Monthly Archives: November 2011

Flyover Haiku

I’m a bit busy
flying from the East Coast back
to LA, sorry.

Post-Turkeypocalypse

Ambling sloth-like through the wasteland, breathing in a noxious haze of tryptophan and sickly sweet liquor, I plod past the pestilent pond of porcelain piled high in endless pillars, towards the puddles of putrid fat liquidized and pooling on the plates, once poured steaming over broken bones now dripping down the drain while the last vestiges of flesh hang threadbare off that osseous matter. Small hands have left their mark behind them, stained and sliding down the wall as if grasping for some invisible rungs to rescue them from wrath. Meanwhile, that gelatinous glob of congealed red mass continues to vellicate on the floor, a ceaseless tremor that suggests its sentience. Yet somehow, the empty glass and glasses have survived the slaughter mostly intact, only weathered and worn by overuse though now dirty, discarded and disheveled down among the grateful undead whose virile corpses litter the living room furniture until such time tomorrow that consumption might continue.

What’s Down

It’s the little things, like the sudden urge to use
pepper spray as an inhaler.  Like realizing that smile
is your new gag reflex.  Starting the purge
before the binge.  Opening your eyes to see you were
never awake in the first place.  Screaming until
your jaw dislocates.  Swallowing that hole you
want to punch through the wall.  It’s Thanksgiving weekend
hop-scotching families: Friday in the psych ward, Saturday
at a funeral.  Rufus Wainwright and his broken
Hallelujah.  Dwelling on someone you thought
would be the only one, wishing he wasn’t
lost to a carbon copy of yourself.  Knowing,
the last time you felt like this,
he was here for you.

A Note To The Person Or Persons Who Stole My Debit Card Number

Hey there. First of all, nice job. I’m not certain how you got my card number and PIN. (I’m thinking of blaming the time that same afternoon when I went to that ARCO station, convenience winning out against my principles; perhaps you tapped into their machine to collect my keystrokes. I don’t even know if that makes sense — I’m sounding as tech-savvy as a 90s Sandra Bullock movie, so I’ll stop speculating now.) But somehow you got them, and you were able to make a fake card to complete real purchases. Kudos to your enterprising endeavors.

However, once you got my info, I think you could have handled the situation a little better. I mean, if you had more closely hewed to my spending habits, you could have ridden my card for days. The credit union wouldn’t have noticed. And, confession time, just between you and me: I don’t really check my balance as often as I should. It would have taken me a while to pick up on the money drain.

Going to Target to buy merchandise and get cash back wasn’t necessarily a bad start; but I’ve never been to Torrance apart from times when the freeways are jammed and I need to get to LAX. Job Lots was even more suspect. And you finally got cut off when you tried to buy some baby stuff at a baby stuff store. I don’t really do baby stuff.

(I also don’t normally eat at Chipoltle. But I’m glad you took a break to have lunch. You can work up quite the appetite from shopping and petty larceny.)

Then again, I guess it’s not your job to know anything about me. All I am to you is a row of numbers. And all you are to me is a pile of bank paperwork I had to fill out in duplicate. I had visions of seeing security footage of you in action, of standing between two bantering, racially-diverse police detectives as we look through a two-way mirror, watching you sweat it out in The Box. Then I’d really get to know you.

But of course that never happened. After taking the time to complete the reports and waiting a few business days, I got the money refunded into my account. I was only temporarily and temporally inconvenienced, and you had a pretty decent score. You got to keep the $214 in goods and $200 in cash. Plus the burritos, and the $5.11 you spent at a 7-Eleven right before getting cut off. It was almost 100 degrees that Saturday, so I have to assume you took a late-afternoon break to get a couple of slurpees. Maybe you mixed some of the flavors together, like the cherry and the Coke ones, just like I do. Maybe we aren’t really all that different.

Except we totally are. Please don’t steal my shit again. And feel free to burn in hell.

The Morning After.

No tent am I pitching
on this Friday Black.
I’m not really itching
for deals or rollbacks.

It’s tradition to wait
in the dark for a deal.
A tradition, of late,
that outshines the big meal.

Have your turkey, some pie,
take a nap, then head out
to a big box nearby
for a savings blowout.

But by all means do stay
in your bitter cold queue.
It’s quite worth it to say
you saved one buck or two.

And I Felt Like a Goddamn Bullet

Rowing course
Driving down
Arms, tense
Oar popped from water
Seat on wheels beneath

Inertia steering
We glide, focus
Head’s crown
Willing body mass
To a pin point

Perfect balance

In mind, memory
The oar
Skimming water
As we wheel this free ride
To the top of the cycle

Legs drive
Blade drops
We strike
All this
Through 2000 meters

In some six minutes
Hearing
Lock
Load
Fire

And I felt like a goddamn bullet.

juxtaposition

Harrod’s Christmas display window glinting spills

glitter snow beads white on the white

porcelain of a mannequin’s perfect bare

neck a shower of silver sequins across the stiff arm.

(A woman encased in black–a cape over the hair, over the feet, over the face, over everything save a net before the eyes–like the incarnation of death, a shapeless mass of secrets, a black hole where a woman would be, stares:

the mannequin meets her gaze and the woman blinks back.

What separates them I

cannot tell)