tell me some combination of these hobbies would bear the unsexy
burden of supporting her through her upcoming enrollment in graduate school. I
assumed sheƞd be studying Political Theory of Having Teenagers Jerk Off to Your
Likeness or The Post-Modern Implications of Marrying Saudi Royalty.

Sheƞd be studying Social Work.

Look, where I came from ƠGeekyơ and Glamorousơ have roughly the same
relationship as ƠKelvarơ and ƠKangaroo.ơ Their similarities end with their first letter.
But nowadays I know that makes me a bit old fashioned. ƠGeekyơ is now quite
ƠGlamorous,ơ with Afro-d Jewish fellers passing as leading men, the iPhoneƞs birth
meeting with the same attention as the landing of Baby Suri Cruise, and that whole
Ơlook whoƞs running the worldơ thing. The word Ơgeekơ can now be dropped on the
end of any hobby to imply an outsized, yet loveable devotion to an activity the
world isnƞt as nuts about as you. ƠComputer geekơ used to be a redundantly
deployed insult. Now those insulters giggle and call themselves Ơwine geeksơ or
Ơfashion geeksơ which to me is like saying ƠIƞm a dork about being fabulous.ơ

Here things start to get muddy. Hobbies are our third places; time separate from
work and family/friends. As such, theyƞre also our open secrets, what we choose to
do when we are answerable to no one and, hence, feel most like ourselves. To me
that means, much as we love the romantic notion that any calculus teacher could
secretly be a weekend poll-vaulter, our hobbies are usually an extension ofƜnot an
exception toƜwho we are in the rest of our lives.

Can one then Ơgeek outơ on an activity that already has societal approval? Has
Ơgeekơ changed so much that late adaptors may try to stockpile cred by labeling
themselves Ơan oxygen geekơ because they enjoy deep breaths in the morning? Can
Ơmusic geekơ now apply equally to your old band camp director and the headliners
at Coachella?
‰c
March 2010

On the last one, it would seem so. Culture in general and music in particular seems
the best showcase for this struggle for the soul of geek. Macro: consumption of
culture and media has eaten into Ơhobby timeơ more than just about anything else.
To many, it is the only hobby. Micro: we let music slot us into categories more than
books, movies and television combined. And since the money and time we can
spend on music and its incidentals (sound systems, concert tickets, t-shirts) extends
from zero to infinity, itƞs by nature a more precise gauge of that moment when
passion tips over into geekery.

The pinion of that wedge, Iƞve found, is a stack of vinyl records about as high as
your knee. Perhaps youƞve heard: vinyl is back. According to a January 2008 issue
of Time Magazine, sales of LPs jumped 15% between Ɲ06 and Ɲ07 while the music
business overall is in its worst slump in decades. Hip indie labels like Merge and Arts
& Crafts routinely put out new releases on vinyl with a special keycard that lets you
download the album to an iPod as well. Amazon now has a dedicated vinyl store.
The fastest growing segment of the record market, according to Time again,
appears to be teenagers and college students after retro-cool on a minimum wagers
budget.

Vinyl collecting, once archeology now current events, is the changing face of geeky
pastimes in perfect miniature. I know. Iƞve seen it myself.

I started in with vinyl about a year ago and noticed most other collectors fall into
three buckets: The high-handed audiophile (remember the movie ƠGhost Worldơ?
Chess club geeks who found their way to music), the nostalgic baby-boomer (who
buys expensive re-issues to assert their continued relevance) and the professional
or civilian rockstar (the members of REM met at a vinyl shack. Nick Hornbyƞs
characters in High Fidelity think they belong here but are probably younger versions
of Bucket #1). Turn your head and those three groups are the three vintages of
Geek that confound the whole enterprise: Classic, Chic and Wannabe.

When friends ask me about my own vinyl rationales, I say itƞs because it sounds
better (a lie. Dozens of factors influence sound and I understand precisely none of
them), because the artwork is cooler (ok fine, but they ainƞt magic cards) and
because they are sensual to the touch (true. And weird.). But really, I just like that
theyƞre old. That they remind me of my own dweeby childhood (bad posture, izod
shirts and all) and how far I hope Iƞve come since. Iƞve fallen backwards into a chic
hobby as a way of capturing a geek lost long ago. Which may have some refracted
glamour to it yes, if only I had swimsuit modeling, hat design or jewel thievery to
pair it with.

6
March 2010

One dayƦ

bANANA pEELS uPON yOUR bED

honey: in these nostrilsƜ
the pheromones of your day
old meatloaf & cabbage belches
melt nose hairs

i love you so much iƞd let you

alleviate on my face like hitler
let his cousin do to him

i couldnƞt floss these yellow gums w/out

you singing in the shower: all nails-
on-a-chalkboard-during-a-tornado like

youƞre the nitrate in my spam sandwich

the monoglyceride in my twinkie

to exist as a flea in a droplet

of sweat from your armpit
would be enough for me, to quit drinking
Ʀfor at least a day or twoƦ

for you iƞd scavenge myriad dumpsters

collecting banana peels to scatter
upon your bed, while whispering sweet
nothings into your wax-clogged ears

when i awake mid-day

spooned up against you
like a fruit-fly on a ferretƞs feces
sugar, it ainƞt easy
it ainƞt easy to keep the fernet
& fried eggs down w/ the mole
on your neck the size of the greater area
7
March 2010
of minneapolis, staring me
down like autistic cancer

baby, youƞre the hangover of my dreams

& i your 7 a.m. alka seltzer
you are more angelic than a dung beetle!

iF tHEYƞRE oN tHE gROUND tWO

Us & aN i mAY mAKE a
tRIANGLE
i love you
is like a cumulus cloud holding the internet in its hand after the internet has had a
dream in where the internet becomes tangential. the poem exists to desecrate
reason. grass is kosher. Pretty language, your murderer is still on the peninsula of
echoes watching america, blindfolded & falling down a stairwell. please capitalize
my name when i become blind, deaf & mute. hire sewing machines to check my
spelling when my hands can no longer stitch the letters looking for words in poems
to alter. there is a wi-fi under the dictionary trying to homogenize me. pretty
language, i wanted to emancipate you but i froze up like a urinal in a life sized lava
lamp. my courage is that of a drunken leaky roof. my panda bear is stifled by
digitalism, high fructose corn syrup, ninety degree angles & my panda bear misses
you. i have a panda bear named creativity. you & Sisyphus were obviously poets. i
will write you sentimental letters begging you to eat me so i can inhabit your insides
forever, eating you inside out forever. i meant to look up the definition of pretty
before the alphabet exploded. i swear it. language come back & read the mountains
like theyƞre braille & i will mimic what you are trying to be.

8
March 2010

bREAKFAST
She sits drinking tea under a crack in the ceiling, a hairƞs width. Something an
appraiser with a sturdy eye trained on rusty pipes, sinking foundations, and sighing
walls might see fit to catalog in chicken scratch somewhere near the bottom of an
itemized list. Nothing for an ordinary person to worry about. She lives in a
basement apartment, and the sky is so far away she can only imagine it from here.
Sounds of thunder outside, a cracking like false teeth on an old baguette. Or is it
the rattle of the broken radiator across the hall? The newspaper says nothing about
rain.

