It Stands (Exercise 10)

Open Window, Michel Varisco

a slice within a slice within 

a prepackaged laminated entryway 

open window made the sky rain bricks

no more foundation~background blurs

sepia tones filter color powers

beyond the open window there is only

open white 

crinkles and cracks in the bricks like 

lines on grandmother's forehead their

dusty crevices smell of sawdust 

and early morning 

the window stands though the brick

has crumbled 

an infinite entryway 

a slice within a slice within 

a postcard 

it never topples 

Stray Haikus (Critique 9)

Beach Buddies, Carol Allen Anfinsen

Inspired by Mark Richard's "Strays" 

we lie awake and 

listen to the screen doors crunch 

don't burn the house down 

uncle trash plays us 

together we stand buck naked 

don't burn the house down 

the cuts eat children 

we eat sirloins smoke cigars

don't burn the house down 

reel in the stray dog

she cries her white-hot blue-flame

don't burn the house down 

Marjorie Stewart (Exercise 9)

I saw the woman on the subway this morning. I was on my way to my first day of work at Kip's Diner, one of those godforsaken cheesy New York breakfast joints. The subway was crowded with people itching to get moving. They stood clumped together like little toy cars all wound up but given no track to run on. The woman sat in the middle of it, a human stoplight above the traffic. She was much older and had been offered a seat immediately by some guilty twenty-something with an overwrought moral compass. She was dressed in a magenta sweater set with a blazer over it. She clutched a Wall Street style briefcase engraved "Marjorie Stewart" close to her chest, as though it were a young child or a helpless puppy. Ms. Stewart's legs were splayed outward abnormally, her knees a curiously large width apart. Her sizable knee-span contributed to the lack of space on the car, but none of us had the cojones to scold an older woman.

We hit stop after stop and Ms. Stewart remained. Her face was transfixed: mouth gaping, eyes grinning as if they were listening to a dirty secret. Suddenly her delicate knees began to quiver slightly, teetering and tottering like a house of cards dangerously close to kicking it. Her small but determined hands gripped the briefcase and shook it violently. Her smiling eyes rolled further and further back into her head.

Morally compromised twenty and thirty-somethings panicked. Ma'am are you alright? Concerned touches on the shoulder. Someone check her heart rate. Could she be having a stroke? I stood glued to my designated spot by the car door, waiting for Ms. Stewart's brittle frame to turn topple and turn into sand.

Just as a noble man was preparing to call 911, Ms. Stewart thrusted her legs outward, arched her spine, threw her head back and moaned. Silence. The vultures backed away from the carcass. Ms. Stewart loosened her grip and laid her feet flat on the ground.

Once the other patrons realized what had happened, most tried to avert their eyesight. A few stifled their thin giggles.

The car stopped, officially in uptown. Ms. Stewart stood, gathered her briefcase, and turned to leave. As she stood, an unopened can of Coca Cola fell from between her legs. Still cold and dripping with condensation, the can's contents fizzled and popped as it rolled across the car. Marjorie Stewart left without a word. Her special little can went untouched until maintenance cleaned the car late that night.

Mural Painting for Helena Rubinstein, Salvador Dali

The Customer (Exercise 8)

The man still had the lube in his hands when Jasmine and I left. The Walgreens on Magazine Street was popping with activity that Friday evening. The crowd consisted mostly of those whiny college kids, each one searching for something. Some searched for the courage to use their cheap fake IDs, others (drunk already) searched for puffy Cheetos. Jasmine and I didn't fall into either category. She wanted cigarettes and I'd agreed to come with, rather than stand alone on the street corner.

A tall, hairy, irate man gesticulated violently at the woman behind the counter. Spittle shot from his throat as he roared, gripping a cardboard box with one hand and using the other to punctuate his angry, fragmented speech. Jasmine and I stood three people behind him in line. We craned our necks to listen.

The woman behind the counter explained to the man that she was not in charge of inventory and then asked if she could ring up his cardboard box. The man’s paws gnawed at the cardboard encasing two matching bottles of Sexy Jelly: one pink, one blue, adorable.

With a slight stammer, the man explained to the woman behind the counter that tubes of Sexy Jelly were usually sold separately. There was to be a set of his and hers and separate tubes of just his and just hers. The man gasped for a breath and let the air settle in his chest, holding it there to keep tears from falling.

The woman behind the counter sighed and recollected herself almost mournfully. Her eyebrows moved with a pitiful lift as she said she couldn’t help him with that. 

The man’s tired, red hands relaxed for a beat but didn’t let go. He looked through the ground under his feet and said that no one could.

As Jasmine bartered for her cigarettes, I kept my eyes fastened on the lube man. He had stepped out of the checkout line, but hadn’t left the store. He stood a few paces away from the automatic door, his transfixed eyes staring forward, his hands still gripping the cardboard box. 

The little pianist, Michael Maier

The Orgasm (Critique 8)

Inspired by Margaret Atwood's "The Female Body" 

1. The Orgasm is written with a sacred capital "O." The fleeting sensation that runs from one corner of my body to the next with its sticky tail on fire. But the Orgasm is bred in captivity--nurtured and cared for by only a few. Even I at times wish to disengage from this current that puts me at odds with the demands of my femininity. The Orgasm has a trademark stench.

2. The Orgasm laughs at my hands as I try to grasp it and slaps my tiny white knuckles when I try to stuff its volume inside me. It is our God-given right--is it not? For every human being to feel explosions in their belly. The fumes float upward to my brain.

3. How many? How pungent? How long do they last? How long until I catch one? I've set my trap: the pathetic lace of my brassiere, the tired curve of my hips, the gracelessly intoxicating scent of my perfume. I am a girl that has yet to catch the animal.

Bathers, Andre Derain