I was whack-attacked by a steering wheel on Cinco de Mayo. Herman was hot hot hot.
It happened right after we connected on the street in front of OK’s house. He only had one condom but we well usually we use condoms all the time. As in: every time. As in: I’ve never in my life felt his naked cock. As in: he is the King of Kondoms.
Once I told him No more condoms Daddy while we rocked. I’m gonna wear a condom mami he said
but tonight he needed me Now, mami. Now. I tried to persuade him Come into the house Daddy but my panties are off and I’m plugged in, cowgirl style. My ass bangs over and over against the steering wheel. I say Move the seat back, move the seat back, and he’s Trying mami, it doesn’t go any farther back mami, so we keep moving.
Clemente, Andrea Fernandez
There is an old wise saying, because all old sayings are deemed by their antiquity wise, which says wisely “shrimp that falls asleep, the current will away sweep.”
You are an industrious creature never heeding that old saying as today’s fast-paced life leaves little room for falling asleep. From dawn, when your little beady eyes push away their nightly sleeping mask of soft membrane to reveal black, cavernous pools of barely-rested-fifteen-minutes-I-hope-it fools-everyone-at-the-reef dark circles, you, Clemente, are already lying. Naturally, old wise sayings are irrelevant to full grown shrimp going about their shrimp business, trying to keep that prodigious pink alga from appearing at your coral work station, in shrimpy towns such as Coralliville.
You are an industrious creature never heeding that old saying as today’s fast-paced life leaves little room for falling asleep. From dawn, when your little beady eyes push away their nightly sleeping mask of soft membrane to reveal black, cavernous pools of barely-rested-fifteen-minutes-I-hope-it fools-everyone-at-the-reef dark circles, you, Clemente, are already lying. Naturally, old wise sayings are irrelevant to full grown shrimp going about their shrimp business, trying to keep that prodigious pink alga from appearing at your coral work station, in shrimpy towns such as Coralliville.
The Albatross Wall, Dennis Leroy Kangalee
She was a quote whore and had legs like a seagull, beautifully bent as if awaiting take-off, eager to follow the visiting ships.
We’d wheeled hypnotically for hours at a time once before in different corners of the world, often flapping in a cul-de-sac of frustration. I had learned of her through a truncated message tossed from a virtual skyscraper and tried my best to reciprocate. I’d spent the better part of my life on the wing, but my wandering had slowed when too many of my fellow searchers were snared in world wide webs devoted to no one but the faceless spirit of the machine.
We’d wheeled hypnotically for hours at a time once before in different corners of the world, often flapping in a cul-de-sac of frustration. I had learned of her through a truncated message tossed from a virtual skyscraper and tried my best to reciprocate. I’d spent the better part of my life on the wing, but my wandering had slowed when too many of my fellow searchers were snared in world wide webs devoted to no one but the faceless spirit of the machine.
Piano Lessons, Repetoire, Ruth Dominguez
During my youth, when I lived in Northern Virginia in the cul-de-sac on Tuckahoe Street, went to Tuckahoe Elementary School, and played in the playground and woods of Tuckahoe Park, I took piano lessons for a number of years on Tuesday afternoons. I had a love-hate relationship with the piano. I was to practice 20 minutes every day, which would either make me cranky or filled me with the heavy, sleepy feeling of drinking several glasses of milk or sometimes left me alert and tuned. At times, I would go a whole week without practicing, and my piano teacher, Mr. Swift, would remark on my progress: “Very fine,” said Mr. Swift.
En Granadilla, Lisa Marie Basile
It struck me in Granadilla. I came to beautiful countries to see beautiful things. The summer's beauty was sincere, always as it seemed — reds and browns and sweating people selling old, hot fruit in violent marketplaces. This was the place where beautiful people behind vegetable tents went sneaking off to kiss other sweating faces.
The summer in Granadilla was beautiful; this place was the product of the sun.
And then I saw him in a church. I bowed my head to a Sacerdote and an old woman.
"Perdón, who is that man?" I asked.
I was a white monster from a far away land. But I wanted to know, who was that man? I felt the heat dance on my foot. I walked here without shoes. They stared at my feet.
The summer in Granadilla was beautiful; this place was the product of the sun.
And then I saw him in a church. I bowed my head to a Sacerdote and an old woman.
"Perdón, who is that man?" I asked.
I was a white monster from a far away land. But I wanted to know, who was that man? I felt the heat dance on my foot. I walked here without shoes. They stared at my feet.