I need a drink, the older sister croons from the back-in-her-throat place where she
gargles as she stumbles into the kitchen. She struggles to find the neck hole of a T-
shirt with her head, her naked body bone-thin and rebellious under the pale light.
She doesnƞt like to sleep in underwear or any other clothing for that matter,
because clothing irritates her large clitoris, which, since her license was suspended,
has been over-stimulated by all the walking sheƞs been doing, not to mention all the
bumping into people. She complains of everything but the ability to orgasm in under
five minutes. Pierre, her would-be lover, is asleep in the anteroom by the telephone.
He is fully dressed. She has recently, too recently, emerged from a five-year
relationship with a woman and is thrilled to find that penises possess a new glow.

ƠWe donƞt have anything,ơ the younger sister says. ƠWe are out of everything, but
thereƞs tea if you want it.ơ

The older sister is silent; what she wants is not here, and she can only think of how
to get it here. She cannot think of alternatives, and she does not notice the crack in
the ceiling, although the younger sister spotted it hours ago, when the lights went
on this morning.

ƠHow long are you staying?ơ she asks. It is the day after the older sisterƞs arrival in
town. She is here on businessƜelectric car modeling. She sits atop the
computerized engines of electric cars and smiles, her blue or gold dress
shimmering, blowing in a fan-generated wind, the electric gust making her dark hair
look as though it never (couldnƞt possibly have ever) looked damp and limp like this,
like it does now. The younger sister is jealous of the dresses but not of the hours
under the desiccating lamplight, the layers of makeup to hide the wrinkles from
weight loss, the endless promotion of domestic cars that arenƞt currently selling as
well as they should, what with the competition from China.
9
March 2010

ƠI donƞt know, why do you want to know, are you kicking me out, is it because of
Pierre?ơ the older sister responds, all in one breath breathless.

ƝIt is because of Pierre!ƞ the younger sister wants to say. ƝIt is because your first
night in town, you drag a man here who gets too drunk to make it to the bedroom,
but really because there is a man in my house, period, and I hate that you donƞt
think.ƞ

But the younger sister just stares in amusement because she cannot muster the
truth, and she does not want the older sister to leave, not yet. For a year, the
house has been contaminated by dustƜthe air is hot and cottony, and thereƞs a
buzzing sound coming from somewhere, possibly the ghost or the interruption of
static that once played on the screen of a TV that no longer works. It sits there on
its stand, a tribute to things past; there is no analog, no cable, no DVD. No TV is a
frazzling predicament, an excuse not to get things done. Long days of forgetting.

ƠYouƞre all washed up,ơ the older sister continues. ƠThis house doesnƞt even have a
bar. What have you been doing with yourself? Not cleaning, I see. Yoga again? Just
like after the baby. Every day is post-partum for little sis.ơ

The younger sister is used to the elderƞs prodding, although here it is more of a
lifting of flaps. Inured to it as she is to alcohol breath, pubic displays, the tedious
parading of sex. The older one carries only a dull blade for her sister, but she works
it in with patience. She was once a Lamborghini model, incidentally.

ƠGet it over with, whatever youƞre doing with Pierre,ơ the younger sister says.
ƠBefore I get back.ơ She gathers up her things, which have surrounded her on the
floor, and goes out. When she slams the door behind her, she hears the thunder
down the hall.

The older sister glances at the teacup, sweeps her left hand across the table, and
knocks it to the far wall. It doesnƞt smash there, but on the floor, and the leftover
tea and bits of ceramic spew back toward the older sisterƞs bare feet. She laughs
bitterly.

ƠPierre!ơ She calls. ƠCome lick this up and Iƞll take you to the bedroom.ơ

Pierre stirs in his chair, and a cold sweat trickles down his forehead. Her voice from
the other room jogs a memory of previous night. ƠWhat?ơ

10
March 2010
ƠYou heard me.ơ

He gets up, realizes he is fully clothed, and sighs, disappointed.

The kitchen is far brighter than any room he has ever been in, he is certain. The
older sister stands there, Katherine to him, her pubic hairlessness striking,
impossibly infantile. He feels a jolt in his pants beneath the zipper, deafening his
disgust.

ƠWhat happened?ơ he asks, gesturing to what was the cup. A drop drips on him
from the crack in the ceiling. He looks up.

ƠMy sisterƞs a nasty cunt,ơ she says.

She retrieves a broom and dustpan from the corner closet and begins to sweep up
the wet mess. The bristles of the broom soak up the tea; there is no mop
anywhere.

Minutes pass. She sinks to her knees and begins to weep. Pierre backs out of the
room slowly, gathers his coat from the chair, and quietly slips out the front door.

Back on the street he whistles to himself, glad to be out of that strange apartment
with the smell of mildew emanating from every cornerƜprimarily, he imagines, from
that crack in the ceiling. The spot where the drop hit his head is still cold. There
must be a bathtub above, a leaky faucet. He rubs his fingers against the spot, and
the image of the womanƞs bald groin comes rushing back to him like a falling piano.
He shudders, suddenly cold all over.

Another dark-haired woman smirks at him from behind her paper grocery bag,
which she carries high in her arms like a sleeping child. In her steady eyes he
catches a glint of recognition, although he could swear heƞs never seen her in his
life. Maybe she works at the club, he thinks, but she doesnƞt seem to be that kind of
girl. Club girls wear their clothes like another skin and walk with legs slightly bowed,
as though inviting the wind to penetrate them from behind. This womanƞs loose
clothes and bare face, paleness overall, suggest sheƞs been too long indoors. He can
see she might have been beautiful at some time or other. Young.

ƠI know you from somewhere,ơ he says. She shakes her head. ƠWell, can I help you
with that?ơ

ƠYouƞre kidding right?ơ She laughs. Keeps walking.

11
March 2010

He turns, watches her go, aware of the saunter sheƞs picked up just now. She wants
him to follow her, and he feels a jolt of energy against his zipper.

He says nothing but goes behind her, watching.

She makes it all the way up the block, back to that doorƜof course itƞs the one heƞs
just come out of. She rummages in her purse for the key, balancing her child-sack
on one hip, as mothers do. He stands back ten, eleven feet, afraid. Afraid sheƞll look
back and see him, the fool who spent the night in her chair, because now he does
remember seeing her. Not exactlyƜa photograph of her in ballet gear, her hair tied
in a knot so tight her eyes fold back at the corners. Beautiful.

ƝMy sisterƞs cunt,ƞ he remembers hearing.

He watches her go inside the gate, watches it swing closed behind her, watches.
She goes up the stairs, takes them two at a time, even with the heavy load
obscuring the steps from her sight.

oN vIGILANTE jUSTICE
I want to wander the night like Batman,

wrap myself in tight leather vengeance,

arm myself with batarangs and grappling hooks,

and swing from building to building

across the skyline of San Francisco:

from the Transamerica Pyramid to Maritime Plaza,

from the MOMA to the Metreon,

fog swirling in my wake like a miniature cyclone.

I'll wait in the darkness, legs tensed, ready to spring,

still as a gargoyle upon St. Mary's,

12
March 2010

cape flapping behind me like undone sails.

I'll hoist Washington Square muggers into the air,

then land soft as a cat on a cable car's back,

black-as-night cloak spilling over roof's edge.

I'll save people from themselves, all the while chanting:

I bring fear into the hearts of evil-doers;

I am the tireless knight;

I cowl the rising moon with my shadow.

sPRING
Days grow longer.

Sun burns through fog.

Buds plump with color.

Air warms and releases honey bees.

Cocoons crack and wings unfold.

Sparrows sing from treetops.

