have a seat...

hello. i am chronically uninspired. nice, however, to meet you.
perhaps you would like to go to a movie sometime. perhaps you would like to
make me fresh pesto.

weekends come and go. perhaps you would like watch me suffer, in transition. bleary-eyed, pouting. tripping over clichés as though they were misplaced boxes. banana peels. perhaps you would like to make use of my rotting bananas.

i long to go trainspotting. a bayside parking lot. hair whipped against shoulders and calves. the back of your calves, grass. mouthfuls of grass. sputter and breathe. breathe, staring sideways, counting boxcars. i will be your material girl. old iron, aged copper, vintage verdigris. piles of barnwood: pale pink, dusty blue, a cut of yellow. like babies on display, rolling through the dusk. prematurely sexed. stacked.

clutch. bottle-swill.

this is the pair you toss away, without even looking.

got whores?

follow my lead. if you do, you’ll live forever. promise. swear. to god. forever.

“forever?”

yes. forever. now. say parkway.

“parkway.”

say streetwalker.

“streetwaker.”

say 5 pm, drive time.

“easy.”

so easy. thumb out like a big balloon. say floating in atmosphere.

“rising.”

not exactly. imagine stretching. waiting and wanting. i think she could feel herself there. cars and trucks. hacking big rigs. say ambitious.

“resourceful. pioneering.”

maybe. you might be on to something.

fire escape...

fiona,
never one
to be outdone,
outsmarted, or
otherwise put in
her place,
hopped on
the phone and
began dialing
the men in
her little black
book. one by
one by one,
with a short
break for a light
snack of fruit, she
called them all,
speaking with
every ounce of
cheer she could
muster. "serves him
right." oh yes. it
certainly does.


forget about the bathroom window,
wavy glass painted over to obscure the view.
white paint. milk paint. flaked corners,
chipped cracks. the stuff of dreams,
peeling back. husking, the skin of teeth.
"they got out by the skin of their teeth..."

imagine. barefoot on lawn, nightdress. crystal
jewelry clutched in hand, faux rhinestones.
suburbia, worth less than an envelope of pennies.
suburbia: worthless.

neighbors sleeping, mouths open and tongues.
curling, convoluted nightmares
in which things are taken away,
forced elimination.
first the gum, and
then the socks.
magazines of
all shapes and sizes.

"there goes the fill-in-the-blank."

talk of the town, come undone,
back to the root of the issue.
huff, huff. sigh.

eve of the twenty-seventh...

ever the same.

ever the same.

ever the same.

break in time,

break in time.

dust bowl.

ever the same.

"birthdays are nothing

but a sluice," she mutters,

and pulls away.

she turns her back upon

a thick chanelling of freeway,

stares at a wet heft of fog.

packs grass, counts sticks.

touches the edge of the face

of things, without wincing.

this is steeling.

there is little else to state,

besides the obvious.

she wanted a pony.

a pony with spots,

a swishing tail,

a neat little mane.

she wanted a pony and

a barn and a nice pair of

boots, with a denim jacket

to match. she wanted a boy

to take her riding. a boy with

nice hair and big hands and

a house. a house, for both her

and the pony. the pony. with a

saddle and things,

a long leather

lead. she wanted to pull the pony

around. all around in

the streets, with

the townspeople looking on,

smiling and

saying nice things.

a pony, a pony. she wanted that pony.

she wanted them all

to be jealous. she had pretty white teeth,

to flash as she went strolling past,

holding tight to the pony.

she had legs and arms. she had

hair. eyes the color of bay water

gone bad. she wanted that pony.

she asked and she asked.

please with the pony. please.

the whole of it. the swarm of it.

it seemed like horse fever.

she was begging and pleading.

looking around in

a strange state of angst.

all the while

unable to take her mind off

of the rich
chocolate cake.

detecting edges...

the mountains of california
are steadfast.
thicker than all of our legs and
all of our arms.
fingers and toes, combined.

the mountains
can be described as cutting:

"these mountains cut like a vein.
these mountains cut like a knife.
these mountains cut like
an arrow, straight and long..."

arrowroot. it is a tender things.
may be used to thicken the juices
of pies made
with overripe fruit.

cornered...

conjugal encounters,
behind closed doors.
muffled sound, voice
layered across voice,
words blurred,
starchy at
the edges.

small seconds,
skips in time.
hopscotch,
chalk on asphalt.
rough knees & hands, hard undersides.
nails slicing.
on accident, a
slip of turning tongue.

peanut-butter-chunk, apple-cinnamon-surprise:

her cookies were sumptuously sweet. to die for. men loved them, found they edged out the hard place that she clung to, storing just below the surface of her thin, translucent skin.

beckoning...

beyond the spread of winter
slept the breathy sweat of spring:

tulips pushed through mud,
stemming upward,
flanked by the beginnings of
gladiolas, daffodils,
& other delicate things,
all with the weight,
the texture,
of paper.

(cherry blossoms fell, like confetti).

/it wasn't may. it wasn't even march.

but the sun was warm, and the yard was quiet.

so she stripped off her clothes, tossing them into the dirt.

laid down naked on the warm concrete &

let the heat seep into her skin/