Levels of Adherence, Angel Garcia
Spent, he rolled onto his back. He knew his heart was beating quickly, because when he looked down at his chest, he couldn’t keep up with the twitching. He'd been here before. The qualities of a brief encounter were present and in abundance: clothes carelessly strewn along their trail, cigarettes cautiously night-tabled beside them, sheets wrung in approval, bare bellies up in air, no strings attached.
He delved into his city's nightlife in search of a proper candidate for his release, and that was all she ever tended to be. It's unnecessary, he believed, to be tangled up in the grievances of a steady relationship.
He delved into his city's nightlife in search of a proper candidate for his release, and that was all she ever tended to be. It's unnecessary, he believed, to be tangled up in the grievances of a steady relationship.
Organ Music, Jeffrey Grunthaner
I felt sick all week, and wondered if I would always feel sick and week. Not having a chair, I knelt down at the dinner table with my family. Strangers, all! The way some people can mope about the house! The dinner table was cast in candlelight like an altar: the sins of conscience dissipating in halos of light, like incense rising from a censer. But it was another brother that frightened me: our honored guest, Richard Pryor. He follows me to the bathroom where he says the thing had to be done: meaning the murder of a drug lord: a criminal psychopath and all-round bad influence on the kids. He intimates the murder with the word "thing" in a way that's thoroughly Satanic—i.e there's an affect in his voice, and he speaks without moving his lips, like a ventriloquist, throwing his head to the side for emphasis. Evidently, his cathedral choir-boy sense of fun has never left him! When he moves for the immaculate john, I wonder if I can check out his famous cock while he's pissing. The thought alone breaks us up.
1, Katie Priebe
Touches my chest
“Open up, that’s good”
Mary stares from candle
bought at La Carniceria
next block over, not knowing
she would be melted
in this setting:
White women posing
sweating, breathing,
only heeding attention
to their own bodies
She wishes to be an altar
peacefully blessing
those who notice her
Las Cruces, Lisa Marie Basile
We move to Mesilla.
I am sleeping next to my
husband, and he is
not there.
There are the remnants of
vivo y amando en Las Cruces,
just as he promised once,
before the maggots came,
to make my hands into these coffins.
I am woven into him, though he
does not remember me and
in the morning, I eat
los limones in heartache,
as the witches did when
they were cursed.
Memento Mori, Emma Carbone
In 1428 Masaccio made a fresco for a Florentine church.
At the bottom of the picture
beneath the Holy Trinity
he put a skeleton illusionistically painted as though within a tomb.
An inscription above the would-be tomb reads:
“I was once what you are,
and what I am you will become.”
We are so fragile.
But no one seems to notice,
living with eyes half closed.
Pretending that a life so brief is time enough.
At the bottom of the picture
beneath the Holy Trinity
he put a skeleton illusionistically painted as though within a tomb.
An inscription above the would-be tomb reads:
“I was once what you are,
and what I am you will become.”
We are so fragile.
But no one seems to notice,
living with eyes half closed.
Pretending that a life so brief is time enough.
Mistakes
Disjointed collision unit
Face me down the drain
Collude your discoursed calamity
Until your heart valves refill
BEHEMOTH!!! I HEAR YOU ROAR
MISTAKES MISTAKES MISTAKES
Countdown to harp play
Please sing a song for me
Face me down the drain
Collude your discoursed calamity
Until your heart valves refill
BEHEMOTH!!! I HEAR YOU ROAR
MISTAKES MISTAKES MISTAKES
Countdown to harp play
Please sing a song for me
So Do We, Roberto Beltran
our
white
house
has
finally
turned dark from the shadows
of the crowds whom gather
around to see the man that
came from the "dream"
white
house
has
finally
turned dark from the shadows
of the crowds whom gather
around to see the man that
came from the "dream"
Indian Summer, Caroline Depalma
We took over for each other where our families left
off. Left dirty sweatshirts on the ground, in color-coordinated
piles. You said the way they broke us made us whole.
Used to be I’d meet you at the docks. My t-shirt too close
to my skin, my hair in French braids. Yours gelled up and two-toned.
The water cut between my flip-flops. Like how forever could become
our guillotine.
At night, the summer bugs hissed before dying in the ceiling light,
between the bulb and the frame. The bed was just another space
to host small misgivings. I’d end up asleep with my face buried
in a pillow, back facing you.