Behind me on the sidewalk a small blond

girl in a daisy-covered dress

sings too,

a song I once knew.

13
March 2010

tHE iNDEXING oF sENSATION

It will be four days until the air lifts to the vaulted ceiling.

Old women come into the library and pass flowers into his hands.

Put these in water, honey, have a nice day.

He pushes the cart down the carpeted aisle.

The repetition of movement is a meditation.

The Art of Benin, Paula Ben-Amos N 7397 N5C5

Annoƞs Counting Book, Mitsumasa Anno PZ 7A5875

The Forgotten Ones, Milton Rogovin TP 820.5 R64

The BalloonƜA Bicentennial Exhibition TL 615 B34

Maps of countries that donƞt exist anymore.

The archiving of fantasies.

The referencing of systems.

The indexing of sensation.

The windows are haunted swing sets.

14
March 2010

a bED wITH sOFTER aNIMALS

It is raining.
It is Tuesday night.
There are 36 steps up to Alanƞs apartment on the East Side.
A bed with softer animals.
A doberman pincher walks into a 7-11 and buys a carton of milk.
I notice these things.

Rain waters the buildings and they grow and grow.

Makes thieves work harder.
Softens mountains.
Ruins sandwiches.

Some paintings make me cry.

I Like Crying.
Gunsmoke was a good show to cry to.
Also, the Waltonsƞ Christmas Special.

Alan is reading about cannibals in New Guinea.

The cannibals average at five feet tall.
They roast their dead for 30 days then bury them in the jungle.
Alan told me it rains more in the jungle, but I knew that already.

What I donƞt know is how lightning feels on the body.

Or what makes a glow worm glow.
Or why the neighbor keeps knocking his head against the wall.

15
March 2010

aSH aWAITING dAWN

what newness
will you conjure up
in spite of yourself

a baby boy I know for sure

he is July emancipating June
in returning June
a ménage a trios of soured quintƜ
Ɯessence the stench of their descent
still lingers in the wake
of his departure and
June naked shower
residue reclaiming
her hair she too
old lover never
honest enough
to begin anew
still babysits on future island
where she can't even begin to forget
knowing thyself manifest in forgetting
I await yr birth eager and anxious
smell intention on yr breath
anticipating your mythƜ
Ɯological animal
expecting yr beast
to gouge holes in the
mundane way things were
before you arrived on the scene
4th of July pirate
you stole the Earth
from beneath our feet
where there are hordes
of boring people abundant
but not you July Conquistador!
you don't even fear
death or devil

16
March 2010
you make faces at god
and get away w/ it
you have the most uncanny way
of getting away
w/ it
you don't beg favors from matter
that you canƞt touch
that you canƞt feel
everything you touch
everything you feel
touches and feels you
you are no friend of absent mind
or false presence
you think
only to stop
thinking
you saved mama's life
she artist of wonder
vital creator of creators
aesthetic queen of invention
babe in arms
pretty lady survivor of old making
Heraclitian dweller in rivers
shape changing biological magician
I wish I was
new like you
I wish it was
just me and mother
no anti-climatic text messaging
or war of meaningƜ
Ɯlessnesses no more
old Christmas tress carelessly
discarded up and down Divisadero St.
no more deer in suicide headlines
or post-coital shiver
no more simultaneous second guessing
or visionary plants
necessary to begin to see
the only idol I require is you
mother of my secrets
the Ash of June

17
March 2010
begets July dawn
felicitous birth
we await the
extent of yr
living

cADIZ, cADIZ
to escape the has beens of used to
does not think of you w/out you
and w/ you does not think
Cadiz, Cadiz!
to be from here
right where we are
to say we but mean I
the smell of wind beneath the ocean where
you get over yr friends and fall in w/ strangers
making good on childhood promise
her heart stopped once while purging
Ambulance, Ambulance!
now she is queen of death pageant
Cadiz, Cadiz
to dream of clean
and speak of never
old man at end of table seeks after
copper at bottom of fountain
Cadiz, Cadiz!
to disappear
to catch yourself escaping
to Paris for sex and money (and maybe drugs)
to admit you still want to be here
cuz if you didn't you'd be there already
to say fuck poetry and just ride trains in this country
to say fuck Spain, fuck Italy, fuck that entire Continent
to want to know Montana in Summertime
Providence during torrential downpours
and who's afraid of prison in Fort Benning, GA
Cadiz, Cadiz!
18
March 2010
to travel alone
to miss yr health like you miss yourself
cuz before we were taught truth
we were all body
yr body was my body like everyƜbodies
but she still bites herself during intercourse
to keep from screaming
still breaks into tears post orgasm
cuz she never learned how to say I love you
Cadiz, Cadiz!
to drink Xera all day
and wander still
and have absolutely nothing
to do w/ any of this
as the profound rewards
only the transformative
Cadz, Cadiz!
to say yes to everything but death

19
March 2010

tHE uNIVERSE aND eVERYONE

It's just like old Sherwood
Anderson said, everything
is on fire all the time
and that means you
and me
and the suns and the stars
and the houses and the oceans
there's no shame in it
and to understand and
accept it is not giving up
it's just opening yourself
to the nature of things
and there is great power
in this and if you realize
that all there is
all there ever was and
will be
is this moment
burning
and you inside it
burning
you can give yourself
to it completely
you can burn so big
and bright
people will see
the universe and everyone
will see
and when you are gone
they will remember
and say
wow.

20
March 2010

tHE vIRUS
I'm told they've recently discovered
loneliness spreads
from being to being
like a virus

and here I'd always thought

this was an obvious and
well documented fact

across the street there's this woman

pounding a piss stained
door with bloodied fists
screaming

Mary, Mary
let me in

Mary please
let me in

as old Korean women with bent

backs sift through
piles of filth for bottles
and cans abandoned by those
shuffling down 6th Street
like the dead they dream to be

and the woman selling

the Street Sheet
at the Powell Street station
sounds like a broken carnival
barker

Anything helps, friends,

dimes, nickels, pennies

21
March 2010
dimes, nickels and pennies Ʀ

she's there most every day

morning and night

with her monotone voice

and milky eyes

ugly and ignored

amidst so many lives tossed away

like so many losing tickets

and the fine print of every billboard

on every corner reads

sorry you are not

an instant winner

please
try again

as the woman
across the street
still pounds the door
and wails for Mary

her cracked voice spreading

across the dying winter
afternoon like
a virus.

jOY oN mOST eVERY cORNER

It's starting to feel like winter
even here in San Francisco
and it's harder than it should be
to find an open bar on Valencia St.
22
March 2010
at 3 o'clock on a weekday afternoon
and as I walk I feel myself
evaporating like the rain
on the sidewalks and I know
this is the nature of things
but I'd like to hold on
for just a little while more
see I'm still not tired
of the sky's lovely grey
and though I still don't
know how to say I'm sorry
for all I am
and all I'm not
despite all my talk of darkness
at any given moment
I still can fall in love
with everything all over again
and I still think we are often beautiful
in our pristine and plastic
uselessness
and sometimes I still see
joy on most every corner
and I can still walk these
Mission Street sidewalks
in the wintertime
and sing.

23
March 2010

wONƞT yOU bE mY nEIGHBOR?

My downstairs neighbor is this gray old Mexican lady who no speak-ee no Engleesh.
Sheƞs also a few sandwiches shy of a picnic, if you know what I mean.

Itƞs a fact that she had to leave building C because she couldnƞt get along with her
neighbors on that side. So what does office Mary do? She moves the old bat into
the apartment under me, where Franz just died in the bathtub the week before.
Youƞd think theyƞd leave it open for a month out of respect.

But Maryƞs got something against me, always has. Far be it from her to pass up a
golden opportunity to make my life miserable. So she moves the nutcase in
downstairs, and right away itƞs a drag. See, we live all piled up here. The walls are
made of cardboard. You can hear your neighbors fart in the night.

Cathedral City Senior Community is in the middle of the goddamn desert. The
closest watered lawn is about two miles away, in the outer dregs of Palm Springs.
The only thing separating our apartment complex from the I-10 freeway is a giant
sinkhole, about 30 feet deep. A group of teenagers thinks itƞs cute to ride their dirt
bikes up and down that sinkhole all day long, buzzing like flies through megaphones
and kicking up dust storms. If I let housekeeping go for a week, I canƞt see my TV
through all the dust thatƞs snuck in. You have to keep after it all the time.

I canƞt do a thing with my rotten back, so I have to hire a Chinese to clean my

apartment. Ming comes over two afternoons a week and gives things a good wipe-
down and scrub. Then he runs the vacuum-sweeper. Every single time he runs it,
that crazy Mex ladyƞs down there whacking the ceiling with a broom.

I tell Ming to stomp right back at her. I have a right to a clean apartment, for
Christƞs sake.

After a couple weeks of this, I get a call from the office. ƠA complaint has been
lodged,ơ Mary says, in that Mother Superior tone she uses.

ƠYeah?ơ I say, ƠAbout what?ơ

ƠRunning heavy machinery.ơ

24
March 2010
I get Ming to carry the vacuum sweeper down the stairs and I roll it across the
parking lot and into the office. I plug it in and give Mary a demonstration of my
Ơheavy machinery.ơ HA! You should have seen her face.

The next time Ming uses the vacuum-sweeper, Iƞm in the middle of Oprah and itƞs
BANG BANG BANG at the door. It sounds like a cop and I think ƝGreat, theyƞve
finally come for me.ƞ Instead, itƞs this fat goof in a black polyester suit. Itƞs like 120
damn degrees outside and heƞs wearing a suit.

ƠIf youƞre selling Bibles youƞre barking up the wrong tree,ơ I say.

ƠMy mama lives in the apartment downstairs,ơ he says. ƠShe canƞt sleep with that
noise youƞre making. I got to ask you to cut the machine.ơ Sweat pools in the
creases in his forehead, slides down his greasy cheeks and drips off his chin onto
my welcome mat.

ƠItƞs the middle of the day,ơ I say. ƠOr havenƞt you noticed?ơ

ƠShe has to take naps. Doctorƞs orders.ơ

ƠYou tell that bag to quit whacking the ceiling,ơ I say. ƠSheƞs going to take the
building down.ơ

ƠHave some respect,ơ he says, turning his palms upward in a pleading gesture.
ƠSheƞs an elderly lady.ơ

ƠYeah, weƞre all elderly here. This ainƞt your territory, kid.ơ I slam the door between
us. I can sense him waiting there, while I wait on my side. After a minute, he jogs
down the stairs and the whole building shakes like a damn earthquake.

Ming finishes up and leaves. After about an hour, thereƞs more banging. I open the
door, phone in hand, ready to call the police. No need, because the police is already
there.

ƠMaƞam,ơ says the cop, ƠIƞve got complaints about loud machinery in this
apartment.ơ He canƞt be more than 25 years old. His ears stick out and he has a
pink little noseƜa desert mouse in a police hat.

ƠItƞs a vacuum-sweeper,ơ I say.

ƠItƞs disturbing your neighbor.ơ

25
March 2010

ƠIƞm not going to live in filth because that loonybins has oversensitive hearing.ơ

ƠCanƞt you vacuum any faster?ơ

I laugh full in his face. ƠI wouldnƞt want to run it too fast,ơ I say, ƠIƞd hate to get a
speeding ticket.ơ

He wiggles his mouth, the rodent. I light a cigarette. ƠIf I have to come out here
again,ơ he says, Ơyouƞll both be in trouble.ơ

ƠDonƞt you have anything better to do? I for one am busy vacuuming.ơ I close the
door in his face. Slam dunk. Thatƞs two in one day.

I watch from the window while he tiptoes back to the squad car and squeaks out of
the parking lot. Sweet Flo from building E is scraping her walker across the parking
lot, heading to Bingo in the clubhouse, no doubt. She catches me looking out the
window and waves listlessly. No privacy around here. I open a jug of cabernet,
watch the end of Dr. Phil, and donƞt hear another word about the vacuum-sweeper.

The Mexican lady stays indoors. Since the day she moved over from C, the most I
see of her is a clawed little hand poking between the curtains or a weepy eyeball
spying on my comings and goings. Her fat son brings groceries a couple times a
month.

Cathedral City Senior Community is full of recluses and weirdos. This place is a
pantry for leftover people: stacked up and numbered in refrigerated boxes;
marinating with cheap jewelry and old photographs; rotting in our own juices or
drying out like jerky.

A nice fire would send everyone gimping outside. A mudslide. A tornado. An

invasion of giant rats. It would look like a zombie flick.

Or like this, for example:

I wake up one morning in big time pain. Itƞs Deweyƞs fault, as usual. Iƞve told him I
canƞt tolerate sweet wine for all the sugar, but heƞs a cheapskate and Albertsonƞs
sells gallon jugs of Chablis for $3.99. Now Iƞve got this damn destruction feeling in
my brain.

26
March 2010
My body is shakingƜdeep belly shakes that I feel everywhere at once. I think Iƞm
going to puke. Then a picture falls off the wall and I realize the whole place is going
nuts. I pull the covers over my head and lay flat until itƞs over.

When the rolling-rattling slides away, I put on shorts and go outside to see whatƞs
what and where it has landed. I can hear yip dogs going off like car alarms in half
the apartments. Itƞs amazing the whole complex didnƞt fall down.

Old loonybins is leaning on my banister, muttering and rubbing rosary beads

against her stomach like theyƞre her own intestines falling out and sheƞs trying to
stuff them back in.

ƠWhat a ride,ơ I say. She looks at me bug-eyed. Gray locks stand straight out from
her head, trying to escape her loopy brain. She trembles like a Chihuahua dog.

I canƞt help feeling kind of sorry for her. Her face is the color of old sidewalk. ƠItƞll
be o.k.,ơ I say, and I put my hand on her knobby shoulder, just trying to calm her
down so she doesnƞt have a heart attack right in front of me.

Big mistake. She lunges toward me. I jump away to save my skin and she stumbles.
She only stays on her feet by grabbing my arm with her untrimmed fingernails. She
steadies herself at my expense, then takes both of my hands in her shaky little
claws, stands on her tiptoes and kisses me, once on each cheek. She makes the
sign of the cross, mumbling in Spanish, and shuffles back inside her apartment.

Five point six, the newsman says. I guess thatƞs not very big. But it was enough to
scare my neighbor into making up with me. I bet she thinks sheƞll burn in hell if we
die at odds. Iƞd venture she and me are both headed for the fiery pits, no matter
what we do now.

27
March 2010

bARCELONA hAS tHREE eYES

aND oNE lEG

PARIS
Looking forward to
getting the hell out of here
a firefly trapped in a jar with saran wrap on top
and little holes poked in the stuff

slowly suffocating.