Used to be you liked my falling. Forced your hand between
my waist and the mattress, my body into yours. Once you’d hung
a tapestry over the light. I looked up and my name was everywhere.
off. Left dirty sweatshirts on the ground, in color-coordinated
piles. You said the way they broke us made us whole.
Used to be I’d meet you at the docks. My t-shirt too close
to my skin, my hair in French braids. Yours gelled up and two-toned.
The water cut between my flip-flops. Like how forever could become
our guillotine.
At night, the summer bugs hissed before dying in the ceiling light,
between the bulb and the frame. The bed was just another space
to host small misgivings. I’d end up asleep with my face buried
in a pillow, back facing you.
Used to be you liked my falling. Forced your hand between
my waist and the mattress, my body into yours. Once you’d hung
a tapestry over the light. I looked up and my name was everywhere.
Two Lovers In Costume, Lee Transue
Of cream and blisters, clouds like breasts slung in shambles east to west
and it’s hundreds of steps to you, in this scene playing in my mind like Halloween
where the realms collide, and let’s wear our costumes now, okay?
Because no masquerade is as sweet a mess as the one where two lovers undress
for each other and compare their battle scars. That’s what I think.
A bird, a flapper, a country western singer – play the role, but toss it aside
like uncomfortable shoes after a long walk at night.
and it’s hundreds of steps to you, in this scene playing in my mind like Halloween
where the realms collide, and let’s wear our costumes now, okay?
Because no masquerade is as sweet a mess as the one where two lovers undress
for each other and compare their battle scars. That’s what I think.
A bird, a flapper, a country western singer – play the role, but toss it aside
like uncomfortable shoes after a long walk at night.
Untitled, Jason Kerzinsky
The time is now,"
the TV blared from the living room.
"The time is now."
Harry arose from his crusty bed,
wiping at his dried lips.
His bed was stained from the last horror he dated.
Two years ago.
She liked to fuck bent over the toilet.
And then fuck again on his navy blue sheets. Pubic hairs and fecal matter danced in his bed.
He didn’t bring her home to mother.
She wasn’t to be paraded.
Mother wouldn’t approve.
Women.
He despised that five-letter word.
It made his left scapula twitch.
The sun wiggled in his retinas.
His toenails were a greenish yellow and long.
Black sock residue escaped from the sides of his big toes. He had become a monster.
The monster from his youth.
His father.
A flock of pigeons darted past his bedroom window
cooing at the pack of squirrels doing their morning calisthenics.
Jumping jacks.
It was August.
It was hot.
It was Sunday.
Sunday, August 15th.
Harry shimmied into his pants and headed for the bay window overlooking the park.
A Chevy Impala glided through a stop sign.
The Impala was missing a back bumper.
It had gold rims and dice in the mirror.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
An old man fed the pigeons rye bread.
They turned away in disgust.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
Is your temporal lobe throbbing?
The mustached doctor echoed.
The TV still on from last night.
Do you toss and turn in your sleep?
Are you tired of sleepless nights?
Are you tired of sweaty palms?
Are your muscles tense?
Have you been worried for the last six months?
Are you having a hard time controlling your worrying?
Have you been thinking that you have a condition?
Harry’s eyes began to well up.
The mustached doctor understood.
A siren.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
If you act fast and call the number on the screen a heath provider will get you back on course.
General Anxiety Disorder affects four million people.
Four million people.
You’ll be living.
Live again without constant worry.
Are you ready to live again?
The time is now.
The time is now.
Lexapro.
The power to enjoy life.
the TV blared from the living room.
"The time is now."
Harry arose from his crusty bed,
wiping at his dried lips.
His bed was stained from the last horror he dated.
Two years ago.
She liked to fuck bent over the toilet.
And then fuck again on his navy blue sheets. Pubic hairs and fecal matter danced in his bed.
He didn’t bring her home to mother.
She wasn’t to be paraded.
Mother wouldn’t approve.
Women.
He despised that five-letter word.
It made his left scapula twitch.
The sun wiggled in his retinas.
His toenails were a greenish yellow and long.
Black sock residue escaped from the sides of his big toes. He had become a monster.
The monster from his youth.
His father.
A flock of pigeons darted past his bedroom window
cooing at the pack of squirrels doing their morning calisthenics.
Jumping jacks.
It was August.
It was hot.
It was Sunday.
Sunday, August 15th.
Harry shimmied into his pants and headed for the bay window overlooking the park.
A Chevy Impala glided through a stop sign.