PARIS TO BARCELONA
McDonalds in the airport because there
isn't anything else. And they serve me
a bun with cheese and lettuce
when I ask for a McVeggie. I wonder
how much I just paid for that.

I have to be smart enough to say:

Where are the people that love me?
Without freaking out.

I wonder why foreign women look so attractive to me when really I know it's the
same old shit.

I
wonder why the nice ones fade so quickly.

I wonder why Iƞm always trying to pigeonhole a culture into a metaphor.

And even my advances

seem to be a retreat to safer turf.

28
March 2010
Why do I treat my mom like shit?
She's the nicest person
in the world
even when she wants
to smash my head in.

I
wonder why
I wonder
why
I wonder why.
Why do I wonder?
It doesn't solve anything.

BARCELONA

Walking through the maze
the old city maze like a caged mouse
except the mice are tourists.
Everywhere.
The city hot like I didn't expect in the
alive of winter.

You tell me the person you marry has to believe in Santa Claus.

I remember the first time we met. You told me what Iƞd said was so stupid. You
continued to make fun of me the entire night. Later I wrote down in my notebook:
This would be a great story to tell our kids. This is like the story of my parents, my
dad yelling at my mom at a party: Who the hell put this shit on? This music is
terrible.

Three A.M. head over to La Paloma,

the most famous club in Barcelona.
It's a ballroom turned nightclub,
just enough class to tamper sleeze.
And we dance. We do the air guitar,
the air drums, the air keyboard.
The air ensemble.

29
March 2010
To dance: A social expression lacking true explanation. Ex: ƠI just want to dance.ơ
One of the rare times when an adult can act like a kid and get away with it.
Because people always need a scapegoat.

Iƞm drunk and I say to you:
Losing you is like Iƞm the couch with the butt groove and youƞre the butt and other
butts just donƞt fit the same way, you know?

And you say:

Hiding is fun.

High on air
and cheap whiskey
we crack on through
the streets of Barcelona.

Two strangers coming towards us

one walking and
the other (a beautiful girl) on bike,
riding slow and without balance. Until she
isn't because
she's gone and crashed into a dumpster.

And then thereƞs something about me looking down and seeing three cigarettes in
the pack and thinking: When did I become a smoker?

I wish I could be that guy

that helps her up.
I walk by myself, wander around,
with my four friends, only one I actually know,
none I actually know at the time.
I knew you at some point along the way.

And I remember my great grandmother who once said, out of the blue: A ball goes
up, eventually it has to come down. And my uncle said: Yeah, thatƞs gravity.

Iƞm constantly constructing alibis. Does that mean something?

The key to love, you say, is silence.

At Lookout Point,

30
March 2010
the city is
only a backdrop to
everything else
which isn't much besides sorrow and regret and fuck I screwed up.
Fuck I can't fix it. Nobody wants me to fix it,
and nobody needs me to fix it either.
How did I get up here and howdoIgetdown?

And you say to me: Sometimes weƞre so honest I think it stops being true anymore.

Only this time it really does matter only this time it wonƞt ever be the same. I turn
to high-five my imaginary friend Gus. Heƞs not there. Only this time Iƞm looking
down seeing that my fly is open, thinking, I could zip it now, and pretend that
nobody noticed, or I could leave it open and anticipate the revelation.

BARCELONA AIRPORT

On an escalator you have license to stare at all the other people going the other
direction. An activity socially accepted because youƞre going to where you gotta go
and hell youƞre never gonna see these people again.

Air guitar, air keyboard, air four piece band.

What about
air life, air happiness, air meaning.
Never having to learn
the instruments.

Itƞs everything, man. Itƞs the everythingofeverything.

BARCELONA TO PARIS
The seats are small and
the air is dead. And
the Pyrenees
look promising
as I skim the emergency manual.

Iƞm no hero, lemme just put that out there.

31
March 2010
The ones that said goodbyes can be sadbutsweet probably never said goodbye.

PARIS (AGAIN)

I am telling her about my trip with you.
I am telling her about that famous club.
The Paloma. It was in that French movie.
I know, she says.

Of course she knows. She knows everything.

At least, according to her.

But what do I know? I tend to laugh out loud at all the wrong times.

I think I know.
I don't know I know.
Knowing is about as far removed as my certainty extends to.
A lot of people know they know.
Some people even know they know they know.
I wish I could know I know
let alone know I know I know I know.
Then again
the people that know
don'tknowforanyparticularlygoodreason.

And when people can only respond to my words with I knowƜdon't they know
they're telling me that whatever I just told them was said unnecessarily? Nobody
likes being told that what he or she says she or he says for no reason. She might
have never even said it in the first place because he doesn't really matter. He might
have never been because what she says won't ever matter anyway.

What? she says.

(Even I have a hard time hearing what's coming out of my mouth these days.)
(Even I sometimes think an ice cream cone will make it all better.)

Everyone, real or imagined, deserves the open destinies of life, Grace Paley tries to
convince me.

Writing a letter is not far off from receiving one.

This crazy homeless guy is banging on these metal gate doors with a crowbar
32
March 2010
making music with the flow of the Seine.

All I know is I gotta get outta here.

OUTTA HERE
I know one more thing.

I know this whole thing is retroactive. This whole thing is me reaching into the past,
me wanting more of it, me not wanting the future, me not wanting whatƞs in front
of me.

33
March 2010

a nOVEMBER dREAM
Last night I dreamed
I was living at the Chelsea Hotel.

At the front desk

I saw Robert Mapplethorpe
laying down the 55 dollar weekƞs rent
and picking up the dayƞs mail.
There was a book contract for Patti;
he placed it at the foot of their bed
with a paper clipped note that read
Ɲhereƞs more work for you, dollƞ.

Then I followed him

to the White Horse Tavern
where he met Dylan Thomas
and Thomas Wolfe
and took them both back to his room.

Meeting in the hotel lobby later

I asked them how things were going
As one man they replied
Itƞs all over now

I woke up, cold sweat, pitted out

surrounded by unfinished manuscripts
and negatives.

34
March 2010

fROM rOOM 8 aT tHE aLBERT

Knowing not where my next meal will
come from
I cast my last crumbs of bread on
the water
Knowing not how I will make my
next dollar
I pick up a penny on the street for
good luck
Knowing not what way I can hit my
highest note
I sing in the subway hoping someone will
see or care
Knowing not what will arouse my
deepest desires
I lower my trousers and continue to pump
quarters into slots
Knowing not who will ever allot me my highest
regard
I pick up this pen and write another damned
Word

aLTERNATIVE rOCK dOLL

wITH aPOLOGIES tO rOGER mCgOUGH
Last weekend, as a present for my niece
visiting from Santa Rosa, I bought
an alternative rock doll Ɯ ƝAlt.Rock Annieƞ Ɯ
from a gift shop in the upper Haight.

When you twist the solid gold ring in her

cute little blonde eyebrow, she sticks out
her tongue piercing and shrieks
FUCK! FUCK! in a tinny voice.

The doll is pretty strange, too.

35
March 2010

wOULD yOU fUCK rEBECCA ?

The question catches me off guard. One minute Sergio is muttering into his scotch
about "that bitch Rebecca" and then this question, these four words, spat at me.
The bar is noisy but there's no mistaking the question.