The Impala was missing a back bumper.
It had gold rims and dice in the mirror.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
An old man fed the pigeons rye bread.
They turned away in disgust.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
Is your temporal lobe throbbing?
The mustached doctor echoed.
The TV still on from last night.
Do you toss and turn in your sleep?
Are you tired of sleepless nights?
Are you tired of sweaty palms?
Are your muscles tense?
Have you been worried for the last six months?
Are you having a hard time controlling your worrying?
Have you been thinking that you have a condition?
Harry’s eyes began to well up.
The mustached doctor understood.
A siren.
His temporal lobe throbbed.
If you act fast and call the number on the screen a heath provider will get you back on course.
General Anxiety Disorder affects four million people.
Four million people.
You’ll be living.
Live again without constant worry.
Are you ready to live again?
The time is now.
The time is now.
Lexapro.
The power to enjoy life.
Labor Conditions, Christopher Mulrooney
the face says plainly
work is very hard and very copious
so that we have to deal with all sorts of rigmarole
to get it accomplished
and here is the reason
pitted against the bull
is the torero sizing up the arena
he sings a popular song of the bullfight
and goes away laughing or crying
it all depends on the matador
in his mind
you kill the bull
like the Minotaur
you’re Theseus
or else you’re the sad victim
flower of youth
Cretan
it’s a system folks
good as any
with a bull’s head full of pride
you’re the deciding factor
and the jobber hauls the carcass away
to the butcher
work is very hard and very copious
so that we have to deal with all sorts of rigmarole
to get it accomplished
and here is the reason
pitted against the bull
is the torero sizing up the arena
he sings a popular song of the bullfight
and goes away laughing or crying
it all depends on the matador
in his mind
you kill the bull
like the Minotaur
you’re Theseus
or else you’re the sad victim
flower of youth
Cretan
it’s a system folks
good as any
with a bull’s head full of pride
you’re the deciding factor
and the jobber hauls the carcass away
to the butcher
A Bird Is Not Mine, Julie Duffield
When a bird is gliding
I am holding a hand, watching safety grasp my spine
my back bone forwardly curved, neck seemingly forever bent,
it flies
Never twisting or folding as I do
Ever loathed by the finger holding the string,
What I have is wrapped up in the wind
When a bird is angled and swooping down
I stand on the balls of my feet
watching clapping call me down
the ticking vinyl and flimsy wooden sticks
NO SHOW, Christopher Mulrooney
how if we do fancy
a concert hall
with a three-ring circus
overhead the pie-throwers on the flying trapeze
afterward white tie and tails in the green room
a concert hall
with a three-ring circus
overhead the pie-throwers on the flying trapeze
afterward white tie and tails in the green room
Where You Will Find Him Soon, Ben Nardolilli
Watch him, all he says is broken and wasted,
Watch him, follow his cries,
That is a trail the makes an arch on itself,
He is our species, but has separated,
Has been divorced by us all,
Watch him, follow him, he seeks,
He is movement, he is going to burry
His yearning once he climbs the hill,
What will his vision be then?
Watch him and you will see,
The home he comes from is divided,
All sentences fail in their impression
Of the world that is the blur of a poor fingerprint,
All this he is up against, loudly,
We have taken it, some pill through sleep,
He might stop this medication,
But watch him, not for a prescription,
That is a trail the makes an arch on itself,
He is our species, but has separated,
Has been divorced by us all,
Watch him, follow him, he seeks,
He is movement, he is going to burry
His yearning once he climbs the hill,
What will his vision be then?
Watch him and you will see,
The home he comes from is divided,
All sentences fail in their impression
Of the world that is the blur of a poor fingerprint,
All this he is up against, loudly,
We have taken it, some pill through sleep,
He might stop this medication,
But watch him, not for a prescription,
Pigeon On Truman Capote's Lap, Caroline Depalma
"A bird now— fluttering in my way all moving things. No Mercy." -Beckett
If I am the least desired to share your plaster space, please kick
me out. Take one. Did I ask you to stop flying into photographs?
How ivy league of me. Capote’s lost in himself. Spent winter living
on the fire escape, wondering where the other pigeons have gone.
Time waster,
they’re on Frank O’Hara’s lap.
I said you could have my title, then watched you plaster yourself
throughout commercial magazines—
but when you tried to clip my identity,
I planted you a birch tree. Watched you climb it. And when the branches
snapped, you actually cried. Thick tears like clear mascara. Take two.