This is the first time I've seen Sergio in a month. He's just returned from a month-
long trip back to Sao Paulo, a long overdue family visit which included his sister's
wedding. We've played in the same Saturday pickup soccer game in Golden Gate
Park for five years, but we met through Rebecca and Ginny, my then girlfriend,
when the three of us were teaching in the same language school.

Sergio is moody, irritable. I'm a little intimidated; I've seen him go to the ground on
the soccer field with little instigation. His brow practically crackles with lightning,
and I know why. He and Rebecca are in freefall collapse, a drama to which Iƞve had
a front-row seat. She stayed home while Sergio went to Brazil alone.

Thatƞs the backdrop against which his four-word question, and potential accusation,
blurts out.

I sip my beer to buy time. What exactly could he mean, would I fuck Rebecca?

Sergio is Brazilian and his English has zero inflection, so I don't know how to take
this question. The possible meanings are innumerable, some of which are very
dangerous, as I well know. Itƞs how I make my living. I teach American accent
training to high-level executives from India, Asia, and Europe, people whose
mastery of the language is excellent, but lacks nuance and subtlety.

If Sergio were one of my students, we'd do an exercise in which we each hold a

rubber band with our thumbs and STRRREEEETCH it as we repeat the sentence,
each time emphasizing a different word and examining how the meaning changes.

For example, is Sergio asking: WOULD you fuck Rebecca?

With the emphasis on WOULD, the question lends itself to a hypothetical, and
therefore fairly safe, interpretation. That is: Do I find Rebecca sufficiently attractive
that, with all other considerations removed (such as the fact that she is the
girlfriend of one of my best buddies), I would be willing to perform sexual
intercourse with her?

36
March 2010
Or is he asking: Would YOU fuck Rebecca?

This inflection emphasizes the AGENT, and unmistakably implies accusation. The
real question being asked is: Would I betray him, Sergio? Would I, in another
sense, fuck him?

See how sketchy this gets? When you walk in multilingual circles, you need to tread
carefully. Many years ago, while teaching overseas, a man broke my nose in a
Munich bar after I'd complimented his sister's boots. Just the memory makes me
wince and run my finger over the bump in my nose.

The emphasis on the agent also opens up another interpretation, that is: Would I
fuck her AS A FAVOR? For example, Rebecca wants sex and Sergio is too tired and
doesn't want to fuck her. Would I fuck Rebecca on his BEHALF?

Iƞm pretty sure that's not what he means.

Does he want to know, would you FUCK Rebecca?

This emphasis on the ACTION generates the least likely interpretation. I am also
reminded me of a basic language exercise in which you swap in new words to an
established construction. I am WALKING down the street. I am JOGGING down the
street. I am RUNNING down the street. Would you SEE Rebecca? Would you TELL
Rebecca? Would you FUCK Rebecca?

Of all the possible actions I could perform with Rebecca, would FUCKING be among
them?

He isn't asking that either.

The last possibility is the most hopeful. Would you fuck REBECCA?

This interpretation sounds even more hypothetical than the first one, the kind of
general question bored teenagers ask each other about the girls in homeroom.
Would you fuck Ʀ SARA JONES? Would you fuck Ʀ JANE SMITH?

During the 2007 Academy Awards, a lot of playful sexual innuendo was directed at
the sixty-ish Helen Mirren, inspiring my roommate Lili to ask me that same question
with the correct inflection. Would you do it with Ʀ HELEN MIRREN? She didn't stop
there. Every time the camera did a close up on an aging actress, Lili repeated the

37
March 2010
question. Would you do it with Ʀ GOLDIE HAWN? Would you do it with Ʀ SUSAN
SARANDON?

Sergio is in the middle of his third Scotch and I wonder how to answer. His eyes are
glassy but his jaw and temple tense and shift as if fish are schooling just beneath
the surface.

The best thing would be to screw the possible interpretations and play it safe. Just
say NO. But it doesn't matter. My answer to every interpretation is the same, and I
want to scream it out loud.

YES.

YES.

YES.

YES.

Yes, I would. Yes, I have. Yes, I did. Yes I will again.

Rebecca and I made love while you were in Sao Paulo. We were together the entire
time. I've been in love with her ever since I met her, when I was still going with
Ginny and they wanted me to meet you. The four of us made dinner together, your
old place on Sixteenth Street with the big old-fashioned stove and pressed tin walls.
Rebecca put marinated artichoke hearts in the salad and I fell in love with her.

And she's in love with me and we don't know how to tell you. Two Sundays ago we
spent the rainy morning in my bed, wishing you would decide to stay in Sao Paulo,
that you wouldn't come back at all, just a phone call asking us to send your stuff,
that it would be that easy.

I pull down the rest of my beer and run my finger over the bump in my nose. I
swivel to face Sergio.

"Yes."

38
March 2010

wESTERN uNION
He said something to me as he passed, moving fast in his wheel chair. He said,
ƠWhat color is that line?ơ The color of that line is drunk. The color of that line is
white, yellow, brown, and black. That line is Friday, man. That line is dope and
crippled and thereƞs pussy everywhere. The color of that line is mess. Ever seen so
many saggy trousers? Ever seen so many broken pairs of glasses? That line is long
too. That line is out the door, onto the sidewalk, and those people are out of this
worldƜguys sitting on chains, waiting for the exit, cash in hand. Whatƞs next, man?
That line is dizzy, curry, jive and java. That line is girls, trimmed in fur and young.
Give me three on Friday. Give me the smell of Chinese, the bright lights and donƞt
trip, man, because itƞs Friday and that line is Friday.

bLONDES
blondes with green eyes
blondes with black eyes
blondes at bus stops doing business
blondes bending over, behaving badly
blondesƜan after thought
you never mentioned the blonde
there are blondes and there are blondes
a blonde is a blonde is a blonde
a blonde to come home to
a blonde to leave home for
there is no place like blonde
better living through blondes
blonde wood
blonde ale
blonde hairs
she was a blonde

39
March 2010

tHE fAT mAN

I dated a fat man once
who drove a BMW,
wore a suit,
and was not yet old,
but approaching.

This fat man, well,

he looked like a guy with a wallet.
You know the typeƜ
white,
sort of sandy blondish,
slightly girlish,
and smart in that bookish kind of way.

He had a big belly

and he drank too much
and he smoked too much
and he spent too much

had to call his mummy for help,

he called her way too much.

There was one other thing too,

a very small thing,
if you know what I mean.
It was just the sort of thing
bound to be very noticeable
on such a fat man.

40
March 2010

sTALKING dANA
With a bottle of Mexican diet pills shaped like pink hearts gripped firmly in my right
hand, quivering, like I was jerking off and Ʀ I suppose I really am after all.
There must be hundreds of these little heart shaped pills scored by my flaxen
haired roommate from one of the most Ơreputableơ pharmaceutical storefronts
down Tijuana way. She told me I could take a pill or two whenever I wanted and
since Iƞll always be home several hours before she gets off swing shift at the Olive
Garden, Iƞm not seeing anything particularly wrong with a few consecutive
whenevers.
I swallow five, one right after the other, light a clove cigarette and try to look
innocuous through the window of my innocuous Ɲ83 Nissan Sentra from my
innocuous parking stall, and into the storefront window of the Al Phillips Dry
Cleaners, only all too conspicuous in my innocuousness.
Sheƞs at the window. Thereƞs no mistaking the freckles, the all-American girl-
next-door ponytail. Kimberly Drummond, the sweet little silver spoon girl from
ƠDiffƞrent Strokes:ơ convicted of robbing a video store six months ago. But I fell in
love with her years ago; endless masturbatory sessions in my grandmaƞs shitter
with the image of her bobbing ponytail driving the whole thing.
Itƞs not like I donƞt have business on this side of town. My agent on a
shoestring got me an audition down the street forty five minutes from now and I
have uniforms that need to be pressed and creased. Itƞs not easy holding down a
bohemian lifestyle while trying to pass as a government employee.