The fire escape is made of popsicle sticks and glue.
Northeast Corridor, Ruth Dominguez
Wet wool and oil slick--
smell of Amtrak--
was the last sensory perception of DC,
after reverberations of Union Station
hallowed marble and smell of espresso
the platform and neat moving assembly
of passengers, wheeling along their luggage
pulled like reluctant dogs on a leash
clap of feet
and buzz-whirr of wheels…
before the carpeted hush of compartment
and cushioned rest of window-side
cleanly and orderly exiting
the mass convergence of government
Packed into white rounded, columned buildings
Decisions, decisions, decisions,
Policy and word negotiation
Handshake and pen-taps
Oratorical and resolute
Back on the train was distance
Pulled forward endlessly,
Bridges, swamps, farms and houses
Muted greens of northeast
Movie of still-life
We, the air-conditioned audience
The only ghostly voices
say:
Toilet other end
No smoking
Emergency Exit
The promise
of nyc skyline
Of towering busyness
Organized and talkative
Conversational and off-hand
With shock-value and pulse
Penn station like an underground maze
Of so many possibilities…
cuisine or further transport?
purchase or amble?
listen, listen to, be listened to, ask, or turn away?
The tease of tunnels and funk of subway
People surface onto streets
Teased by the zoning electric lights
Teased by their own reflections in
caught in window panes of
yellow taxis,
cadillacs, and SUVS…
images broken and staccato.
- SKYDRIVER? -, H.E. Mantel
SKYDRIVER
H.E. Mantel
...Again, the traffic obese
H.E. Mantel
...Again, the traffic obese
surfeit to say, as I
cloy'd my way... slowed
by the creeps, & crawlers
of the serein morning...
phones-in-hand or set to-head
out powered opening windows
searching for the jam, &
blame for delayn',
Oh, imprecating blare of WJAM,
hip-pop & copter traffic-reports -
Jinni!, Jeez, I'm in It!
What's't now? -
Strewn bodies, heads like mashedmallows
'crossed the stone-separator astain,
overinseminated into deflating crash bags,
"Highest-Rated", splinterglassed Accordian-cars prolapsed
& pried of Death's-pride by Life's ironic Jaws... or Worse?...
a Zorra-Babe's fire-red dressed flattened tire
& a stalwarted, strident trooper
(pisces notare docere - ecce interum Crispinus) -
slaking on the swale?
No! None of it!, no Wrecks' rubbernecks,
Not this Morn -
No wrecks' bottlenecks...
(More at the deep, M. Mercoury's? never drive on Sunday!) -
of SUG's' guzzle pride & F-151's
Rum 'n cokers' "I Love My Truck Like My Wife's Girlfriend."
So... What!? But
through the serein Morn
shows the stopper
to the burlesque, of glancer & starer,
of Blue-toothers & hybred diesels
from Horizon to Horizon...
The Arc,
like an arched PrismAngel
One primary Cray-hola! bridged and a-Burst
Ribboning the Sky, West.
Slowed by peer
in this serein Morn
of meld & melting fog,
thru the snarls & snarl,
the BM'ers & dreamers to watch,
No-Fault Hope,
A fading Rainbow!
H.e.m.
10.15.MMvii.
HML
Civilization at XMas Time, Ben Nardolilli
It is cold and we need our rituals
To keep us together,
The star in the heavens does not guide
But we can image a compass
Up there with the void,
Something approaching a direction.
It is time for giving and receiving,
It is time for exchange,
Open the markets
And observe the running of bulls
Turning into feats of strength,
We have left behind the gladiators
Of spring and the trampling fanatics
Of the summer, men die,
But blood does not stain linoleum.
The refineries and the oil drums
Are covered in lights,
They rise up and give us presents
That keep all other gifts rolling,
With bright metal garlands
Wrapping around their bellies,
And the lights, all the lights!
We imagine them to be evergreen.
To keep us together,
The star in the heavens does not guide
But we can image a compass
Up there with the void,
Something approaching a direction.
It is time for giving and receiving,
It is time for exchange,
Open the markets
And observe the running of bulls
Turning into feats of strength,
We have left behind the gladiators
Of spring and the trampling fanatics
Of the summer, men die,
But blood does not stain linoleum.
The refineries and the oil drums
Are covered in lights,
They rise up and give us presents
That keep all other gifts rolling,
With bright metal garlands
Wrapping around their bellies,
And the lights, all the lights!
We imagine them to be evergreen.
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