The telltale heartbeat and adrenal flow begin their all-too-familiar buildup from my
toenails all the way up until they hit the top of my teeth which then begin sliding
across the surface of my bottom teeth with a consistency known by Hellƞs Angels
and a long standing ritual engaged in by many a pathetic lonely young man since
the advent of the industrial age.
Am I proud? No. I feel dirty. Would I rather be doing anything else?
Ʀ
Hell no.
I hold the uniforms under my left arm, the clove in my right as I make my
way through the front door.
Iƞd found out she works here at my job, when a Tech Sergeant said that
washed-up drug addict actress they busted for armed robbery a few months ago
pressed his uniforms. How to break the ice? ƠHey, Iƞm an actor too.ơ

41
March 2010
She doesnƞt work the counter though. Iƞm stuck with the homely frump
woman who in turn looks longingly at the slot machines being serviced by a tech
guy on the far side of the waiting room.
I place my order loudly. I want her to notice. Notice my pungent clove
cigarette, which always pisses off the old Vegas service crowd. She looks right
through me though. My hair is too short. My face is too clean. I get my suits
pressed and creased. She wants a bad boy. She wants long hair. She wants weed.
She wants blow. How do I tell her?
ƠHey, I have weed. Hey, I can get blow from Evil Knievel. Hey, Iƞm an actor
too. Hey if you quit this job, join my newly founded theater company and move into
my shared room apartment. Itƞll help out both of our careers and you can have the
pleasure of knowing that I am your wonderful savior every time I crawl up on top of
your squirming creaminess just to see that crease in your brow.ơ
Transaction ends. Iƞm headed back to the Sentra. I look back hoping to find
her staring out the window after me. Too late; sheƞs at the counter talking to a guy
with a ponytail. Is it Ʀ ? Goddammit, yes, itƞs the service tech guy. Heƞs got a
ponytail.

Years later of course, I find out what Dana really wants is something neither myself
nor the ponytail can give her. Years later I find out she turned down the role of
Regan in The Exorcist and the role of Violet in Pretty Baby; years later when she
overdoses in her in-lawƞs bathroom. I still like to think I could have been all those
things to her, a way for opportunity to translate into, if not happiness, at least a
manageable contentment; a warm body that makes you laugh & can be counted on
to be there.
If only it were that easy.
For now; eyes exploding and brain bubbling primal ooze in a cauldron of gray
matter, I head to the auditorium at the Summerlin Public Library for the most
prestigious community theater organization in Las Vegas, which is the artistic status
equivalent of the most prestigious pantomime troupe in San Diego; it sounds more
glamorous than it could possibly be. In front of an audience of two dozen
competitors, a girl younger and more beautiful than Dana, which is to say less
experienced and thus, less attractive, melts down completely at the beginning of
her improv assignment and stalks off the stage ƠI canƞt I canƞt I just canƞt do this &
I guess Iƞll see you guys down at the mall or something.ơ
I nail my improv. I get the spot in the prestigious workshop. I know now what
Iƞll say to Dana. I come back the next night to pick up my uniforms from the Al
Phillips Cleaners with my rap and my approach down pat.
But Danaƞs not working that night. The frump says something about her
having a hot date. Heading back to the Sentra it seems to me this particular dry-
cleaning shop does an incredibly lousy job of pressing and creasing my uniforms

42
March 2010
and I swear I will never return to this place for my business again. I try to convince
myself that I am somehow different, that I am somehow better than the meltdown
girl at the audition sure to be hanging out at the mall I am now headed towards
with a handful of Mexican diet pills shaped like pink hearts, gripped firmly in my
right hand.

fOR rESEARCH
What? What? If youƞre speaking to me please face me with your lips. I need
to see them move. What? No, they took my hearing. They pulled out my eardrums
for research. What? Yes it hurt! Of course it hurt!

Well they needed them! I could hear, and others could not. This is an injustice
and it needs to be rectified. As such, I did not mind the pain. It was the least I
could do to help.

What? Ah, I used to tune pianos. My father was a piano tuner, and his father
before him. What? Yes, I liked the work. To be honest, I never really thought of it
as work, itƞs just what we did.

What? No, I no longer tune pianos. How could I? I canƞt hear the tones!

Well, I spend my days reading, and watching television. When they discover a
way to restore hearing, I will benefit along with everyone else!

kAFE 99
ƠHold still, youƞre going to mess it up.ơ

She held his right forearm firmly against the tabletop and used an exacto knife
that belonged to the other painter in her studio to do the cutting. She carved an
equilateral triangle into the pale skin on his inner bicep. Since she had to reach
across his body to get the proper angle, the smell of her dark hair was a storm in
his nostrilsƜa mossy, soapy storm that stirred him. The plastic tear-away rind of a
milk jug cap, blue, looped through her pierced earlobe. As she worked he stared at
the other pierces in her earlobe, the ones with nothing in them.

ƠOkay, finished,ơ she said, and she straightened up.

43
March 2010

He twisted his arm to get a look at the spiraling line of triangles. The first one
was as big as a thumbprint. Sheƞd carved it a month ago and every few days she
had cut another, smaller triangle. Big to small, they whorled inwards.

ƠWhat happens when you run out of room?ơ He asked.

ƠSpirals are infinite, thatƞs the point.ơ

ƠBut one day theyƞll be so small you wonƞt be able to carve the next one.ơ

ƠHere,ơ she said and gave him a paper napkin. ƠThe blood.ơ

He dabbed at the tiny, seeping cuts.

ƠMaybe it will end,ơ he said quietly. He removed the napkin and put it on the
table. A deep red spot stained the white paper. He traced the spiral with his index
finger. The oldest carving had scarred into delicate white ridges. The newer ones
were still red and puffy.

ƠMaybe it never started,ơ she said.

44
March 2010

rEPRISE
Without thinking

she said

she thought

it would be a better idea

not to love him today

she thought

that without thinking she would

give her awful heart a break

and offer it up

to something else

the sky captures all

blurred edges receiving

water it could perhaps condense

her misgivings it could perhaps

hush the stillness of

her femininity the absence of her touch.

45
March 2010

rEVENGE oF tHE fISH

aFTER sANDY sKOLGUND

her back is towards him

her eyelids twitter affirmation

poaching static dreams of color

out of frame in utero

in frame

she can sleep forever

sheets of blue swim folds blue floor

drowns windows suffocated with blue

His head bowed down

on the edge of the bed

there are goldfish falling out

of his eyes

gurgling opened orange

slaps a shivered blue floor

those he wills take to flight

scaling bloodshot desires because

tears do not

dissolve anything in him

46
March 2010

because

midnight is not a promise

he intends to keep

aNOTHER bROTHER
I am thirteen when Papa goes up on the hill again. He takes his shovel first thing.
From the kitchen I see him stabbing the earth over and over, his back turned to the
house. Betsy, sheƞs in with Mama, both of them quiet like snow falling. There is that
world out there and another world in Mamaƞs room and then there is me staring out
the window.
When I make up my mind I donƞt know itƞs made up until my hand is on the
door handle and Iƞm pulling my coat closed against the cold wind. The smell of cow
is on the air, thick because they ainƞt been out to the grass since the last storm. The
chickens cackle as if there ainƞt nothing different about today than any other day.
Except for Papa on the hill again.
In the barn the cows are waiting, lowing because theyƞve got full udders.
When I go through the tie-up and open the lean-to door the horses nicker their
sweet talk to me, hoping on getting some breakfast.
You just have to wait some more, I say to them. Like we all have to wait
sometimes for nothing. Or for nothing good.
Papa took the good shovel so I clatter around through the lean-to looking for
the other one. I find it, my hand finds the rough splintery handle, and take it up
that hill, tripping in the frozen mud.
At first thereƞs only the metal punch of the shovel and Papa grunting. But the
closer I get, the more it sounds like talking and then I have to stop because of the
words heƞs saying and I hear that he donƞt want no audience, not for nothing in the
world. Not with the things heƞs saying.
God. Damn. You. After every word he says, the shovel pounds the ground. If
you could just keep to yourself! And what kind of God would? What kind of God,
damnit! Taking all my sons! All my sons! Leaving me nothing but daughters!
I hear how I shouldƞve stayed looking out that window and never come up on
this hill. My heart was near to breaking already before I hear what Papa has to say
but now I just feel frozen through. I listen too long and then I leave Papa on that
hill and take my shovel back to the lean-to. Back in the barn the horses and the
47
March 2010
cows are all waiting just where I left them.
I throw down enough hay to keep them still and get to work milking. My head
pressed to warm cow flank, short hair drying my wet face. The metal pail rings with
hot milk and the long scruffy barn cat comes running. He winds his self around my
legs, hoping for something but we all hope for things we donƞt get.
When I finish the first cow I drag my stool to the next. The cat comes too, he
just wonƞt give up but I donƞt give in neither, not even when he bites my leg
through Papaƞs old work pants. I jerk and kick that cat but he comes back for more
and I wonder how he can be so stupid to keep trying the same thing.
I milk all the cows. I try hard and almost forget everything but the fur
smoothing my cheek, the rubbery teats in my hand, the cat twining my legs. I
almost forget everything but all the hard work I done and how it ainƞt never
enough. Not ever.

mERCURIAL
They think youƞre strong

And independent

You are afraid

And elemental

Liquid

And rare

Quicksilver,

You donƞt blend well with others

I let you break me

Like thermometers on concrete

Let you grip me

48
March 2010
Let you bead and trickle through me

Let you

You were 21 and I coughed up blood

Inhaled mercury as vapor

We jumped

And I wonder if you tasted it

Like motor oil

Unbuckled and heavy

You pollute me

Silver and metallic

You burn like stomach acid

Going both ways

Mercury in motion

Like the innermost and smallest planet orbiting

Metal with speed and mobility

Like Roman gods

Mercury,

You are none of these

Nothing

but basic

You spend too much time making promises

49
March 2010

And not enough time whole

They say the tremor starts in the fingerprints

I absorb you and shiver

It spreads to the lips

There is a temperature you take under the tongue

And if I bite,

You shatter

But never disappear

Overexposure to mercury can cause insomnia

Chest pain shortness of breath

And a quiver of the eyelids

you had trouble making contact

wandered

danced fluid and volatile

without me

I am finished saying Ɲokayƞ

And I am still solid at room temperature

Strong like knuckles cracked

Here like change like

Pain like

50
March 2010
I never loved you

Like damn

Where was I when you held me?

I used to think fleeting was intriguing

The spill of metal like waves

Potent and combustible

Maybe now harsh words make it clear

I crave consistence

Away from the erratic

You, ashamed of me and your principles

Me, naïve and clutching

Or maybe you hurt me so much I just donƞt care sometimes

You spill when we fracture

And I will not let you measure me

This fever breaks

And I will leave you bleeding

Cold,

silver,

and in pieces.

51
March 2010

rELIGIOUS
Our respiration ventilated

In unity

It purified

Was religious

We dripped in sugary wine

Tiptoed around each other

Drowned

The noise of a busy street beneath us

With wandering focus

Like giggling kids in church clothes

3 years later weƞre still

Interpreting scars and little bumpy spots

Cradling our naked bodies

Like newborns

Lifted out of holy water

Mapping cosmology

By connecting freckles with kisses

Tracing ribs with tongues

52
March 2010
And disregarding superstitions

By shouting ƠOh Godơ

In that instance of sin

Everything you say sounds like gospel to me

Your unintelligible whispers

Too fraught with passion to make sense

Make sense

Your repetitive groans

From deep within your throat

Bubble like a Sanskrit chant

I donƞt understand

But it sounds right

Complements my sweet higher pitched moans

Like a melody of deities

Faith

Is fidelity to the person you trust

Creation

Is how things come together

One must follow religion blindly

Reading bodies like bibles

Like goosebumpy Braille

53
March 2010

The secrets are found in the spacing

Between pulse beats

And pelvic contractions

We spotted the edge of the world

By rolling to the edge of your mattress

Glorifying the hot summer sun

Setting on our flesh like stained glass

Found the difference between life and just living

Found truths in the hollows

Between the skin beneath our abdomens

Amen

rOMA


iƞd tattoo, solar plexus,

onto your chest.

tagging your skin

to the vibration

of needle pin

pricks,

54
March 2010
flicked needles,

syringe tips

like

bombing the side of a subway car

and iƞd crawl inside you

like a gothic tower

and youƞd still be branded.

and iƞd tattoo

amethyst

onto your rib cage

and the cursive letters

would dig into your

bone

and youƞd rub dirty

fingertips

along the grooves,

and youƞd think of crystals

and how youƞd clean them

with moonlight

after you kissed the base of my throat,

scraped my skin with calcite,

55
March 2010

iƞd suck on

tourmaline

for healing,

Ɲtil it drained

all salt from my body,

and youƞd use my skin

to stretch canvasƞ

and paint water color landscapes

onto my stomach

and suns on my breasts

and moons into my labia

with silver paint,

it fades against

human flesh,

but when stretched

it turns parched,

and iƞd settle for

a ply wood cross.

dress me in white linen

stained with pomegranate seeds

56
March 2010
that you found in meadows

of poland

and i could sing you

into a sound from between

my phantom wings,

are you tired, roma?

from wandering

like

fingertips moving along

prayer beads,

shouting hail marys

into the starving sea,

tell me, roma,

are you tired?

in a wedding dress

you fell backwards

started speaking in tongues

that were cut into the sky

branded hieroglyphics

you thought to birth children,

57
March 2010
but instead

let me flip tarot cards onto the base of your throat,

then let me sculpt you into a consecrated icon,

and when you plucked iris petals with your mouth,

i saw your eyes,

my god,

i cried.

sometimes i ask you

if i can count the tree rings round

your eyelids,

count your age in nature,

tap into your turquoise politics

of the river

and then i told you,

in what words,

i do not know,

but the truth,

the soil is where you

would stretch your limbs,

roma,

58
March 2010
when they come to hear you fight

with body movements

they will wrap their wrists in rose stems

and hope that you settle

into solid ground

enough so your legs become

ivy and your feet stretch roots

into the earthƞs chest cavity

and you sit still

at the edge of the riverƞs sanctuary

and you pray.

59
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